(17/30 Love, Lies and Liquor

by M C Beaton

  “I think we should tell the police,” said Harry, lowering his voice.

  “They’d never get a search warrant just because you thought a necklace was real diamonds. Besides, I’d like to show them that the detective agency can find out what they can’t. Is there any hope you could take Wayne and Chelsea out this evening?”

  “I’ll try. What do you plan to do?”

  “Wait till they leave the hotel and search their room.”

  “How? The door will be locked.”

  “Let me think. I know. If you can’t get them to go out with you, we’ll watch and see if they leave. If they do, you chat up that ditzy receptionist and I’ll pinch their key.”

  “Lot of ifs in your plans.”

  “We’ve got to try. Can you really tell genuine diamonds from fake?”

  “The sun shone on that necklace and it sparkled the way only real diamonds can sparkle.”

  “Okay, but there are very good fakes. Still, we’ve got nothing else. Don’t bother to ask them out. I’d feel better if you were with me when I get a look at their room.”

  When they returned separately to the hotel, the receptionist handed Agatha a postcard showing a view of Dover Castle. It was from James. “Come and join me,” she read. “I will be with friends outside Marseilles.” Name and address followed.

  Agatha’s lips tightened. He had simply driven off in a huff and now he expected her to make her own way to the south of France. She ignored the inner Agatha, who was longing to go.

  Before she had parted from Harry, she had arranged that she should lurk in reception that evening to see if Wayne and his wife went out. If they did, she would phone Harry in his room so that he could come down and distract the receptionist.

  There was nothing else she could think to do that day, and the hours dragged on leaving her nothing else to think of but James.

  By early evening, she was seated in a corner of the reception area, hidden behind a magazine. Did Wayne find the food at the hotel as awful as she did? The evening meal was not included, so there was no incentive for him to dine in the hotel.

  At eight o’clock, to her relief, she peered over her magazine in time to see Wayne and Chelsea make their way out of the hotel. She took out her mobile phone, dialled the hotel and was put through to Harry’s room. “They’ve gone,” she whispered. “Be right down,” replied Harry.

  Agatha waited anxiously until she heard him running lightly down the stairs. There was a creaky old lift, which juddered and shuddered up through the floors of the old hotel and hardly ever seemed to be available, so people used the stairs.

  She waited to hear Harry chat up the receptionist, but he went straight to the hotel door and looked out. Then he shouted to the receptionist, “You’ll never believe it. Come and see this!”

  “What?”

  She left the desk and went to join him. Agatha darted to the desk, went behind it and lifted down the key to Wayne’s room. Harry had found out the number earlier. She scurried back to her seat and raised her magazine just as Harry and the receptionist came back. “I don’t know where he went to,” Harry was saying. “But it was this man on stilts walking past with a monkey on his shoulder. There must be a circus in town.”

  “Haven’t heard of it.” The receptionist, Betty Teller, went behind the desk again. Harry made for the stairs, and after a few moments Agatha followed him.

  She caught up with him in the first landing. “I’ve got the key,” she said triumphantly. They walked up to the next floor and along a corridor. “Here we are,” Harry was just saying when they heard the creaking and groaning of the lift.

  They retreated to the end of the corridor and round a corner. With a sinking heart, Agatha heard Wayne’s voice. “I’m telling you, I left my key at the desk not long ago.” The receptionist could then be heard protesting, “Well, it’s not there. I’ll let you in with the pass key.”

  They heard the sound of the lift clanking to a halt, the clatter of the old-fashioned gate being drawn back and, shortly after that, the sound of a key being turned in the lock.

  “I’ll go downstairs right now and look for it again, Mr. Weldon,” said the receptionist.

  “That’s that,” muttered Agatha. “We may as well try again tomorrow. Can you somehow get down there and throw the key on the floor or something?”

  “Will do. What are you going to do now?”

  “Get myself something to eat, I suppose.”

  Sitting alone at a table in the Chinese restaurant, Agatha pulled the postcard from James out of her handbag. She had a weak longing to go and join him.

  After she had finished her meal, she took out her phone and dialled Mrs. Bloxby’s number. Agatha had no intention of telling Mrs. Bloxby about James’s desertion, but no sooner had she heard her friend’s sympathetic voice on the line than she blurted it out. “He even sent me a postcard with an address outside Marseilles asking me to join him,” she said.

  “You are not going to, are you?”

  “No,” said Agatha, fighting back a desire to cry.

  “What has been going on? I read a bit about it in the newspapers.”

  Agatha told her as much as she knew and described the abortive attempt to find the jewellery.

  “Could you speak up?” pleaded Mrs. Bloxby. “The line’s bad.”

  Agatha looked around, There was no one near her. The only other customers were a middle-aged couple and a man in workman’s overalls, so she raised her voice. When she had finished, Mrs. Bloxby said seriously, “Do be careful. It all sounds very dangerous.”

  She began to chat about village gossip and Agatha felt soothed when she had rung off. It was only then that Mrs. Bloxby realized she had failed to tell Agatha that Sir Charles had been looking for her.

  Betty Teller, the receptionist, took a last look around on the floor behind the desk and let out an exclamation when she saw the key. She wondered whether to phone young Mr. Weldon and then decided to tell her replacement, who was due on duty any minute, to doit.

  Her replacement, a sour-looking Croatian named Nick Lon-car, was late as usual. When he finally arrived she was so angry with him that she forgot to tell him about the key. Nick waited until she had gone and then nipped through to the bar and ordered a double whisky. He had just downed it when he heard the bell ring at the desk.

  It turned out to be the last of the guests, other than Agatha and her party, checking out. They were an elderly couple. He listened with an impassive face to the all-too-familiar complaints of how the hotel had gone downhill and how awful the food was.

  He ordered them a taxi and carried their bags to the door. He held out his hand for a tip, but they ignored him. Swearing under his breath, he returned to the desk.

  By seven in the morning when the girl for the early shift, Kylie Smith, arrived, he was fast asleep. She nudged him awake. “I got a call from Betty last night,” she said. “She forgot to tell you that young Mr. Weldon’s room key was missing last night and she had to let him in with the pass key. She found his key later on the floor behind the desk. She says you’d better phone him and tell him.”

  “Stupid cow,” said Nick, whose command of the English language had improved in leaps and bounds since he had arrived in Britain eight months ago. “But he won’t be awake. You do it.”

  He yawned and stretched and made his way out of the hotel.

  Kylie waited until nine o’clock and phoned Wayne’s room. There was no reply. She phoned again at ten. Still no reply.

  She left the desk and went up to his room. A DO NOT DISTURB sign was hanging outside the door. I’d better wake him, thought Kylie. The maid’s got to get in to clean up. She knocked loudly on the door and called out, “Mr. Weldon!”

  Cyril Hammond came along the corridor at that moment and asked her what was up. She explained about the key.

  “Well, just use it and we’ll go in and wake him up,” said Cyril. “He and Chelsea probably got pissed last night and they’re sleeping it off.”

&nb
sp; Kylie unlocked the door and walked in. Then she screamed and screamed

  FIVE

  AGATHA was in her room telling Patrick about the failed attempt to find out whether Wayne had the jewels, when they heard screams. They both ran out into the corridor. Agatha’s room was on the third floor. The screams were coming from the floor below. They both ran down.

  Cyril Hammond was holding Kylie in his arms and trying to calm her down. “I’ll need to call the police,” he was saying.

  “What’s up?” asked Agatha.

  Cyril nodded in the direction of Wayne’s room. Agatha and Patrick looked in. Wayne was lying on his back, his T-shirt covered in blood. Chelsea was lying over by the window, the side of her head blown away. A few feathers from a pillow lying on the floor drifted in a draught from the window.

  “Shot through the pillow,” muttered Patrick. “Tried to deaden the sound.”

  Kylie’s screams still rent the air. Agatha went back to her and slapped her soundly across the face and she dissolved in sobs.

  Agatha took out her phone and called the police. Then she turned to Cyril. “You’d best take this girl downstairs and get her some sweet tea or something to calm her down.”

  Patrick waited until they had gone. Then he extracted the key from the lock and wiped it thoroughly with a handkerchief, and holding it by the handkerchief, put it back in the lock again.

  “You’re destroying evidence,” gasped Agatha.

  “Exactly. No doubt the murderer wore gloves. I’ll bet neither you nor Harry did when you were handling the key. We’ll all be fingerprinted.”

  Guilty thoughts raced through Agatha’s shocked brain. She had talked to Harry about the jewels in that pub. She had talked again to Mrs. Bloxby about them. What if Charlie Black, the armed robber, had been one of the listeners?

  The police arrived, headed by Detective Inspector Barret. He told Agatha and Patrick to wait downstairs.

  Harry was already there, having heard the grim news from one of the maids.

  “They’re going to find out about that missing key,” said Agatha.

  “They’ll assume the murderer took it,” said Patrick. “I mean, he must have. You say Harry left it on the floor behind the desk. The girl probably found it and put it back. We’re all in for a lot of hard questioning. I think Harry here should tell them about that necklace. The sooner they start looking for Charlie Black, the better.”

  “And how are all the happy holidaymakers?” asked a cheerful voice behind them.

  They swung round. Charles Fraith stood there, the smile dying on his face as he saw their strained looks.

  “What’s happened?” he asked.

  James Lacey finally reached the villa owned by his friends, Kenneth and Mary Clarke. Before his retirement from the army, he had done a short desk stint at the Ministry of Defence. That was where he had got to know Kenneth along with the Hewitts, now retired to Ancombe. He had kept in touch with Kenneth, learning that Kenneth on his retirement had decided to set up a bed and breakfast in France. He remembered Kenneth as a round, jolly man with a charming wife.

  But the Kenneth who came out to welcome him had changed. He looked so much older and had lost weight. His once thick grey hair was now thin and his pink scalp shone though. He was wearing a Hawaiian beach shirt and droopy grey cotton shorts and open leather sandals with black socks.

  “Come in,” he cried. “Mary’s down at the shops. She’ll be back soon. You’re our only guest, so we’ll have plenty of time to catch up on the gossip.”

  “Is she here?” asked James.

  “Who?”

  “My ex. Agatha Raisin.”

  “No, old chap. Were you expecting her?”

  “I sent her your address. I expected her to join me.”

  “Might come along later. Let’s have a drink. I’ll show you to your room first.”

  The bedroom had a double bed, a large Provencal wardrobe, one easy chair and a washbasin with a mirror above over by the window.

  “Just leave your things,” said Kenneth. “We’ll sit in the garden.”

  He led the way back downstairs and through a cluttered messy kitchen and out into the back garden, where chairs and tables had been placed on a stone terrace overlooking a weedy and uncultivated garden.

  “So how are things?” asked James, accepting a glass of the local wine and wondering where Agatha was. Surely she would come and join him. He thought ruefully of the times he had changed his holiday destination just to make sure that Agatha did «or join him.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m a bit homesick. Gets lonely up here when we don’t have guests.”

  “What about the locals?”

  “Difficult to get to know. Never could master the language.”

  “Can’t you learn? Surely it would help.”

  “Fact is,” said Kenneth moodily, “I’m homesick. I’d swap all this for rainy London. Damned euro. Everything’s so expensive.”

  “You’ve got a big garden. You could grow your own vegetables.”

  “My back hurts,” said Kenneth.

  They heard the sound of a car. “That’ll be Mary. She’s dying for some company.”

  They heard the front door open. Kenneth shouted, “In the garden, darling. James is here.”

  James remembered Mary as a neat blonde woman. As she came onto the terrace, he barely recognized her. Her hair was grey and she had put on weight She was wearing a faded blue house-dress and her bare feet were thrust into a pair of battered espadrilles.

  “How are you, James?” She gave him a peck on die cheek. “Do pour me a glass of wine, darling. It was hot as hell in the town. So what have you been up to, James, since we last saw you?”

  “I wrote a military history, but now I’m writing travel books.”

  “How splendid! Give us a plug. We could do with the business.”

  “What about August? All the Parisians flock south.”

  “Well, they aren’t flocking here.”

  “Have you advertised?”

  “Oh, yes,” sighed Kenneth. “Put a small ad in the Spectator.”

  “What about the French newspapers?”

  “We never actually thought of having French people here,” said Mary. “We advertised good English home cooking.”

  “Maybe not a good idea,” said James. “The English like to come to France for French cooking and the French won’t like the idea of English cooking either.”

  “Oh, what do you know about it?” Mary’s voice had a waspish tone. “You’re a bachelor. No cares. You’re not stuck in this stinking hot villa miles from anywhere. It was Kenneth’s idea. I sometimes think men never grow up. When we had our first guests, all he wanted to do was play mine host while I slaved in the kitchen.”

  There was an awkward silence. I want to get out of here, thought James. But I’d better suffer it for a day or two in case Agatha does turn up. Aloud he said, “Why don’t I take the pair of you for lunch in Marseilles?”

  They both brightened. “That would be great,” said Kenneth.

  So James entertained them at an outdoor restaurant on the Corniche where Mary ate too much and Kenneth drank too much. The hard sun glittered on the water.

  And then James saw a stocky woman with good legs walking towards the restaurant. She was wearing a large straw hat and dark glasses. Agatha at last.

  He leaped to his feet. “Agatha! Over here!”

  The woman removed her sunglasses and stared at him blankly. James actually blushed and sat down hurriedly. “Sorry,” he called to her. “A mistake.”

  Charles leaned back in his chair and surveyed the group. “You’re in for some hard questioning from the police. They’ll want to know why you didn’t tell them about your suspicions.”

  “I’m not going to tell them.” Agatha looked strained and weary. “What would they have done anyway if Harry had told them about that necklace? Nothing, that’s what. It wouldn’t have been enough to justify a search warrant.”

  Her he
art sank as Betty Teller walked into the hotel. A policeman led her towards a little-used smoking room which the police had commandeered as an office. They would take Betty through the events of yesterday evening. They would ask her if she had left the desk. She might tell them about Harry calling her to the door.

  “I’d better check in,” said Charles, getting to his feet. “Where’s James?”

  “He decided to visit friends in the south of France.”

  “Typical,” said Charles cheerfully.

  Agatha watched his well-tailored figure approach the desk, now manned by the manager, Mr. Beeston. Agatha never knew whether Charles was fond of her or simply looked on her as someone who occasionally provided interesting diversions.

  After ten minutes, Betty Teller emerged. “Mrs. Raisin,” called the policeman. Agatha suppressed a groan and walked into the smoking room.

  “Mrs. Raisin,” began Barret, “first of all, I would like to know why you are still here and why two members of your staff are here also. We checked up on you. That unsavoury-looking youth, Harry Beam, is employed by you, as is Patrick Mulligan. You all had your photographs in the newspaper a year ago. Mr. Lacey, your companion, has left.”

  “It was my scarf that was used in the first murder,” said Agatha defensively. “I am a detective. I felt compelled to stay on to see if we could find out who had committed the murder.”

  “Indeed. Now to yesterday evening. Betty Teller, the receptionist, said that you were sitting in reception, reading a magazine, when Harry Beam came down the stairs. He walked to the door and called to her. He told her he had just seen a man on stilts with a monkey on his shoulder, but she could not see anyone there. Did you take the key to Wayne Weldon’s room?”

  “No.”

  “This is only the initial interview. You will be asked to report at the station later, make a full statement, and sign it. Why do you think Harry Beam lied?”

  “I really don’t know.” Agatha felt herself becoming flushed and cross. “Maybe he didn’t lie. Maybe he fancied the receptionist.”