Death on the Agenda

by Patricia Moyes

  “Emmy!” she cried. “Oh, it is good to see you. And Henry. To think that the last time we met...”

  “The last time we met,” said Henry, smiling, “you didn’t speak a word of English. When did you learn?”

  “Alfredo has jobs all over the world now,” said Gerda. “Without English, one can hardly survive these days.” She looked out over the lake. “Is this not beautiful? Sometimes I never thought to see beauty again, and to enjoy it without fear. I owe you so much.”

  “You owe us nothing,” said Henry.

  “But when even Alfredo thought I was a murderess, and peddling drugs...”

  “Drugs?” said a voice in Henry’s left ear, and he turned to see Bill Parkington standing behind him. “Talking shop, even out here?”

  “Not at all,” said Henry. “Just ancient history.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Bill, “I wouldn’t mind talking shop myself for a moment. Sorry to be boring, but with the committee meeting tomorrow morning...do you mind, Henry?”

  “Not at all,” said Henry. In the softly lit dusk, he saw that Bill’s normally cheerful face was strained and worried.

  “Excuse us a minute,” said Bill.

  Alfredo looked up inquiringly, but Bill had already taken Henry’s arm firmly in his iron grasp, and was leading him away from the group. Spezzi shrugged, and turned to talk to Emmy. Juan Moranta watched the two men go with a faintly puzzled expression.

  Bill piloted Henry down the lawn until they reached the quayside. There was nobody else in sight, and the sound of voices and music drifted faintly down on the light breeze. Bill sat down on the gray stone landing stage, lit a cigarette, and said, abruptly, “Henry, there’s been a leakage of information from the conference.”

  For a moment Henry was silent. Then he said, “How do you know?”

  “A coded cable waiting for me when I got in this evening. Today, the FBI finally caught up with one of our most notorious dope runners, a big shot. Guy we’ve had our eye on for some time. They made a good job of it, took him completely by surprise. On him, they found what amounts to a condensed but accurate report of last week’s discussions on countermeasures.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “In San Francisco.”

  Henry whistled softly. “They haven’t wasted much time,” he said. “Must be pretty well organized. I don’t like the sound of it.”

  “You’re telling me,” said Bill gloomily. “And there’s worse to come.”

  “What?”

  “He also had a copy of the agenda for our subcommittee. As you know, that’s the really top secret part of the conference, because a countermeasure remains effective just precisely as long as we can keep our suspects in the dark about it. Now, nobody has access to that agenda except the six of us, our two interpreters, our verbatim reporter, and our secretary.”

  “That narrows the field,” said Henry.

  “It’s damned impossible, on the face of it,” said Bill. “The interpreters and reporters have been screened and rescreened until you could put them through a sieve. And one can hardly believe that a delegate...”

  “So what do we do now?” Henry asked.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Bill. “My chiefs suggest we go ahead tomorrow with relatively unimportant matters—it’ll mean changing the agenda slightly—and it’s up to us to locate the leakage.”

  “Does anyone else know about this?”

  “Not so far. You see the spot we’re in. If it should turn out to be a delegate—which heaven forbid—we’d only put him on his guard by making it public. It’s a darned tricky situation.”

  “We could always change our staff of interpreters and reporters,” said Henry.

  “Yeah, sure we could. And then if the leakage stopped, we’d never know which one of them it was, and either the culprit would be free to go on spying on other meetings, or three innocent people would lose their jobs along with the guilty one. No, the way I see it, we’ve got to run this thing down here and now. Besides, until it’s cleared up, we’re all automatically under suspicion. Not a pleasant sensation.” Bill threw his cigarette into the lake.

  “I appreciate the fact that you’ve told me,” said Henry. “I hope that means you don’t suspect me personally.”

  He spoke almost jokingly, but Bill’s voice was perfectly serious when he replied, “I suspect everyone.” There was a short pause. Then Bill went on. “I’ve told you for two reasons. First, because you’re chairman of the committee. And second...” He paused again. “You know John Trapp socially, don’t you?”

  Henry felt slightly sick. “I have met him outside the Palais,” he said. “How did you know?”

  Bill smiled, but without amusement. “This is a small town,” he said. “You and Emmy were seen out dancing with him and one of the Palais secretaries last week. The Moulin Rouge, wasn’t it?”

  “It certainly is a small town,” said Henry. He was beginning to get angry. “Who saw us?”

  “As a matter of fact, it was Mary Benson, the Australian girl. Our verbatim reporter.”

  “I’d be interested to know how the information got to you,” said Henry dryly.

  “Oh, hell,” said Bill. “Don’t start picking on Mary. She didn’t mean any harm, just happened to mention it. We were having a drink together.”

  “I see,” said Henry. “All right. So I know the man slightly. I don’t see what that has to do with...”

  “After I got the cable this evening,” said Bill, “I went back to the Palais and did a little checking up on records. John Trapp belonged to the Communist Party in Oxford ten years ago.”

  Henry’s anger surged up again. “When he was about eighteen,” he said. “And in any case, what on earth have politics to do with dope running?”

  Bill shrugged. “It’s the only thread of subversive activity I could find against anyone.”

  “It’s monstrously unjust to connect the two things,” said Henry with some heat.

  “The world tends to be unjust,” said Bill.

  “In any case, what do you want me to do about it?”

  “You’re a cop,” said Bill. “I’ve told you the suspect. Now it’s up to you. This is a serious matter, Henry. No good being sentimental about it.”

  There was a short silence. Then Henry said, “Very well. I’ll see what I can do. If only to clear the man’s name. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

  “Attaboy,” said Bill. He grinned, not very convincingly. “Now let’s try to forget it, if we can, until the morning. Let’s join the boys and girls.”

  They made their way up the garden in thoughtful silence. Henry was profoundly worried. Nobody realized better than he the gravity of the situation. Of all criminals, drug runners are probably the richest and the most highly organized. For a big international gang to get their hands on the details of all the latest countermeasures could annul years of patient work.

  In his mind he considered the delegates and staff of his committee, one by one. Almost instinctively his thoughts turned to Zwemmer, the enigma. At once he reproached himself for unfairness. Each was equally suspect and equally likely to be innocent. One could at least rule out Spezzi and Parkington. Or could one? The fact that Spezzi was an old friend did not preclude the possibility that he might be susceptible to bribery on a large scale. He had Gerda and two children to look after now, and Italian policemen are no better paid than those of other countries. And Bill? He had told Henry the news, certainly, but then he could hardly have avoided doing so, being under instructions from his department in Washington. How significant was it that the leaked information had found its way so quickly to the States? Not very, for given an international organization, it was almost certainly distributed by now to selected people all around the world. Nevertheless...

  Henry and Bill arrived back on the terrace just as Paul Hampton came out of the house. He paused on the threshold, while the intimidating butler murmured something respectfully in his ear. Henr
y saw him shaking his head impatiently, in a negative gesture. The butler melted discreetly away, and Paul Hampton stood for a moment in the open French window, surveying his guests with a smile. Gerda and Emmy were now chatting with Jacques Lenoir, who was entertaining them with a deliciously accurate imitation of one of the more venerable members of the Comédie Française playing Molière. Konrad Zwemmer stood with them, watching Lenoir with serious interest. John Trapp leaned on the balustrade, a little apart from the others, smoking and gazing down on the gardens. Spezzi had disappeared. Paul Hampton threw down his cigarette and stepped out onto the terrace.

  Although Henry had never met his host, he knew at once that this must be he. The dark gray Savile Row suit, embellished by a single miniature rose in the buttonhole; the slim gold cigarette holder; the gray hair, neither too long nor too short, framing the still-youthful, sun-tanned face—all these added up irresistibly in Henry’s mind to the formula of the hidden persuaders. Men of Distinction drink (or eat or smoke or drive) Somebody’s Scotch (or cornflakes or cigarettes or automobiles); therefore, by a dubious leap of logic, if you, dear reader, will only drink or eat or smoke or drive likewise, you will soon grow to look like Paul Hampton. Henry had never, even in his more gullible days, been deceived by this spurious reasoning. He knew that what set Paul Hampton apart from his fellow men was the magical aura of money, which surrounded him like a cellophane casing. This reflection did not depress Henry. On the contrary, he was delighted to see wealth in the hands of somebody who so clearly made excellent use of it, and he knew that, contrary to folklore, rich men are frequently as good if not better company than poor ones.

  Paul spotted Bill Parkington, and went across the terrace to him.

  “So you were the culprit,” he said, with mock severity.

  “Culprit?” Bill sounded a little taken aback.

  “For half an hour,” said Paul warmly, “I have been trying to meet Inspector Tibbett. Only to hear that you had spirited him into some dark corner to talk shop. Shame on you.”

  “Sorry, Paul,” Bill apologized awkwardly. “Something came up that...”

  Paul held up his hand. “Not another word,” he said. And then, to Henry, “I’m Paul Hampton. I’m extremely pleased to know you, sir.” He lowered his raised hand, and held it out for Henry to shake. “An old Swiss custom,” he added, “which we new Swiss have adopted. I find it civilized.”

  Henry, a little overpowered, murmured politenesses, and complimented Mr. Hampton on his beautiful home. At once the older man’s face lit up with very real pleasure.

  “I guess I’m like a child with a new toy when it comes to this place,” he said. “Not that the Villa Trounex is new, not even to us. We’ve been here nearly five years now. But we’ve worked hard, Natasha and I, to make it the sort of place we enjoy, and that we hope our guests enjoy, too.”

  “You’ve certainly succeeded,” said Henry.

  “I hardly like to suggest this,” Paul went on, almost diffidently, “but would it amuse you to see a little of the house?”

  “It would indeed,” said Henry. Emmy, overhearing, begged to be allowed to come too. In fact, the idea was taken up enthusiastically by the whole group.

  “This way for the conducted tour, then,” said Paul gaily. “Natasha—where is the girl? Never mind. She can look after the party for a few minutes. Are you joining us, John?”

  For a second, John Trapp did not answer; indeed, he seemed not to have heard. Then, as if coming out of a reverie, he stood up straight, put his empty glass down on the balustrade and said, “I won’t, Paul, if you don’t mind. I’ve seen the place before—remember?”

  “O.K., O.K. Stick to boozing if you want to,” said Paul, good-humoredly. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, here we have the main drawing room. There’s quite a story attached to those chandeliers. Four years ago, when we were in Paris...” Still talking, he stepped inside, under the soft, brilliant lights.

  The little group followed him, for all the world like sightseers at a country mansion open to the public. Emmy and Gerda walked together, chattering excitedly. Konrad Zwemmer kept to himself, observing and listening with studious care; Henry felt that he was longing to take notes, and was only prevented from doing so by the fact that he had no notebook with him. Juan Moranta was escorting the young lady from Finchley, to whom he was paying extravagant court in what seemed to Henry a slightly mocking manner. He had little time to spare for the beauties of the house, for he was fully occupied not only in charming the doe-eyed sex symbol, but also in disengaging her from the wiles of Jacques Lenoir, who, greatly smitten, walked on the other side of her, exuding gallantry. The situation was complicated by the fact that Moranta spoke very little English. The object of their admiration having volunteered that she learned French at school, the conversation was being conducted in that language, of which she understood perhaps ten words, if spoken slowly. Consequently, the rapier exchanges of wit, the thrust and parry of nuance and the delicately flicked compliments escaped her completely. She walked gracefully between the verbal duelists, serene and uncomprehending, rewarding now one and now the other with a ravishing smile. All three were enjoying themselves immensely.

  Henry and Bill Parkington kept together, in somber silence. Bill’s disclosure weighed heavily on Henry, and it seemed to be having the same effect on the big American. He walked slowly, apparently more interested in the toes of his shoes than in the rooms they were seeing; every so often he shook his large, shaggy head, as if in depressed chagrin.

  So the little procession wended its way through the elegance of small drawing rooms, through the long dining room with its Louis XV furniture and trompe-l’oeil walls decorated with painted pillars and urns of flowers. They visited the ferny greenness of the big conservatory and the leather-and-gilt tranquility of the library, stopping frequently to admire some special piece of furniture, valuable picture, or amusing knickknack.

  Paul Hampton was a fascinating guide. With excellent taste, considerable knowledge, and a lot of money, he had chosen each piece himself, scouring the shops and markets of Europe. Emmy, crying out with pleasure at the sight of a cabinet full of antique Waterford glass, was not only privileged to handle some of the precious pieces, but was pressed, embarrassingly, to accept a fragile bowl for herself. (“I can get another one... I know the guy. Has a little shop in a back street behind Merrion Square, you’d never find it unless you knew it.”) Jacques Lenoir, seduced for a moment from the film star’s side, lolled at his ease in a chair which Le Roi Soleil had kept for his especial use at Versailles, a new acquisition, it seemed, since Lenoir’s last visit. Henry and Juan Moranta simultaneously spotted a dagger of superb Toledo steel hanging on the library wall. Paul insisted on taking it down and making each of them handle it to get the feel of the fine, sharp blade and the delicate inlay of ivory on the hilt.

  Reluctantly returning the weapon to its owner, Henry, a trifle light-headed from champagne, said, “If I had money, Mr. Hampton, I’d try to spend it just as you have.”

  To which Paul Hampton replied seriously, “That is a very great compliment, Inspector.”

  It was only when the party found its way upstairs that a hiatus occurred. A manservant, in black trousers and starched white coat, materialized from nowhere and whispered to Paul. Henry noticed that Hampton’s face changed almost imperceptibly, hardened, became businesslike. One could see why he was a rich man.

  “Please excuse me,” he said, with a charming smile. “I have to take a telephone call from New York. And I was the one who was complaining about Bill talking shop. I apologize.” To the manservant he said, “I’ll take it in my room.” And then he added, rather surprisingly, “Natasha and I are old-fashioned; we have separate bedrooms, even in this day and age. Excuse me. You’ll find all the fixings downstairs.”

  He walked off down the corridor, and the party dispersed. Alfredo Spezzi arrived from nowhere and bore Gerda away. Lenoir and Moranta, still arguing brilliantly in French, escorted their uncomprehe
nding quarry downstairs in search of a drink. Bill Parkington wandered off with Konrad Zwemmer, who was remarking earnestly, “In Germany, it is the old-fashioned married couples who share the same bed.”

  “Sure, sure,” Bill answered reassuringly.

  “And in America?” Zwemmer persisted. “This is a social question of some significance.”

  “In America,” said Bill ponderously, “we share the same room, but we have separate beds and separate lives.”

  “Ah, so?” Zwemmer was fascinated. “Just what do you mean by separate? For example, Mr. Parkington, in the average American family, in a heavily industrial area such as Pittsburgh, how many times per year would you imagine...” Their voices were lost down the corridor.

  Henry and Emmy, left alone, grinned at each other.

  “I’d like to explore this place a bit further,” said Emmy.

  “Better not,” Henry said prudently. “Come on downstairs.”

  “There must be another flight of stairs at the far end of the corridor to balance the one we came up,” returned Emmy. “Let’s look.”

  “No. It would be rude. We hardly know the Hamptons.”

  “I don’t mean I want to pry into people’s bedrooms,” Emmy replied with spirit. “I just want to see the general layout. I’m sure there’s another staircase.”

  “You do what you like, then. I’m going down to join the others.” Henry always felt helpless in the face of one of Emmy’s fits of stubbornness.

  “Go on then. I’ll see you later.” Emmy gave him a smile in which he detected a certain amount of affectionate mockery, and walked away down the passage, her golden silk dress rustling gently as she went.

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t get lost,” Henry called after her. Which was foolish of him, for, as it turned out, he was the one who missed his way. Probably because he was irritated with Emmy, worried about the leakage of secret information, and preoccupied with the thought of the committee meeting in the morning, he forgot that, to reach the staircase, it was necessary to turn off the corridor and into another. Realizing his mistake, he tried to rectify matters by taking a right turn, which led not to the stairs he was seeking, but to another, smaller flight.