The Crookshaven murder #1012855

Gerard King frowned at a folded slip of paper that lay on the floor at his side. It had fallen from his pocket when he pulled out a handkerchief. He stooped with an angry exclamation, retrieved and unfolded it, staring at some figures written across its face. His eyes slowly dilated; his ire changed to dread, as he peered about uneasily, glanced behind him into the shadows that encircled a desk light, the room’s only illumination.
With an effort he shrugged, touched a lighted match to the paper and watched it burn, scowling to see his fingers tremble as he tossed the ashes into a tray.
‘I’m a fool. A doddering old fool—afraid of his own shadow. Worse than one of the shrinking victims of blackmail in one of my own detective stories.’
His words were scornful, yet his rather gaunt face mirrored their literal sense rather than the bravado with which he had striven to utter them.