Miss Seeton Sings (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 4)

by Heron Carvic

  A breeze had sprung up, introducing a chill into the air, and Miss Seeton returned to the hotel to fetch her coat. In the surrounding shrubbery silent prayers of thankfulness were offered: she was retiring for the night and the Sûreté men decided that they could go off duty.

  Thrudd Banner, arriving at the hotel after a snatched meal, saw ffoley getting into his car. “Seen MissEss?” he asked.

  Tomfool eyed him pityingly. “Rather missed the bus, haven’t you, old man? She was having a run-in with some little creep with a gun over there by the monument, but I”—in retrospect he preened himself—“I—er—put a stop to it.”

  “You . . .?”

  The car began to move. “Sorry, old chap, can’t wait—needed back at the embassy. And your Miss Seeton,” he called back through the window, “has toddled off to bed.”

  To bed? Thrudd wondered. From what they’d told him of her, once she’d started something she followed through with the pace getting hotter all the time. He went to the reception desk and inquired. While they were confirming that the lady had gone up to her room, one of the lifts behind him opened and turning he saw Miss Seeton heading for the revolving door. He waited for a second to give her time to get ahead and was interested to note that a raised newspaper on a sofa in the comer of the hall was lowered, thrust aside and Vee Galam sauntered out of the hotel. Thrudd grinned. So here they all went again. He hurried after them. So much for Tomfool’s “toddled off to bed.”

  In the darkness of the television lounge Mme de Brillot frowned. Then she had been right to believe that the fracas by the monument was not an end—rather a beginning. And evidently this evening everyone would promenade on foot. Hence she, in case of necessity, would take her car.

  “She’s on to the jewelry game.”

  At the other end of the line Librecksin interrupted: “Wait.” He shut the door of his office in the Stemkos chateau and returned to the telephone. “How do you know?”

  Tolla explained. “Mantoni caught her alone by the Brunswick Monument. She refused to go with him and attacked him, trying to knock the gun out of his hand. He would have shot her then but some man walked in on them and Mantoni had to run for it, but he managed to snatch the top sheet of her notes and it’s all there—a list of stones, and even mentions the diamonds are false.”

  Librecksin frowned. How could she know that? “What are her exact words?”

  “Hang on, I took it down when Elio phoned in; I’ve got it here.” He found the paper. “Here we are: ‘emerald, ruby, sapphire,’ et cetera; then ‘diamonds too bright, false.’”

  Librecksin was startled. “But when could she have seen them—and how does she know they are zircons?”

  “She doesn’t say zircons.”

  “But implies it,” snapped the secretary. “Zircons are cut with more facets and are brighter.”

  Tolla laughed. “Well, we don’t have to worry about her—she’s handed herself to us on a plate. Mantoni circled round and joined my other man keeping watch in the Place des Alpes. She got her coat from the hotel and’s gone for a walk. The second man seized an opportunity to phone his report a few minutes ago. He and Elio are on her tail and she’s headed up this way toward the Old Town. I’ve got a couple of men in a car keeping an eye on things, and I’m only waiting for another call to be sure which route she’s taking and I’ll go down to join the fun myself. Whatever she does, or whoever tries to interfere, we’ve got ’em cold. She hasn’t a chance.”

  It was stop-go up the Rue Verdaine. Every time Miss Seeton paused to admire antiques in some shop window her ill-assorted convoy had to halt, light cigarettes, tie shoelaces, examine guide maps, anything to preserve the fiction of their non-involvement.

  On the opposite side of the street Miss Seeton marked an intriguing doorway with above it in large letters the words PASSAGE INTEREDIT. So sensible to have things clearly named. And so easy to remember should one lose one’s way. She crossed the road. The beginning of the passage was roofed over and very dark, but farther on she could see that it came out into the open and there were lighted windows of buildings on the left which seemed to be below the passage level. It reminded her of something. Oh, yes, of course. Edinburgh. Those narrow, steep alleys called wynds near the castle which she’d explored once when on a schoolteachers’ coach tour. Yes, this would be genuine old Geneva—and exactly what she’d set out to find. She felt in her bag for the flashlight which had become a regulation since living in the country.

  The flashlight beam showed a wide, deep hole with a narrow plank across it. Really, if they were excavating here they should, surely, have put up some sort of notice. If one hadn’t had one’s torch one could easily have fallen. She trod with care and, as her weight pressed on the far end where the board rested on rounded cobbles, it upended and clattered down the hole. Oh, dear. Should she try to hook it out with her umbrella? She peered down. No, it was too deep. She would just have to hope that no one else would come this way till daylight.

  When Miss Seeton disappeared Mantoni quickened his pace. At the entrance to the passage the warning on the board above it gave him pause. Allora, if the passage was forbidden she must then know that she was being followed and had laid a trap. He edged into the darkness, waiting until his eyes became accustomed to the change in light. No, no one ahead of him. He ran forward, floundered in space and crashed into the hole. Cut, bruised and shaken, he swore to be avenged. Allora, she had caught him in her trap, but he would catch her and she then should die, not once but twice, should die three times, would be so glad to die before he’d finished with her. For an instant a wavering flame lighted the pit. Good; his fellow follower had arrived. As the flame went out he threw his briefcase up, reached, gripped the cobbles, braced himself and sprang.

  Vee began to run. Thrudd Banner sprinted after her, catching her at the passage mouth.

  “No,” he panted, “not you—I’ll deal with him. You carry on up and guard the other end in case I miss out or she needs help up there.”

  Vee weighed the pros and cons, nodded and ran to the top of the Rue Verdaine, skirted the flower-filled fountain in the Place du Bourg de Four, past the old police headquarters—causing one or two of the students milling around the café on the opposite corner to raise an indulgent eyebrow over such antics in someone who must be well past twenty. She chased up the Rue des Chaudronniers, turned left at the Promenade Saint Antoine and sped along to the Rue Théodore de Bèze, where she stationed herself at the head of the Passage Mathurin-Cordier.

  Thrudd glanced at the notice above the entrance. What the hell was MissEss playing at cavorting up places clearly marked “Forbidden”? Or had she some trick up her umbrella? He went forward with caution and flicked on his lighter. “Forbidden” probably meant . . . Too right—it meant a bloody great hole. One foot smacked into the head of the upspringing Mantoni and sent Thrudd sprawling, concussing the Italian, who subsided again to the bottom of the pit. Unaware of what had tripped him, the reporter picked himself up, collecting the briefcase on which he had fallen. Fair enough—the little squirt had dropped his luggage in his hurry. Well, possession was nine points . . . Briefcase in hand, Thrudd bounded up the passage.

  Coming into the Place du Bourg de Four from the opposite side, Xerxes Tolla narrowly missed a head-on encounter with Vee Galam. Outside the passage he had a brief report from Mantoni’s second string, told the man to stay where he was on guard for about five minutes and then to join Mantoni in case he was needed. At the bottom of the street he found his other two operatives, with their car parked at right angles to the Rue Verdaine, arguing their next move. He jumped in the back.

  “All right,” he rapped. “Since you are headed this way, carry on, take your first right and come up round the Théodore de Bèze, where we can keep a watch at the top.”

  From the end of the street Mme de Brillot had witnessed the proceedings in the Rue Verdaine. Evidently the enemy was mounting an operation and everyone was out in force tonight. She assessed the prob
abilities, unaware from where she sat that the Passage Mathurin-Cordier was officially, if temporarily, out of bounds. The press man, Banner, after a word with Vee, had followed Mantoni and Vee must be intending to contain the Italian in a pincer movement from above. The other man—she had seen Tolla speak to him—still loitered, so apparently he had orders to remain where he was. More serious, she had been correct in her suspicions of the two men in the car ahead of her. Tolla had joined them and now they were headed . . . almost certainly up to the Saint Antoine via the Théodore de Bèze. Vee might need help. She slipped a pistol from her bag, laid it on the seat beside her for quick action and started after them.

  Really, Miss Seeton congratulated herself, how very wise she had been to come this way. A single lamp hung on a cable above, ill-lighting the cobbled way. On her right a stretch of low wall held back a flower bed which rose sharply to a small dwelling. On her left railings protected her from falling to the ground floor of what looked like the back of a tenement building. The railing ended and she mounted steep steps between rough stone walls. Unquestionably this would be one of the oldest parts of the city. She must come here by day and settle down to sketch. More Cobbles. A stepped low doorway on her right, then a high plain wall. An old building to her left. More steps; more railings which finished at the entrance to the building; above the door the single word COLLÈGE. A college? Could this be, she wondered, Calvin’s original school?

  It was. It was also to be wondered whether the spirit of M. Cordier, its first headmaster, was abroad that night to watch over the well-being of this latter-day ex-colleague, herself so very much abroad.

  At the top of one more flight of steps there was a final slope. Better lighting ahead showed Miss Seeton a wall, on the farther side of a road, with rising ground above and statuary. Goodness, how satisfactory. Now she knew where she was. Quite near where Mr. Telmark lived. She stepped onto the pavement and gave a jump.

  “Vee. How you startled me. What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you—what else?” Vee Galam was on edge. “Couldn’t you just for once stay home at night and give us all a break?”

  “Waiting for me? Stay at home? I don’t understand.”

  “No, I guess you don’t at that.” Vee realized she had overstepped. “Forget it. It was just that when I saw you quit the hotel I thought I’d best tag along. You never know what may break in strange cities after dark.”

  Miss Seeton was touched. Really. The young. Such an amazing sense of responsibility. And so kind. But not, perhaps, appreciating that a young attractive woman, or someone rich, might well be at peril in such circumstances. When one was old and not, she feared, attractive, not rich, one at least gained this advantage, that these same dangers passed one by. That Vee should have worried about her . . . She put her hand on the other’s arm.

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  Her words were almost drowned by the sound of an engine as a car roared up the bend on the comer. Vee stiffened and her hand went to her bag. The car appeared and shot toward them, coming to a halt with a scream of tires. Two men in front; a dark-skinned man in the back. Vee freed her pistol, but the front passenger was already out; his right hand, with a glint of steel, had flashed forward. She whirled, pinning Miss Seeton against the wall. Vee jerked and, still keeping her charge behind her, half turned. Her pistol arm was heavy; disinclined to move. Slowly she forced the muzzle up and, as the knife thrower scrambled back into the car, she shot him through the head. The driver hauled the body in, slammed the door, gunned the motor and streaked down the promenade.

  Hearing the shot, Banner charged up the last slope past the college, skidding to a stop in time to see the speeding car. He looked at the pistol in Vee’s hand. “Got one of ’em?”

  “Yeah.” Vee’s low voice had deepened, was lagging. “We leveled off. I got the one got me.”

  “You?”

  “Forget it.” She leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Take the gun—and run for it.”

  “But you . . .?”

  The heavy eyelashes lifted. “Grab her and go, but take—the—gun.”

  Still he hesitated. “I never fired one.”

  Vee smiled her sad grimace. “Point, pull and pray.”

  “But what about you?”

  She made the effort. “Gotta stay here.”

  “Right.” Thrudd passed the briefcase to Miss Seeton. “Hold this.” Then he bent and took the pistol from Vee’s slack hand. “Come on.” He grasped Miss Seeton’s arm, saluted Vee: “Be seeing you,” and dragging his reluctant prisoner, began to run.

  Another engine revving; another change of gears. Vee tried to straighten, to prepare, but all she achieved was to open unwilling eyes. Scarlet paint gleamed under the street light. Habit rather than brain accepted who it was.

  “Vee.” Mme de Brillot sprang from her car and ran to her.

  Explanations, exhortations jostled in Vee’s head. “After them,” she muttered.

  Looking down the promenade, Mme de Brillot saw the running figures. “In the car,” she ordered.

  A slight headshake. For the last time the forlorn distortion of a smile. “Remember me to . . .” Her mind was clouding. Anyway did it matter? She tried again. “Remember me . . .” No—didn’t matter. Tired. She coughed and blood sluiced down her dress. Her legs buckled, she slumped and Mme de Brillot saw the knife handle protruding from her back. Tightlipped, she traced a cross with her forefinger, jumped into her car and hurled it down the promenade.

  Miss Seeton was finding running difficult. Encumbered by her handbag, her umbrella, a heavy briefcase and Thrudd’s grip upon her arm, she was off balance and out of step.

  “Please, Mr. Banner,” she panted, “if you would let go my arm, it would be easier. And can I put my handbag in the case? Less things to carry.”

  Thrudd released her. “Go ahead,” he puffed. “Not my case. Found it in the passage. I’ll take it.”

  Oh. Miss Seeton slowed to a stop, wedged her umbrella under one arm and knew before she pulled the zipper what it would hold. She stared helplessly at Mantoni’s pistol.

  “Good God.” Thrudd pulled up sharply. “More guns? What the hell goes on?”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Banner.” Miss Seeton pushed her handbag below the pistol. “It’s only a sort of trick one that makes a smell.”

  Thrudd’s jaw dropped. Trust her to know. “Fair enough. You’d better keep it then since I’ve got this”—he hefted Vee’s weapon—“but if we meet trouble, wave your trick at ’em, smells or not.”

  Less hampered now, Miss Seeton forged ahead and Thrudd was put to it to keep up with her. At the Rue des Chaudronniers—

  “Right wheel,” he gasped, but headlights were leaping up the street toward them. “Hold it—” he began.

  A red car flashed across in front of them and pulled up dead, blocking the side street. Mme de Brillot leaned from her window.

  “Run on,” she called.

  They sprinted forward as the other car, its horn blaring, neared the Lancia. The woman held her place, intent upon who was driving. The car changed down, mounted the pavement and, screaming its wings against the comer house, whipped into the promenade. Seeing Tolla in the back, Mme de Brillot fired for a wheel, a tire exploded and the car lurched across the promenade to crash into a tree. The driver and Tolla leaped out, saw Thrudd disappearing after Miss Seeton down the curve of the Rue Beauregard and gave chase.

  Thrudd heard the pounding footsteps drawing closer and realized he was blown.

  “You carry on,” he wheezed. How did she do it? “Turn right at the main road. I’ll hold ’em up.” He swung round at bay.

  Miss Seeton ran a few more steps, then stopped. She recognized the precipitous cobbled slope and the side street beyond, which Vee Galam had used to cut back through the Old Town. Vee. Miss Seeton still felt disturbed. She hadn’t liked to leave her. The girl had sounded . . . Something had been wrong. But both she and Mr. Banner had been so insistent they’d given her
no chance to . . . All this running and people with guns. Vee had fired at someone in that car, she was almost sure—although pressed against the wall she couldn’t see. What was it all about? And now she was told to run again. Why? She wouldn’t. Besides, if Mr. Banner was right and there was trouble, he might need help.

  Two men came racing down the Rue Beauregard and diverged. Tolla headed for Miss Seeton and the driver prepared to tackle Thrudd. Thrudd saw the knife in the man’s hand and obeying Vee’s instructions pointed the pistol, pulled and prayed. There was a loud report and the kick nearly made him drop it. The driver laughed and ran in close, his knife held low, and Thrudd jumped aside as it swept upward. Both snatched for the other’s fighting hand. With arms outstretched, each clutching the other’s wrist, they swayed and swiveled and, with foot aimed at shin and knee at crotch, they danced an ungainly polka across the Rue de la Croix Rouge until they smacked into the balustrade beside the steps leading to the road below. Thrudd’s luck was in, it was his opponent’s back which took the blow, making him break his hold. Although the reporter was new in fighting, he reacted like a veteran. He thrust his arm behind the other’s knees, heaved and the driver hurried down the odd thirty feet to the Rue Saint Leger without benefit of steps.

  Tolla reached Miss Seeton as the red Lancia raced down toward them, right-angled and braked to a stop. Seeing the pistol pointing from the car window, he crouched behind Miss Seeton, thrust forward and raised his automatic.

  “Stop that, at once,” Miss Seeton ordered. She swung her umbrella as he fired, sending the automatic and the bullet skyward. He knocked the umbrella from her hand and, balancing himself on the steep cobbles, held her as a shield in front of him. He advanced on Mme de Brillot as she darted from her car and flung Miss Seeton at her, knocking both women to the ground. Jumping at Mme de Brillot, he hooked his arm around her throat, forcing her head back to break her neck.