January blew out a stream of cigarette smoke, in the airless room the blue grey miasma clung around her head like a halo. For a long moment she said nothing, merely peering out of the window to organise her thoughts.

“The police say that it is  robbery,” she agreed in a tone without any hint of agreement. Her pouty lips pursed in memory of the bland assurances passed on to her by fat irish policemen that they were doing everything they could and that they would let the family know as soon as there was anything to tell.

“And yet, within ten feet of where papa was found, there was a display of Ottoman jewelry of incalculable value behind a simple glass case. Not to mention they would have had to walk past a dozen such treasures to reach the spot my father was murdered,” she explained, holding the cigarette between two fingers to facilitate another sip of the whiskey.  

“In fact, the only thing that was missing was his briefcase, he took it with him everywhere,” she expounded. While it was possible there had been money in the briefcase, it certainly paled in comparison to the gaudy riches that lay close at hand.

“As for enemies.... My father was a very private man Mr Barker, he never talked much about the past. Lately though…” she drummed her fingers on the coffee ring covered table top, her expensive manicure clicking like a typists keys. 

“Lately he has been up nights, late night meetings in his study, strange phone calls. Mama told him more than once that he seemed like his old self again, though she didn't sound complimentary about it,” January confided. She hadn’t thought anything of it, absorbed as she was in the endless round of parties and social life of New York and with her other pursuits.

“I told the police all this of course,” she clarified crossing her legs and allowing her face to take on a pettish look.

“At first they were very interested, but within an hour or so they were doing their level best to sweep it under the rug.”