“Yes,” he said softly.
It was beginning to look to me as if Mark Gutteridge and his manner of departing this life were more interesting than his children’s problems, but that wouldn’t pay the bills, so I just nodded, rolled another cigarette and snuck a look at my glass.
“Would you like another drink?”
“After you tell me some more about your sister’s problem. When it began and your ideas on it.”
“About a month ago Susan got a phone call. It was from a woman with a foreign accent — French possibly. She talked to Susan about her underwear, what brands she bought and how much it cost.”
“No heavy breathing?” I asked.
“Nothing like that at all. She said things that upset Susan very much. Mostly about the money Susan spends on clothes and things. It’s rather a lot I suppose. Susan likes nice things, nice things cost money.”
His silver spoon was shining; some nice things don’t cost money and some things that cost money aren’t nice.
“It doesn’t sound particularly sinister to me,” I said. “It could almost be funny. Why was your sister so upset?” I could guess at what was coming next, but I wanted to hear how he put it.
“Susan has a strong social conscience. She’s involved on Community Aid Abroad, Amnesty International, Freedom from Hunger. She’s very busy and devoted to these causes.”
I could just bet she was. The sweat from all that devotion and business was probably running down into her crepe-de-chine knickers so fast that she had to change them three times a day. I was having trouble getting interested in Susan Gutteridge’s troubles and beginning to suspect that this investigation wasn’t going to bring out the best in me.
“There was more than one phone call? And you mentioned letters?”
“Yes, calls have come at all hours of the day and night. The Voice — that’s what Susan calls it — goes on and on about her private life, tells her how useless and parasitic she is, how meaningless her life is. It… she… refers to our father and tells Susan to do the same thing, tells her that she’s cursed and her suicide is ordained.”