"Michael F. Flynn - Probability Murder" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flynn Michael)

Probably Murder by Michael F. Flynn

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It was a dark and stormy night; and, sure, I know how that sounds; but so it was.
Himself watched the door with no little favor, for such nights may be blessing or
curse to the Irish Pub. Those who were out in it would seek to get in out of it (and
perhaps warm their insides a little), but those already indoors would hesitate to go
out for the wee drop.

This seemed a night for staying in. The stools around the oval bar held beside
myself only Danny Mulrooney who snored on a stool nearby, to the displeasure of
the cash register. For myself, I could hoist Guinness with the best of them, but it
was not in me to compensate for all those absent. Beside, I was awaiting only The O
Neill, who had tickets to the game. A basketball game at the University might be
called many things, but “on account of rain” is not among them. It was no fit night
for man nor beast, as the poet once said; but roundball fans fall somewhere in
between.

When the door did fly open, however, it was Sam Hourani who came in, and
a bit o’ the weather with him. “Something dry,” he told Himself, shaking the rain
from his overcoat and hanging it in the corner. “A martini, but just let it peek at the
vermouth.”

“What brings you by, Sam,” Himself asked, “on a night like this?”

“Business,” said Sam, studying the drink placed before him from several
angles.

Now, Sam’s business was detective of homicide, so the announcement
startled us some and we looked about for a possible corpse, considering, then
rejecting, Danny.

The detective lifted his drink; but, though his expression had promised a swift
end to it, he only sipped a little before replacing it. “I know a man,” he announced,
“who probably committed murder.”

“Ah,” said Himself, “but you’re not certain. No corpus delecti?”

“Oh, there’s corpus enough, poor woman, and it’s her husband that did it.”

“Did he now? Ah, those are the cruelest sort. How did he do it?”

“She fell down the cellar steps and broke her neck.”

“And he pushed her!” I said.
 Sam shook his head. “He wasn’t in the house at the time.”

“What’d he do, then, grease the steps?”