ONE<br >in the echoing emptiness of what， according to the estate<br >agents， had once been a coach-house， Keith Calder was<br >reloading his pressure-barrel when his wife， heralded by a flood<br >of daylight， came through the door. He sighed and raised one<br >muff of his ear-protectors.<br > There s somebody on the phone， Molly said.<br > Keith was both busy and absorbed. Tell them I m dead， he<br >said shortly.<br > 1 can t. 1 said I d fetch you. And 1 wouldn t have said that if<br >you really were dead， now would I? <br > Keith thought that she very well might have done so.<br >Sometimes he thought that it was Molly s mission in life to call<br >him away from absorbing problems to take unwelcome phone-<br >calls.<br > I m too busy. Say ! 11 call them back. <br > I m not telling any more lies for you， Molly said. Not after<br >telling Mr Wilmington you d gone to Lerwick and you bumping<br >into him five minutes later. It s a lady， a Mrs Henderson， she<br >added temptingly and gave a quick gurgle of laughter. She<br >asked if you were Keith Calder the private eye. <br > Well， I m not. <br > You do investigate things， Molly pointed out.<br >. I investigate things like burst gun-barrels， Keith said， which<br > what I m trying to do now to get your Mr Wilmington off my<br >back. Anything else， she can go to one of the agencies. <br > She sounded a nice-like body， Molly said. But she seemed<br >very upset. It s about her husband s death. The sheriff called it<br >suicide and she said that he d never do a thing like that. <br > Keith fitted a cartridge into the breech of his pressure-barrel.<br >This was bolted to a heavy table and pointed towards a large，<br >