Death on the Agenda

by Patricia Moyes

  “Until I came in here with you.”

  “And nobody went in or out?”

  “Nobody.”

  There was a pause. Then Henry said, “Did you know John well?”

  “No.” Mary was quite definite. “We were colleagues here, and we worked together a certain amount. I never met him out of office hours. Quite honestly, he didn’t interest me. He was mixed up in a social set that he couldn’t keep up with financially, the Hamptons and all that lot. I always thought of him as a bit of a playboy. Not my sort of person at all.”

  “Not interested in show jumping, for example?” said Henry with a grin.

  Mary looked really taken aback. “How did you know about that?”

  “I’m a detective,” said Henry. “You’d be surprised how much I know.”

  Mary smiled. “Yes, you’re right,” she said. “Riding is my one great weakness. I think horses are nicer than people.” There was a short silence, and then she said, “Back in Australia I used to ride all day. Sometimes they let me ride the boundaries. I’d take a saddlebag full of food and a blanket roll and sleep rough, maybe four or five nights at a time. It was marvelous.” She stopped suddenly and looked at Henry almost apprehensively, as if afraid of having overstepped the bounds of etiquette.

  “I don’t suppose you get anything like that here,” Henry said.

  “No, but show jumping is just as fascinating in its own way. Morges is a big center, you know. People come from all over the world, all the champions. It’s the main reason I stay in Geneva.”

  “Do you have your own horses?” Henry asked, interested.

  To his surprise, Mary blushed. “I...that is, yes, I have a pony of my own. But I ride for other owners, too.” She paused, and then said, “We seem to have got rather far away from poor John.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be much more to say about him,” said Henry. “I suppose it’s no use asking you the traditional question: Did he have any enemies?”

  “No use at all. I’m pretty certain he didn’t. That’s what makes the whole thing so mysterious, the complete lack of motive.”

  Henry did not reply. He was thinking, of course, of the motive supplied by the security leakage, but Mary, not being a delegate, had evidently not been told about it. To Henry the motive was only too clear. John had known too much. But what had he known, and how had he found it out? The unfinished note in the typewriter nagged at Henry’s mind. Evidence was beginning to pile up now, to make sense, and Henry was forced to admit that each new piece of information led with more and more certainty toward one suspect. Himself. He felt like a fly struggling in a spider’s web, and he could not see the spider’s face.

  He became aware of the sound of voices, and of Mary’s sympathetic smile. “The others are arriving,” she said. “The working day begins, whether we like it or not.” And then, softly, she added, “Truly, I don’t believe you did it, Henry. And I really am terribly sorry about everything.”

  “Thank you,” said Henry. “Well, here we go.” He went out and down the corridor to the conference room, ridiculously happy because Mary had used his Christian name.

  Lenoir and Spezzi were already sitting at the long table. Helène Brochet was also in her place, next to a small, sharp-faced Scotsman called Mackay, who had replaced John. Marcelle had distributed the closely written pages of the new agenda, one to each delegate, and filled the glasses of water which stood like sentinels beside the snowy blotters and sharpened pencils.

  Juan Moranta came in, in conversation with Zwemmer. Bill Parkington drifted into the conference room, slumped heavily into his chair without greeting anybody, and began to study the new agenda. Henry took his place at the head of the table, and glanced instinctively over to the small desk where Mary was now established with her shorthand typewriter. He looked at his watch, took a deep breath, and said, “Well, gentlemen, it is still only ten minutes to ten, but since we are all here, I think we should start at once. You will notice that the agenda has been slightly changed. In place of Item One, ‘Identity Checks at Customs Posts,’ we shall now be discussing the statistical analysis of relative quantities of narcotic drugs illegally introduced into the countries of Europe and North America during the period of...”

  He heard his own voice droning on. In fact, at that moment, his mind was far away from the subcommittee. Among other things, he was wondering how Emmy was getting on.

  Emmy was angry and exasperated. Full of hope, she had climbed the two steep flights of stone stairs above a furrier’s shop in the Rue du Rhône, and pushed open the heavy door marked “Blanchard et Cie.” Inside she had found herself facing a solid wooden counter, behind which typewriters and adding machines clicked busily. A slickly groomed young woman in a pleated skirt and white cotton blouse greeted her pleasantly.

  “Madame désire...?”

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes, madame. Can I help you?”

  “It’s only a small thing,” said Emmy. “I wonder if you could let me have the address of Madame Novari. Her husband used to be the concierge at Five, Chemin des Chênes.”

  The girl’s eyebrows went up a trifle. “The address of a concierge?” she repeated disdainfully.

  “They left rather suddenly yesterday,” said Emmy, smiling in what she hoped was an ingratiating way. “Because of an accident in the family, I understand. I would like to send them a little present.”

  “I see, madame. You are a tenant of Five, Chemin des Chênes?”

  “No,” said Emmy. She realized in time that this could be checked too easily. “No, I have been staying there with friends, and Madame Novari was always so kind and helpful. I had intended to give her something before I left.”

  “Would you wait a moment, madame? I will inquire.”

  The girl smiled encouragingly, and disappeared through a door marked “Direction” in gold letters. Emmy waited nervously. She was uncomfortably aware that she had not worked out her cover story in sufficient detail. Suppose they asked the name of the friends with whom she was supposed to be staying? The only residents she knew by name were the late John Trapp and Dr. Mahoumi, neither of whom seemed opportune.

  Almost at once, the girl returned, smiling. “If you would care to send your gift to this office, madame, it will be forwarded directly.”

  “I would prefer to send it to Madame Novari in Italy,” said Emmy stubbornly.

  “I am afraid we never divulge the private addresses of employees, madame. It is part of the company’s policy. I can assure you that your gift will be sent straight...”

  “I see no reason to make such a mystery of it.” said Emmy. In the face of the girl’s relentlessly bland good humor, she felt herself growing ruffled and angry, “Why shouldn’t I have the address?”

  “One moment, madame.”

  The girl disappeared again, this time for several minutes. When she came back, her smile was as smooth as ever. “If you would give me your name, madame, and that of the friends with whom you are staying...”

  Something prompted Emmy to counterattack. “Do you intend to give me the Novaris’ address in return?” she demanded.

  The girl hesitated, “Well, as a matter of fact, madame...”

  “Do you or don’t you?”

  “Monsieur le Directeur would prefer to send it in a letter to you.”

  Emmy was cornered, and she knew it. Quickly, she said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s not worth all this fuss. I’ll send my letter here.”

  The girl said again, “Your name, madame?” but Emmy was already out of the office and clattering down the spiral stone staircase. She could not make up her mind whether or not there was anything sinister in the sudden disappearance of the Novaris and the unhelpful attitude of the house agents. On the whole she was inclined to think not. The accident to Signor Novari’s mother was probably one of those infuriating coincidences which happen in life, and the agents’ point of view was, after all, a reasonable one. Nevertheless, this did nothing to alleviate E
mmy’s miserable sense of failure.

  She came out into the sunshine and turned down to the riverside walk. The day stretched before her, empty and full of shadows. To shop or go to the cinema was out of the question. The very sunlight seemed hateful, and the butterfly abandon of the summer visitors, with their bright cotton dresses and happy, excited voices, was a cruel mockery of her wretchedness. Wandering by the river with no clear idea of where she wanted to go, Emmy found herself at the Jardin des Anglais, where the floral clock marked twenty-eight begonias after ten. Beyond, at the Quai Anglais, a white lake steamer was about to set off for its morning tour of the Petit Lac. On a sudden impulse, Emmy decided to board it. The fresh wind and open water seemed an attractive alternative to the claustrophobia of the city.

  As she reached the gangplank, the crew were already preparing to cast off and called to her to hurry. She ran up the shaky gangway, only half aware, as she did so, of a voice behind her calling, “Emmy! Emmy!” There was a clatter of high heels on the plank behind her, and yet more urgent shouts from the sailors. Emmy, safely on board, turned to see Annette, panting but triumphant, jumping onto the deck just as the gangway was raised.

  “Ah, Emmy, I have been looking everywhere for you. I’ve been to your hotel and telephoned and everything. I had quite given up hope when suddenly I saw you getting on the boat. Where are you going?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Emmy. “It was just a mad, last-moment idea to come on board. I’m miserable and I don’t know what to do with myself.”

  Annette nodded sympathetically. Emmy noticed how pale and ill she looked, with dark circles under her eyes. She wore no make-up except for a bright streak of lipstick, carelessly applied, and her normally immaculate hair was straggling and untidy.

  “I feel just the same,” said Annette. “I am supposed to be ill in bed, but I could not stay there all alone. Besides, I so much wanted to see you. This boat is a good idea. We can talk.”

  She took Emmy’s arm and led her up to the bow of the boat, which was almost deserted, for it was a windy day. They were leaving the harbor of Geneva now, passing between the lighthouse and the immense white plume of the Jet d’eau, the huge paddles of the steamer churning the water into frothing whirlpools. They could just hear the distant sound of laughing voices from the Lido as swimmers dived and ducked and splashed each other; in the Yacht Club harbor several small white sails scuttled busily about as a class of dinghies prepared for a race; a speedboat screamed past with a nonchalant water-skier skimming dazzlingly in its wake. Leaning on the rail, Emmy could not help contrasting her present gloomy mood with the fun and excitement of her previous lake trip with Annette. She sighed and then said. “Why were you so anxious to see me?”

  There was a long silence. The Swiss girl stood like a figurehead, with her long fair hair blown back from her face, gazing sightlessly out over the deep blue water to the distant mountains. Two large tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

  “There’s nobody else,” she said. “I am so alone.”

  Emmy put an arm around her. “If you just want a shoulder to cry on,” she said, “that’s all right by me. I know how it sometimes helps.”

  Without turning her head, Annette said, “I didn’t think it would be so damned difficult to tell you. I’d better get it over quickly. I’m going to have a baby.”

  “John’s?”

  “Of course,” said Annette quite steadily. Then all her composure suddenly drained away, and she collapsed, like a discarded marionette, onto the bench, where she buried her head in her hands and wept bitterly. Through the sobs, Emmy made out a few choked phrases in French: “What’s to become of me? What will happen? What shall I do?”

  At last, the paroxysm of weeping passed. Annette lifted her head, rubbed her eyes, blew her nose, and said, “I do apologize for that. It was the relief of telling someone, I suppose. I feel much better now.”

  “Good,” said Emmy. “You poor darling. Do you want to tell me the whole story, or not?”

  Annette sniffed a little, and then said, “I’ve been in love with John for more than two years. Ever since I first met him. We were going to get married, but then we decided to postpone it because of work. The Palais isn’t keen on married couples working in the same department, and I am...I was going to transfer and become an interpreter. So we didn’t marry. We just lived together. It was no secret; everyone knew. John kept his apartment at the Chemin des Chênes, but he hardly ever used it. Everybody knew.” Annette paused, and then went on. “We were very happy. We agreed to continue the arrangement for as long as I was working, which really meant, until I became pregnant. We both wanted a child. We didn’t do anything to stop it, but it never seemed to happen. Anyhow, everything was perfect until about four months ago.”

  “By the way,” said Emmy, “what did your family think of all this? I mean, as old-established Genevese.”

  “They didn’t know,” said Annette. “My father is dead, and my mother lives in the South of France now. I’ve only got one sister, and she’s married and in America. I’m completely on my own here.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “Well, about four months ago, John met Natasha Hampton at a party. That was the beginning of the end. He started staying out till all hours, or not coming home at all. Finally we had a great row, and he moved back to the Chemin des Chênes. It was then that I found I was pregnant. Ironic, isn’t it? The one thing we’d been hoping for all that time, and it happened too late. I told John, and I must say he was very sweet. He promised we’d get married, and that he’d never see Natasha again. But all the time I knew he was torn in half, between being happy and proud about the baby, and this other terrible thing, this witchery. It wasn’t just Natasha, you see. The Hamptons took him up in a big way and introduced him into the sort of set that he and I had never dreamed of. It was a wicked thing for them to do. He couldn’t keep up with them, but he hadn’t the strength of character to break away. He was always short of money and he started to drink too much, and his work began to suffer. To do him credit, he did try to put a stop to it. That night when you and Henry came around and we went dancing, everything seemed to be back to normal, and I thought it would all be all right: but then a few days later we had our really monumental fight. It was about the Hamptons’ party.”

  Annette lit a cigarette. By coincidence, the steamer was passing the Villa Trounex as she spoke. Instinctively both she and Emmy glanced across the water at the sweeping white façade of the house. The figures of two men were moving about on the terrace, but too far away for identification. Annette went on. “John hadn’t told me about the party. He’d made up some excuse about having to entertain a business colleague for the evening. It was quite by chance that, after I’d dropped you that afternoon, I ran into a sweet, catty girl friend who asked me pointedly if John and I would both be at the Villa Trounex that night. It was a bitchy question, because everybody knows that I’ve never been there in my life. The Hamptons don’t even know I exist. Anyhow, I was livid. I phoned John at the Palais, and in the end he admitted he was going there. He said he was too busy to talk, and rang off. So I went around to the Chemin des Chênes and waited for him to come in after work. I have a key to his apartment, you see. When he arrived, I delivered an ultimatum. Either he gave up this party, and Natasha, or I was finished with him. I told him not to worry about the child, I’d get an abortion. I didn’t mean it. I was just mad. But then he said, ‘All right. That’s probably the best solution. I’m glad you’re being sensible about it, because I may as well tell you that Natasha is going to divorce Paul and marry me.’”

  Here Annette’s voice trembled on the brink of tears again, but she pulled herself together and went on. “That was the very end. I’m afraid I got a bit hysterical. I even”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“I even said I’d kill him if he did that to me. And the awful thing is that somebody heard me.”

  “Mahoumi?”

  “How on earth did you know? Yes, John grabbed hold of me
and said, ‘Shut up, you little fool. Don’t you know Mahoumi can hear every word—and he’s there, I came up with him in the lift.’ I said I didn’t care who heard, but John went and slammed the windows and then bundled me downstairs and into a taxi. I never thought that I wouldn’t see him alive again.”

  Annette stopped talking, and looked down at the water foaming out from under the paddles. “Oh, Emmy,” she said, “what am I to do?”

  “The first thing,” said Emmy briskly, “is to stop worrying that you’ll be accused of killing John. Do you know what the weapon was?”

  “He...he was stabbed. I didn’t look. I was too upset.”

  “He was stabbed with a dagger from the Villa Trounex.”

  Annette gave a little cry. “Not...not the one from the library? I never recognized...”

  She stopped suddenly and looked away. Quietly Emmy said, “Annette, I thought you said you’d never been to the Villa Trounex.” There was a long silence, and then Emmy went on, “I’m not the police, Annette. I’m on your side. But I think you’re silly to tell lies.”

  Eventually, in a small voice, Annette said, “All right. I’ll tell you the truth. I did go there once. That evening. After John threw me out, I was completely distraught. I wandered about the city and had a few drinks, and then I went home and had some more, and then I thought of this crazy plan. I thought that if I went and told Paul Hampton all about John and Natasha, he’d put a stop to it, and John would have to come back to me. You can see how lunatic it was. I must have been drunk or I’d never have done it. Anyhow, I drove out to the Villa.”

  “What time was this?” Emmy asked. “Try to remember, because it’s important.”

  Annette shrugged her shoulders hopelessly. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said. “It must have been fairly late. The party was in full swing. I just haven’t any idea of the time.”

  “Oh, well,” said Emmy, “never mind. Go on.”

  “I rang the bell and told the butler I wanted to see Mr. Hampton privately. He was pretty furious, but he couldn’t actually turn me away. He showed me into the library. I was there alone for what seemed hours, though I suppose it was probably only about ten minutes in fact. I had plenty of time to study the decor, I can assure you. That was when I noticed the dagger. The longer I waited, the soberer I got, until at last I lost my nerve completely. All I wanted to do by then was to get away, but I didn’t dare go back through the house in case I met somebody. So I slipped out through the French windows into the garden. There were still quite a few people wandering about outside, but it was pretty dark, and I’m sure nobody noticed me. I nipped round to the front again, got into my car and drove home. That’s all. Do you think that awful butler has told the police?”