The Killing of Olga Klimt

by R. T. Raichev

  A moment later I remember more. Her name is Antonia Darcy and she writes detective novels. When I last saw her, she was sitting at a small desk and signing copies of her latest book.

  I have an uneasy feeling about her … I can’t say why … I saw her looking down at me, from the top of the stairs … Well, so what? A cat can look at a king!

  I used to read detective novels a great deal as a boy. I remember that I always tended to despise the police and side with the criminal. I identified with the criminal. I always thought it more fun. Didn’t someone say that only as a criminal could one achieve ultimate freedom?

  I believe Antonia Darcy writes traditional whodunits. I don’t like whodunits. The artificiality and various contrivances of such stories irritate me. What I relish are crime stories in which you know who the culprit is from the very start and where the action is one long, unpredictable, frequently demented loop that keeps you on the edge of your seat and where all focus is on the villain.

  I try to imagine how Antonia Darcy might see the situation I have engineered, how she would be likely to sketch it out in her plotting notebook, if of course she keeps one.

  Two colluding lovers set out to dupe the heir to a vast fortune. The plan is to get the girl to marry the heir and subsequently kill him – but not before he has made a will leaving his money to her. The lovers will then marry and share the fortune. The male part of the conspiracy is the heir’s valet who has managed to pull the wool over everybody’s eyes by affecting animosity towards his master’s girlfriend.

  Something on those lines.

  Perhaps Antonia Darcy will introduce a counterplot, or rather a complication, one that runs alongside the main murder plot … Mr Eresby asks his valet to kill Olga Klimt, not realising that the valet and Olga Klimt are intent on killing him.

  I am smiling once more, remembering that this actually happened.

  Poor innocent Mr Eresby!

  How will he die? It will be a sudden kind of death, I think. There will be an accident, a freak accident, maybe. Mr Eresby will slip and smash the back of his head against the edge of the marble bath. Or he will fall in front of a speeding car. Or he may try to fix a faulty fuse by means of a stepladder and –

  So many possibilities!

  A vastness and variety of vistas.

  (Count on a would-be murderer to have a fancy prose style.)

  7

  THE CONVERSATION

  Phew, what a day! Fenella Frayle sat at her desk and thought back to the extraordinary conversation she had had with Charles Eresby.

  After Antonia Darcy had departed and little Eddy Rushton had been introduced to his new class, Fenella went up to her snuggery to see how the uninvited guest was getting on. She found Charles Eresby – the ‘biscuit heir’, as she’d started thinking of him – crying into one of her sofa cushions, shaking his head and muttering to himself, or rather repeating the same phrase again and again.

  ‘I want her dead, I want her dead, I want her dead.’

  That’s what it had sounded like.

  Miss Cooper had apparently replenished his sherry glass twice, which was probably the reason for the strange mantra. Mr Eresby didn’t seem to have a head for drink. Perhaps one day his name would appear in the Guinness Book of Records under the heading: first man to suffer delirium tremens induced by Croft’s Original.

  Fenella Frayle was good in a crisis. She had cultivated a mock-bully manner, which never became abrasive or over-powering. Like the man in the Kipling poem she was adept at keeping her head even when all about her were losing theirs. She considered herself an expert at putting distressed souls at their ease – how many times had she had to provide comfort not only for a lachrymose child but for one of her staff as well?

  She told Miss Cooper she could go, then she sat down in the armchair opposite the sofa. Charles Eresby slowly raised his head and looked at her and he started telling her his tragic story, some terrible rigmarole about a girl called Olga Klimt, whom he had loved more than anything in the world but whom he now hated.

  He was in hell. That was why she had to die, Charles Eresby concluded. It was payback time. If he couldn’t have her, no one else could.

  ‘Do you know for sure if there is anyone else? Another man?’ Fenella asked. She was a firm believer in the therapeutic effect of conversation.

  ‘I have no idea. The little bitch didn’t tell me. She used to have a boyfriend in Lithuania – maybe he’s come to England? I am sure that’s what’s happened. She clearly thinks he is a better lover than I shall ever be. I’m sure they are together at this very moment!’

  ‘You don’t know that.’ Fenella looked down at her neatly crossed ankles. ‘You shouldn’t jump to conclusions, you know.’

  ‘If she thinks she can walk out on me, just like that, she is wrong. She can’t. Well, as I said, it’s payback time.’

  ‘I do hope you won’t do anything silly, Mr Eresby.’

  ‘It won’t be anything silly, I promise you. Oh no. Not silly.’ He sniffed. ‘If I can’t have her, no one else can.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean exactly?’

  ‘I am sure you can guess.’

  ‘I can’t. Please tell me.’

  ‘I intend to take the ultimate drastic measure.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I will kill her.’

  Fenella felt the sudden urge to laugh. Really, she thought, the whole thing was too absurd for words. Of all the garbled, cliché-ridden tales of love, betrayal and revenge! The biscuit heir was clearly off his rocker. As for the Lithuanian girl, she sounded too trashy and trite for words. He wouldn’t really try to kill her, would he?

  ‘You can’t go about killing people, Mr Eresby,’ she said resolutely.

  ‘Not people. Only one person. A girl called Olga Klimt. You see, I’ve already made up my mind.’

  ‘They’ll catch you.’

  ‘They won’t. I’ll be really clever about it. All I need is an alibi.’

  ‘They’ll catch you.’

  ‘They won’t.’

  ‘Alibis are tricky things, Mr Eresby. You won’t be able to get away with it. Murderers almost invariably get caught these days.’

  ‘Not always. Not if they are clever.’

  ‘Nowadays the police have the most advanced technology –’

  ‘Have you ever hated anyone? I mean, really hated?’ Charles Eresby asked quietly.

  ‘Sorry?’ She blinked. ‘Have I –?’

  ‘Hated anyone?’

  ‘Have I hated anyone? N-no. No! Of course not! I’ve never hated anyone!’

  ‘You have.’ He shook his forefinger at her. ‘You have! I can see you have.’

  ‘Nonsense. I haven’t.’

  ‘You have. You hesitated. You are a lousy liar. You are turning raspberry-red.’

  ‘I am not.’ Her hand went up to her cheek.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Who is it? It would help me enormously if you told me. Who is the person you hate? Please, tell me. Then I’ll know I am not the only one. It would really help me.’

  She tried to pull herself together. ‘You are most certainly not the only one, Mr Eresby. All right. I agree. Everybody has hated somebody at some point in their life. A horrible boss or an obnoxious neighbour or a difficult husband or wife or –’

  ‘Who is it you hate?’

  ‘No one. No one.’

  ‘It would really help me,’ he said again.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘I should feel honoured if you confided in me.’

  ‘The silly things you say!’ Fenella laughed.

  ‘Please.’

  She threw up her hands. ‘What a pest you are! Oh very well. I have an aunt who is difficult. I don’t love her, though of course I wouldn’t dream of killing her!’

  ‘Who said anything about killing her?’ He gave Fenella a look out of the corner of his eyes. ‘So you hate your aunt?’
<
br />   ‘All right, yes, I hate her. She is difficult.’

  ‘How difficult?’

  ‘Difficult enough. Very difficult. All right, extremely difficult.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘My aunt is unpredictable and can be unpleasant.’ Fenella swallowed. ‘She is volatile and, well, completely irrational. She enjoys saying terrible things, hurtful things, spiteful things. She is poison. Especially after she’s had a drink. She enjoys intimidating me – humiliating me –’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, that’s it. That’s what she does. That’s why I find her difficult. She wants to see me fail. As a matter of fact, she’s been trying to sabotage my work,’ Fenella suddenly blurted out.

  ‘Oh? That sounds serious.’

  ‘It is serious, yes … It’s extremely serious … It’s my life!’

  He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I am interested in your aunt. I want to hear all about the old horror. You are in some way dependent on her, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes. Aunt Clo-Clo started this place – this nursery school – she and I – we set it up together – we were business partners –’

  ‘Aunt Clo-Clo? What kind of name is that?’

  ‘That’s what I used to call her when I was a child. “Aunt Clo-Clo”. Her name is Clotilde.’

  ‘What’s her second name?’

  ‘Why do you want to know? Lemarchant. Clotilde Lemarchant. She was the headmistress here before me – she is the one who owns this place officially – the Sylvie & Bruno Nursery School. Then she retired. Everything was OK for a bit – she was difficult but I could live with it – but then she decided to withdraw her financial support – I thought I could still manage but then she told me it was time for me to close down – close down – I couldn’t believe my ears – she said she needed the building – Jevanny Lodge – for other purposes – she said she was planning to turn it into kennels!’

  ‘She likes dogs?’

  ‘She hates dogs. She detests dogs. She loves cats.’ Fenella passed her hand across her face. ‘It’s sheer bloody-mindedness –– she’s doing it out of spite – she said I’d become too big for my boots – she said I needed to be taught a lesson – she told me to start getting rid of the “kiddies” –’ Fenella’s voice shook.

  ‘Did you say she drank?’

  ‘She drinks, yes – each time she rings, she sounds inebriated –– it’s done something to her brain – she told me she’d always hated my mother, her late sister – my mother’s been dead for years – she started referring to past injustices, most of them, I am sure, imaginary. I don’t know what to do!’

  ‘You sound at your wits’ end,’ Charlie said quietly.

  ‘I am at my wits’ end, yes – you are absolutely right – it’s my life’s work, you see – everything I care about is here – I can’t just get rid of the children – we have some very exclusive parents – I have no life outside the school – I don’t really know what to do!’

  ‘Don’t you?’ He gave her another look out of the corner of his eyes. He looks like a corrupt cherub, she thought.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Aunt Clo-Clo told me to expect to hear from her solicitors very soon. Next week, in fact.’

  It was at that point that Charles Eresby had come up with his idea. He had told her they were going to join forces. He had explained exactly what they were going to do and how it was going to work. Fenella Frayle had been unable to believe her ears – yet, what he said had a kind of mad logic about it – she believed it was the kind of thing that had been done before – in a book or in real life, she couldn’t say at the moment, but somehow it made perfect sense –

  No, it didn’t. It was all impossible – fantastic – idiotic – completely insane, in fact.

  Having outlined his plan, Charles Eresby had been violently sick all over her lovely cushions, after which he had passed out.

  Fenella went on sitting at her desk, deep in thought. She jumped up when the door opened.

  ‘Mr Bedaux,’ her secretary announced.

  ‘Who? Oh yes. Mr Eresby’s manservant. Do show him in.’

  A minute later Fenella was addressing the tall dark man with the carefully brushed hair who stood impassively before her. ‘I am sorry, Mr Bedaux, but Mr Eresby was taken ill and we thought it prudent to call an ambulance. Mr Eresby passed out.’

  ‘Most regrettable but I can’t say I am surprised. Mr Eresby has rather a weak head for drink, I fear.’

  She took this as criticism for she bristled a bit. ‘It was only sherry. Anyhow. Mr Eresby was taken to –’ She gave her visitor the name of the hospital. ‘I wanted to phone you, but couldn’t get a number. I looked under “Eresby”.’

  ‘We are ex-directory.’

  ‘The paramedics didn’t think it was anything very serious. They said Mr Eresby was dehydrated and his blood pressure seemed to be a little low. They are confident he will make a full recovery.’

  Bedaux’s face remained expressionless. ‘That is most gratifying.’

  ‘He will be properly examined by a doctor and may have to spend some time at the hospital.’

  Bedaux gave a little bow. ‘I must thank you but also apologise for all the trouble we have caused you.’

  ‘No trouble at all! Happy to have been of assistance. Oh wait a mo –’ she called out as he started retreating towards the door. She opened a drawer. ‘Must give you something. This is Mr Eresby’s wallet. I found it on the sofa upstairs. It is his wallet, isn’t it?’

  ‘This is his wallet, yes.’

  ‘It must have slipped out of his pocket.’ She handed the wallet to Bedaux and watched him put it into his pocket.

  The next minute he was gone. Her secretary appeared at the door.

  ‘A cup of tea, Fenella?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Isobel.’

  ‘What a day, eh?’

  ‘You can say that again. It’s been a very … strange day … A dream-like feel about it … Is my poor snuggery fit for human habitation again?’

  ‘I believe it is. Mrs Mason has cleaned up and we have kept all the windows open. Mrs Mason’s removed the sofa cover and the cushions and taken them away to be washed.’

  ‘Good show. Please, convey my thanks. I’ll thank her personally when I see her.’

  Fenella remained sitting at her desk. It felt like a dream, yes. Nightmare, rather. She remembered the way the biscuit heir had nodded and said, ‘Don’t you see? We are in the same boat. So how about it? I do yours, you do mine.’

  No, none of it had happened. It couldn’t have. People didn’t go about exchanging – exchanging – she couldn’t even bring herself to say the word!

  Fenella shook her head.

  The next moment she frowned. There was something she had to do, only what was it? She glanced round. Oh yes. Her scribblings! What she had written on a piece of paper earlier on, before Charles Eresby had been brought, before the arrival of Antonia Darcy and little Eddy Rushton. She had been feeling quite low, desperate, actually. It was a bloody stupid thing to have done – mad!

  She had been willing her aunt to die …

  Where was the blasted thing? Fenella Frayle’s hand shook a little as she opened the top drawer of the desk and started rummaging inside. There it was! Thank God. How absurd to feel so relieved about it. ‘Aunt Clo-Clo must die. Aunt Clo-Clo must die.’

  Incriminating evidence, she murmured. It had been lying on her desk earlier on, then she’d pushed it into the drawer. She crumpled up the paper and thrust it into her pocket. She was going to burn it and she was going to flush the ashes down the lavatory. She was overreacting a bit. Most unlike her. How absurd to feel guilty!

  By the time he had sobered up, she reflected, the biscuit heir would have forgotten all about his crazy scheme.

  She started when Miss Cooper re-entered the room and placed a cup of tea on her desk.

  ‘Little Viscount Esquilant has been caught telling lies again,’ Miss Cooper said in a low voice.

>   ‘That boy will never learn,’ Fenella said. ‘What was it this time?’

  ‘He told the other children his father was a housing agent.’

  ‘His father is in the House of Lords. Wonder if we are dealing with a case of inverted snobbery. Make a note to mention it to the educational psychologist when she comes on Friday. Meanwhile, what’s been done about it?’

  ‘His lines have been doubled.’

  ‘Jolly good. That’ll teach him. It’s very wrong to tell lies.’ Fenella raised the teacup to her lips. ‘We must discourage anything that smacks of the underhand.’

  Her thoughts turned to Charles Eresby’s wallet. She had examined its contents the moment she discovered it wedged between two sofa cushions. Apart from various credit cards, she had come across a photograph of a rather strikingly beautiful girl. The photo was inscribed ‘From Olga to Charlie, with all my love’. Fenella had also found a piece of paper with Olga’s name and an address in Fulham written on it.

  Which meant she now knew not only what the perfidious Olga Klimt looked like, but also where she lived.

  8

  THE AFFAIR OF THE

  LUMINOUS BLONDE

  ‘It’s the most the remarkable coincidence. In detective stories, of course, remarkable coincidences are regarded as cheating – a lazy way of linking up important plot elements. Discerning readers feel their intelligence has been insulted and they tend to turn against the author. I do my best to avoid them in my books.’ Antonia shook her head. ‘I still can’t quite believe that you and I, independently of each other and on the very same day, should have got involved with the same set of people!’

  ‘Remarkable coincidences do happen,’ Major Payne said.

  ‘I meet Charles Eresby and his manservant at the Sylvie & Bruno Nursery School – while you – at the Military Club, of all places – sit drinking coffee with Charlie’s stepfather and hear how, as a result of the manservant’s machinations, Charles Eresby deserted his girlfriend and started an affair with Olga Klimt.’