Tourists Are for Trapping

by Marian Babson

  A faintly wistful look spread over several faces, inspiring me to add, “You must be getting hungry yourselves. I know a pub just across the river that serves some of the best food in town—pub snack variety. We’ll make that one of our stops, shall we?”

  The wistful faces brightened. “You mean you’re staying?” Paula asked hopefully. “We are going on a real English pub crawl?”

  There was no doubt about it—at this moment in space and time, a pub crawl was their idea of genuine luxury. Something they could boast about back home. I thought of another stroke of exotic luxury for them. Neil might have a fit, but what the hell, he’d turned them loose for a free evening.

  “That’s right,” I said. “And furthermore, we’re going by London Transport. You’ll see London tonight from the top of a double-decker bus!”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gerry slip into the corner and claim Daphne. Donna and Horace hardly noticed. They were enthralled with Penny—she was closer to their age and more the down-to-earth sort of person they were accustomed to. They seemed to be hanging on her words, and Penny was expanding visibly under their attention. I’d been right—Penny was the perfect company for them. Perhaps I could arrange for her to stay with the tour for the remainder of their time in England. Even Hortense, I noticed, was relaxing now that the romantic duo had been safely turned into a three’s-a-crowd.

  “Come on, everyone,” Tris Tablor roared out. “Come along! Douggie is taking us on a real, old-fashioned pub crawl!”

  “That’s right.” As they gathered around us, I tossed Pandora onto my shoulder. “And we’re starting right now. Forward, the Light Brigade!”

  They took up the cry with a happy shout, and we surged out into the street, heading for the nearest bus stop.

  I tried to point out the sights of interest to them as the bus rolled down Whitehall. Behind me, I could hear Penny keeping up a running commentary of her own. I glanced back; her two companions seemed to be finding it enthralling. Bits of their conversation drifted to me through the gaps in my own narrative.

  “You people really get a chance to live, over here,” Horace said. “Back home, they keep us in school until we’re too old to care. Look at me, I’m eighteen—and I’ve got to go to college this fall, and that’s four more years out of my life. And then, you can’t get anywhere with just a BA these days, so I’ll have to stay on for my master’s. That’s two more years. I’ll be twenty-four before I can even start looking for a job. I’ll be past it. All the best years of my life are going down the drain at school.”

  “That’s awful,” Penny sympathised. “It’s ever so much more fun when you have a job, and earn your own money, and do all sorts of exciting things. Of course,” she qualified, “I still go to school mornings—for shorthand and typing—but that will be over in another year, and I can work full-time at Perkins and Tate.”

  She actually sounded happy about it, and I was relieved to know that she wasn’t planning to leave us and get a better-paying job. At least, not in the immediate future.

  Big Ben chimed obligingly as we passed, and that set off a great twittering and turning of heads. There was no doubt about it—Tour 79 was greatly improved by a few drinks. It was too bad that the luxury cruiser with its own cocktail cabinet was still tied up in Scotland with another tour. Perhaps we ought to change the morning coffee stop to a pub visit, beginning tomorrow.

  Only the two lady teachers seemed unrelaxed, a certain tightness about the mouths suggesting that they had been in dispute recently. They were still speaking—but only just. Somewhere along the way, I must spend some time with them and try to get them into a more cheerful mood. If the whole tour could begin to enjoy themselves again, they might forget they wanted to cancel the remainder of the schedule.

  “… my blouse torn right off …” Penny’s voice drifted to me and I had a sudden qualm. She was entertaining her guests too well. There was no need to spill out all the skeletons in the Perkins & Tate closet. I turned and tried to catch her eye to give her a warning frown, but she was intent on her audience.

  And they were intent on her, gaping with jealous admiration. She had them in the palm of her hand, and she was glorying in it. Compared to them, trapped in their schools, she was a Woman of the World.

  “But that was nothing,” she went on, “to the time the tigers escaped …” I winced and tried not to hear any more. But there was a practised ring to the way she was telling her stories, and I realised she had told them before. To her schoolmates, obviously, and not her parents, or she wouldn’t still be working for us. Parents are notoriously unenthusiastic about their offspring leading too adventurous a life.

  Still, it was, in its way, enlightening. I had had no idea that Penny considered she was living the Rich Full Life at Perkins & Tate. All this time, I had been agonizing because we couldn’t pay her as much as she deserved—let alone the danger money she was entitled to. It was slightly jarring to discover that it was the dangers that kept her happy and contented. It was also slightly jarring to realise that she had grown sophisticated enough to recognise their anecdotal value. She could dine out on them for the rest of her life—and she had obviously already started.

  Nevertheless, I consoled myself with the thought that there was absolutely nothing that could happen to her on Tour 79. They were a group of fine, upstanding—not to say stuffy—American citizens. Discounting, of course, the raffish Paula. But there was no real harm in her, either.

  Penny could safely accompany the tour for the next couple of days, keeping her own age group amused, and gaining some historical knowledge and a few luxury meals, courtesy of Larkin’s Luxury Tours.

  This was one Perkins & Tate assignment on which she would be perfectly safe. There was absolutely nothing to menace her here.

  Chapter 9

  First, we visited a pub with a piano and a couple of old music-hall turns appearing. That kept conversation to a minimum, which suited me—and none of the others complained, either.

  Then, judging their mood, and with an eye on the clock, I took them to another pub before we went to the one with good food. A drink here, and then the pub with the snacks would just about use up my short list of quaint, atmospheric pubs. If I’d judged it right, we’d still be there when “Time” was called.

  The party scattered as we got inside, several disappearing into the rest rooms, the remainder following me to the bar. Young Horace glanced around quickly and said, “I’ll have a beer.”

  “You will not.” His mother appeared behind him. “You’re too young.”

  “I’m eighteen.” He appealed to me, “That’s old enough, isn’t it?”

  He was old enough in this country; I wasn’t sure about his own. Licensing laws vary from state to state, and I think some states in the U.S. are still completely dry—a legacy from Prohibition.

  “Why don’t you have a cider, instead?” I evaded the issue, giving him a wink. His mother caught the suggestion, but not the wink.

  “That’s a fine idea,” she said. “Horace, you have cider.” To Americans, “cider” is the name of the non-alcoholic variety, and the other kind is known as “hard cider”—a fact that has caused a certain amount of bitterness in English people visiting the States in the autumn. Driving through the countryside during the apple harvest and seeing “cider” sold at roadside stands in gallon and half-gallon jugs, they rush to purchase it, thinking they’re getting more of a bargain than it turns out to be.

  “All right, cider.” Puzzled by my wink, Horace surrendered.

  “And I’ll have sherry,” Hortense said. “Bring it over to the table, like a good boy. I want to sit down.”

  When the cider arrived, Horace took a doubtful sip and a slow smile spread over his face. He winked back at me. “I think I’ll get this for the girls, too,” he said.

  I was a bit dubious, but it wasn’t up to me to cross one of Neil Larkin’s customers. Penny wouldn’t drink any more than she wanted to, I knew. And Donna could probably loo
k after herself—with a mother like Paula, she’d have had to.

  Having settled everyone with their drinks, I slipped out for a moment, myself. On the way back, I nearly tripped over Paula and Donna, just emerging from the ladies’, and quarreling.

  “Mother, don’t, please don’t.” Donna seemed on the point of tears and I dodged back around the bend in the corridor quickly. It sounded like a private problem, and one I wouldn’t want to get involved in.

  “You’re too young to understand about security,” Paula said sharply. “And you’re all right, anyway. You’ll never have to worry—”

  “You can have it—you know you can. I don’t care. Only please don’t—”

  There was a sharp crack, as of a hand connecting with a cheek. “Shut up and mind your own business!” Paula snapped. “I’ll do as I please.”

  There was a momentary silence, which lengthened out. Not hearing any sobs, I eventually peeked tentatively around the corner, ready to retreat swiftly. But the corridor was empty.

  “All right,” Professor Tablor was saying when I got to the bar. “All right, I’ll have an Angel’s Kiss. You know how to make that, don’t you? It’s crème de cacao with thick cream floating on top. And I like it with lots of cream.”

  I glanced at him nervously. It didn’t sound like a healthy drink for a diabetic to me. He was having a silent duel of wills with the barmaid, and as he was tapping the counter with a pound note, he won. She brought the liqueur glass over and slammed it down in front of him. The liquid sloshed about, blurring the fine dividing line between the liqueur and the cream.

  “Thank you.” Professor Tablor picked it up carefully, not mixing the liquids further, and carried it over to the table.

  “Here you are.” He set it down in front of Pandora. “Have one on me.”

  Pandora gave a happy chirrup and plunged her nose into the liqueur glass, lapping up the cream, pausing only to throw me a smug look. Some people knew how to treat a cat.

  I ignored her. Since she was being looked after, I could devote a bit more attention to the rest of the party. They all appeared to be having a good time, more contented than I had yet seen them.

  It occurred to me that I might chat up the noncollege group, with an eye to persuading them to remain and complete the tour, as originally planned. Half a tour was better than no tour—and half the refunds would be a good saving. I quite understood that the faculty and members of the Board of Governors felt an obligation to be home in time to pay their last respects, but there was no reason why everyone should leave.

  Yet, when I joined Paula, Tony Christopher, and Marie Manzetti in their corner and delicately hinted at such a thing, the temperature immediately fell several degrees below freezing.

  “Naw,” Tony Christopher said. “Naw, we don’t want to do that. What I figure—we all started out together, we all stay together. Right?”

  The women murmured agreement. They didn’t sound as wholehearted about it as they might have, but they were definite. It was as though some obscure loyalty had been forged amongst the tour when their tour companion had died.

  Or perhaps they were just beginning to feel very peckish. It was time, in any case, to move along to the last pub, where they could sample some genuine English pub cooking and possibly, refuel themselves into a better mood.

  Sure enough, with fresh drinks and tasty food, everyone’s mood improved. Except for Pandora. She roved from person to person, accepting a taste here, a mouthful there, and grew progressively more furious with me.

  She’d known—she’d simply known—that I was out living the high life when I wasn’t in the office. And here was proof of it. Sausage and mash. Cheese. Cottage pie. Cream. Steak-and-kidney pud. Scotch eggs. Jellied eels. She glared at me with baleful fury. It would be a long time before I got out of the office without her again!

  She was knocking back cottage pie with Winnie and Billie Mae when I decided I’d better make my peace with her. I ordered an Angel’s Kiss and brought it over to their table. They still seemed to be at odds about something.

  Pandora was just at odds with me, but the pie was moderately salty, and after a moody hesitation, she decided to accept my offering.

  “She’s cute.” Billie Mae smiled at Pandora, nose-deep in cream. “He’s nice, too. I still think we should tell him.”

  “Why?” It was suddenly apparent that Billie Mae had been throwing herself into the spirit of the pub crawl. “He’s got a kind face and a nice cat. I think he ought to know.”

  “Billie Mae, you’ll hate yourself in the morning. Remember Virgil?”

  “Virgil was different.” Billie Mae drew herself up with perilous dignity. “Virgil was a Rhodes Scholar.”

  Winnie mentioned a couple of other things Virgil also was. I managed to keep my eyebrows in place. One thing I had learned during my time in the States was that it was a multiracial, multilingual society. The most baby-faced doll prided herself on knowing the gutter language of several continents. Given provocation, she could tell a man where to go and what to do when he got there—and in his own language.

  “Anyway, you should talk,” Billie Mae said. “If you hadn’t had that fight with Pete, and decided to teach him a lesson, we’d all be at the cottage at Lake Michigan, instead of—”

  The party was getting rough. When ladies begin the sort of genteel blackmail that consists of veiled references to the past, it’s time for a God-fearing gentleman to pick up his marbles and go home.

  Except that my marbles—or rather, my cat—had crept into Billie Mae’s arms and settled there, alternately licking cream from her chops and giving a sympathetic lick to Billie Mae’s hands.

  “I don’t care.” Billie Mae buried her face in Pandora’s fur, then lifted her head and restated her position. “He’s got a kind cat and a nice face. I’m going to tell him.”

  By this time, I had already decided that I didn’t want to know. “Why don’t we all have another drink first?” I tried to break for the bar, but an iron hand caught my wrist and pulled me back. There was no sign of a velvet glove.

  “It wasn’t—” Billie Mae leaned forward, eyes boring into mine intently. “It wasn’t an accident! In Zurich.”

  “That’s all right.” I tried, nervously, to pry the iron fingers from my wrist. “I know. I understand. It was suicide. It’s too bad, but these things happen.”

  “No.” What bothered me was that it was Winnie who answered. “No, it wasn’t suicide.”

  That left … that left … I tried one last, hopeless toss of the dice. “Natural causes?”

  “No!” They both spoke at once.

  That left …

  “Murder,” Billie Mae said.

  I hadn’t really wanted to know. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend that I hadn’t heard that. My knees buckled slightly and I collapsed onto their bench.

  “I thought you ought to know,” Billie Mae said stubbornly.

  “Thanks,” I croaked weakly. If true, she had now made me an accessory after the fact by telling me.

  Worse, they were both looking at me as though they expected me to do something about it. It crossed my mind that I never had got on well with school-teachers. They had always found me inadequate to the demands made upon me, from parsing Latin sentences to keeping quiet in class. It looked as though I wasn’t going to break my record this time.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. I didn’t really need their affirming nods. It explained so much: the curious atmosphere enveloping the tour; the reluctance to be parted from each other; and the lack of ease in each other’s company.

  Pandora wriggled free of Billie Mae’s arms and went back to her drink. She was the only sensible one amongst us. Why couldn’t the others concentrate on their pub crawl and leave their consciences behind them? And why choose me for their father confessor?

  “But I thought the police in Switzerland were satisfied that it was an accident—or a suicide?”

  “We lied to them.” There was a sob in Winnie’s voice
. “All of us.”

  So, that made it conspiracy. And perjury. For a party of respectable, culture-seeking schoolteachers and citizens, these tourists had been racking up quite a score.

  “But why … ?”

  “We had to. If they knew, they’d have kept us there. Heaven knows how long. Until they’d solved the case. If they ever did. It might be weeks—months.” Billie Mae groped for a handkerchief. “Years!”

  I glanced nervously around at the others, hoping they wouldn’t guess what I was being told. No one seemed to be paying any attention. Everyone still looked moderately cheerful.

  Only Penny looked concerned. She was deep in conversation with Donna and Horace. Like me, she was mostly listening. Her expression was growing more worried by the minute. I wondered if the kids were confiding the same story to her.

  “We had to—” Winnie said desperately. “We had to all stick together on the same story. Otherwise, we’d have been trapped—oh, my God! Don’t you see?—trapped among foreigners!” It was as heartfelt a cry as any that might have come from one of her provincial counterparts in a similar situation.

  There was no point in asking her what she thought I was. We were caught up in that good old Anglo-American Special Relationship again, honorary citizens of each other’s country where, thank God, we spoke the same language. Sometimes, we even paid attention to the laws of those countries. But wogs begin at Calais, and there was no reason to pay any attention to their laws. Why, they didn’t even speak English.

  “She’d stopped taking those tranquilizers, and we all knew it,” Winnie said. “She was so pleased about it. And if she’d taken any again, she’d never have eaten cheese—even though she loved it—she was really careful. And she wasn’t suicidal. She was honestly looking forward to getting back to college again, and the exciting year that was coming up—”

  “But she was careless with those tranquilizers, for all that,” Billie Mae took up the testimony. “I mean, she left the bottle lying around on the top of her carryall. I kept telling her she’d lose it, but she said she didn’t care. It didn’t matter—she had her nerves licked now. She was only keeping the pills—just in case—when she got home—for the first few days—”