HE did have a knife. Or what seemed at first to be a knife. “Go to your room, Undine,” I told her and, incredibly, she obeyed me. Which left me alone with an armed man. James Marlowe stood in the foyer, head thrown back, gaping at the ceiling as if he were studying the dome at St. Paul’s Cathedral. He was short and stocky, with a barrel chest, and by the way his arms hung out from his sides, I knew that he had developed the kind of biceps that are required for swarming up ropes and so forth. He had unbuttoned his winter coat, and I could see that he was wearing a hand-me-down blue suit and a striped tie from one of the lesser schools. When he had finished with the foyer, he peered at me owlishly through a pair of round, black-rimmed spectacles. More for show, I thought, than anything, since the lenses were of little, if any, magnifying power. I had to admire his brass, though, since I had used the same trick myself when I wanted to gain sympathy or suggest a certain nonexistent weakness.
What do You think about Thrice The Brinded Cat Hath Mew'd (2016)?
