Death on the Agenda

by Patricia Moyes

  “I wonder what made him marry you,” said Henry.

  “That’s easy. He had just bought the house in Paris, and he needed a wife. A hostess. Someone to be decorative and organize his parties. Another possession. Oh, dear, now I’ve put it far too strongly. Please don’t think he’s an unpleasant person. You know he isn’t. He’s charming and brilliant and the greatest fun to be with, so long as one stays on the surface. But he’s cold as ice physically and inaccessible mentally. And the terrible thing is that I still love him as much as I did that day in Vienna.” Natasha looked at Henry and wrinkled her pretty nose. “It doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “Real people very seldom do,” said Henry. “Anyhow, it explains a lot. Have you really stayed with him all these years for love alone?”

  Natasha looked embarrassed, then caught Henry’s eye and grinned. “I do love him,” she said, “but let’s face it, Henry, I like the good things of life, too. I’ve grown accustomed to them. Paul made his terms quite clear, almost from the beginning, without ever actually putting them into words. So long as I stay with him, I can have anything I want that money can buy. He won’t give me actual cash, but I can run up any sort of bill I like, anywhere. He pays them without question. And more than that. He leaves me completely free in...other ways.”

  “Like John Trapp, for instance.”

  “Yes.” Natasha spoke coolly, with no embarrassment. “The only condition is absolute discretion. No breath of scandal. My job is to be part of the façade that is Paul’s life, and I’ve always known that if I slipped up there I’d be finished. Out. Divorced and broke. He’d play the injured, unsuspecting husband, and then find someone to take my place. Another Cinderella. You see, no woman who was independent would stand for it.”

  “Now I see why you are frightened,” said Henry.

  “It’s much, much worse than you think,” said Natasha.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t help matters by getting lost outside your door last night,” said Henry contritely.

  “That started it,” said Natasha. “I knew from his voice that he was terribly angry. You wouldn’t be able to tell, but you don’t know him as I do. But the real trouble was when he made me take John home. Deliberately. You heard him. I can’t think why he did it. A sort of perverted revenge, I suppose.”

  “Surely,” said Henry, “he did it entirely for my benefit—to plaster over the hole in the façade, to demonstrate to me that there was nothing between you and John. I would have been quite convinced by it if I hadn’t unfortunately overheard you talking the first time you opened your door. I’m really very sorry about that. I wasn’t eavesdropping deliberately.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Natasha, wearily. “Anyway, I was upset and maybe a little drunk. And I am—I was—really rather fond of John. I knew Paul was leaving on the early plane for Paris, and wouldn’t expect me to be awake in the morning. I need hardly tell you that there was no risk of his coming to my room during the night.” She smiled bitterly.

  Henry said softly, “So you stayed all night at John’s apartment.”

  “Yes.” It was little more than a whisper.

  “You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

  Natasha looked really scared for the first time. “Only once. How did you know?”

  “I guessed. Does Dr. Mahoumi handle any of your legal affairs?”

  “My God,” said Natasha, “is there anything you don’t know?”

  “Plenty, I’m afraid,” said Henry, sadly. “The things I do know are relatively unimportant. I suppose you used Mahoumi as an excuse to go to the Chemin des Chênes.”

  “I had to,” said Natasha. “You’ve no idea what people are like, concierges and so on. I didn’t dare visit John openly, and I could only ask him here with other people, because of the servants. So I used to go in and out through Mahoumi’s apartment. His balcony adjoins John’s, you see, with only a thin metal partition separating them. We cut a little door in it for me.”

  “Your ideas of discretion seem a little elastic to me,” said Henry. “What about Chez Marie?”

  “What about it?”

  “The patron and his wife apparently assumed that John was your husband.”

  “I can’t help that,” said Natasha. “We used to lunch there quite a lot. It’s not the sort of place Paul would ever go to. And anyhow, it’s not a crime to lunch with someone, is it?”

  “That rather depends,” said Henry. “You were taking a risk.”

  “A very little one,” said Natasha. “That doesn’t bother me. No, everything would have been all right if it hadn’t been for this awful thing. How was I to know that John would go and get himself murdered?”

  “So what do you want me to do about it?”

  “It’s Mahoumi. Naturally, he knows I was with John last night. I came out through his apartment this morning. Normally he’s perfectly reliable; I pay him well, and he keeps his mouth shut. But suppose the police start questioning him? Will he have to say he saw me?”

  “Of course, if they ask him.”

  Natasha grabbed Henry’s arm. “You’ve got to stop him,” she said. “I’ll do anything, anything at all. You’ve got to go and see him and stop him from telling the police. I’ll give you a thousand francs to take to him. No, two thousand would be better. Will you go and see him and give him the money and make him promise not to talk, about seeing me, or about... about other things that he knows?”

  “No,” said Henry. “I won’t. You should know better than to ask a policeman to do such a thing.”

  Two big tears rolled down Natasha’s cheeks. “Oh, Henry,” she said. “You must. You’re my only hope. Isn’t there anything you’d like for yourself? I’d be prepared to...”

  Quickly, Henry cut her short. He had been offered many bribes in his time, but this was a particularly distasteful one, for he liked Natasha, in all her amoral honesty. He wanted to spare her the humiliation of being refused.

  “I don’t think you need worry,” he said. “I have already seen Dr. Mahoumi, as it happens, and he has no intention of telling the police anything.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, but I’m as sure as I would be if I’d given him two thousand francs.”

  Natasha gave a big sigh of relief. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said. “I knew I could trust you. Now everything is all right, except for...well, that can be arranged later.”

  “Everything,” said Henry, “except for the fact that John is dead.”

  “Yes,” said Natasha. “That is terrible.” But the despair had gone out of her voice.

  “And,” said Henry, “that I am suspected of murdering him.”

  “You?” This brought Natasha up with a jerk. “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Someone has taken great pains to make it look as though I killed him,” said Henry. “I’m trying very hard to clear myself by finding out who really did. Will you help me?”

  “Of course, if I can.”

  “I’m working on a process of elimination. For a start, I’d like to eliminate Paul.”

  “Paul?” Natasha was completely bewildered. “But Paul is in Paris.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “He’s not here, but he could be anywhere.”

  “Well, it’s easy enough to check.” Natasha put out her hand and picked up one of the two white telephones by her bed. She held it to her ear for a moment, smiled mischievously, and replaced it. “Wrong telephone,” she said. “That’s the outside line. Very interesting, all the same.”

  “What is?”

  “Household scandal. That awful sanctimonious Gamboni, our butler, was on the line, making a call from Paul’s room, which he has no right to do anyway. And d’you know what he was doing?”

  “What?”

  “Making a date with a call-girl, by the sound of it.”

  Natasha giggled. Henry looked at her, tried to make up his mind about her, and failed.

&nb
sp; Meanwhile Natasha had picked up the other telephone and dialed a number. In French, she said, “Is that the garage? This is Madame Hampton. Give me Golaz... Golaz? You drove my husband to the airport this morning, didn’t you?... He caught the plane all right?... Yes, I was just wondering. Thank you.”

  She rang off. “That was the chauffeur,” she said. “He drove Paul to the airport, and waited until he saw him board the plane and take off. There’s no doubt at all that he’s in Paris.”

  “And in any case,” Henry said, “Paul had nothing against John, had he?”

  “Goodness, no. Nothing at all. He liked him.”

  “Did Paul know about...?”

  “Of course.” Natasha looked amused. “He thoroughly approved. That made it all rather pleasant. Sometimes he hasn’t liked the people I...” She stopped, and then added, “Are you terribly shocked?”

  “No,” said Henry. “I just think it’s all rather sad, especially for you. Now about the dagger.”

  “What dagger?”

  “Didn’t you know that John was stabbed with the dagger from your library?”

  “From our...?” Natasha closed her eyes. “Oh, no. I can’t bear it. That means we’ll have the police here.”

  “I’m very surprised they haven’t been here already.”

  “Henry,” said Natasha faintly, “I don’t feel very well. Could you get me a glass of water?”

  “Of course,” said Henry. “Where from?”

  “The bathroom,” said Natasha, with a vague gesture.

  Henry got up and opened a door which lurked coyly behind yet another froth of muslin. The bathroom was also lavender, close-carpeted, and the sunken bath was fed by taps shaped like silver dolphins. Most intriguing of all was the lavatory seat, which was swathed in an outside rosette of white tulle, with a bunch of artificial violets in the center of it. Henry crossed the carpet gingerly, feeling that his uncouth masculine feet would surely leave bruises wherever they trod. He poured cold water into a cut crystal glass and took it back to the bedroom. As far as he could see, Natasha had not moved. She drank the water gratefully, and then said, “I’m sorry. It was rather shattering to hear about the dagger. I don’t understand it. It was there last night.”

  “I know it was,” said Henry. “I saw it myself. The point is, when do you last remember seeing it?”

  Natasha frowned. “I went through the library when I came downstairs after meeting John,” she said. “It was there then.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I can be. I’d certainly have noticed,” said Natasha positively.

  “Well, that’s something. You didn’t pass the library again when you went to get your coat?”

  “No. My coat was downstairs.”

  “Oh, well. That seems to be that. Now, I’d like you to tell me if you noticed anything unusual in John’s behavior, last night or this morning. Did he say or do anything peculiar?”

  Natasha shook her head. “He was just the same as ever. The only out-of-the-way thing was the concierge’s wife coming up at seven. I got a terrible fright when the doorbell rang.”

  “What happened?” Henry asked.

  “I nipped into the bathroom,” said Natasha, “and John got up and answered the door. I heard him say something about a bloody idiot. Then he took his pen out of his jacket pocket and a piece of paper from the desk and wrote something and went back to the door again. Then I heard the front door shut. I came out of the bathroom and got into bed again, and he said, ‘Sorry, darling. Just some fool from the subcommittee wanting to see me before the session starts.’ I said, ‘What about?’ and he said, ‘I’ve no idea, but it can’t be important.’”

  “You’re sure he said that?”

  Natasha looked at him wide-eyed. “Of course,” she said. “Why ever should I lie about it?”

  “No reason,” said Henry. “I’m just very relieved to hear that that was his reaction. Did he ever talk to you about his work?”

  “Oh, yes, a lot.” Natasha smiled reminiscently. “Chiefly about how much it bored him, and how he wanted to get away and do something worthwhile and make money. He had rather an obsession about money, especially these last few weeks. He wanted me to leave Paul and go away with him, you see, but he knew he couldn’t possibly afford it.”

  “If he’d been rich, would you have gone with him?” Henry asked directly.

  Natasha gave him a straight, clear look. “Of course not.”

  “Not even if he’d been richer than Paul?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  With no hesitation, Natasha said simply, “Because I love Paul. Because he’s ten times as charming and witty and wise as John could ever be. He’s irreplaceable.”

  “Whereas John Trapp isn’t.”

  “I’ve told you the truth,” said Natasha briefly. “Go downstairs now. I’ve ordered dinner for you, but I can’t face any myself. I’m going straight to bed. Will you make my excuses to the others? And apologize to Gerda for me. She’s a nice girl, and I’ve given her a hell of a day.”

  Henry looked at the small, beautiful face, now quite self-possessed and dry eyed. “I shall never,” he said, “understand women.”

  Natasha gave him an impish grin. “I should hope not,” she said. “By the way, if you do see Mahoumi or, if anything happens, ring me here. Not the number in the phone book, but our private line. Five-nine-seven-two. It’ll come straight through to me here.”

  Henry made a note of the number, and then prepared to say his good-bys, but when he looked up, Natasha had already got up and the bathroom door was closing behind her. He shrugged, and went downstairs.

  Henry did not go directly to the drawing room. He had been intrigued by Natasha’s remark that she had passed through the library on her way back to the party the previous night, and at the risk of getting lost again, he decided to do a little exploring. Sure enough, after a few minutes he found what he was looking for. Hidden behind one of the leather-covered doors was a small staircase which led down to another door at the bottom. Henry pushed this open, and found himself in the library. It was beginning to grow dark, but the heavy red velvet curtains were still undrawn, so that the stone balustrade of the terrace outside glimmered whitely against the dark of the trees. The lake was not visible, for the library looked out at right angles to the lake-view rooms.

  Henry was puzzled by the fact that the police had not yet investigated the Villa Trounex. In Colliet’s place, it was one of the first things he would have done. He walked over to the wall where he remembered the dagger hanging, a million years ago. The wall, a space between well-stocked bookcases, looked naked; the space which the dagger had occupied was as obvious and insistent as the gap left by a missing tooth. Natasha was quite right; she would have noticed. Henry shook his head in unhappy bewilderment, and walked slowly back to the window, where he stood in the half-light, gazing out at the gardens, and trying to reconstruct in his mind the scenes and conversations which had taken place on that very terrace the evening before.

  He was jerked out of his reverie by the sound of a key turning in a lock. The door which led to the main hall opened, and instantly the library was flooded with brilliance as the electric lights were switched on. Henry wheeled around to face the door, and found himself confronted by Gamboni, the majordomo. The latter was obviously dumfounded to see Henry, and for a moment could find no words. Then he recovered himself and said in a voice of cold fury, “Did you require something, sir?” His English was excellent.

  For the first time Henry had the opportunity of taking a really good look at this somewhat formidable character. Gamboni was a man of middle age, tall and spare, but with the wide shoulders and slim hips of an athlete. His hair was very dark, and his face now expressed an intensity of real anger which surprised Henry.

  “I am afraid I must ask you to leave this room, sir,” said Gamboni acidly.

  “Leave?” said Henry. “Why?”

  “Instructions from the police,
sir. Had you informed me that you wished to use the library, I would have explained matters sooner.”

  “So the police have been here, have they?” Henry asked. Gamboni did not answer. Henry went on. “It’s strange that Madame Hampton is apparently unaware of their visit.”

  Gamboni hesitated. He seemed to be debating whether or not to answer. In the end, he evidently decided that an explanation of some sort was called for. He said, “They arrived soon after Madame had left for her luncheon appointment. I dealt with them myself. When Madame returned she was distraught and ill, and I did not consider that she should be worried by such things.”

  “I see,” said Henry. He paused awkwardly. It was a new and unpleasant sensation to realize that he had no legal right whatever to compel people to give him information. His only hope of finding out anything about Gamboni’s conversation with the police was to attack the subject obliquely.

  “It was very thoughtful of you not to trouble Madame Hampton,” he said, “but of course, when one comes to think of it, it is natural that the police should have been more interested in you. After all, you were the last person to see the dagger.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” Gamboni was undoubtedly rattled.

  “Well, I presume you made the rounds of the house after all the guests had left last night.”

  “I did not see the dagger.”

  “You mean, it had already disappeared?”

  “It was not in its place when I came to draw the curtains at eleven thirty. I told the police so. I was not able to help them any further. And now, sir, if you don’t mind. I have strict orders that nobody must enter this room. You will notice that it has been locked up since the police were here.”

  “One of the doors has been locked. Not the other.”

  “That is Monsieur and Madame’s private door,” said Gamboni, furious. “I naturally did not anticipate that anyone else would use it.”