We rejoined the ladies—and Paula and Hortense, too. The men were conferring with Gerry some distance away. They came back to the tour group when they saw us.
“Jim”—I clapped a firm hand on his shoulder, just in case he tried to bolt at the last minute—“has kindly volunteered to drive us to Gretna Green—on his own time—to see if we can’t catch up with the kids along the way.”
“That’s lovely of you.” There was a catch in Paula’s voice, but there was usually a catch in anything to do with Paula. “Really lovely. I’ll pay you back someway, I promise you.”
Jim flinched and tried to back away, but I held him firm.
“I’m coming, too,” Gerry said. “I have a few urgent matters to take up with Daphne.” He hesitated. “I’ve a couple of theatre tickets I won’t be needing. If any of you … ?” He offered them casually.
“And here”—Kate dug into her handbag—“are the Covent Garden tickets for tonight—” She broke off as she looked up and saw Professor Tablor shaking his head.
“No, thank you.” As usual, he was spokesman for the group. “We’ve all come this far together, we’ll stay together. We couldn’t abandon our friends in their hour of need.” Around him the others nodded agreement.
Translated, they still didn’t trust one another out of each other’s sight.
Gerry moved closer to me uneasily. “I’ve heard of American togetherness,” he murmured, “but this is ridiculous.”
He didn’t know the half of it—and I wasn’t going to tell him just yet. One accessory after the fact in Perkins & Tate (Public Relations) Ltd. was enough.
We broke free of London and hit the motorway just ahead of the flood tide of rush-hour traffic. Jim put his foot down to the floorboard, kept to the takeover lane, and we shot toward Scotland as though all the hounds of hell were yapping at our heels.
Even so, it wasn’t fast enough for Hortense and Paula.
“Can’t you get any more speed out of this thing?” Paula demanded. “They’re hours ahead of us. We’ll never catch them this way.”
“We can’t sprout wings,” Jim muttered.
“What was that?” Ever alert for insubordination, Hortense whirled on him.
“I don’t think you ought to distract the driver,” I said hastily. “He’s doing his best, and he needs to concentrate on the road.”
Daggers drawn, Hortense and Paula glared at each other across the aisle, the picture of opposing in-laws at every wedding I had attended for the past ten years. Only the aisle was different; and of course, there was Jim officiating at the driving wheel. The bridal couple were missing, too, although we stood a good chance of catching up with them if we continued at this speed. All that was lacking were a couple of the misty relatives who always cried at weddings. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw that some of the tourists looked as though they might burst into tears at any moment, less from sentiment than from sheer terror at the way we were shooting past everything else on the motorway.
I turned around casually, to verify the fact that Professor Tablor seemed hale and hearty despite all the excitement. There never had been time to do any reading up on the care and feeding of diabetics, but he appeared to be holding up well. Of course, he’d had a good lunch and tea, and the tin of orange juice was still in my briefcase, in the event of an emergency. Just the same, it might be a good idea to make sure that we stopped for a snack somewhere along the way. Paula and Hortense might cavil at what they’d consider a waste of time, but it would pay off in goodwill all around. The others were missing Covent Garden, their last evening in London, and a chance for leisurely packing—there was no need for them to miss a meal, too. Daphne’s lead was so great that half an hour or so wouldn’t make that much difference. Besides, knowing how much of a start they’d gained on any possible pursuit, there was every good chance that the kids would take time to treat themselves to a good meal. In the sort of place Daphne would insist was fit to eat in, that could take two hours. There’d be no snatched motorway hamburgers for her.
The signs flashing past informed us that refreshment areas were two miles and twenty-seven miles ahead. Also telephones.
“Pull up at the next one, Jim,” Kate directed. “I want to try Neil again. He’ll have to know where we’re going and what’s happening.”
“We don’t have time to stop,” Paula snapped. “Keep going, Jim!”
That did it. Anxious though he was to be rid of her, Jim wasn’t taking orders from her, even in so worthy a cause. He flicked on his directional signal and veered across the motorway into the turnoff lane.
“Don’t you dare stop!” Paula snarled.
“Now, now,” Tris Tablor tried to mediate, “we’ve been making very good time. I’m sure we can spare a few minutes for telephone calls and—”
“You mind your own business!” Paula whirled on him. “Nobody asked you to come along. You shoved yourself in on this—all of you—so if you don’t like it, you can just lump it!”
“Personally,” Hortense said coldly, “I welcome the presence of friends at a time like this. It’s all in what you’re accustomed to, of course. And I certainly don’t begrudge them a few minutes to relax. I’m sure we’ll all be the better for a cup of coffee—”
“You can talk—you’ve got nothing to lose!”
“My only son—” Hortense bridled.
“Your nasty little fortune hunter, who’s taking advantage of an innocent young girl—”
“Your scheming little minx has deliberately ensnared my sweet, inexperienced boy—”
“Hah!” Paula said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Hah! That’s all—just hah!”
Jim pulled into the parking lot behind the restaurant and slammed on the brakes with finality. We all lurched forward and rocked back again. Paula struck her cast on the back of my seat but was so anaesthetised by fury that she didn’t seem to notice it.
“You can’t stop,” she screamed. “You can’t! They’re getting farther away all the time.”
“I don’t mind if we stop,” Hortense said coldly, “and I’m quite as anxious to catch up with them as you are.”
“I’ll bet,” Paula snarled. “I’ll just bet!”
“Yes, you can bet on it,” Hortense said. “I’ve other plans for my son. I want him to marry a lady. A refined girl, with good breeding—”
“Don’t hand me that,” Paula said. “You’ve probably been egging him on all the while. I’ve heard those kids talking together, and I know my Donna—she never could keep anything to herself.”
Hortense paled. I couldn’t tell whether it was with outrage or guilt. But guilt was a word I didn’t want to think about. It could explain a lot about this latest episode. A wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband—and vice versa. Did the same hold true for mothers and mothers-in-law? Were the kids trying to protect each other? Or one of their mothers?
I turned around, hoping I was raking them with a casual glance. Hortense and Horace came from the same town as Carrie—who knew what animosities were concealed beneath Hortense’s cool exterior? She was a lady who clung to her dignity, perhaps at any price. Horace was at the age when he might be experimenting with drugs—and he might have got involved with Carrie’s protégé that way. Perhaps they shared the same pusher. And Carrie was a harsh and unforgiving woman, with a blind spot only for the weaknesses of her protégé—and the fury of a lioness protecting her cub, which she turned against anyone who seemed to threaten him in any way. It was easy to imagine her and Hortense clashing head-on over their respective young. And knowing Hortense, it was easy to imagine her winning. Of course, I’d never seen Carrie, but if she had been more formidable than Hortense, I was just as glad I hadn’t.
On the other hand, Paula could easily be a murderer. For the simple reason that she was so obnoxious that, if anyone was to be murdered in Tour 79, she should have been first choice for victim. Since she wasn’t, it was easier to imagine her as the mu
rderer, instead. There wasn’t the long background of living in the same town as the victim, but given the sort of women they both were, need there have been? Mutual hate, from the first moment of introduction, could have sprung up between them, intensifying across Europe until it erupted in murder.
There was just one little thing wrong with that idea. I rubbed my still-aching head ruefully. Paula favoured direct action and would have been more likely to have a go at Carrie with a steak knife than to bide her time, hold her tongue, and play games with pills.
“… all about it,” Paula was saying as I forced my concentration back to the moment. “Sooner or later, she tells everyone. It’s been preying on her mind ever since she learned the terms of the settlement. That’s why I have to watch her so carefully. To keep her from pulling just this damned foolish stunt she’s trying to pull now. To keep her from making the same mistake I did—getting married too young.”
“I agree”—Hortense was tight-lipped—“that it would be a most serious mistake. I’m not anxious for Horace to make it, either.”
“The hell you’re not!” Paula snarled. “You and your precious son have your eyes on that half a million dollars—just like everybody else my poor, stupid baby shoots her mouth off to.”
“Half a million dollars?” Hortense said faintly.
“Don’t try to pretend you didn’t know. That louse—my first husband, Donna’s father—settled half a million dollars in trust for her, separate from the settlement he made on me. She gets it when she’s twenty-five, or when she marries—whichever comes first.
“So, you see”—Paula turned desperately to Jim, who had switched off the ignition, removed the keys, and put them in his pocket—“we’ve got to go on. If she gets married, I’ll never see it—her—again.”
“Sorry.” Jim pushed the lever opening the door. “We’ll take twenty minutes ’ere. The place is licensed. ’Ave a drink.”
He was the first one out of the bus. Unhesitatingly he marched through the door labeled “Gentlemen.” There was no arguing with that one.
As the rest of us filed thankfully off the bus, Paula sat back in her seat. She tried to fold her arms and seemed rather surprised by the cast, which got in her way.
Chapter 14
“Mr. Perkins”—the voice of Penny’s mother was faint, but determined—“are you certain my daughter is perfectly safe?”
I began to wish that I hadn’t made that telephone call, after all. But it was growing late, and I thought I’d better ring and say that Penny was working late. If her mother had gotten worried and tried to call our office, she’d have worried even more at getting no answer.
“Penny called me at four from Dunstable and said to tell you they were heading north. She called again at five-thirty”—there was a rustling of papers—“to say they were at Tamworth and turning onto the M-six. Then”—there was more rustling—“she rang—she seemed most upset that you hadn’t contacted me yet—to say they were stopping for dinner in Preston. That was about an hour ago. She expected to be there about an hour and a half, and then they planned to rejoin the M-six and keep heading north. Mr. Perkins”—her voice sharpened—“they seemed to be making exceptionally fast time between those points. Are you certain Penny is perfectly safe?”
How I’d love to know the answer to that one myself. But Penny’s mother didn’t want the truth, she wanted reassurance.
“I promise you,” I said, crossing my fingers, “Penny is in no danger.” I hoped I was right.
“Mr. Perkins”—she was still dubious—“you haven’t taken on a racing driver as a client, have you?”
“No, we haven’t.” That, at least, I could answer with complete honesty. Daphne might drive as though every road were the Indianapolis Speedway, but she wasn’t technically a racing driver—and she certainly wasn’t a client.
“What is happening?” The voice grew plaintive. “Penny won’t tell me. She just says she hasn’t time to answer questions. What are you doing? Where are you going?”
Outside, I could see Tour 79 boarding the bus again. It was unfortunate for Penny’s mother, but I didn’t have time to answer questions, either.
“Sorry,” I said, “I must go now. If Penny rings again, tell her she’s doing a great job. Tell her to stall them all she can, and to keep her chin up. We’ll try to head them off at the pass.”
“What pass? What are you talking—?”
“Sorry, good-bye,” I said, and rang off.
Paula was in a definite snit as we reentered the bus. The others were looking infinitesimally more relaxed (thank heavens the place was licensed), although still not completely happy. I began to suspect that some of them might even have preferred Covent Garden. At least, they’d still have been in the centre of London and not speeding through the growing dusk with no clear idea of when they’d see their beds again.
Jim lurked outside until the very last minute, then leaped aboard and started the engine with an expression so forbidding that even Paula hesitated to say anything to him.
I’d bagged the seat immediately behind him and gave him the information I’d received from Penny’s mother. He nodded grimly, assimilating it and calculating our chances of catching up with them, then gave his verdict.
“If we can keep moving, and they slow down a bit, maybe a couple of hours. If we don’t get delayed. If they don’t decide to change course. If—”
“Just do your best,” I said. “Remember the alternative.” The alternative was having Paula and the rest of Tour 79 hung around our necks like albatrosses for an indefinite period.
“Right!” He pushed the accelerator down against the floorboard again, and we took off like a souped-up rocket.
Motorways are alike everywhere; only the notice boards vary to give you a clue which country you’re in. Tour 79 had settled down to their usual silent withdrawal from the situation—any situation—they found themselves in. Or perhaps—I tried to be kind—highway hypnosis had set in. The silence was oppressive; only the throb of the motor provided a background noise as we moved inexorably forward into the gathering night.
We were making good time. I looked at the speedometer once and avoided it thereafter. I’d rather not know. As the American cop said, giving out a ticket, “You weren’t driving too fast, you were flying too low.”
But Jim knew what he was doing, and the bus was in control—so long as no one distracted him and the road remained clear and free of obstructions.
Penny would do all she could, too. I knew that. I should have listened to her, but I’d thought she wanted to tell me more about the death of Carrie in Zurich, and I’d heard enough about that. Penny was not only bright, she had a good sense of responsibility as well. Look at the way she had handed Pandora back to me, unwilling to trust her to Daphne’s driving.
Pandora was lying on Gerry’s chest now as he half-reclined against the seat, brooding. They were nose-to-nose in silent communion. Pandora was purring. Gerry, I was willing to bet, was mentally rehearsing what he was going to say to Daphne when we caught up with her. If we caught up with her.
Meanwhile, the natives were growing restless. I heard Paula stir behind us and the thump of her cast against the window, as though she was trying to settle into a more comfortable position. She ought to be glad that the weather was so cool; that cast would have been more uncomfortable in a heat wave. I wondered again who could have pushed her—remembering that she had been strangely silent after the first accusation, and that Donna had been closest to her when she fell. Had Donna hoped for a broken leg to immobilize her mother while she eloped? Or had she hoped for a more serious injury? Paula was controlling the income from the trust fund—if anything happened to her, perhaps Donna wouldn’t have to marry to get control of her own money.
Yet Donna hadn’t seemed positive enough to be so calculating. She seemed more the victim type. Whereas Paula was a definite predator.
Outside, the signposts flashed past. Driving lights were being switched on now and cat
’s eyes glowed, marking the borders of the road. We were gaining on the others—provided that they weren’t going as fast as we were. Even for Daphne, that seemed unlikely.
I wondered if Penny had managed to engineer another stop yet, to report progress to her mother. If so, she’d know that we were on the way. It was time Perkins & Tate gave her a bonus—driving with Daphne called for danger money, even when she wasn’t racing to get across borders—and Neil Larkin could damn well foot the bill for it. These were his chestnuts we were pulling out of the fire, after all.
There was a faint murmur from somewhere behind me. I couldn’t distinguish the whisperer, but I heard the wistful word “home.” It would be what they were all wondering. Whether or not they were going to get back to London in time to pack and catch their plane tomorrow. The way they must be feeling at this moment, it would be the only luxury Larkin’s Luxury Tours could provide for them that they cared about. When they did reach their distant homes, and friends dropped round to hear all about their trip, what would they tell them? Would time soften their memories, as Neil had hoped, so that they would look at the photographs in the local rag, read the enthusiastic writeup, and actually believe they’d had such a good time?
On the other hand, they’d have to carry out the charade to some extent. They couldn’t break down and admit, “Well, it was a pretty good tour, barring a spot of murder in Switzerland. Of course, we all clammed up about that and the cops never found out.” No, there were still laws about murder and conspiracy. There were extradition treaties, too. They couldn’t afford themselves the luxury of admitting how unluxurious their tour had really been. Neil might just be lucky there.
We had the motorway nearly to ourselves now. The last turnoff had funneled off the stream of late homegoers behind us. Coming toward us, a line of cars veered sharply into their turnoff. The night suddenly seemed darker than before. With our increasing isolation on the road, restiveness became more apparent among the members of Tour 79.
Tourists Are for Trapping Page 13
