“That’s a lot of money,” said Henry. “Over a thousand pounds.”
“It’s not possible,” said Annette. “He never had that amount of money. He was always hard-up. He used to keep two hundred francs there in the oven, in case of emergencies. But all this...” She seemed utterly confused, and near to tears.
“What,” said Henry, “is the other thing that John kept in the oven?”
“His will.” Annette could hardly speak. “He told me to come and get it if anything happened to him, and to take it to his lawyers. I don’t know why, but he wouldn’t keep it in the bank. It’s here.”
With shaking fingers she pulled a paper out of the envelope and handed it to Henry. It was an ordinary, printed will form, dated a year previously, and it directed, quite simply, that all his possessions without exception should go to Mlle. Annette Delacroix. That was not all, however. Pinned to the back of the will was another paper, written in John’s characteristic scrawl, and this Henry read with increasing discomfort. For it was the draft of a new will. It was scribbled in pencil, with many erasures; clearly, John had had some difficulty in framing the exact provisions which he wished to incorporate into it, for it was more complicated than its predecessor. To Annette Delacroix, it seemed, he wished to leave the money in his current bank account, his furniture and personal effects and the proceeds from a small life insurance policy, as well as “any other objects [car? boat?] I may die possessed of.” The draft then went on: “Any other monies whatsoever in my possession at the time of my death, I give and bequeath to Madame Natasha Hampton, of Villa Trounex, Geneva.” Below this was scribbled, “See Mahoumi about this, 6 p.m.,” and a date. The date of the day on which John had died.
Silently Henry handed this piece of paper to Annette. She looked at it in a sort of dazed incomprehension. “What does it mean?” she said. Her eyes were riveted to the pile of notes on the table. “It means,” said Henry, “That you are undoubtedly the legal owner of that money. That, and quite a lot more, I imagine. Colliet spoke of John receiving large amounts, and he didn’t know about this little lot. It also means that if John had lived until today, you’d only have got the three hundred francs in his current account. All this would have gone to Natasha.”
Annette said nothing, but closed her eyes and swayed, as if she would faint. Instinctively, Emmy held out a hand to her. The three of them stood there silently around the table in the half-light, like celebrants of some pagan ritual. The moment was shattered by the sudden, imperious ringing of the telephone.
For some reason Henry found this more macabre than anything which had gone before. There was something obscene about the shrilling of a dead man’s telephone, especially in the presence of the living. Henry stepped quietly up to the phone. He let it ring until the moment when the caller might reasonably have given up hope of an answer. Then, between rings, he lifted it and held it to his ear.
Immediately a sweet, husky voice said in French, “Ah, John. Here is Sophie. Thank goodness I’ve found you. I’ve been trying to get you since yesterday. I did as you said, John, and I can’t stand it. It’s terrible out here in the country with nothing, no papers, no radio, no anything. I must come back. I have to see you. What are you doing tomorrow? John, I said... John, are you there? What’s happening? John...”
Very gently Henry replaced the receiver.
Annette was still standing by the table, like a statue. She did not even ask about the telephone call. All she said was, “Henry, you must help me. What shall I do now?”
Briskly, Henry said, “Put all that stuff back into the envelope and replace it in the oven. First thing in the morning, go down to the lake and throw your key to this apartment into the deepest water you can reach. Then get hold of John’s lawyer, the one who drew up the original will, and go with him to the police. Tell them about the secret hiding place, and come along here with them to find the envelope. Please God they don’t fingerprint it. I’ll do my best to wipe the papers clean, but both our prints must be everywhere. Then, if you have any sense, retain the lawyer to represent you, because you’ll be in a very tricky position indeed.”
Emmy said, protestingly, “Henry,” but he gave her a sharp look, and she was silent.
Steadily, Annette said, “Yes, Henry.”
“Now let’s go.”
Swiftly and systematically, Henry wiped the notes and documents with his handkerchief, and carefully replaced them in the envelope. Then he said to Annette, “Now, put your gloves on and put this back where you found it.”
“I haven’t got any. I never wear them in the summer.”
“Then hold it in your handkerchief, and wipe the handle of the oven door carefully and anywhere else where you might have left prints. Then turn out the light and pull back the curtains and we’ll be off.”
Like a sleepwalker, Annette did as she was told. In the darkness Henry listened at the front door. There was no sound from outside, except for the faint strains of a radio playing somewhere below. He opened the door gingerly, and they all stepped out into the rubber-floored corridor.
“Get the lift,” whispered Henry. His eye was on Dr. Mahoumi’s door. “Get into it and hold the door open for me. I can’t close this wretched door without making a noise.”
Again, their luck was in, for the lift was already at the landing. Emmy opened the doors, and she and Annette went inside. Henry pulled the door of John Trapp’s apartment shut behind him. As he had foreseen, the lock made a loud and unmistakable noise as it clicked into position. Henry was down the corridor in two strides, but he had barely reached the lift before the door of Dr. Mahoumi’s flat opened.
The lift door swung to, and Emmy’s finger was already on the button, but in the seconds that it took the lift to gather speed. Henry had time to see, through the glass panel of the door, that Dr. Mahoumi was standing on the threshold of his flat, looking about him in inquisitive bafflement. This was not surprising. What was surprising was that he was not alone. Standing just behind him in the doorway was Konrad Zwemmer.
In the lift, Henry said to Annette, “Is there a way out of this building other than the front door?”
Annette thought for a moment, and then said, “Yes. We can go down to the basement and out through the garage.”
“Good,” said Henry. “We’ll do that. Mahoumi will certainly be watching the front door from his window. Lucky we parked the car at the back.”
They drove home in oppressive silence. As the Citroën drew up outside the hotel, Henry said to Annette, “Now, remember what I told you. Tell the police the truth, for God’s sake. Don’t try to deny you were at the Villa Trounex. Tell them about the baby—they’ll have to know sooner or later. Tell them you used to have a key to the apartment, but that you’ve lost it. By tomorrow that will be strictly true. If you can, be surprised at the amount of money in the apartment. They may believe you. Good luck, Annette.”
“Thank you, Henry,” said Annette.
Later, in their room, Emmy said, “Henry, why were you so beastly to Annette? The poor girl.”
“I was beastly,” said Henry, “because it was the only thing to be. Look at it this way. Annette is either innocent or guilty. If she’s innocent, the shock of what she discovered this evening might easily have made her hysterical. The only thing was to be firm and a bit brutal. If she’s guilty, well, not only does she deserve no sympathy, but she’s been extremely clever. She’s put me in one hell of a spot.”
“How?”
“By deliberately arranging that you and I should be there, at our own request, when she opened that envelope. First, if she’d gone there alone and been caught, it would have been serious for her. As it was, she could have said truthfully that we’d asked her to take us. And then she may have wanted an audience for her little ‘Oh-help-what-have-we-here?’ act when she found the money; not an impersonal, efficient audience of lawyers and policemen in broad daylight, but an emotional, suggestible audience in a dimly lit room. Then there’s an even more sinister
thought. How do we know she’s not going to tell the police all about our asking to be taken to the apartment, and pretend that I found the money and will completely by chance? Or worse, by design? You notice how she handed the papers to me to get my prints on them? It’s perfectly easy for her now to go to the police about that money, but still deny that she knew about it before John died.”
Emmy sat down on the bed. “I can’t believe it of Annette,” she said. “After all, she didn’t plan any of this. I asked her to dinner, and you suggested going to the Chemin des Chênes.”
“Annette,” said Henry, “made the most determined effort to find you this morning when she was supposed to be ill in bed. She carefully told you she had a key to the apartment. I’m prepared to bet she angled for the dinner invitation. Now, be honest. Didn’t she?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so. In a way.”
“If we hadn’t risen to the bait and suggested going to the flat, she would have, you can be sure. Of course, you may be right, and she may be as innocent as the air. But on the other hand, things do add up. What was she doing, alone in John’s apartment, on the evening before he died? She knew the hiding place. She was furious with John, and she needed money for herself and the child. Supposing she had found the money and the new will draft? She wouldn’t dare steal the money, for John would have known at once who had taken it. So she suddenly decides to go to the Villa Trounex and see Paul Hampton. It’s far more plausible that her visit had to do with the money, rather than with John’s physical infidelity. But while she was waiting for Paul, she saw the dagger, and had a much simpler idea. If John should die before he could change his will, she would get the cash he had hoarded up, presumably for his elopement with Natasha. And remember, Annette is one of the very few people who could have killed John. She was alone in the cloakroom.”
“You told me,” said Emmy, “that she was so distraught that you couldn’t believe she’d killed him. Anyway, she was in love with him.”
“Wait a moment,” said Henry. “Remember my original idea of a conspiracy.”
“What about it?”
“We’ve been considering a partnership over the security leak,” said Henry. “But there are other kinds of partnership. Supposing this wasn’t John’s baby at all? Supposing Annette had another boy friend, and simply wanted John’s money. The boy friend kills John, and Annette covers up for him by watching the office door and swearing that nobody went in there except me. But Annette only thinks that John is to be threatened, not killed. That’s why she breaks down.”
“That’s all very well, but who could this boy friend possibly be?”
Henry considered. “Somebody on the subcommittee,” he said. “Somebody who comes to Geneva often. Somebody...” Suddenly Henry sat up straight in bed. “I am a fool,” he said. “Annette herself told us who it is.”
“Henry,” said Emmy, “you’d better go to sleep. You’re imagining things. Annette’s never spoken about anybody but John.”
“Imagining, my foot,” said Henry. “Just think back a bit. Use your head.”
“Oh, I can’t. Don’t tease me. Tell me.”
Henry told her.
***
Much later, lying sleepless in the warm darkness, Emmy said, “It’s all very well to build up a case against Annette like this, Henry, but it simply doesn’t work. She couldn’t have had anything to do with the leakage of information from the conference, because she was on leave last week. And so why on earth should she go to all that elaborate business of faked notes to throw suspicion on you, of all people. And in any case”—Emmy propped herself up on her elbow—“in any case, she couldn’t have been the girl with the note, because Madame Novari would have recognized her.”
“That can cut two ways,” said Henry. “Suppose Annette didn’t know Madame Novari by sight. It was only when she heard that the Novaris had left that she told us they would have recognized her. That may have been done deliberately to make us think she couldn’t have been the girl with the note. I agree with you that Annette had nothing to do with the leakage of information last week, but her boy friend may be the culprit.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. And of course, he was at the party.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Henry said, “All the same, I agree with you. My nose tells me that the case I’ve worked out against Annette isn’t true. I don’t necessarily mean that she’s innocent, but my reconstruction is wrong somewhere. I’ve got a niggling feeling at the back of my mind that I’ve missed the most obvious and important thing. I wish to God I could think what it was. Anyhow, we’ll have a much better idea of Annette’s motives when we find out what she tells the police tomorrow.”
Emmy said sleepily, “What about those timetables you started to make out?”
“I’ll finish them tomorrow. Maybe they’ll help.”
“It must be horribly late. Try to sleep now, darling.”
“I’ll try,” said Henry.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING, for the first time in his life, Henry deliberately set out to mislead his wife. He was appalled to find how easy it was to do.
He had decided from the beginning that the best story to tell was the one nearest to the truth. To pretend to Emmy that there was a morning meeting when there wasn’t, for example, would have been asking for trouble, for a chance remark from one of the other delegates could blow the fiction sky high.
So, while they breakfasted in bed, Henry said, “No meeting this morning. I can lie in for a bit.”
“Darling, how splendid. You didn’t tell me.”
“Forgot,” said Henry untruthfully. “I’m afraid that no meeting doesn’t mean no work, though. I’ve got to go to the Palais to sort out the agenda and go through some stuff with the verbatim reporter.” He took a gulp of coffee, and added casually, “I’ll probably give her a bite of lunch somewhere. She’s a nice kid, and she’s been doing a lot of unpaid overtime for us.”
“Yes, why don’t you?” said Emmy.
“You could have lunch with Gerda.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Henry felt guiltily pleased with himself. This way, even if he and Mary were seen together and recognized, it would not matter. In any case, what on earth was wrong with taking a feminine colleague out to lunch? The answer to this, of course, was that there was nothing wrong in it, and that Henry’s sense of guilt came entirely from the fact that he had at last acknowledged to himself how powerfully he was attracted toward the Australian girl. He had no intention of doing more than having lunch and a swim with her. It was ridiculous, therefore, that his heart should be lodged flutteringly somewhere in the back of his throat, that he should sing for sheer joy in the shower and find it impossible to stop grinning at himself in the mirror as he shaved. “At your age,” he admonished himself. But it had no effect.
Emmy lay in bed, idly turning the pages of La Suisse. “Is there anything you’d like me to do for you today?” she asked. “In the sleuthing line, I mean?”
With an effort, Henry refocused on somber reality. “Madame Novari is the key to the whole thing,” he said. “I can’t see that it would do any harm to send her the three girls’ photographs, even if you have to do it care of the agents. Gerda could help you draft a letter in Italian explaining what we...”
“Henry!” Emmy gave a sudden cry. “Oh, it’s horrible!”
“What is?” Henry put a lathered face around the bathroom door.
Emmy was sitting bolt upright in bed, with the newspaper in her hands. “Listen.” She began to read haltingly, translating each word as she went along. “Tragic accident in the Tessin. A young family—father, mother and baby—all met their deaths yesterday evening near Ascona, when the car in which they were traveling left the road and plunged down a cliffside into the lake. The family, Antonio Novari, his wife Matilda and their three-year-old son Giulio were natives of Milan, but had spent several years in Geneva, where Signor Novari worked as a conci
erge. It appears that they were on their way back to the city after a short holiday in Italy when the accident occurred. A complete investigation has been ordered into the cause of the tragedy, which is believed to have been motivated by a fault in the steering gear of the automobile.”
Emmy stopped, and looked at Henry silently. Then she said, “Is that a coincidence?”
“It can’t be,” said Henry. “It simply can’t be.”
“The little boy, too. Henry, this is really evil.”
Henry nodded. “I never did have any pity for the person behind all this,” he said. “But now...”
“What I don’t see,” said Emmy, “is how anybody in Geneva could possibly have...”
A phrase of Helène Brochet’s came back to Henry: “The organization is very good.” In spite of himself he shivered slightly. He was uncomfortably aware that the organization which had taken care of the Novaris was also watching him.
He kissed Emmy lightly. “I’ll be back this evening,” he said. “Try not to brood too much. Get out and enjoy yourself.”
Once again Emmy said, “I’ll be fine.”
Outside in the street, Henry felt an exhilarating surge of liberation. He even managed to put the tragic fate of the Novaris out of his mind for the time being. Wicked and unethical it might be, he acknowledged, but nothing and nobody was going to spoil the next few hours. He hailed a taxi and gave the driver Mary’s address.
She was waiting for him outside the block of flats where she lived, standing beside her little black Renault in the bright sunshine. As Henry climbed into the car, she said, “I’ve packed a picnic, as you said. Cold chicken, pâté and salad, with lots of bread and butter and cheese and white wine. Will that do?”
“Marvelously,” said Henry. “Where shall we go?”
Death on the Agenda Page 15
