her position by the open window, Emily could see the titles: Country Life, Hello!, Woman's Own, Vanity Fair. A soft-bound Collier's dictionary lay among them. It looked as well-used as the magazines.
DC Honigman riffled through the drawer that Kumhar had begun to open. He said, "No weapons in here," and slammed it shut.
For his part, Kumhar watched their every move. His entire concentration seemed to be given to keeping himself from hurling his body out of the open window. Emily considered ex554 actly how his patent desire to escape fitted into the case in hand.
She said, "Sit down, Mr. Kumhar," and she indicated the room's only chair. This stood before a small newspaper-covered table on which a partially completed dollhouse was being constructed.
It appeared that Kumhar had interrupted work on the dollhouse to go to Jackson and Son.
It also appeared that the arrival of the police had disrupted further work on this same project. A tube of glue was uncapped on the table and five miniature roofing tiles were speckled with it. The house itself was of a decidedly English design: a wattle and daub miniature of the sort of dwelling one could find in nearly every corner of the country.
Cautiously, Kumhar crossed the room to the chair. He crab-walked, as if in the belief that a false move would cause the heavy arm of the law to crash down upon him. Emily maintained her position at the window. Honigman moved to the door. Behind it, faintly, the poodle whined. Obviously, Mrs. Kersey hadn't made the connection between a door slamming in her face and the desire for privacy.
Emily jerked her head at the door. Honigman nodded. He opened it and had a few quiet words with the house's owner. He allowed her a momeni to poke her head inside the room to reassure hei that her tenant was unharmed. Apparently having watched many episodes of American police dra mas, she expected to find Fahd Kumhar on tb floor, bloodied and handcuffed. Seeing him sit ting unmolested on the chair, she gulped, hikei the poodle beneath her chin, and retreated.
Honigman closed the door.
Emily said, "Haytham Querashi, Mr. Kumhar.
Please explain your relationship with him."
Kumhar stuffed his hands between his knees.
He was painfully thin, with a concave chest and sloping shoulders. These were covered by a neatly pressed white shirt that despite the heat was buttoned both to the neck and to the cuffs. He wore black trousers, belted with a strip of brown leather that was too long for his waist and dangled limply like the tail of a reprimanded canine. He made no reply.
He merely swallowed, and his teeth vigorously worked his lips.
"Mr. Querashi wrote you a cheque for four hundred pounds. Your name was on more than one telephone message for him at the Burnt House Hotel. If you read any of these" -
she indicated the newspapers that served as protection between the dollhouse and the table beneath it - "then you know that Mr. Querashi is dead."
"Papers," Fahd Kumhar said, his head turning from her to the chest of drawers to Honigman.
"I'm not here about your papers." Emily spoke more slowly and in a louder voice, although her real wish was to shake him into comprehension.
Why on earth, she wondered, did people immigrate into a country whose language was a mystery to them? "We're here to talk about Haytham Querashi. You knew him, didn't you? Haytham Querashi?"
"Mr. Querashi, yes." Kumhar's hands tightened on his knees. He was trembling so badly that the material on his shirt shimmered as if a breeze were blowing it.
"He was murdered, Mr. Kumhar. We're investigating that murder. The fact that he gave you four hundred pounds makes you a suspect. What was that money for?"
The Asian could have been having a mild seizure, so much did his tremors increase. It seemed to Emily that he had to be able to understand her. But when he replied, he did so in his own tongue. A babble of indistinguishable words spewed out of him.
Emily cut into what she knew had to be a stream of rising protestations of innocence. She said impatiently, "English please, Mr. Kumhar.
You heard his name well enough. And you understand what I'm asking. How did you know Mr. Querashi?"
Kumhar continued his babble.
"Where did you meet him?" Emily asked.
"Why did he give you money? What did you do with it?"
More babble, louder this time. Kumhar moved his hands to his chest and began to wail.