Death on the Agenda

by Patricia Moyes

  “You know very well what I mean,” said John. “I’m talking about the gold-plated lot. Then you have the floating foreign population—the diplomats and people attached for a year or so to international organizations. No sense in making friends of them. They come and go too fast. At the bottom of the ladder”—he took a gulp of whisky—“are people like me. There aren’t very many of us. We’re foreigners living and working here permanently, of our own free will.” He paused. “Personally, I try to cut across the strata, and make friends with people I like in each group, and ignore the rest. It can be done, but you have to be damned careful, or one or other of the tight little groups will suck you in. Still, it’s worth it. This is such a bloody wonderful place. Skiing in the winter and sailing in the summer, and good food and drink and...”

  “For some people,” said Annette. The sharpness in her voice was more pronounced now.

  John glanced at her, annoyed. “You go skiing every winter, and you could sail if you wanted to,” he said.

  Annette gave him a long, serious look. Then she said crisply, “Jean, chéri, you know that’s not true. How could I afford it? Especially now.”

  “Things are certainly more expensive now than they were a few years ago,” said John, in a conciliatory tone. Then he put his big hand over hers, and said, “Je m’excuse. Ne sois pas fâchée, chérie.”

  “No,” said Annette. “I’m sorry, and I’m not cross.”

  John turned to Henry and Emmy with his sudden, warming smile.

  “Why don’t we all go dancing?” he said. They did.

  ***

  It was half past one in the morning when Annette dropped Henry and Emmy at their hotel. John Trapp climbed with some difficulty out of the front seat of the two-horse Citroën, and held the door open for them, while Henry marveled yet again that the toy-sized car could contain four adult people. They said their good-bys, Annette and Emmy arranged a rendezvous for the morning, and John climbed back into the front seat. As the door was shutting, Henry heard Annette say, “Chez moi, chéri?” John nodded and put his arm around her. The little car roared away through the empty streets.

  “What a nice couple they are,” said Emmy, as, a little later, she stifled a yawn and climbed into bed. “I wonder if they’re going to get married.”

  “They seem perfectly happy as they are,” said Henry. “Why are you always trying to marry people off?”

  “I don’t know. It’s so much neater.”

  “And maybe less fun.”

  “Oh, rubbish. I adore being married.”

  “Yes, but look at the husband you’ve got.”

  “Conceited brute,” said Emmy, and promptly fell asleep.

  The next morning Annette called for Emmy in the tiny gray car, and the conducted tour began. They explored the old, ramparted city and had drinks in small, crowded bars full of students and reminiscent of the Left Bank in Paris. They went up Mont Salève in the cable car, and saw the lake and city laid out like a map at their feet. They took a paddle steamer and spent a whole day touring the lake from Geneva to Montreux and back, putting in at enchanting little towns like Coppet, Nyon, Rolle, and Morges on the Swiss coast, and returning down the French shore, touching at the glittering spa of Evian and the medieval fishing villages of Meillerie, Yvoire and Nernier.

  One day they drove up into the Jura Mountains, through forests of wild yellow laburnum. The next, they headed southward into the French Alps to the lake of Annecy, climbed to Chamonix, and went up the highest cable car in the world, almost to the top of Mont Blanc, and into a white world of perpetual winter. Then there was a wonderful trip up the Rhône valley, through the ancient towns of Sion and Sierre, coming back by Gruyères—the perfectly preserved walled village in whose shadow is made the only true Gruyère cheese in the world.

  In the course of all these excursions, Annette spoke at length and with enthusiasm about her job, her apartment and her hobbies, which were skiing and the study of Alpine flowers. Emmy noticed, however, that she hardly ever mentioned John Trapp, and on the occasions when Emmy tried to bring him into the conversation, Annette would reply in monosyllables, and change the subject quickly. Emmy, though blessed with her fair share of feminine curiosity, was tactful enough not to pry. Annette was an amusing and charming companion, and if she wished to keep her private life private, that was her affair.

  Emmy sighed with contentment, and lay back in the warm water. Tonight there was yet another party. The thick white card was propped up on the dressing table. “Mr. and Mrs. Paul G. Hampton, At Home... 8 P.M. onwards... Villa Trounex, Genève...” It sounded fun.

  She was roused from her pleasant reverie by the sound of violent rattling on the bedroom door. Guiltily, she realized that she had locked Henry out. She climbed out of the bath, wrapped herself in an enormous white towel, and padded, dripping, across the carpet to let him in. She opened the door, and Henry came in and took her in his arms.

  Henry and Emmy Tibbett were a rare couple, although fortunately they were not sufficiently sophisticated to realize it themselves. They were both in their forties. Emmy was plump, black-haired and amiable. Henry was physically unremarkable. Their marriage had weathered fifteen years of happiness, of misery, of crises and reunions, and they had not been aware of growing any older. Consequently they were, if anything, more in love now than they had ever been—and this was the more remarkable since, through no wish of their own, they were childless. The greenest of amateur psychologists could have told them that they were at a dangerous stage in their relationship, but they would have laughed at him.

  “I’ve had the most marvelous day, darling,” said Emmy, disentangling herself and the towel from Henry’s embrace. “Annette and I went up into the hills behind Nyon and took a picnic lunch. All the Alpine flowers are still out—gentian and wild orchids and the lot. She dropped me back at three, and I went swimming at the Lido.”

  “You’re a brute,” said Henry. “I’ve been in a dark brown conference room since nine this morning, and I’m tired and dirty. I need a bath.”

  “Have mine,” said Emmy generously. “By the way, what is this party this evening? It just says Mr. and Mrs. Paul Hampton. I’ve never heard of them.”

  “Rich Americans,” said Henry, taking off his jacket.

  “Why on earth have they invited us?”

  “Because I’m a member of the subcommittee on...”

  “That doesn’t seem much of a reason.”

  “It’s good enough for Geneva,” said Henry, and disappeared into the bathroom.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE VILLA TROUNEX was en fête. Every downstairs window of the great, beautiful house glowed and glittered with the dancing light of crystal chandeliers. Built at the turn of the century by a wealthy banker, the house had all the exuberant charm of Edwardiana, and resembled more than anything else an elaborate wedding cake with white icing. From the terrace, two graceful flights of steps curved down to the smooth green lawns, which in turn ran down to the lakeside, where Paul Hampton’s white motor cruiser lay nuzzling her mooring buoy inside the little private harbor. The gardens were a precise study in calculated informality, for a highly paid landscape architect had placed each tree with consummate skill in exactly the right spot, improving vastly upon nature and yet avoiding any suspicion of symmetry.

  Tonight the trees glimmered with tiny lights, and Paul Hampton’s guests spilled out of the great drawing room onto the terrace, and down to the lawns below, where white-coated menservants dispensed champagne and foie gras with efficient discretion. It was the time of evening when the light has not quite faded, but the moon is already up—a full, yellow moon, hanging like a Chinese lantern in a bluebell sky, and throwing a pathway of restless gold across the calm silver water. Carefully concealed loudspeakers played Mozart softly; the music floated like thistledown on the warm air.

  Paul and Natasha Hampton were famous for their parties, so their heavily embossed invitation cards were prized trophies on the mantelpieces of Genev
a. The lucky recipient of such a card could look forward confidently to an evening of unostentatious luxury, of impeccable service, of elegance without stiffness, and of stimulating company. For Paul and Natasha had cleverly managed to cut across the rigid layers of society which John Trapp had outlined to Henry.

  Financially speaking, Paul Hampton belonged to the category which John had cynically pigeonholed as rich tax-dodgers, and certainly one stood a good chance of meeting expatriate royalty and the even more sought-after film stars at the Villa Trounex. But his circle also included those of the Genevese aristocracy whom he found amusing, a fair smattering of the more intelligent diplomats, a selection of businessmen of all nationalities, and a number of other people who happened to be amusing or talented or just sympathetic.

  So it happened that John Trapp stood on the terrace sipping his champagne in the company of an extremely pretty young French duchess, while Oscar H. Krumstein of Amalgamated Exports, Inc. (brought up in the Bronx, and proud of it) enlarged on the beauties of the lake to the firmly corseted wife of a Swiss banker, and Juan Moranta turned the full force of his Spanish charm on a young lady from Finchley whose great dark eyes had gazed soulfully, if without much animation, from every cinema screen in the world.

  Paul Hampton moved serenely among his guests, a perfect, observant and considerate host. He was a tall, heavy man in his early fifties, gray-haired and blue-eyed, who walked with the springy step of an athlete: in fact, Paul had only one fear in life, and that was of putting on weight. He was justifiably proud of his body, and he took good care of it, treating it to massage and sauna baths, toning it up with water-skiing and squash, and bronzing it carefully in the summer sunshine. It repaid him by glowing with health, energy and well-being.

  As he made his way from group to group on the lawns, Paul was keeping a sharp lookout for unfamiliar faces, for the only guests whom he did not know personally were the delegates from the International Narcotics Conference, and he was determined to watch over them with special care. So far, apart from his old friend Jacques Lenoir, he had located and made the acquaintance of Juan Moranta, Bill Parkington, and Konrad Zwemmer. Now he was in search of the remaining two—Alfredo Spezzi and Henry Tibbett.

  As it happened, he was doomed to disappointment for the time being. Alfredo had met up with an old friend and compatriot, an internationally famous Italian athlete, and the two of them had wandered down to the little yacht basin, where they were deep in discussion about the finer points of water polo. Henry had not yet arrived.

  It was not more than a few minutes later, however, that Henry and Emmy drove up to the Villa Trounex in a taxi. This put them at an immediate disadvantage, and as they watched the chauffeur-driven Bentleys and Mercedes circling the graveled forecourt, they instinctively glanced at each other for support and reassurance. This, they felt, was something altogether out of their class.

  Their feelings were not helped by the infinitely superior, white-coated character who opened the taxi door for them. There was the inevitable, agonizing delay while Henry groped for the right amount of money to pay the cab driver, and added a very much exaggerated tip out of sheer panic. The gentleman in the white coat cleared his throat almost imperceptibly, indicating impatience. Henry pulled himself together. His resolution not to be impressed had weakened, and this had made him cross. Before the butler could put his inevitable question, Henry said irritably, “Mr. and Mrs. Henry Tibbett.”

  He took Emmy’s arm firmly, and almost hustled her inside.

  “Monsieur et Madame Henry Tibbett,” echoed the butler, ringingly, with distaste and a faintly Italian intonation. Henry and Emmy walked into the house.

  Instantly their feelings of inferiority and dismay were dissipated. A voice, charmingly un-English, said, “Inspector Tibbett—oh, we are so pleased—we thought you might have been too busy to come...” And Henry found himself looking into the largest pair of brown eyes he had ever seen. He felt his hand caught in a soft, cool one, and was aware of a whiff of Paris scent.

  “And Madame Tibbett—this is more than we hoped for. You must be so tired, with all these Geneva parties...to think that you found the time to come to ours. Please come in. I am Natasha Hampton.”

  Natasha Hampton was the sort of woman who turns heads wherever she goes—tiny and blond, with a face whose exquisite bone structure takes the breath. This evening she was wearing a short, slim dress of pale gray satin, utterly simple and quite faultless. The diamonds at her wrist and the pearls at her neck seemed to have grown there, naturally. She exuded warmth and friendliness and simplicity, and both Henry and Emmy felt at once that they were among friends. The relief was enormous.

  “Come out onto the terrace,” said Natasha. “It is so beautiful this evening. You can see Mont Blanc—that is unusual so early in the year. And there are lots of your friends waiting for you.”

  Henry and Emmy crossed the parquet-floored drawing room and stepped out onto the terrace. At once, a waiter materialized with champagne, and at the same moment John Trapp said, “Hello, there. Nice to see you.”

  “My husband is dying to meet you,” said Natasha. “I will go and find him.” And she disappeared, a slim gray shadow under the Chinese lanterns.

  “This is Sophie,” said John, offhandedly. Henry and Emmy shook hands with the pretty girl, and it was not until much later that they realized her staggering social status. It did not seem to matter. At Paul Hampton’s parties, such things were unimportant.

  Henry said, “What a wonderful city this is.”

  Immediately the girl called Sophie said, “But isn’t it? I have always said so. It is not only beautiful—it is symbolic of something so much more important.”

  “International friendship,” said Emmy.

  “That is exactly what I mean,” said Sophie. “I know the nations are not always exactly friendly with each other, but at least here everyone can meet and talk on an equal level.”

  “Bloody nonsense,” said John. There was a short silence.

  “Here, at Paul’s at any rate,” said Sophie, with a quick, embarrassed smile.

  “Geneva is a strange place,” said John. “I told you so the other night. Don’t be deceived by its beauty. All sorts of things go on here that...”

  “You’ve stayed here voluntarily for quite a few years,” said Emmy, smiling. “Why?”

  “Because it amuses me,” said John shortly. “I’ll go and refill our glasses.”

  He picked up the four glasses expertly, and vanished into the house. At that moment Natasha reappeared.

  “Paul is entangled with about a hundred people,” she said. “Never mind. He will be over in a moment. I see you have met Sophie. And of course you know Señor Moranta.”

  Juan Moranta turned as he heard his name mentioned, and greeted Henry and Emmy. After the initial courtesies—somewhat prolonged in Moranta’s case, and involving much flourishing and kissing of hands—the two men settled down to a discussion of the lighter aspects of the day’s debate, and Emmy leaned against the gray stone parapet and let her attention wander over the general scene.

  It was, she reflected, exactly like an episode from a film: an early Orson Welles or a middle-period Fellini, where, in a setting of great opulence, the camera moves leisurely but with a deadly observation, picking up a gesture here, a snatch of conversation there, a smile, a moment of anger. Pleased with this conceit, Emmy set her own eye to roving at random, like a searchlight beam. It was rewarding.

  John had returned to Sophie, and Emmy caught for an instant the latter’s pleading face as she said, “Please, John...” and John’s rather too deliberate stubbing out of a cigarette as he said, not unkindly, “No, Sophie. It won’t do. The best thing for you is to...” His voice was lost as he turned away, but the girl took a step after him and said, “Sometimes I think you are the most selfish...”

  “Nobody will dispute that, Madame.” The voice was Juan Moranta’s, and Emmy was surprised to see that he had suddenly broken his conversation with Hen
ry, and turned around to the French girl. “May I get you a drink?”

  For a moment, Trapp and Moranta looked at each other, and Emmy could see the contempt on the Spaniard’s face and the amused exasperation on the Englishman’s. Then Trapp shrugged his shoulders very slightly and walked away, while from the other side of the terrace Bill Parkington said, loudly and dogmatically, “I don’t agree. You can analyze the minutiae of any given particular case...” Emmy glanced around, to see Bill coming up the steps from the lawn with Konrad Zwemmer. As they passed her, Zwemmer was saying, “It is not the particular which interests me, Mr. Parkington. It is the general. Individual cases merely confuse the issue. To get a true picture...”

  Emmy’s camera-eye wandered again, caught by a burst of laughter from Natasha Hampton. She was talking to Jacques Lenoir on the lawn below the terrace—or rather, she was giggling like a schoolgirl, while Jacques indulged in some sort of mimed monologue. Emmy caught a stray phrase—“A wife and three Alfa Romeos to support...my dear lady, can you wonder...? ”

  “Oh, yes. It’s very nice. The people, I mean.” The accents of Finchley were unmistakable in Emmy’s left ear. Not all the big guns of Hollywood could blow away their relentless respectability. Emmy turned and gazed with undisguised admiration and curiosity at the world-famous profile, which was at present dazzling Mr. Oscar H. Krumstein. “Well, Hollywood’s just like anywhere else, really, I suppose. Only a bit bigger. If you like that sort of thing, I mean.”

  Henry’s voice, suddenly loud, said, “If the expression had any meaning at all, I’d say it was a question of intellectual integrity. As it is...”

  It was at that moment that Emmy heard her name being called, and she turned to see Alfredo Spezzi making his way up the steps, with his German wife, Gerda, in tow.

  This was a delightful reunion, for Henry and Emmy had not met Gerda since her marriage. Their previous encounter had been on a murder case in the Dolomites, where the German girl had been for a time under suspicion. There she had exhibited all the reserve and prickliness of the persecuted, for Gerda was half-Jewish, and had survived the horrors of Nazism only to be suspected of murder in Italy. Now, married to Alfredo and sure of herself, she had blossomed. She still wore black, characteristically, but all the warmth of her personality had flowered and come to the surface. She kissed Emmy impulsively.