Miss Seeton Sings (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 4)

by Heron Carvic

  Natalie had collected the diamonds from the bank this morning and he was keeping them on his person in case of such an enforced departure. He wished that he had told her to take out the last remaining packet of forged notes at the same time. However, except in the unlikely event of Stemkos having occasion to open the box, there was no possibility of their being discovered until he himself was safely out of the country. He had already warned Natalie of the threat that Miss Seeton constituted to their schemes and that in consequence there might be little time left to them. But if this Seeton female was eliminated, there might still be a chance to recover his position.

  In apologizing to his hostess for maladroitness, his eyes flashed her a warning: time had run out.

  Time. Natalie Stemkos pressed on the accelerator. Anatole had insisted that it was essential to get the timing right; imperative, too, to keep an eye on her driving mirror as she neared the Italian frontier; vital that he should be directly behind her when they entered the tunnel.

  Miss Seeton was grateful that her companion had spoken little during the long drive. The changing scenery, especially on nearing Mont Blanc, engrossed her.

  Mme Stemkos had arrived soon after ten o’clock at the Richesse with a letter signed Heracles Stemkos which stated that he would expect Miss Seeton for lunch at Filippo’s, the famous hors d’œuvre restaurant just over the border in Italy on the far side of the Mont Blanc tunnel. He reckoned that both Filippo’s and the tunnel were experiences which she should not miss during her visit to Switzerland. He, the letter had said, was impelled to be in northern Italy on business and his wife would drive her to the rendezvous.

  Miss Seeton was in no position to refuse such an invitation, which was, in any case, clearly, so very well meant. Certainly to see the famous tunnel would be interesting, and a restaurant which only served hors d’œuvre would be a relief after the enormous meals which appeared to be the rule abroad.

  Being lunchtime, there was not the habitual queue of cars at the tunnel’s entrance and the man in charge, after a brief question, passed them straight through and turned to the only other car in view behind them. Miss Seeton had been intrigued to notice two men busy over a large wall map in the background. They, Mme Stemkos told her, followed the course of each car through the tunnel, checking its speed and its position, particularly in relation to other cars. The tunnel impressed Miss Seeton: its seemingly interminable length; its signs, in figures, which, her chauffeuse explained, gave the prescribed speed for different sections and would flash a warning if the speed was not adhered to, or too close an approach was made to the vehicle in front; the different-sized lay-bys, for maintenance, for lorries and for cars; but above all, as they proceeded, the tunnel’s endlessly diminishing point of distance, which produced the hypnotic impression that they needed to drive ever faster in order to stay still. What she had not expected were the occasional patches of damp where seepage running down the walls made short stretches of the road glisten like glass under the lights.

  Before one such patch the car began to falter. Mme Stemkos exclaimed impatiently in French. The engine stopped and the car braked to a halt. A few feet ahead to their right was a lay-by and, beyond it, the round sign on the wall, marked 100, began to flash its warning. Headlights were bearing down on them from behind and Natalie Stemkos jabbed helplessly at the starter.

  “Quick,” she gasped, “an accident. I will guide and you push from behind.”

  Miss Seeton ran to the back of the car, but as she leaned her weight against it the engine caught and the car sprang forward into the shelter of the lay-by, throwing Miss Seeton to her knees.

  The insistent flicker of the signs, the blaze of the nearing headlights, the blare of the car’s horn; behind it again yet brighter lights, a more strident horn; the double roar of engines at full throttle, and in the distance the beginning rise and fall of police sirens, combined to hold her in thrall and for a space Miss Seeton knelt there petrified. She jumped to her feet, prepared to run. But where? A lorry was thundering toward her from the opposite direction. She was trapped. With bare inches to spare from the lorry’s bonnet, a flash of red flicked round the car bearing down on her and, with its tires shrieking in a controlled skid, rocked to a stop beside her. The door swung open.

  “In,” cried Mme de Brillot.

  Miss Seeton sprawled obedience and the Lancia spurted forward as Librecksin, swerving to avoid a collision, lost control on the wet surface and crashed into the lay-by. One thin, high scream rose above the cacophony of tearing metal and splintering glass, and the lorry driver leaped from his cab to help, thankful for the first time in his driving life to hear the pulsating wail of police cars racing toward him.

  Two police cars followed by a small white ambulance, their blue roof lights winking, forced their way past the occasional traffic in the opposite lane and whipped by them. Miss Seeton sat shocked. It had been so very near. If it hadn’t been for Mme de Brillot . . . Vaguely she remembered hearing the sound of a smash as they fled the scene. Oughtn’t they to have stayed? One did so hope that no one had been . . . hurt? If it hadn’t been for Mme de Brillot, Miss Seeton was beginning to realize, she herself would have been killed. The car was making a whining noise which seemed familiar. Oh, yes—her mind was clearing—so very like the noise the airplanes made before they left the ground. A pointer of a large dial on the dashboard touched 180. One knew that this would not be miles because abroad they had kilometers. And were they more—or less? One did trust they wouldn’t leave the ground, though, frankly, at this speed it wouldn’t be surprising. A stationary car loomed ahead of them and the Lancia cut round it illegally, to the continuing and futile protests from the speed indicators on the wall, which now read 80. It wasn’t until they were actually abreast that she realized that the “stationary” car was moving. A slight curve, a half circle of daylight in the distance, and the end of the tunnel rushed at them. The whine of the Lancia deepened, to become the normal sound of a car engine as it slowed, and Mme de Brillot brought it to a halt at a barricade set across the entrance. Men in uniform surrounded them, the doors were snatched open, they were ordered out and marched into a building on their left.

  Miss Seeton understood little of the ensuing interrogation. Mme de Brillot talked, produced papers. The officer who appeared to be in charge spoke on the telephone; then Mme de Brillot spoke, handed back the receiver; the officer spoke again, and Miss Seeton did notice that the atmosphere was becoming warmer. Even friendly.

  “What,” Mme de Brillot asked her, “induced you to set out on this expedition?” Miss Seeton quoted the letter. Did she have it? No, Mrs. Stemkos had it. Mme de Brillot exchanged looks and shrugs with the officer. “Soit,” she exclaimed. “You were offered a lunch at La Maison de Filippo. This charming gentleman and his confrères”—a wave of the hand indicated the other officers around them—“wish us to remain a little, in case we can be of assistance. So we will attend them at Filippo’s and you shall have your promised lunch.”

  They shook hands all around, were ushered back to the car with much circumstance and drove the few yards to the Italian customs post armed with a temporary pass for Miss Seeton and an assurance that her handbag with her passport and her umbrella should be searched for immediately and returned to her.

  By way of firred slopes, the mottled gray and brown of rocks, with snow-capped peaks towering over them, they wound their way up past the clustering rough stone dwellings, with their unequal slated roofs, of the tiny village, until the Lancia stopped before a large chalet which, although its fabric was more stone than timber, still gave Miss Seeton the impression that a cuckoo on a wire spring might launch itself from an upper window at any moment.

  They were shown to a table on a balcony and tray after tray of plates were served. Miss Seeton eyed the twenty-odd platters of hors d’œuvre with misgiving. So many varieties to choose from. But then, after all, it was not necessary to sample everything. But, then again, so difficult to make one’s choice. All looked
delicious. She looked down over the carved rail of the balcony to the courtyard below. What an attractive place. The pink-and-white-checked tablecloths, the rough wooden benches, the tall tree, circled by a wooden platform, on which stood bowls of fruit and the inevitable stone troughs filled with flowers. Back of the tree, a small aviary and coffee tables. At one of these . . . Miss Seeton frowned.

  “What is it?” asked Mme de Brillot.

  Miss Seeton started. “Nothing. It’s just that I . . . No—nothing.” She came back to the matter in hand. The choice. She began to help herself.

  “Do you like pasta?” Surprised, Miss Seeton admitted that she did. “Then take very little of this course,” advised her mentor, “omit altogether the next course of hot hors d’œuvre, which are ham, beef and lamb, and concentrate on the pasta hors d’œuvre which follow and are delicious, and finish with the ice cream hors d’œuvre, which is superb.” She might have known it, Miss Seeton reflected. No meal abroad would be as simple as it sounded.

  Between courses Miss Seeton continued to puzzle over the man having coffee at a table by the tree. Mme de Brillot watched her. With the help of new surroundings, an adroit turn of conversation and the help of the police, the Sûreté and the customs officers, she had succeeded in relegating the attempted murder in the tunnel to the back of her guest’s mind. It would be raised again. They had yet to learn the result of the crash behind them. Inevitably there would be more questioning; depositions. But meanwhile, what was it that MissEss had seen down there? She had learned that it was to treat any aberration on Miss Seeton’s part with due respect. So she smiled at the debonair young Filippo, who had come to inquire if the meal had been to their satisfaction, and told him that they would take their coffee down below.

  On the way down the wooden planks which served as a rail-less staircase, Miss Seeton stopped suddenly beside one of the baskets of mixed fruits which bordered the outer edge. Of course. She remembered now. “The wrong pajamas.”

  “The—the what?”

  Hastily Miss Seeton explained. “Oh, I don’t mean pajamas. It’s just that—well, that’s how I remember him. More likely, papers. And, possibly, a toothbrush. Which would have been wrong, too. Not his, I mean,”

  Mme de Brillot began to worry. This funny little woman—so simple; so imperturbable in crises—it was easy to forget she was no longer young. Had that terrifying experience in the tunnel affected her more than one had realized?

  Miss Seeton continued to expound. She described the incident at Heathrow when the gentleman at her table had been humming that tune by Tchaikovsky—Rimsky-Korsakov, mentally corrected her companion—and this other gentleman had come to borrow sugar, and the mix-up over the briefcases, although the first gentleman—the one who she knew was called Mantoni—had denied it, but she was still quite sure that she was right, and the second gentleman—the one who’d wanted sugar—“is here”—she pointed downward—“having coffee.”

  Mme de Brillot unraveled the skein. “Good,” she announced. “Then this sugar borrower shall be diverted. We will entertain him with a song and see what arrives.”

  The Frenchman was nearing the point of desperation. His instructions had been clear: lunch in the yard at Filippo’s, where contact and exchange of cases would be made. He had been pleased. Filippo’s: a good choice; a busy restaurant; and, for himself, no frontier to cross; no customs to question him; both would be the contact’s responsibility. And after this, his last assignment with the forged notes, he would be free to return to France and food cooked in butter instead of oil.

  But no contact had been made. No one had so much as whistled the “Song of India.” This was the third day running on which he had overindulged in Filippo’s interpretation of hors d’œuvre, and his stomach was by now as troubled as his mind. He had tried, repeatedly he had tried, to telephone the only number he knew in Geneva. The first day—no answer. The second day—an answer, but instinct had warned him that the answering voice was wrong. He had operated too long on the other side of the sticks not to recognize the official, the police, voice when he heard it. This morning again had been the same and he had replaced the receiver without speaking. Something had gone wrong. He had combed the newspapers to no avail; he could find nothing in them to give him a clue as to what might have happened; though even had Tolla’s death been reported, the name would have meant nothing to him. The trouble of running a business in watertight compartments is that, should the main spring a leak, the other compartments must dry out through lack of supply. Apart from the telephone number he had no means of communication, so there was nothing he could do except continue to overeat and hope.

  He glanced up as an attractive fair woman—mentally he dubbed her une jolie laide—and an older woman came through the doorway and seated themselves at a table near him. An older . . . He looked again. But—he remembered her. That older woman had been at London Airport. Hope began to burgeon—or could it be some form of trap?

  As they sat themselves, it dawned on Mme de Brillot that Miss Seeton was for once unarmed—both her handbag and her umbrella had been in Natalie Stemkos’ car. She therefore put her own bag on the ground beside her chair and hoped that it would suffice.

  A girl came and set a wooden bowl with a carved lid on the table. Miss Seeton was intrigued. Around the rim of the bowl were holes. No, really more like stubby spouts. It resembled a bowl such as one might see in a florist’s with some clever flower arrangement; except that in this case wisps of steam were escaping from the spouts, together with a pungent aroma of coffee. She waited for the girl to bring cups.

  “Now,” murmured Mme de Brillot. “Hum the tune.”

  Miss Seeton blushed. No, really. The morning’s events, plus too much delicious food and a slightly sparkling wine, to which she was not accustomed, were combining to take effect. But even so—no, really, she did not think she could.

  “I’m afraid,” she apologized, “that I’m not very musical. I—I don’t think I could.”

  Her companion lifted the bowl and drank from one of the spouts. Miss Seeton watched, astonished, and, receiving the bowl in her turn, approached her mouth tentatively to another spout. Her eyes watered and she blinked.

  “It’s much too hot,” she protested.

  No, not too hot, she was assured. “Try it.” Miss Seeton sipped. Fire coursed down her and she nearly dropped the bowl. “It’s called,” Mme de Brillot told her, “le café de l’amitié—the coffee of friendship. It’s an old Valdostani custom. Try it again.”

  Miss Seeton imbibed more hot brandy flavored with coffee, sugar and orange peel. With concentration and care she lowered the bowl to the table. The facade of the chalet with its balconies wavered slightly: there seemed to be more tables in the courtyard—more, and they shimmered; in fact everything was shimmering, just a little.

  “Now,” commanded Mme de Brillot. “Hum.”

  Hum? Well, one did, one would be the first to admit, owe Mme de Brillot a great deal . . . And if, as she seemed to think—as Mme de Brillot seemed to think—it was important, one must, of course, try. Slowly, flatly, gathering Dutch courage and changing from different to indifferent key, Miss Seeton began to hum.

  In a sweet clear soprano, Mme de Brillot took up the second half of the melody:

  “Ho-ors de-es flo-ots ti-i-è-è-è-des

  U-un ru-u-bi-is s’é-é-lè-è-è-ve.”

  Clever—very clever. The Frenchman listened in admiration. It was evident, in fact, that something had gone wrong, and that this was the old woman’s way of putting the thing right. And he, too, had been right in continuing to come here. He felt a surge of relief. At last he would get rid of these accursed, these dangerous notes. He would receive his money and he could go home. That little woman must be of the front rank, and at London Airport she had been there to watch, to make a check. He scrutinized Miss Seeton again. Never, never would he have suspected her. So clever. And to sing the song between them as though discussing and reminding each other of the tune—so
natural, and so clever. And then, since ladies do not carry briefcases, to arrange for only one of them to have a handbag so that he should know what to take. But so very, very clever.

  He signaled for his bill, pocketed his change, took his receipt and, moving forward, allowed it to slip from his fingers.

  “Pardon, mesdames.” He stopped, put down his briefcase, retrieved the piece of paper and picked up Mme de Brillot’s bag.

  Its owner laid her hand upon his wrist. With a grimace of pain he froze in position, unable even to relax his fingers and drop the bag.

  Three cars drew up before the low stone wall that divided the courtyard from the road. From the first sprang three officers, one of them bearing in triumph Miss Seeton’s handbag and umbrella, and with smiles of recognition they hurried to the table.

  The remaining two vehicles were the tag of Miss Seeton’s retinue. A Sûreté man hurried from one of them, took stock of the position in the yard, and disappeared into Filippo’s determined upon sustenance for himself and his partner while they had the chance.

  Thrudd Banner sauntered from the last car and sat down on the wall. Uhuh. Quite a headline morning. Natalie Stemkos calls for MissEss and heads for Italy. Odd. Librecksin follows in another car. Odder. The Stemkos frail killed in the tunnel in a mix-up with Librecksin’s car. Oddest yet—especially in view of current gossip. No trace of Librecksin in or out of the wreckage. Definitely odd—and fretting the police somewhat. And then, trust MissEss to come up with her own particular brand of oddity. Goes into the tunnel in one car and, ignoring trifles like wrecked cars and a body, sails out in another to guzzle lunch and brandy here. He’d nearly missed this end of it at that. By the time the traffic was unsnarled and on its way again he’d lost the track. But a policeman carrying a lady’s umbrella, circa 1910, had clued him and . . .

  Thrudd brought his camera up and took pictures as two of the officers marched the Frenchman to their waiting car.

  When the third officer left carrying a briefcase, Mme de Brillot paid the bill. Thrudd intercepted the women as they reached the Lancia.