Death on the Agenda

by Patricia Moyes

  “When was this taken?” Henry asked.

  The girl glanced at the caption pasted on the back of the photograph. “Last December.”

  “Five months ago,” Henry remarked. He looked at the caption. “...Herr Konrad Zwemmer, a frequent and welcome visitor to Geneva on his Government’s business, but this time vacationing with old friends...”

  When they finally got into the taxi which was taking them to the Chemin des Chênes, Emmy said, “Fancy the little Zwemmer man being mixed up with Helène Brochet. She looks stunning.”

  “It’s very odd,” said Henry. “They hardly ever speak to each other.” Then he remembered something, and was silent.

  It was with a sense of almost unbearable tension that, for the second time that afternoon, Henry rang the concierge’s bell at 5, Chemin des Chênes. There was a different gendarme on duty in the hall, and he barely spared Henry and Emmy a glance. It was the hour when business people return home from work, and the foyer was busy with coming and going.

  After what seemed an unbearable delay, the door opened.

  “Madame Novari,” Henry began, and then stopped dead. The woman who stood there was elderly and stout, and wore a flowered house coat and slippers. She was a complete stranger.

  “Monsieur?”

  “I want to see the concierge’s wife,” Henry began.

  “Yes, monsieur. I am she. Can I help you?”

  “But Madame Novari...?”

  “Ah, I am sorry monsieur. They left today. My husband and I have taken over. If there is anything...?”

  “Left?” Henry felt the nightmare closing in again. “When did they leave?”

  “This morning, monsieur. They have gone back to Italy.”

  “That’s not true. She was here after lunch,” said Henry.

  “Oh, well...this morning, after lunch, I don’t know exactly, monsieur. My husband and I have only just arrived. You can see.”

  Sure enough, the passage was stacked with trunks and packing cases, and through the open sitting-room door, Henry caught a glimpse of an elderly man perched on a ladder, hanging chintz curtains.

  “But”—Henry had the impression of struggling through cotton wool—“she didn’t say anything about leaving.”

  “No, monsieur. It was very sudden. Monsieur Novari’s mother had a bad accident, and they were forced to go at once. I told my husband it was ridiculous to expect us to move in at such short notice, and if you’d seen the state of the apartment, monsieur! Italians, of course. I said so to the agents, but you know what they’re like, and one can’t offend them, with apartments so hard to get and...”

  Valiantly, Henry dammed the flood by almost shouting, “Did they leave an address?”

  “No, monsieur. Any mail, I am to forward to the agents. Are you one of the tenants, monsieur? I have a list here of all the...”

  “No, no,” said Henry. He saw out of the corner of his eye that the gendarme was beginning to show interest. “No, I was hoping to get a flat here, and I had spoken to Madame Novari about it. Can you give me the name of the agents?”

  “Of course, monsieur. Blanchard et Cie, Rue du Rhône. It is best to go direct to them if you want an apartment, though I can’t see there’s any hope of it, with things as they are. Of course, they’ll be closed now, but you could go around in the morning.”

  “Thank you,” said Henry.

  “Service!”

  The door closed. Henry took Emmy’s arm. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  ***

  Henry and Emmy did not go back to their hotel at once. Henry, saying firmly, “I think we both need a drink,” took a taxi to the supermodern Hotel du Rhône, where they installed themselves in a discreet corner of the cocktail bar.

  Around them flowed a tide of humanity as varied and haphazard as the occupants of an airport waiting room. Stately, dark-eyed Arabs in long white nightshirts strode purposefully through the foyer or conversed in eager, gesticulating groups over glasses of lemonade. American businessmen—dressed for the most part in London-styled clothes and distinguishable from their English counterparts only by their cameras, cigars, and haircuts—concluded million-dollar deals and planned their evening’s entertainment, while their mink-and-diamond wives glittered, and wise-cracked over the driest of martinis. Small, neat Chinamen in large spectacles discussed international affairs with darkly hirsute South Americans. German, Dutch, Spanish, and French voices eddied in the rich atmosphere of scent and cigar smoke. Here, in a secluded corner, a quiet conversation could take place in the special sort of privacy that can be found only in a crowd.

  “Well,” said Henry, “so much for the girl with the note.”

  “I just can’t believe it.” Emmy was near tears. “Nobody should have such bad luck.”

  “I agree,” said Henry. He took a sip of whisky. “Now, let’s see where we’ve got so far. Going back to my idea of this being a joint operation between a man and a woman, we’ve established a connection of some sort between Helène Brochet and Zwemmer. Annette was involved with John. It’s just conceivable, I suppose, that she might be involved with someone else as well. If she is, it’s someone she knew before this conference, because she’s been on holiday and only joined us today. That cuts out Bill Parkington, since this is his first visit to Geneva. All I’ve got on him is that he has had a drink with Mary Benson out of office hours, for what that’s worth. There seems to be no connection between either Lenoir or Moranta and any of the girls, but who knows? I can’t help feeling this thing may be easier if we try to hunt them in couples, as it were.”

  “But Henry, why?” Emmy shook her dark head in puzzlement. “Why should anyone kill John?”

  Henry looked at her, surprised. “That’s about the only thing that’s reasonably clear. The security leak, of course. If John knew who was responsible...”

  Emmy shook her head again. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Let me think. I’m putting this awfully badly, I know. But you and Bill were the only people who knew last night that the leak had been discovered. That’s one of the reasons it all looks so black for you, because whoever took the dagger had all this planned last night. As I see it, there are only two people who it’s reasonable to suppose might or could have planned it then. Bill Parkington or...” She paused.

  “Or me?” said Henry, with a rueful smile.

  “Idiot. No, I meant Paul Hampton.”

  “Paul? Whatever made you think of that?”

  “I haven’t had time to tell you what I found out at lunchtime,” said Emmy. And she told him.

  Henry nodded somberly. “I knew about that myself,” he said. “Never mind how. All the same, I feel absolutely sure that Paul wouldn’t, and in any case he was never near the Palais. When John Trapp was killed, he was in a plane bound for Paris. No, he was already in Paris, come to that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t for certain, but we can check. But, darling, even if he wasn’t in Paris, how do you suggest he got into that closed suite, past the watchdog on the door?”

  “He could have had an accomplice, the girl.”

  “Annette? She’s the only girl who could conceivably have done the killing. Apart from the fact that he almost certainly doesn’t even know her, do you really think any man would get a girl to kill his wife’s lover for him?”

  Emmy sighed. “It does sound silly when you put it like that,” she said.

  Henry finished his drink. “Well,” he said, “there’s no point in talking in circles any longer. Let’s try to forget it for tonight. Tomorrow we can get down to something more constructive. I’ll be at the Palais all day, so I’m afraid you’ll have to tackle Blanchard et Cie on your own. Don’t speak to anybody who looks the least bit important there. Pick on the smallest office boy you can find, and say you want to send the Novaris a little farewell present. But get their address at all costs.”

  “Oh, help,” said Emmy. “Supposing the office boy doesn’t speak English.”

  “Thi
s is Geneva,” said Henry. “He will.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AS THINGS TURNED OUT, Henry and Emmy were not, after all, able to forget the whole thing that evening. When they got back to the Hotel Étoile, they found a message that Signor Spezzi had rung three times, and would like them to call him as soon as possible.

  Henry telephoned Spezzi’s hotel at once. Alfredo sounded worried. “Can we meet this evening, Enrico? As soon as possible?”

  “Of course. Why don’t you and Gerda come around here?”

  “Gerda is not with me.”

  “Oh.” Henry did not inquire any further, and merely said, “Well, come around yourself then.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  Alfredo arrived twenty minutes later. His newfound composure was cracking somewhat, and he seemed to Henry to be young and vulnerable. He also showed a tendency to lapse back into his Italian weakness for melodrama. He came into the bar, where Henry and Emmy were waiting for him, and seized one of Henry’s hands in both his, saying, “Enrico. Caro Enrico,” with such a hint of tears that Henry could not help smiling.

  “It’s not as bad as that, I hope,” said Henry.

  “Enrico, if you could have heard what they were saying today, those others at the Palais. I could not...”

  “Oh, to hell with them,” interrupted Henry. “Have an apéritif, and we’ll go and dine somewhere.”

  “Enrico,” said Spezzi, as if making a dramatic confession, “I have a car outside.”

  “Good,” said Henry. “Then we can drive out to...”

  “We are going to the Villa Trounex.”

  This did take Henry aback somewhat. Alfredo explained.

  “Gerda is there already. She has been there all the afternoon.”

  It appeared that, after dropping Emmy, Natasha had stopped to buy an evening paper, had seen the report of John’s death, and promptly become hysterical. Gerda had been obliged to drive the Renault perilously back to the villa, whence she had telephoned Alfredo. Since then, it seemed, Natasha had refused to let Gerda out of her sight, and was morbidly insistent that not only Alfredo, but also Henry and Emmy, should come out to the villa as soon as possible. She had sent a chauffeur-driven car for them, which was at the moment breaking all parking regulations by standing, throbbing gently, immediately outside the entrance of the Hotel Étoile. Since it was a brand-new Rolls-Royce, nobody seemed to mind very much.

  The three of them got into the car and drove out to the Villa Trounex in silence. Once or twice Henry was tempted to make a remark, but each time he was restrained by the sight of the back of the chauffeur’s head, with its young, pink ears protruding on either side of the smart livery cap. One could never be sure how many languages anybody understood in this city.

  The same lofty majordomo who had greeted them the night before was standing at the front door. This evening his manner was very different. He almost hurried to greet them.

  “Madame has asked that I serve an apéritif in the salon to Signor Spezzi and Madame Tibbett,” he said. “She would appreciate it if Monsieur Tibbett would go up to her room.”

  So Alfredo and Emmy were ushered into the stupefying elegance of the big drawing room, while Henry found himself, for the second time in twenty-four hours, confronted by the leather-covered door in the blue-carpeted corridor. This time he was accompanied by a maid, who knocked discreetly. At once the door opened, and Gerda came out. The maid vanished silently.

  Gerda said, “Oh, Henry. I am so glad you are here. I have had a terrible time with her.”

  “Tell me,” said Henry.

  “There’s nothing to tell. She won’t talk to me, but she wouldn’t let me go. She keeps weeping and threatening to kill herself and every sort of nonsense. You are the only person she seems to want. You’d better go in. I’ll be downstairs.”

  With that, Gerda slipped away silently. Henry pushed the door a little further open, cleared his throat nervously, and said, “It’s Henry Tibbett. May I come in?”

  There was no reply. Henry opened the door wide, and walked in.

  He found himself in a room which appeared at first sight to be a sort of spider’s web of frothy white tulle and lavender ribbons. The carpet was thick and pale mauve, and every available object, including the dressing table and its stool, was draped in waterfalls of crisp white muslin. Here and there a mirror glittered, reflecting still more frills. The centerpiece of this shrine of femininity was the bed, a small four-poster which appeared to have exploded in a riot of soapsuds. On it, through the translucent draperies, Henry could just see the outline of a dark, recumbent figure. Tentatively he stepped up to the bed and pulled back a curtain.

  Natasha lay prone, her face buried in a beribboned lace pillow. She was still wearing the dark brown linen dress which she had chosen for lunching at Chez Marie, and she had not even taken off her sharp-heeled brown shoes. Her honey-colored hair was tousled and splashed carelessly over the pillow. She did not move.

  Henry said awkwardly. “Mrs. Hampton, I believe you wanted...”

  Slowly, Natasha raised her head and turned her face to him. The mascara had run in muddy brown rivulets down her cheeks and her nose was pink and shining and her lipstick had transferred itself to the lace pillow slip, but she was still beautiful. She said shakily, “For God’s sake, my name is Natasha,” and then began to cry again.

  Henry’s pity got the better of his shyness. He sat down on the bed and said, “Look here, Natasha, you’ll have to pull yourself together. Nobody can help you if you carry on like this.”

  Natasha stopped sobbing, as if considering this remark, and then suddenly turned over and sat upright. “Yes,” she said. “You are quite right. Have you got a handkerchief?”

  Henry held one out to her, and she blew her nose loudly and pushed her damp hair back off her forehead. Then she said, “I suppose I’m a fool to trust you, but I do. You saw John coming out of my room last night, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Henry.

  “I heard your voice,” said Natasha. She opened a mother-of-pearl cigarette box on the flounced bedside table, took out a cigarette with a silver tip, and lit it. Her hands, Henry noticed, were far from steady.

  “What,” said Henry, “are you frightened of?”

  Natasha looked straight at him. “Paul, of course,” she said.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Henry,

  Natasha’s eyebrows went up. “What do you know about it?” she asked.

  “Very little,” admitted Henry, “but I’m reasonably sure that you’re not afraid of your husband finding out about you and John. I think he has known all about it for some time.”

  Instead of answering, Natasha kicked her shoes off onto the floor, drew her slim knees up under her chin, and took a long pull at her cigarette. She blew the smoke out in a white plume, which hovered uneasily among the frilly white curtains. At last she said, “I suppose I had better tell you everything, from the beginning.”

  “If you want to,” said Henry.

  As though talking to herself, Natasha said, “I’ve always been desperately in love with Paul. When he asked me to marry him, I just couldn’t believe it. I was only twenty, and I had just left school in Vienna. It was soon after the war, and we were very poor; everybody was in those days. The big house on the Ring was shut up, and we lived in three rooms, my mother and I, with only one servant.”

  “How terrible for you,” said Henry heartlessly. He could not help reflecting that he and Emmy had never had more than two rooms and a char once a week.

  Natasha paid no attention. “Then Paul came along. He had some business in Vienna, and he was staying in a suite at Sacher’s. I met him at a party given by some wealthy people, old friends of my family who had escaped to America before the war and made even more money there. I shall never forget that party. A girl friend of mine worked for a couturier, and she sneaked a dress and a mink stole out of the collection for me to wear. I spent the whole evening in a state of panic in case somebod
y spilled wine on the dress or burned a cigarette hole in the mink. When Paul asked me to lunch with him the next day, I nearly cried. I had to say I was busy. I couldn’t tell him that I couldn’t accept because I had nothing to wear. When I got home, I did cry. It wasn’t just that Paul was rich. I really had fallen in love with him, and I thought I’d never see him again.”

  “But you did.”

  “Yes.” Natasha smiled. “He found out my address from the people who gave the party, and a couple of days later he turned up at our apartment laden with roses. It was terrible. I was in old trousers washing my hair in the kitchen. You see,” she added, with a trace of mischief, “I haven’t always been spoiled.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Henry, and grinned at her. “Go on.”

  “Well, Paul swept into our lives like a sort of jet-propelled Santa Claus. He proposed to me that very day, and of course I said yes. Then he took a smart new apartment for us—my mother lives there still—and he whirled me around to hairdressers and jewelers and couturiers. I felt exactly like Cinderella, and we both had the time of our lives. I shall never forget it. We’ve never been so happy as we were then.”

  “So,” said Henry, “what went wrong?”

  Natasha stubbed her cigarette out and lit another. She spoke hesitantly, considering each word. “It was never right,” she said. “Never, from the beginning. I was so thrilled and excited that it didn’t occur to me to wonder why Paul wasn’t more...demonstrative in his affection toward me. Anyway, I was very young and inexperienced. I thought once we were married...” She broke off and looked straight at Henry. “It was only afterward I realized that I hadn’t married a man at all. I’d married a...” She shrugged. “I don’t know how to describe him without being unjust. I know what you’re thinking, and I may as well tell you that I don’t think Paul is even homosexual. Sometimes I wish he were; then he might feel something for somebody. But the passion of his life is possession. Not just money; things. Beautiful things. His whole life is one exquisite façade, and there’s nothing behind it.”