“The thing is”—Winnie was abruptly crisp and businesslike, the schoolteacher explaining the solution of the problem to the backward pupil—“anyone could have taken some of those capsules and emptied the powder into her food or drink. She’d never notice—and everything tasted odd, cooked in that foreign way. She liked cheese and was looking forward to the Fondue Party. All anyone had to do was slip that stuff into her food, and wait. And”—the facade crumpled, tears were close—“someone did.”
I tried not to let the implications swamp me. Someone on this cultural luxury tour had, with cold-blooded premeditation, introduced what amounted to poison into an innocent woman’s food and then sat back and watched her eat the other ingredient that would produce a deadly chemical reaction.
And the other tour members, faced with the terror of unknown investigators and the danger of being detained indefinitely in a foreign country, had reacted with predictable insularity, closing ranks against the unknown law. Even though they also closed those ranks around an unknown murderer, it had seemed to them at the time the lesser evil. Only now, some of them were beginning to have afterthoughts.
“But why,” I went on, fighting a desperate rearguard action, “tell me? When you wouldn’t tell the police concerned, I mean?”
“Because you’ve got to do something,” Billie Mae said urgently. “About Angie. Don’t you see? She hasn’t telephoned us—and she promised.”
“I thought her name was Carrie …” I began, and remembrance slowly crept over me like a cold chill. There was one more tourist on Tour 79. One who had shared quarters with the defunct Carrie. One who had gone to visit relatives in Scotland, and was due to rejoin the tour for the final week.
“Angie promised she was going to call us from Edinburgh, to let us know how she was, and what she was going to do. She wanted time to think things over. Nobody else knew she’d arranged to call us. But she hasn’t. Why hasn’t she? What’s happened to her?”
I sat there quietly while they waited for an answer. Gradually, they both grew a bit calmer. They must have thought they were witnessing a prime example of genuine British sangfroid in the face of crisis and didn’t want to be outdone by it.
Actually, I was too frozen with horror to move. I was also quite preoccupied with wondering whether my hair had just turned white. You heard of it happening over far less.
I have been here before. The feeling swept over me. And I hadn’t liked it then, either. Carelessness with pills, and a missing American lady tourist. Yes, I had been here before, and the vu was déjà, indeed.
They were still watching me anxiously and I curved my lips in what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ll see to it,” I said. “I’ll start some enquiries in the morning—discreet enquiries,” I added hurriedly.
They relaxed a little, which is more than I could say for myself. As soon as possible, I was going to get on the blower and dump this little problem back where it belonged—on Neil Larkin’s shoulders. This was his tour, after all. And we would all be well rid of it, whenever it took flight for the States.
It had been a lousy idea to try to persuade them to stay on for the remainder of the tour. All I wanted now was to see the backs of them all. In fact, I was going to change tactics and urge them to go back. I’d do everything short of scrawling “Americans Go Home” across the pavement in front of their hotel. If matters got any worse, I might even do that. The day after tomorrow—their newly scheduled departure time—began to shine like a beacon for me. However much Neil was going to have to refund, however long Perkins & Tate had to wait for their bill to be settled, it was going to be cheap at the price.
The ladies were now going into chapter and verse of their assorted fears for their colleague, but I’d stopped listening. I’d found a fresh and more immediate worry.
At the next table, Professor Tablor sat staring into space, a glazed look in his eyes, his face a strange pasty colour. Was he having an attack?
“Excuse me, ladies.” I snatched up my ever-present briefcase, wondering if the orange juice would work on top of whatever else Tablor had been drinking, and hurried to him.
“Professor,” I said. “Er … Tris. Are you all right?”
“I am fine, thank you, sir.” He swiveled his head slowly to focus his gaze on me. “I am fine,” he repeated ponderously. “But let me tell you, sir, without offense, that I would surely hate to see that little cat of yours trying to walk a straight line right now.”
I followed his pointing finger. Pandora was weaving in and out amongst assorted ankles, looking more than slightly cross-eyed.
With sudden suspicion, I looked back at the table I had just left. The liqueur glass was empty and shining. While I had been absorbed in the revelations of the school-teachers, Pandora had gone through the layer of cream and continued through the layer of crème de cacao, right to the bottom of the glass.
Pandora suddenly emitted a high-pitched drone, somewhere between a purr and a yodel. Meanwhile, she continued to rub against all available ankles and hands. One of them might be a murderer, they might all be conspirators, perjurers, and accessories after the fact, but they were her chums, her buddies, her pals. If she were able, she’d sing them a few choruses of “Sweet Adeline.”
“I think it’s time to call it a night,” I said.
“I agree, sir, I agree,” Tris said, still bemused. The others chimed in with their votes. They’d had a busy day, a better evening than they had expected, and it was nearly time for the pubs to close anyway.
“Let’s go.” I picked up my carousing cat and led the way to the exit. Pandora nestled on my shoulder, nuzzled my ear, hiccoughed a couple of times, and fell asleep. It was the best idea anyone had had all night. All I wanted was to get home and fall asleep myself.
But the night—the nightmare night—wasn’t over yet.
We were at the top of the rickety wooden steps leading from the saloon bar to the street when Paula suddenly screamed and pitched forward. I tried to catch her, but it was too late.
She lay crumpled for a horrible moment at the foot of the steps. Then, as we rushed down to her, she moved, sitting up slowly. “Somebody tripped me,” she announced balefully.
“No! Mother, no!” Donna was beside her, sobbing, reaching out for her.
Paula pushed her away and stood up slowly. One arm was hanging awkwardly, strangely twisted. “Don’t any of you come near me,” she snarled. “I don’t trust any of you!”
You could hardly blame her for that. I moved to the front of the group and flagged down a passing taxi. “That arm looks pretty bad,” I said. “We’d better get you to a doctor.”
“That goes for you, too, buster,” she snapped. ‘‘I’ll find my own doctor. Come on, Donna.”
“Well, that seems to be that,” I said. Some of my sympathy evaporated as I watched her leap into the cab I had hailed and drive off. “We can’t help her if she doesn’t want our help.”
“She’ll be all right,” Hortense Rogers sniffed. “Come here, Horace.” (He had nearly leaped into the taxi with Donna, and this imminent defection had not gone unnoticed by his mother.)
Another taxi was cruising along, and there were hopeful stirrings from the tour. But I was in charge, and I was sick and tired of them all, and all their shabby little plots and evasions. There was someone far more important to take care of before I worried about them.
“Ladies first,” I said pointedly, and squired Penny to the taxi, slipping some notes into her hand for the fare.
“Wait a minute”—she clung to my hand—“there’s something you ought to know.”
So they had been telling her. I was suddenly furious with them all, for despoiling innocence, for making a child another accessory after the fact.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I know. They told me, too. Just go home and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“But—” She gazed at me in bewilderment. “But what are you going to do about it?”
“Damn all!” My patience suddenly snapped. I’d had enough of distressed women demanding that I take improbably heroic action. “Bloody damn all! Let them get on with it. Basically, it’s nothing to do with us, is it?”
“You mean it’s all right?” she said. “You don’t care?”
“It’s their business,” I said. “Day after tomorrow and they’ll all be out of our hair and back in the States. Let the American authorities sort it out—if they ever find out about it. You go home to bed and don’t worry about it.” I stepped back and slammed the cab door.
“There’s just one thing.” She was almost tearful. “They’ve invited me to go with them tomorrow.”
“Fine,” I said. In my wildest imaginings, I couldn’t cast Donna or Horace as a murderer. She’d still be safe, keeping with them, they weren’t dangerous. “Come ahead, if you want to. Skip school. You deserve a day out.”
The taxi drove off as she was still trying to say something else. I waved cheerfully after her and turned back to Tour 79.
Chapter 10
I spent most of a wakeful night wrestling with my conscience and won a precarious victory. Tour 79 would be safely out of the country in another thirty-six hours. They were already beyond the jurisdiction of the country in which the crime had taken place.
If nothing else happened, there was no sense in my rocking the boat. I’d been told that particularly nasty little secret in confidence, and there was no reason to pass it on to anyone except Neil, who was my client. And he might possibly be able to do something about finding the missing lady.
The police might not approve of this view of the situation, but I wasn’t concerned with their opinion. I’d always felt it was manifestly unfair that public relations representatives were not entitled to privileged communications, like priests and lawyers. After all, if PR reps started telling everything they knew, there’d be just as big a shambles as could be caused by a talkative priest or lawyer—and probably just as many candidates for jail and/or the divorce court. We were definitely entitled to maintain a discretionary silence. It was too bad the police wouldn’t look at it that way, if they ever found out.
I had just fallen into an uneasy sleep when Pandora woke me, stamping on my chest and demanding breakfast. I opened my bleary eyes and looked into her clear blue ones. She blinked at me, bright-eyed and alert, obviously in far better shape to face the day than I was. It only went to prove that there was no justice.
“You made a fine exhibition of yourself last night, I must say,” I accused.
“Prryeh-ow?” There was no doubt about it, she was not only unrepentant, she was quite pleased with herself.
“All right, all right, forget it.” I struggled out of bed wearily, my mind wincing away from the complications the day held in store. No wonder Pandora was so carefree and unconcerned; she didn’t understand the problems.
There was no sign of Gerry—I hadn’t expected that there would be. I tried three times to get Neil Larkin on the telephone, but he wasn’t around, either. Wherever he was, I knew that he’d turn up at his office at the stroke of nine. That meant that I had to start my day there, too, if I wanted to talk to him—and I did.
Pandora watched with narrowed, jealous eyes as I got ready to leave the flat. She stalked about, muttering sulkily to herself. I ignored her remarks but gave her a better breakfast than I bothered with for myself, and I continued setting new speed records for morning departures.
I thought I was getting away with it. I was actually closing the door behind me when she sprang. The door snapped shut, locking automatically. Pandora dug her claws into my shoulder (I wished tailors would bring back heavy shoulder pads) and settled down.
I was late. I was lumbered with briefcase, camera, and equipment. I’d have to set everything down, get out my key, and unlock the door. Worst of all would be the fight trying to get Pandora off my shoulder and back into the flat, and trying to keep her inside while I got out again. I decided I had enough in front of me today—I couldn’t face that domestic drama, too.
“Fine,” I surrendered bitterly. “Great. You’re all this day is going to need.”
“Prryeh, ” Pandora agreed, settling down happily. She thought so, too.
Wherever Neil had been, he hadn’t been sleeping. I found it cheered me to see someone who looked worse than I felt. As usual, he was on the telephone; also as usual, he didn’t seem to be having a satisfactory conversation. I waited patiently for him to hang up. What I had to tell him was really going to add to his misery.
Now that I thought of it, he looked strangely haggard—even for a nerve-wracked luxury tour operator trying to get his first year wound up smoothly, and running into more obstacles than he had imagined could exist. I suddenly wondered whether my news was going to be such a shock to him, after all.
“I thought you were going out with the tour today.” He replaced the receiver and turned his long-suffering look on me. “Or is Gerry taking it again?”
“I’ll grab a taxi and pick them up at their first stop.” It could not have escaped his attention that I had the camera and equipment. “I wanted to talk to you first.”
That information didn’t seem to cheer him any. “You’ll be lucky,” he said, “their first stop is St. Albans—and you don’t put that taxi ride on my expense account.”
I decided to talk fast and get to the hotel before they started. “All right, this is your pigeon—you’ve got a missing tourist, do you realise that?”
“Missing?” He seemed relieved, and that did it.
“Apart from the one you had who was murdered, that is,” I said nastily.
“Oh, my Lord!” The circles under his eyes deepened a good half-inch, even as I watched. “You know that?”
“So, you do know?”
“Know?” He braced himself for denial. “I don’t know anything. The police were satisfied. It was just that Miss Carstairs happened to mention—” He broke off.
“And you didn’t think it would be a good idea to whisper a hint of it to me? Just to clue me in as to why the tour was turning out to be such a disaster? Or even as a gesture of confidence?”
“I couldn’t be sure,” he said quickly. “She might just be hysterical. It’s been a long season, and she’s probably run-down and nervy and imagining things. Thank the Lord she had sense enough not to say anything to the police.”
“But she confided in you?”
“Naturally.” He drew himself up. “I’m her employer. Besides”—he deflated slowly—“she had to tell me why she was refusing to come back to England. She won’t come back until Tour Seventy-nine has left. She’s frightened to death of them.”
We met each other’s eyes and I could see that, annoyed though we both might be with each other, we were two hearts that beat as one. We were both now dedicated to getting Tour 79 out of our country and back to their own as fast as possible—and damn the economic consequences.
“So,” I put it into words, just to make quite sure, “we do nothing.”
“I feel it’s their problem,” he said. “It had nothing to do with Larkin’s Luxury Tours. Don’t worry, Carstairs is a smart girl—she’ll keep her mouth shut.” “That’s right,” I said. “She doesn’t want to be trapped in a foreign country as some kind of material witness, either.”
He nodded, relieved that I had grasped the situation so quickly—and accepted it so philosophically. Then the pleasant expression congealed on his face as he remembered the beginning of the conversation. “What did you mean—earlier?” he demanded. “Who’s missing?”
“A lady named Angie Hunt. She was supposed to be visiting relatives in Edinburgh, and she was going to call her friends on the tour and let them know how she was. They haven’t heard from her, and they’re worried. You might check the relatives—you ought to have their names in your next-of-kin column.” I checked my watch and headed for the door. It was time to get started if I wanted to catch the tour before they disappeared down that Old Roman Road.
“Everything might be all right.” I paused at the door and turned back to him. “On the other hand, Angie Hunt was sharing a room with the woman who was—who, er, died.”
I closed the door gently on the vision of his ashen face.
They were just piling aboard the bus when I reached the hotel. I joined the end of the queue, nodding to Kate, who was checking us off as we boarded. She looked up from her clipboard and smiled faintly—the thought of getting rid of them all tomorrow was evidently keeping her going, too.
At the moment, all were present and accounted for. All we had started out with, anyway. Some in better condition than others.
Paula had bagged the seat behind Jim again. Her right forearm was in a vaguely lumpy plaster cast, which looked like the first attempt of some medical student making his debut in the Casualty Department. She’d discarded the hospital sling, and the arm and cast were suspended by a Gucci scarf that matched her costume. She smiled quite pleasantly at me and didn’t seem to be in any pain, or even discomfort.
“Feeling better?” I asked.
“As good as you can feel with a broken arm,” she said. “Still, it’s not too bad. I’ve had worse breaks, skiing.”
It was more philosophical than I would have expected of her. But, I counted my blessings, at least she wasn’t threatening to sue anyone. Of course, she couldn’t. Any brush with the law right now meant that the whole conspiracy was in danger of being brought into the open. Presumably, they weren’t any more anxious to be trapped in England, while police, Interpol, or whatever concerned officialdom investigated, than they had been to remain trapped in Switzerland. It behooved her to keep silent and try to put the best possible face on it.
“Fine,” I said heartily. “Keep your spirits up.” The last was directed as much to Jim as Paula. Perhaps the cast would slow her down.
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