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Scotland Yard's John Coffin mystery series. _Puzzler with a cliffhanging ending._by Gwendoline Butler.
supply of them, Peter reckoned he would be out of smokes before they moved. They would be moving, and he pondered about that move, thinking about the gun. He had no idea what the time was. He did not have a watch, the only timepiece in the family was an aged alarm clock sitting on the kitchen shelf. Nona had a watch with a pretty red face, but she was sitting with her hands in her lap with the watch hidden. He knew better than to ask her the time; she was edgy enough as it was. So was Their
apart from this one case there were several others lining up for his attention. Not to mention an urgent telephone call from Lætitia about a trip to Glasgow. Coffin drank his cold sweet coffee down to the bottom of the cup. ‘All the forensic evidence ties Place to the murder of Bill Egan. He had the motive and opportunity. His own behaviour bears out his guilt, but there are still one or two questions I would like answered.’ Coffin was speaking almost to himself. It was the end of the day that
all these acts were directed at him, from which he had only escaped by good luck. ‘You ought to tell the police. Nothing to do with what’s happened now, of course, I’m not saying that, but you ought to tell them.’ His voice was coaxing. ‘Let me telephone that policeman you work for. Get him to come to you here. He’s a decent sort, he’ll do it and then you can talk to him.’ She thought it over. ‘No. I ought to go down to the police station. It would be more suitable.’ ‘Are you up to it, Rhoda?’
consult the archives himself, thinking over what Bernard had recalled. Which was almost accurate, and almost enough. But when Coffin checked in the records, intact but dusty, he found that the comic was not a comic but a girls’ magazine. One aimed at the teenage market. And the sweetpapers were not sweetpapers but the cover from an expensive brand of chocolate. Someone had not been very intelligent, he thought. It could have been the Pitt girl. Malcolm Kincaid had died from potassium cyanide.
naturally – resented it. The remit of the TAS said aid and assist, which meant they had the right to weigh in but the locals had the right to offer obstruction. And did. Trouble had been stitched into the TAS at its inception. ‘I shall have to put a report in on him.’ Coffin spoke without pleasure. ‘He’s one of the worst,’ said Lane, with gloomy satisfaction. ‘He always seems a jump ahead of me.’ The Chief Inspector appeared to have ready access to their thoughts and plans. ‘Didn’t he and