Death on the Agenda

by Patricia Moyes

  “Did you give your name?”

  “No. I refused. That didn’t please him either.”

  “Well,” said Emmy, “he’s almost sure to have told the police that a strange young woman called that evening. But it seems that nobody except me knows who it was.”

  “Nobody must ever know,” said Annette. “Nobody. Ever.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE MORNING SESSION of the subcommittee dragged interminably on toward the midday recess. The atmosphere in the conference room was strained and uneasy, and anger flared like spurts of magnesium flame around the table. Bill Parkington became engaged in a bitter wrangle with Jacques Lenoir on a complicated point concerning the legal powers of excise authorities, and, when Lenoir attempted to relieve the tension with a mild witticism, accused the Frenchman of not taking his job seriously. Zwemmer, who was known to have strong Left Wing views, made a reference to Secret Police methods (“happily long since outlawed in my country, but still prevailing in some more southerly parts of Europe”), which Moranta chose to interpret as a slighting reference to the political system of his own country. Spezzi, who had no love for Zwemmer, championed Moranta and demanded an apology, while Lenoir showed signs of wishing to relate the whole discussion to the question of Algeria. The meeting began to assume a dangerously political air, and it was all that Henry could do to drag it back into more seemly channels. Even when he had succeeded in doing so, feathers remained ruffled and tempers frayed.

  This was not surprising, considering the atmosphere of tension and suspicion engendered by the double menace of the murder and the security leakage. Henry found himself agreeing wholeheartedly with Mary’s outburst that morning. It was impossible to work under these conditions. His own position was particularly unenviable, for he could not but be aware that a great measure of suspicion was directed against him. Both Lenoir and Moranta, it was clear, considered that he should be under arrest already. Parkington seemed to be making an effort to be impartial, but Henry could feel that all his tendencies were toward what he had called “the other camp.” Only Spezzi supported Henry loyally. As for Zwemmer, he was as baffling and unreadable as ever.

  By noon Henry felt exhausted. He closed the meeting, arranged for the delegates to reassemble at three o’clock, and walked out of the conference room, only to be told by Marcelle that Inspector Colliet wished to see him immediately.

  Colliet was waiting in the rest room of the original suite of offices, to which Henry was admitted only after the most careful scrutiny. The Inspector looked tired and harassed, and Henry guessed that he had had little sleep since their last encounter. At his elbow was an ash tray piled high with cigarette butts, and as Henry came in he was lighting up yet another mentholated cigarette from a green and white packet. In front of him on the desk was a thick dossier full of typewritten sheets, the transcripts, Henry presumed, of Colliet’s interviews of the previous day. Henry looked longingly at it, like a hungry dog in a butcher’s shop. Colliet observed this, smiled a little grimly, and moved the dossier out of Henry’s reach.

  “I am sorry to have to take up more of your valuable time, Inspector Tibbett,” he said, “but I think that our talk today should be more profitable than that of yesterday. For instance, we can now speak freely of this leakage of secret information from your conference.”

  “Yes,” said Henry blandly.

  “Please tell me what you know about it.”

  “I know nothing, except that Mr. Parkington told me about it, in confidence, as I thought, at Paul Hampton’s party.”

  “Why do you say ‘as I thought’?”

  “Because it now appears that other people may have known. Parkington did not tell anybody else outright, but it seems that he was not very adept at concealing the truth from anyone who wished to dig a little for it.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “From Spezzi, who tells me that he gleaned the information from Parkington in the cloakroom yesterday morning; but you must know all this.”

  Colliet smiled. “It is most interesting, coming from you, Inspector,” he said. “Can we now go back to Mr. Hampton’s party? Parkington tells you of the leakage. What then?”

  “Parkington implied to me that he suspected John Trapp, quoting as his only supporting evidence the fact that Trapp had belonged to the Communist Party as an undergraduate. This seemed to me to be irrelevant and unjust. However, I felt I could not refuse to make some further inquiries. I was chiefly concerned with clearing Trapp from suspicion. I agreed to speak to him the following day.”

  “One moment, Inspector. Could anybody have overheard this conversation of yours with Parkington?”

  Henry frowned. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I suppose one can never be one hundred per cent sure, but we started talking down by the harbor, and then walked up the lawns, and there was nobody else near us. I would say you could rule out the possibility.”

  “So. You tell me all this, and yet you maintain that you had no appointment with Trapp?”

  “I had no appointment.”

  “I see.” Colliet took a deep pull on his cigarette, and leaned back in his chair. Henry waited for the inevitable cliché. Out it came. “Would it surprise you to know, Inspector, that we are now virtually certain that Trapp was responsible for the security leak?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “It would.”

  “You think that he was killed because he knew the name of the traitor and was about to divulge it. We are convinced that he was killed because he was a traitor himself, and was about to confess. You should be pleased, Inspector. Our hypothesis makes your own position considerably easier.”

  “Thank you,” said Henry. “I’m glad to hear it, but I can’t agree with you. Would it be asking too much for you to tell me how you have worked out your theory?”

  “Trapp,” Colliet said slowly, “had been receiving large sums of money in cash recently, notably since the start of the conference. Clandestine money, evidently. We found it hidden in various places in his apartment, in notes of large denomination, whereas his bank account contained a mere three hundred francs. We also know that he was anxious to obtain money for personal reasons. The pattern hangs together and makes sense.”

  “To whom do you think he was selling his information?” Henry asked.

  Colliet shrugged. “That is another matter. He was almost certainly approached by somebody in the social circle to which he had recently been introduced. You would be surprised how many impecunious aristocrats get involved as contacts in this sort of thing. Mostly women.”

  Henry suddenly remembered the girl called Sophie. The line of thought was disquieting. “Very well,” he said. “Suppose, and I’m only supposing, that you are right so far. How do you explain what happened next?”

  “It is easy enough for me to explain,” said Colliet. “It is you, Inspector, who are being deliberately unhelpful, if you will forgive my saying so. Perhaps you have reasons of your own. I am hoping, however, that this may change your mind.”

  In his usual manner of the conjurer producing a hard-boiled egg from an unsuspecting victim’s ear, Colliet whipped out a telegram and handed it to Henry. It was quite short, and merely stated that Inspector Tibbett should give all possible assistance to the Swiss Police, and place any information he had at their disposal. It was signed by the Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard.

  Colliet gave Henry time to read and digest it, and then said, “Now, Inspector, will you not admit to me frankly that you know Trapp was selling information.”

  “No,” said Henry.

  “But why not?”

  “Because it isn’t true,” said Henry wearily. “All right. Go on. Let’s hear your version.”

  Colliet closed his eyes. “You found out that Trapp was responsible for the security leak,” he said. “You arranged to meet him yesterday morning; there is little point in denying it. The note in your pocket, which is undoubtedly in Trapp’s handwriting, makes it a certainty. I think myself that, as a f
ellow Englishman, you wished to give Trapp every opportunity of doing the honorable thing, and confessing. You made the purpose of the meeting quite clear. Whatever you said to him, it was effective. Trapp was not at heart a bad man, and was desperately unhappy about what he was doing; only the strongest possible emotional reasons had forced him into treachery. He resolved to take your advice and make a full confession. This explains a curious inconsistency in the note which we found in the typewriter. Apparently the interview had been of your seeking. Yet in the letter he wrote, ‘...what I wish to say to you...’ as though the initiative had been his.”

  “I wondered when you’d notice that,” said Henry.

  “You did?” Colliet blew a perfect smoke ring. “Well, that is my reconstruction of the situation at nine o’clock yesterday morning. But we are leaving out of our calculations another character. The murderer.”

  “I’m glad we’re getting around to him at last,” said Henry.

  “The murderer,” said Colliet impressively, dropping into the historical present, “overhears, or is told by Mr. Parkington, during the party at the Villa Trounex, that Trapp is under suspicion and will be questioned by you in the morning. He resolves that Trapp must die before he can open his mouth. The murderer steals the dagger, but finds no opportunity of killing Trapp that night, since Mrs. Hampton drives him home. So it must be done early next morning. The murderer arrives here at the Palais with the dagger, and stabs Trapp before he has a chance to speak to you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” said Henry. “If your mythical murderer is a member of the subcommittee, then he or she can’t possibly be the person to whom Trapp was selling information. Because the murderer has access to just as much information as Trapp, if not more.”

  “True,” said Colliet. “Had it not occurred to you, however, that the security leak might have involved not one person alone, but a couple, working together?”

  This came so close to Henry’s own idea that he was momentarily taken aback, and said nothing. “Trapp may confess if he likes,” Colliet went on with a fine sense of drama, “but if his confession is going to involve a delegate, what then?”

  “It certainly sounds more plausible,” Henry answered cautiously.

  “It will almost certainly have been a double job,” Colliet added. “Trapp was not on duty the entire time, nor, as an interpreter, did he receive complete transcripts of the meetings. He needed the co-operation of a delegate or a member of the secretarial staff. And this second person is the murderer.” Colliet paused. “All this, Inspector, is what I should like to think, for it would exonerate you from any breath of suspicion. But”—he suddenly tipped his chair forward and glared at Henry out of his tired gray eyes—“but, Inspector, I do not believe for a moment that what I have just outlined to you is the truth.”

  “Really?” said Henry, taken aback and a little rattled. “I thought you said...”

  “How can I believe this story,” cried Colliet, “when you refuse to confirm it at any point? When you deny knowing about Trapp’s treachery, let alone making an appointment with him? When, having made the appointment, you fail to turn up for it? Why should you behave in such a way? Why should you lie to us? And what is more, we have a most enlightening testimony here from Mlle. Delacroix.” He opened the dossier and took out a piece of paper. “She was in the ladies’ cloakroom combing her hair at the time of the murder. The door was slightly open, and in the mirror she could see the door of the office. She states positively that nobody went near that door until you went in there, just after Mr. Trapp stopped typing.” Colliet leaned forward. “There is only one logical explanation for all this, Inspector. You must be the second person, and you killed John Trapp.”

  Now that the words were said at last, both Henry and Colliet experienced a curious sense of shock which made it impossible for either of them to speak. The accusation hovered in the air, ricocheted off the white walls, and spun mothlike, an inaudible echo, around the opaque glass lamp in the ceiling.

  At last Henry managed to say, as steadily as he could, “Does that mean that you are arresting me?”

  “No, no!” Colliet jumped up and took Henry’s arm. “My dear Inspector, forgive me. I was perhaps carried away by my own thoughts. I should not have said such a thing. Nevertheless, you do see what I mean? I have done everything possible to avoid coming to this conclusion. I am still not at it, not by any means. Just a word from you, an explanation, a little frankness, and all would become clear, I am sure. Mlle. Delacroix may well have been mistaken. However, if by tomorrow things are not further elucidated...” He squeezed Henry’s arm. “I am sure you have good reasons for your reticence. But I beg you to overcome them. It would indeed be a painful step if I were forced to—well, let us not even think about such a disaster. Consider, I beg you, Inspector. Reflect. Help me.”

  Colliet sat down again and mopped his brow. Henry felt genuinely sorry for the little man.

  “Inspector Colliet,” he said, “I don’t envy you your position, and I’m sure you don’t envy me mine. I assure you that I’m as eager to find the truth as you are, and that I’m not keeping anything from you. If the case against me looks black, it is because somebody has taken pains that it should. Why they picked on me, heaven knows. Perhaps just chance, or perhaps real animosity. In any case it’s clear that I was chosen as what the Americans call the fall guy. You’ve swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker, and I don’t really blame you. It’s up to me to get myself out of this mess, and I intend to do so. May I go and have some lunch now?”

  Colliet raised his hand in a tired gesture of acquiescence. At the door, Henry said, “Tell me just one thing. How long have I got?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know very well. How long have I got, before...”

  There was a long pause. Colliet fiddled with his yellow pencil. At last he said, “All this is quite...the Chief of Police has not been...that is, no specific time...hm...that is to say... two more days.”

  “Thank you,” said Henry. And, hoping he looked braver than he felt, he walked out of the suite of offices and took the lift to the restaurant.

  ***

  There are two restaurants at the Palais des Nations. On the ground floor, the cafeteria runs the length of the central building, with a wall of glass giving onto green lawns and the great golden sphere which symbolizes the fellowship of the nations. Here polyglot queues of delegates and staff line up at the long counters to buy an excellent and inexpensive meal. Those feeling more affluent, however, can take the lift to the eighth floor, where a full-scale restaurant operates, with white-coated waiters and a roof-top terrace overlooking the city, the lake, and the mountains. Henry, who felt the need to pamper himself a little, took the lift to the eighth floor.

  The restaurant was crowded. Over the cheerful clatter of cutlery, voices eddied in a clamor of tongues—precise French, measured English, emphatic German, melodious Italian, and the liquid flow of the Arab and Indian languages.

  “Vous êtes seul, monsieur?” The maître d’hôtel hovered, apologetically. “I am afraid there is no table. If Monsieur would agree to share?”

  At a table in the window, Henry saw Helène Brochet sitting alone. “I’ll go over there,” he said.

  He walked up to the table, and said, “Do you mind if I join you, Mlle. Brochet? There doesn’t seem to be a table free.”

  “Please do, Inspector.” Helène looked up briefly, then went back to her copy of Le Canard Enchaîné. Henry, feeling snubbed, sat down and ordered rather too lavish a meal.

  He ate in silence, considering Helène Brochet. It was appropriate, he felt, that she should be associated with Konrad Zwemmer, for both were people of reserve and a certain mystery. Her dark head was bent now over her paper, and if the witticisms of Le Canard appealed to her sense of humor, she did not show it. Her face was grave and unsmiling as she turned the pages. Henry sought vainly for a conversational opening, and was glad when Helène suddenly folded her newspaper, looked a
t him, and said, “This conference has turned out rather strangely, hasn’t it, Inspector?”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” said Henry.

  There was a little pause, and then Helène said, “Did you kill John Trapp?”

  The question was so direct and so unexpected that for a moment Henry felt at a loss. He hoped that he achieved the minimum possible hesitation before replying, “No.”

  Helène nodded slowly. “That’s what I keep telling Konrad,” she said.

  “Does he think I did it?” It sounded to Henry’s own ears a silly question, but it was the first of many that rose to his mind.

  Helène considered it coolly. “He is just as much in the dark as anybody,” she said. “He regards Trapp’s death as a great nuisance.”

  “Oh, does he?” said Henry, nettled. “Not as a tragedy, by any chance?”

  “No,” said Helène. “A nuisance.”

  Henry controlled his temper with an effort. “You’ve known Zwemmer for quite some time, haven’t you?” he said.

  Helène smiled slightly. “Oh, yes. Many years now. Whenever he is in Geneva, he stays with my mother and me.”

  The thought of Helène Brochet living with her mother was somehow surprising. Henry said, “And I suppose you knew John Trapp pretty well too.”

  “We were colleagues,” said Helène. “Outside the Palais I did not know him.”