(15/30) The Deadly Dance

by Beaton, M. C.

  Charles said, “It’s certainly not him and he can’t think of anyone it might be.”

  Agatha’s heart sank. The police would be looking for her because she hadn’t turned up to give a statement. If they checked the airports, they would find she had left the country and would alert the French police.

  Phyllis, Jean-Paul and Charles proceeded to chat in French while Agatha sat in a sullen, worried silence.

  When they at last said goodbye, Charles suggested that as their plane wasn’t until the morning, they might as well take a walk along the Seine and visit Notre Dame.

  “Seen it,” said Agatha crossly.

  “Well, see it again.”

  They turned off Place Maubert and down Rue Frederic Sau-ton. “Oh, look,” said Charles. “There’s an AA office, right across the road from that Lebanese restaurant. Shall I ask there? I mean, Phyllis only goes to English-speaking meetings.”

  “If we must,” sighed Agatha. “But I’m beginning to feel very silly. I mean, why would he get a drunk to impersonate him when he could possibly have found someone sober?”

  “Maybe it was hard to find someone sober who looked like him.”

  Charles pressed the bell and spoke into the intercom and they were buzzed in. Agatha sank down onto a chair and stared numbly into space while Charles rattled away in French.

  And then she noticed that Charles was beginning to look excited. She straightened up. “What’s going on? What’s he saying?”

  “Listen to this one, Aggie. There’s a clochard—you know, a drunk—who passes his time with the other drunks by the fountain on Place Maubert. Sometimes he’s sober, sometimes not. He’s usually there in the evenings. His nickname is Milord. He has white hair and blue eyes. He occasionally comes down to this office, swearing he wants to get sober, but he never manages it.”

  “Do you think he could have managed it for long enough to keep up a pretence?”

  Charles spoke in French again. When he heard the reply, he turned to Agatha. “They say he might if there was enough money in it for him.”

  When they left, they were both too excited to do anything other than go to the Metro brasserie, which had outside tables facing the fountain, and wait.

  They waited and waited. They could hear the great bells of Notre Dame beginning to chime at five-thirty. The brasserie began to fill up and people dropped in for coffee on their road home from work. There were still plenty of tourists around. Cycling tours glided past and then roller-blading tours. Around them, American, Dutch and German voices mingled with the French ones.

  As dusk fell, several drunks could be seen sitting at the fountain, some with their worldly goods in shopping carts, others with their dogs.

  And then they saw a white-haired man approaching. He sat down on the edge of the fountain and pulled a bottle from the ragged pocket of his jacket and took a swig.

  Charles paid the bill and they got up and approached him.

  Charles began to speak while Agatha’s heart beat faster. Milord had the same blue eyes and white hair, though his once-handsome face was marred with red veins. Charles turned to Agatha. “He says he’ll sober up for money,” he said. “He’s called Luke.”

  “Do anything for money,” said Luke in perfect English.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” said Agatha. “Let’s go somewhere quiet. Are you very drunk?”

  “Not yet,” said Luke amiably. “Just woke up.”

  “We’ll head down to the Seine,” said Charles, “and sit down by the river.”

  They went down to the river and walked down the steps and sat on a bench facing the floodlit bulk of Notre Dame.

  “How much?” asked Luke.

  Agatha thought quickly. “One hundred euros.”

  He shrugged. “I got a thousand from the other one.”

  Agatha had collected exactly a thousand euros from a post office on her road to Birmingham Airport. She had spent some of it but knew she could get more with one of her bank cards at a cash-dispensing machine.

  “All right,” she said. “But you’ve got to make a statement to the police.”

  “No, that’s out.”

  “Look, tell us the story. I don’t think you’ve anything to fear from the police. I mean, he didn’t say, ’Impersonate me while I go and murder my wife,’ did he?”

  “No, he said it was a joke, that was all.”

  “Then you have nothing to fear. One thousand euros.”

  There was a long silence. A bateau mouche sailed past, lighting up their faces and turning the plane trees on the quay above them bright green.

  He reached for his bottle, but Charles said firmly, “No drink.”

  He shrugged and then began to talk. His name was Luke Field, son of a French mother and an English father. His father had left them and his mother had moved back to Paris from England. He had worked as a graphic artist but had been fired from a succession of jobs. This Englishman had approached him and had suggested he help him play a trick. Luke had agreed because he thought with the money, he could get sober and get a job again. The man called Jeremy had taken him to a flat in the Rue Madame.

  “Top flat?” asked Agatha breathlessly.

  “Yes. There was a blonde woman there. He called her Felicity.” She had left soon after Luke arrived. Jeremy had gone back to the hotel and reappeared with one of his suits, shoes and shirt and tie. Luke actually had a passport, although he said he often thought of selling it for money. He was bathed and shaved and his face was made up to cover the broken veins. He had to practise imitating Jeremy’s voice and manner. The deal was that he was to stay at the hotel one night. Then this Jeremy would take his passport and fly to England while Luke was to follow the next day on Jeremy’s passport. Once there, he was to phone Jeremy, who would meet him. They would exchange passports and then Luke would get paid and fly back.

  “But why did you speak French at the hotel?” asked Charles. “Laggat-Brown didn’t know any French.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Luke. “He told me his French was excellent, but he spoke to me the whole time in English. I thought I’d go to a meeting and then go straight to bed to keep me sober.”

  But then Luke became truculent. He said he didn’t want to have anything to do with the police.

  “All right,” said Agatha, “but come with us to our hotel and I’ll get you the money. It’s in the hotel safe.”

  And please let the French police be waiting for us, Agatha prayed silently.

  But her heart sank when they arrived at the hotel. Not a uniform in sight. “Come up to my room,” she said to Luke. She felt if she stalled for time, they might arrive. Why was Charles coming with them? Couldn’t he go to his own room and phone the police from there? But she was frightened to do anything to scare Luke off.

  Once in her room, she went to the safe and pulled out her wallet. After her last experience, she had decided to carry as little money with her as possible when she went out.

  She slowly began to count out the money and then stopped half-way. “I don’t really feel I should pay you anything because you won’t go to the police. In fact,” she said, scooping up the money and putting it back in her wallet, “your information is no use to us without a statement.”

  Luke looked at her hungrily. He was dying for a drink. Did he really want to go back to work? Winter was drawing closer and he thought another winter on the streets might kill him.

  But the thought of the police terrified him. They would probably accuse him of being in league with this killer.

  There came a peremptory knock at the door and a voice called in English, “Police. Open up!”

  Luke hung his head. The fates had made up his mind for him.

  TWELVE

  AGATHA was never to forget that long night of questioning and more questioning. Then she was told that when they got off the plane in the morning, a police car would be waiting at Birmingham for them.

  She and Charles were both groggy with lack of sleep
when they arrived at Birmingham Airport. And got into the waiting police car.

  “They’ve got to let us rest,” grumbled Agatha. “I can’t take much more of this.”

  They both fell asleep as the police car raced towards Mirces-ter. At police headquarters, they were told they would be interrogated separately.

  Agatha was to be interviewed by Fother from the Special Branch and Detective Inspector Wilkes.

  “Before we begin,” said Agatha urgently, as a policeman was putting a tape in the recoding machine, “have you arrested Laggat-Brown?”

  “Yes, he’s been brought in for questioning.”

  “I suppose he’s saying he got Luke to impersonate him for a joke.”

  “He tried, but we took that office of his apart. He was still renting it, although he no longer uses it. Under the floorboards, we found the sniper rifle and a supply of timers. Now, Mrs. Raisin, let us begin. We find it most odd that you suddenly thought he might have found someone to impersonate him. We think you have been holding back evidence from the police.”

  “It was just an idea,” said Agatha wearily. She told the story of Phyllis and the recovered alcoholic.

  “But why Felicity Felliet?”

  “The Felliets were deeply humiliated by the loss of their ancestral home. I wondered, simply because of the Paris connection, if she had been in on the plot in any way. Have you got her?”

  “We’re looking. She seems to have disappeared and her parents have not had any contact with her. But we find it hard to believe that you just plucked this idea out of thin air. Are you sure you weren’t in league with Laggat-Brown and that the relationship went sour?”

  “No,” shouted Agatha. “And get me a cup of coffee before I fall asleep.”

  The questioning went on for hours, and just when Agatha thought she really could not bear any more of it, they told her she could go home, but not to leave the country.

  Agatha met Charles as he was leaving as well. “Do we need a police car?” asked Agatha.

  “No, I gave them my car keys and told them to collect my car from the airport.”

  “My car’s out at your place.”

  “I’ll come over tonight with Gustav. He can drive yours and then I’ll take him back with me.”

  Agatha let herself into her cottage. She checked the cats’ food bowls to make sure Doris had given them something, went straight up and fell face-down on the bed and into a deep sleep, only to be awakened four hours later with the sound of the doorbell ringing.

  She debated whether to let it ring, but then decided it might be Mrs. Bloxby. She trudged wearily down the stairs and opened the door. Bill Wong stood there, holding a bunch of flowers.

  “You look as if you’ve been through the wars,” said Bill.

  “Flowers. How lovely. Come in, Bill. What on earth’s been happening?”

  He followed her through to the kitchen. “It’s like this. I had a time of it explaining about how your mad ideas and intuitions had worked out in the past. Laggat-Brown cracked when they produced the rifle and timers.

  “It seemed he made his money supplying timers for bombs to the Provisional IRA and other terrorist groups. Then he met Felicity Felliet and fell in love. He wanted out of the terrorist business and she wanted her home back. He really did mean to shoot his wife.

  “Then Felicity heard that Charles had been round to see her parents, asking questions about her. She checked up old newspaper files on you, Agatha, and persuaded Laggat-Brown you were more dangerous than the police. He didn’t want to do the hit himself, but he had plenty of contacts and employed Mulligan to do it.

  “He then decided to remarry his wife and after a convenient time arrange a death for her that would look like an accident. After the attempt to gas you failed, he became wary of getting anyone to try to kill you—for the moment, that was.

  “Employing Luke, the drunk, was a spot of luck for him, or so he thought. It was Felicity who saw Luke one day and noticed the remarkable resemblance.”

  “She’s beginning to sound like Lady Macbeth.”

  “Yes,” said Bill, “she seems to have been a major player in the whole business. She worked for a while as Laggat-Brown’s secretary and then they both decided it would be better if she moved to Paris so that there would be less chance of anyone seeing them together.

  “After he had finally got rid of his wife, he would inherit her money, marry Felicity and Felicity would get her old home back.”

  “And what about Harrison Peterson?”

  “It turns out Harrison Peterson was a bagman for the Provisional IRA, moving funds around the world, taking cash to the Colombian terrorists, that sort of thing. He wanted out of the game, too, and was going to talk to the police, after he had talked to Patrick. It was Laggat-Brown who had your phone bugged. He heard Patrick’s message and knew Harrison had to be eliminated. He also knew he would have to do it himself because Harrison would trust him enough to let him in.”

  “And no one has any idea of where Felicity is at the moment?”

  “No, but I don’t think she’d dare try anything. I don’t think she cared a rap for Laggat-Brown. I think she was simply using him to get her home back. Her poor parents are devastated. Don’t worry. We’re looking for her and Interpol are looking for her and Special Branch are trying to track her down. The only sad thing is that you’ll get no credit for solving this case.” “Why not?”

  “Well, to quote Fother, ’I’m damned if the papers are going to know that some dotty female from a provincial detective agency cracked a case that the Special Branch could not.’“

  “I could phone them myself,” said Agatha.

  “Not before the trial, you can’t.”

  “I suppose not. I’ll phone Patrick and tell him I’m taking the day off tomorrow. All I want to do is sleep and then get my face and hair done.”

  “You’ll be glad to know that an officer is going to be on duty outside your door tonight and the handsome Darren Boyd takes over from him tomorrow.”

  After he had left, Agatha luxuriated in a long hot bath. Then, putting on a dressing-gown, she went back downstairs and put a packet of spaghetti bolognaise into the microwave for her dinner. When she had finished eating, she rose and let the cats out into the garden for a little. Then she let them in again and locked up and went back to bed.

  But sleep was a long time coming. Somewhere out there in the world was Felicity Felliet and Agatha was sure she would be hell-bent on revenge.

  Charles called early next morning with Gustav to return her car and said he would be back that evening and that there must be something restorative in police coffee, for his cold had completely disappeared.

  Agatha spent the day getting a complete facial and followed tt up by getting her hair tinted brown.

  Then she returned to find Charles parked outside, waiting for her. Charles was always amazed that Agatha’s foul diet of microwaved meals left her with thick glossy hair and perfect skin.

  “Forgot my key. I see handsome Boyd’s outside, sitting at a tittle table of goodies.”

  “The village women spoil him. What now?”

  “Maybe we’d better go and see George; least we can do.”

  George Felliet was furious with them. Charles had to listen co a passionate tirade about snakes in the grass and false friends. Waiting until George had exhausted himself, Charles said mildly, ’You have to face up to the fact that she’s guilty.”

  George suddenly collapsed into a chair. “She hated leaving the manor,” he said. “Even as a little girl, she couldn’t understand that the money was running out. Kept demanding expensive things—clothes, the latest in computers, that sort of thing. But I never thought she would go this far.”

  “And you haven’t heard from her?”

  “Not a word.”

  Crystal Felliet came into the house and glared at them. “Get out!” she shouted.

  “But Crystal…” Charles began.

  “OUT!” she screamed.

/>   Agatha and Charles left hurriedly. In the car, Agatha said, “Do you think they’d hide their daughter if she went to them?”

  “Hard to say. I think that’s an unmarked police car across the road.”

  “Are you staying the night?”

  “I’d like to, but I’ve got farm business to attend to. YouTl be all right with the police guard on the door.”

  In the psychiatric prison the next morning, Emma Comfrey continued to wander about talking to herself. Emma’s brain had cleared up a few days before, but she continued to act mad because she did not want to be judged fit to stand trial.

  In the past few days she had managed to keep up the pretence of insanity during interviews with various psychiatrists. But that afternoon, she was presented with a new psychiatrist, a woman with small eyes and glossy brown hair. She reminded Emma forcibly of Agatha Raisin—Agatha Raisin, whom Emma blamed for all her troubles.

  Emma dribbled and smiled vacantly while all the time her mind was racing. Convinced she could not break through the wall of Emma’s insanity, the psychiatrist left, and was replaced with a nurse.

  “Now, dearie,” said the nurse. “Take your medicine.”

  She held out a little dish with a few pills on it.

  Emma stared at her vacantly. “Here. I’ll help you. Here’s the glass of water. Here’s the first pill.”

  Emma’s eyes drifted past her to her tray containing a syringe of tranquillizer, used for subduing patients who turned violent. Emma had seen such a one used on a patient just the other day. She took the glass of water and threw it in the nurse’s face, grabbed the tranquillizer syringe while clamping her hand over the nurse’s mouth, and plunged the needle in. She held on grimly until at last she felt the nurse go limp in her arms.

  She removed the nurse’s white coat and outer clothes and shoes, stripped off her hospital garments and put them all on, pinning the nurse’s identification card on her white coat.

  Then she dragged the nurse over to the bed and rolled her onto it and covered her right up with the blankets.

  Emma was not considered any risk, so there was no guard outside the door. She picked up the nurse’s clipboard and made her way out, keeping her head down as if studying it as she made her way hurriedly along the corridor. She saw a doctor approaching who knew her and dived into a room which turned out to be a pharmacy.