Emmy’s eyes crinkled with laughter. “How very perspicacious,” she said. “It’s perfectly true. Henry will love that.”
“Oh, don’t tell him!”
“I must. He’ll adore it.”
“And what about Alfredo?” Gerda sounded a shade less friendly than before.
Natasha said easily, “I don’t think he mentioned Alfredo.”
“Of course he did,” said Gerda sharply
“Oh, well, if he did, I wasn’t listening.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“Oh, all right.” Natasha had gone slightly pink. “He said that Alfredo was so good-looking that he had no business here, but should be directing traffic in Rome.”
Gerda and Emmy laughed politely, but Emmy, at least, realized at once that this was a hasty and not very clever improvisation, which lacked the bite and precision of Lenoir’s other epigrams. Suddenly she remembered the chance phrase which she had overheard the previous evening. “A wife and three Alfa Romeos to support...” She wondered if that had referred to Alfredo Spezzi, and if so, exactly what it implied, and why Natasha would not repeat it to Gerda.
The coq au vin arrived, putting a pleasant period to the conversation. They ate and drank lavishly, lingering over coffee and sipping little vertical glasses of Williamine, the Swiss pear liqueur, while the sun slanted lower through the branches of the chestnut tree. At last Emmy looked at her watch and exclaimed in horror that it was nearly four o’clock and she really must go. She went into the café in search of her coat.
Inside, a card game was in progress. Pierre and Marie, together with two cronies from the village, were absorbed in the local variant of the game of “Aces.” Pierre was bellowing imprecations against his wicked luck in the most good-humored way while Marie, quietly and competently, amassed a large score. As Emmy put her coat on, the postman arrived with the afternoon mail and the local evening paper. Pierre threw his cards down on the table.
“An archangel could not play with such cards!” he cried. “Give me the paper. Perhaps I can at least read in peace.”
He took the paper and opened it ostentatiously. Then suddenly he laid it down on the table; his face had grown very grave. He said something to Marie, who immediately stopped playing and transferred her attention to an item in the paper. In spite of herself, Emmy’s curiosity got the better of her. She moved across the room and looked over their shoulders.
What she saw was shattering enough. A headline announced: “INTERNATIONAL FUNCTIONARY MURDERED. DRAMA AT THE PALAIS DES NATIONS.” And underneath it, a large and unmistakable photograph of John Trapp. They all looked at it in silence. Then Pierre noticed Emmy, and said, “Please, Madame. It is better if we say nothing.”
“But...” Emmy was almost too upset to speak. “But I know him.”
“Ah, Madame. We all know him.”
“I must tell...”
“Madame.” Pierre laid a massive hand on Emmy’s arm. “We can do nothing. Spare her the anguish.”
Emmy looked at him, uncomprehending.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“You know this gentleman?” Pierre indicated John’s photograph with a pudgy forefinger.
“Yes, indeed I do. He’s...”
Pierre jerked his head in the direction of the terrace. “Poor Madame. What can we say that will help her? It is better if she goes home quietly now, and finds out the truth there.”
“But I must tell Natasha.”
Pierre suddenly became angry. “You say you know him,” he barked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Then you must know,” said Pierre more quietly, “that he is the husband of Madame Natasha.”
It took several moments for this remarkable statement to penetrate Emmy’s consciousness. Then she pulled herself together, and said, as composedly as she could, “Of course. I’m sorry. For a moment I confused him with somebody else. Leave it to me, Pierre.”
She walked shakily out onto the terrace, where Gerda and Natasha were chatting lazily, unaware of impending disaster. In the ten seconds that it took her to come down the steps and across the terrace, Emmy considered ten different ways of breaking the news, and rejected them all.
Natasha looked up at her, and said, “Goodness, Emmy, are you all right? You look quite pale. I hope the lunch didn’t disagree with you.”
“No, I’m fine,” said Emmy. “A little bit too much sun, perhaps. Let’s go.”
Emmy was very quiet during the drive back to Geneva. She was remembering John with Annette Delacroix in the little apartment overlooking the lake, and John with his ravishing French duchess. She still could not really comprehend the fact that Pierre thought John was Natasha’s husband. And she remembered John himself, gay and ironic and tinged with unexplained bitterness, and she tried to imagine him dead, and failed. Above all, she thought of Henry.
***
The Swiss Police arrived at the Palais with commendable rapidity and lack of fuss. The personnel of the subcommittee were hustled smartly into the conference room, while the body was photographed from every angle; the typewriter, the desk, and the dagger were fingerprinted; and all the usual, melancholy rituals of violent death were enacted as smoothly and unobtrusively as possible. While the delegates and staff, with the exception of Annette who had been removed to the Sick Bay, sat gloomily and silently in the conference room, the gendarmes established themselves in the rest room, which they had commandeered as a base.
One by one, the occupants of the conference room were summoned. Henry was the last of all, and when his name was finally called, he found to his annoyance that his heart seemed to be beating at twice its normal rate. He himself had conducted God knew how many investigations of this sort, but to be on the receiving end of the interrogation was an entirely different matter. His conscience groped back to recall his own conduct in the past, and he hoped devoutly that he had done on those occasions as he hoped to be done by now.
He opened the door of the rest room and walked in. At the table sat a small, friendly-looking officer of the Swiss Police, who stood up and shook hands. (“Reassuring,” Henry noted mentally. “I must do that in future.”)
“May I present myself?” this diminutive person asked in very good English. “I am Colliet of the Geneva Police. You are Chief Inspector Tibbett from London, I believe.”
Henry admitted that this was true.
“Please sit down, Inspector. So. And smoke if you wish. I understand that you discovered the body.”
“Yes.”
“Did you notice the time?”
“Yes, I did. It was twelve minutes to ten by the office clock.”
Colliet made a note. “Can you tell me what time you arrived at the Palais, or rather, at this suite of offices, Inspector?”
“I can’t say exactly. I had an appointment.”
“Yes. That we know. You were rather late for it, were you not?”
“No,” said Henry. “I’m sure I was here before half past.”
Colliet consulted a book which Henry recognized as the one kept by the doorkeeper. “According to the record, you arrived at nine twenty-six. Do you dispute that?”
“No, that sounds right to me.”
“Tell me, please, what happened then?”
“I went into the cloakroom to hang up my coat.”
“Did you meet anybody else?”
Henry told him, as accurately as he could remember, the events leading up to the finding of John’s body. Colliet noted them down carefully. Then he put his pencil down, smiled at Henry, and said in the friendliest possible way, “But you say that you had no appointment with Mr. Trapp?”
“Certainly I didn’t. My appointment was with Miss Benson at half past nine.”
“I do advise you, Inspector, to search your memory,” said Colliet, sounding like a character from a second-feature crime film. “Perhaps you would care for another cigarette.”
“I don’t want a cigarette,” said Henry crossly. “I tell you, I
had no appointment with Trapp.”
Suddenly and disconcertingly, Colliet became melodramatic. He had probably seen too many sensational movies. “Then how,” he cried, “do you account for this?”
Triumphantly, he threw a small piece of paper down onto the table, and pushed it toward Henry. Henry put out his hand to take it, recalled fingerprints, and withdrew his hand again. Instead, he read it as it lay on the table. On it was written, in handwriting of a marked individuality, “My dear Henry, certainly I’ll be there at nine, John.”
Henry looked at it with a growing sense of nightmare.
“Where did you find this?” he asked finally.
“Ah, so you do recognize it?”
“I’ve never seen it before. I asked you where you found it.”
Colliet smiled warmly. “In the pocket of your raincoat,” he said.
“That’s not possible.”
“It is not only possible, Inspector, it is true. I tell you the truth, and I would appreciate it if you would do the same for me. You should know better than anybody how our job is impeded by witnesses who misguidedly suppress important facts.”
“Anybody could have put that in my pocket,” said Henry. “In any case, surely the fact that I didn’t arrive until nearly half past nine is proof enough that...”
“That is just one of the many puzzling features of this case,” said Colliet. “It is open to several explanations. I am hoping you will tell us which is correct.”
Henry found himself growing more and more irritated. The man was behaving like a caricature of a fictional detective. Now he was leaning back in his chair, the tips of his fingers together, radiating sinister affability. The picture was somewhat spoiled by the fact that the legs of the chair began to slip from under him. Colliet sat up sharply and glared at Henry, daring him to smirk. Henry maintained a dignified silence.
“Well then,” said Colliet crossly, “let us talk about the weapon. Can you identify it?”
“Yes,” said Henry.
“Had you, in fact, seen it before? Before you found it this morning.”
“I saw it last night in Paul Hampton’s house. It belongs to him.”
Henry ran briefly through the events of the party, culminating in the tour of inspection of the house. He agreed that, besides Hampton, he and Moranta had both handled the dagger.
“So.” Colliet made another note. “Mr. Hampton was called away to the telephone, and the party went downstairs again. Is that correct?”
“In substance,” answered Henry unhappily. He knew that he could not suppress the next part of the story.
“You went directly downstairs? You and your wife?”
“No,” said Henry.
“Ah.” Colliet gave a little grunt of satisfaction. “What, then, did you do?”
“My wife wanted to explore a little more of the house,” Henry said uneasily. “I left her going off in the direction of the west staircase, and I attempted to go back to the drawing room.”
“Attempted?”
“I’m afraid I took a wrong turning and got lost. The Villa Trounex is a very confusing house.”
“For how long did you wander about in this confusing house on your own?” asked Colliet nastily.
“I can’t tell you. About ten minutes.”
“Did you meet or see anybody?”
Henry felt himself justified in a small white lie, a sin of omission, to safeguard a lady’s honor. After all, neither John nor Natasha had seen him. “Not until I was rescued by Mr. Hampton,” he said. He described his encounter with Paul, and John’s appearance on the scene. He did not say which room John had come from, and Colliet did not ask.
“I am glad you have been frank about this, Inspector. What you tell me tallies with the stories I have heard from the others.”
Henry said nothing.
“All the same, you must realize that you, of all people, had ample opportunity to return to the library and take the dagger, which could easily have been concealed in a sleeve or even an inside breast pocket. Please understand that I am not accusing you of anything. One merely remarks these things. Now, please tell me what you make of this.”
He unfolded the piece of paper which had been in the typewriter. Henry saw that it bore traces of fingerprinting powder.
“I make nothing whatsoever of it.”
Colliet sighed again, and lit an American mentholated cigarette. “Inspector,” he said, “it is only fair to tell you that, apart from the note found in your pocket, we know from a witness that you had an appointment with Trapp today.”
“You know what?” Henry asked incredulously.
“That you planned to speak to Mr. Trapp privately today.”
“But...” Henry stopped dead. Could Bill Parkington have repeated to Colliet the conversation about the leakage of information and Henry’s promise to “see what he could do”? Henry realized that the Swiss Police would have to be taken into Bill’s confidence sooner or later, but he and Parkington had agreed, in a monosyllabic conversation in the rest room, that Washington should be consulted by telephone before Bill handed over any information. It was obviously imperative to speak to Bill as soon as possible.
“Aha. So I have refreshed your memory, Inspector?” The inevitable cliché rolled out.
“Yes, you have refreshed my memory. I did intend to speak to John Trapp today, but I had made no appointment with him. It was merely an idea in my head.”
“Perhaps Mr. Trapp was telepathic,” suggested Colliet dryly. Henry began to like him rather better, and to forgive the clichés. After all, they are difficult to avoid in a foreign language.
“It looks like it,” he said.
There was a short pause, and then Colliet asked, “And what did you want to talk to Mr. Trapp about?”
“Business connected with the conference,” replied Henry promptly.
“Connected with ‘Parkington’s disturbing information’?” Colliet rapped the note with his hand.
“I am afraid I can’t tell you that.”
“You know what this information is?”
“Yes,” said Henry, “but for the moment it is confidential.”
Colliet let this pass without comment. He knew, and he knew that Henry knew, that any confidential business which bore on the murder would eventually have to be revealed. So he merely said, with a slight smile, “I presume that you can think of no possible connection between your confidential business and the murder of Mr. Trapp?”
“You presume correctly.”
“Are you aware whether Mr. Trapp had any enemies?”
“I have no idea. I hardly knew him.”
“You hardly knew him socially,” said Colliet, “but you worked with him professionally. And this was a professional murder.”
“Professional?” Henry sat up. “You’re not suggesting a hired assassin, are you?”
Colliet smiled. “You misunderstand me. It is my English that is at fault. I meant that Trapp was killed in the course of his job, and by a professional colleague. Apart from Mlle. Delacroix, who I am informed was a close friend of his, you are the only member of this committee, apparently, who knew Mr. Trapp away from business, and it is clear that your acquaintance with him was slight. This is no crime passionel, Inspector. Nothing to do with his private life. John Trapp was killed because of something to do with his work, something to do with Parkington’s disturbing information, something he knew or guessed which made him dangerous. The note in the typewriter makes it quite clear that he was proposing to discuss this something with you at the interview which you claim was telepathically arranged, and for which you did not turn up. It is the greatest pity, don’t you agree, that he was killed before he could tell you what that something was?”
Colliet stopped talking and contemplated the shiny yellow pencil which he held between his small fingers. In the silence, Henry became acutely aware of the ticking of the big, white-faced clock on the wall. He said nothing. He realized only too well the position he was
in, and his brain was working rapidly—planning, deducing, tabulating, above all remembering. He knew now that he alone would have to tackle this case, and that it would be stranger, more difficult and more important than any of his career; for this time, he would have to work independently of the police. In fact, he reflected wryly, he found himself precisely in the position of the amateur detectives of fiction, except that they were not as a rule suspected of the crime themselves. His only consolation was the thought that the arrest and accusation of a senior member of another nation’s police force is not a thing to be undertaken lightly. He reckoned that he had a little time. Meanwhile, thinking of Colliet’s position, he could even find it in his heart to feel sorry for the man. No wonder he fell back on clichés.
Colliet began to speak again. “Fortunately,” he said, “we have a narrow field to work in. The doorkeeper was on duty the entire time, and there was no other way of getting in or out of these offices except for that one door. In fact”—Colliet raised his head and looked fixedly at Henry—“in fact, we can be absolutely certain that the murderer is in this suite at this very moment. Then, we can be very precise about the time of the murder. On your evidence, and that of others, Mr. Trapp was alive at twenty minutes to ten, and dead at twelve minutes to. That leaves just eight minutes, Inspector. It should not be too difficult a problem.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” said Henry.
Colliet smiled again. “I am not down-hearted. If all the delegates and staff give me their fullest and frankest co-operation”—he paused meaningly—“the case will soon be closed.” He shut up his notebook and rose to his feet. “Well, Inspector, thank you for your help. That is all for the present. I trust you will not object to stepping into the filing room for a moment to have your prints taken. A pure matter of routine, you understand.” Henry winced, thinking how often he had used this particular, sinister cliché himself. “You and your staff are all free to go now, so long as you give your addresses to us, and do not leave the city. We shall meet again soon for another little chat when things are...clearer.”
Colliet shook hands warmly, smiled again—a grimace that was beginning to grow a little thin. Then he said to the gendarme who had been taking notes, “Please telephone and inquire whether Mlle. Delacroix is sufficiently recovered to speak to me.”
Death on the Agenda Page 6