Death on the Agenda

by Patricia Moyes

  “You realize, I suppose,” said Henry, “that I had no appointment with him yesterday morning?”

  “You didn’t?” Helène seemed genuinely astonished. “But Mary said...”

  Stabbing in the dark, Henry said, “The appointment was faked by a girl who called on John Trapp early yesterday morning with a message purporting to come from me. Fortunately, the concierge remembers her.”

  “The concierge...at the Chemin des Chênes?” Helène was patently taken aback. She went very white and sat quite still. Then she said, “Excuse me a moment,” got up, and walked out of the restaurant.

  Henry’s impulse to follow her was thwarted by the arrival of a corps de ballet of waiters, intent on preparing the elaborate crêpes suzette which Henry had rashly ordered. This was fortunate, however, for second thoughts dictated that, for the moment, it was better to sit tight and let events come to him. Without doubt, he had thrown a disturbing pebble into still, deep waters. The repercussions would surely follow. The waiters pranced and pirouetted around the sacred flame of the metho burner, the butter sizzled and the liqueurs flamed. Henry did not even glance toward the door.

  He was digging appreciatively into his fourth crêpe when, without surprise, he saw Helène returning. She sat down.

  “I had to make a telephone call,” she said. She glanced at her watch. “It is still only two o’clock. Are you busy, Inspector, or could we have a talk, somewhere a little more private?”

  “With pleasure,” said Henry. He finished the last crêpe with regret. “Where do you suggest?”

  “We could take a walk in the grounds,” said Helène. “After all, it is a beautiful day.”

  Quite a few other people seemed to have the same idea. The green lawns were scattered with strolling or basking toilers for international friendship, their blandishments haughtily ignored by posses of splendidly strutting peacocks, who resented this noonday intrusion on their domain. Henry noticed Mary Benson walking by herself on the white marble terrace. Bill Parkington and Juan Moranta strode past, deep in conversation. Jacques Lenoir, wasting no time, was steering Marcelle, the new secretary, down a leafy alley.

  Helène led the way in silence until they came to a stone bench under a cedar tree. “This will do,” she said. She sat down, a serious and shadowy figure in her severe black linen dress.

  Henry sat beside her. “Well?” he said.

  “Please,” said Helène, “tell me all that you know.”

  “My dear girl, what a ridiculous request,” said Henry reasonably. “I have no idea of your position, of whose side you are on, or of how much you know yourself. For me this is a very serious matter indeed.”

  “For me, too,” said Helène. “But I appreciate your point of view. That is why I have decided to trust you. For a start, I will tell you that I know about the leakage of secret information, and I believe that John Trapp was responsible for it. May we talk about that?”

  “Not,” Henry said cautiously, “until I know just why you are so interested in it.”

  “I am afraid that is my affair.”

  “Then,” said Henry, “this conversation is clearly pointless. You said you were prepared to trust me. With what?”

  There was a little pause, and then Helène said, “Konrad is especially concerned with the security leak. He believes that certain acquaintances of Trapp’s outside the Palais may have been bringing pressure to bear on him. Now that he is dead, the chances of finding out more are becoming very remote. We need every scrap of information we can get. Surely you see that?”

  “I see several things. I see that you know very much more than one would expect of someone in your position, and I see that you are trying to pump me for information without giving anything away yourself. Let me ask you some questions for a change. For example, how did you know where John Trapp lived?”

  “It is so unusual that I should?”

  “You said you had never met him outside work,” said Henry, “yet you knew his address, and his circle of acquaintances.”

  “Natasha Hampton and John—that is common gossip.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “John’s friendship with the Hamptons, and his mixing with a rich and aristocratic circle—these were matters of common gossip, perhaps. But why did you specifically mention Natasha?”

  Helène shrugged. “Rumors get around,” she said. “Natasha is a dangerous woman, chiefly because she is silly. She also has some curious friends. This is a strange city, Inspector. A crossroads for many people, with many interests, both international and personal. It is always potentially dangerous for a naïve young man like John Trapp to dabble his fingers in those waters.”

  “And what about a naïve young man like Konrad Zwemmer?”

  Helène was silent. She lit a cigarette slowly and deliberately. “You say that the concierge recognized the girl who brought the note to John Trapp?” she said, almost to herself.

  “The concierge’s wife,” Henry amended.

  “She identified her?”

  “She would know her again.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I am beginning to think,” said Henry, “that it must have been you.”

  Helène looked at him sharply. “So you don’t know?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” said Henry, “because the concierge and his wife left suddenly for Italy before I had time to...”

  For the first time since they had come into the gardens, Helène smiled. “The organization is very good,” she said.

  “That’s what I think,” said Henry.

  “Nevertheless, Italy is not so far away. There must be some means of contacting...”

  “I’m doing my best,” said Henry. “The matter is in hand.”

  “Inspector Tibbett,” said a sweet, clear voice above Henry’s head, “could I bother you for a moment?”

  Henry looked up, straight into Mary Benson’s blue eyes. There was a movement beside him, as Helène stood up. She was patently furious. Henry had read in books of characters who smoldered with rage, but never before had he received that impression at close quarters. He drew back instinctively, as though scorched.

  “I was just going,” said Helène, in a voice that would have chipped granite. “I have work to do. I did enjoy our lunch, Inspector.” She looked at Mary and simmered. “It is so seldom that one can find a moment of peace in this place. I will see you at three.”

  With that she turned and walked quickly away toward the Palais, her stiletto heels making tiny dagger holes in the soft path. Mary watched her go with exaggerated innocence.

  “What’s the matter with her?” she said.

  “You know very well,” said Henry. “You broke up a tête-à-tête, and you did it deliberately.”

  He grinned at her happily, feeling wonderfully relaxed and at his ease. Mary grinned back, and dropped on to the bench beside him.

  “Guilty,” she said. “I’m sorry. I haven’t really anything special to talk to you about.”

  “I’m flattered,” said Henry.

  Mary’s face grew suddenly grave. “The fact is,” she said, “I know I’ve no right to say this to you, but I couldn’t help overhearing a little, and...oh, please, Henry, do be careful. You’ve no idea... I mean, people aren’t always what they seem, you know.”

  “I do know,” said Henry. “The trouble is, you can’t find anything out without giving away a certain amount in exchange.”

  “That’s the hell of it,” Mary said somberly.

  “I gather that you neither like nor trust Helène Brochet.”

  Mary went slightly pink. “I’ve no business to say anything against her,” she said. “I don’t know her very well. It’s just that...”

  “That what?”

  “Just something I feel, without any proof. I’m certain Helène isn’t just an ordinary interpreter. I don’t know what else she is, but in your position I think you should be careful.”

  �
�Don’t worry,” said Henry. “I’m almost excessively cautious by nature. Do you think,” he added, “that we could persuade a peacock to accept that rather moth-eaten bun that somebody has left by the fountain?”

  “I doubt it,” said Mary, “but we could try.”

  At three o’clock precisely, the subcommittee resumed its session.

  “I propose,” said Henry, “that, in view of the very unusual circumstances surrounding this conference, we should agree not to meet tomorrow morning. This will give me time to rearrange the agenda in the light of certain recent developments. I feel sure, also, that delegates will welcome the opportunity of catching up on the heavy amount of paper work which has inevitably accumulated.” Across the room, he caught Mary’s eyes. She gave him the trace of a smile. She had already promised to meet him at eleven o’clock in the morning and drive out into the country for a picnic lunch.

  “And now, gentlemen, I believe that Signor Spezzi has a statement to make on the analysis of the figures which we discussed this morning.”

  To Alfredo’s surprise, Henry accompanied this remark with a broad grin, which he found himself quite unable to suppress. His heart was soaring like a gas-filled balloon, and, as far as he was concerned, Colliet and his merry men could go and jump in the lake, taking the murder, the Narcotics Conference, the Hamptons, and the security leak with them. In fact, he was in a very dangerous state of mind indeed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  HENRY ARRIVED BACK at the Hotel Étoile that evening still enveloped in the euphoric haze of the afternoon. Consequently it was with a sense of irritation that he listened to Emmy’s dismal recital of her day of woe, beginning with her failure at Blanchard et Cie, and going on to the sad tale of Annette Delacroix. He was even less pleased to hear that Emmy had invited Annette to dine with them.

  “She’d probably much rather be alone,” he said. He was standing in front of the long mirror in their bedroom, wearing a red paisley dressing gown, and trying to convince himself he looked younger than his forty-five years. “Now I suppose we’ll have her weeping into her soup all the evening.”

  “Don’t be so mean,” Emmy called from the bathroom. “How could we possibly leave the poor girl alone at a time like this?”

  “I should have thought we had enough troubles of our own,” said Henry.

  Emmy came to the bathroom door, swathed in a huge white towel, and looked at him contritely. “Oh, darling, I’m sorry. Somehow this awful mess that Annette is in almost made me forget. Of course, I know you’re worried and wretched, and I am too, but I thought it might take our minds off it.”

  Henry felt a pang of guilt. Since lunchtime he had hardly worried at all. He turned to Emmy. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he said. “I’m a bit on edge. I saw Colliet again today, and it seems we haven’t much time. No, you’re quite right. It’ll do us both good to take Annette out.”

  Emmy smiled her relief. “I’m so glad you feel that way. And anyway, I must confess that I wasn’t entirely disinterested when I asked her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you listen when I was telling you what she said?”

  “Of course,” said Henry untruthfully.

  “You can’t have, not properly. Henry, she has a key to John’s apartment.”

  “By this time the police will surely have...”

  “The police don’t know. They didn’t even ask her.”

  “You mean that we could...?”

  “Why not?” Emmy was bubbling with enthusiasm. “After dinner we’ll get Annette to take us there. They surely won’t have a guard on it still. It isn’t as though John were killed there, and they must have taken away anything they need by now.”

  “That’s the trouble,” said Henry, “There won’t be anything interesting left.”

  “You can’t be sure. Maybe they’re not looking for the same things as we are. They’ve been trying to find proof that John was selling information. We’re trying to prove that he wasn’t, so that we can find out who really was. Surely it’s worth a try.”

  “I hope to God we don’t get caught,” said Henry, but in spite of himself he felt a rising excitement.

  “Caught? At what? Annette has a key; she has a perfect right to be there, and to take us in if she wants to.”

  “I doubt if Colliet would look at it like that,” said Henry. “Still, it’s worth a try. You never know.”

  They met Annette at half past seven. Henry was relieved to find that, far from weeping into her soup, she had recovered herself remarkably well, and was making a great effort to be cheerful and natural. They had a delicious dinner in a dark-paneled restaurant in the old town, and over coffee Henry tentatively broached the idea of a visit to 5, Chemin des Chênes. To his surprise Annette agreed at once.

  “I’m so glad you suggested it,” she said. “You see, I want to go there myself, and I dreaded having to do it alone.”

  “You want to go there? Why?”

  “There are some things...some purely personal things,” said Annette mysteriously. She looked at her watch. “It’s half past nine. That’s a good time to go. With any luck the Novaris will be out watching television in the café next door.”

  “The Novaris aren’t there any more,” said Henry. And he explained about the concierge’s sudden departure.

  “Oh, well, so much the better,” said Annette. “The new concierge won’t recognize me.”

  “Do you know Dr. Mahoumi?” Henry asked.

  “The little lawyer next door? Not really. I saw him once or twice. He moved in just about the time that John and I”—her voice quavered a little, but recovered—“that we quarreled. It would be better if he didn’t see or hear us.”

  “Amen,” said Henry fervently.

  Luck was with them at the Chemin des Chênes. They parked the tiny Citroën in a small street at the back of the block, and walked around to the front door. The concierge’s flat was dark, there were no gendarmes in sight, and the foyer was deserted. From the pavement outside, Henry saw a light burning in Dr. Mahoumi’s apartment, but he reckoned that this was a risk which would have to be taken.

  They went up in the lift. On the sixth floor Annette produced a key ring from her bag, selected a silver Yale key, and quietly opened the door of John Trapp’s apartment.

  “Wait here,” she whispered. The door shut silently behind them, and Henry and Emmy stood quite still in the warm darkness of the hall. Emmy groped for Henry’s hand. “It’s creepy,” she whispered.

  Henry said nothing. He was watching Annette, as she moved across the living room, silhouetted against the pale glimmer of light from the window. Clearly she knew every inch of the apartment. Without a trace of hesitation, she went to the window and lowered the Venetian blinds, taking great care that they made no noise. Then, equally cautiously, she pulled the heavy blue curtains. The darkness was now complete, except for the faint rectangle of grayness which was the doorway to the kitchen. The shadow which was Annette moved into the kitchen, and there was a faint swish as the curtains there were closed, obliterating the last trace of light. In pitch blackness, Henry heard Annette moving again, quietly and surely, and a moment later the room sprang into sight as she switched on a darkly shaded table lamp in a far corner.

  “I daren’t put on any more light,” said Annette quietly. “I don’t think this can possibly show from outside. And all the windows are shut, so we can’t be heard next door if we speak softly. Come in.”

  John Trapp’s living room was in marked contrast to Dr. Mahoumi’s. Where the latter was cluttered with Oriental knick-knacks, this room was as austere as a Spartan hut. The only items of furniture were a blue-covered divan, a table and two upright chairs, a severe tallboy, a bookcase and a roll-top desk. The whole place had the air of a pied-à-terre, a hotel room rather than a home. This tallied with Annette’s remark that John had virtually ceased to live there, and had only moved back within the last few weeks. Everything was spotlessly clean and tidy, evidence, Henry su
spected, of the ministrations of a femme de ménage, who must have completed her work before the arrival of the gendarmes the day before. It was hard to imagine Natasha Hampton in this room; the thought was somehow distasteful. Henry dismissed it, and turned to look at the bookcase.

  This gave the only available clue to the personality of the late tenant. Left-wing political books in English, French, and Spanish predominated, together with histories and biographies. There was a weighty selection of works on economics, several handbooks on the technique of playing bridge, and a half a shelf of back numbers of Encounter. The only light reading was a dogeared pile of detective stories in English and French.

  Annette followed Henry’s eyes, and smiled sadly. “Yes,” she said, “he was always a serious one. Before, I mean. I don’t think he ever read a novel. The detective stories don’t count. He said he used them for mental gymnastics, like crossword puzzles.”

  “I do the same myself,” said Henry with a smile. He went over to the desk.

  “It’s locked,” said Annette. “I haven’t got a key.”

  “Then I imagine we’re wasting our time here.”

  Annette smiled. “Oh, no,” she said. “You see, he didn’t keep the most important things in the desk. He had a secret hiding place for them. I don’t mean that he really had anything to hide, but he used to keep some emergency money there, and one other thing. That’s what I’ve come to get. I hope the police haven’t found it.”

  “They’ve combed the place pretty thoroughly,” said Henry, “I can’t believe they’d have missed anything.”

  “We’ll see,” said Annette, and she went into the kitchen and opened the oven door of the electric stove. “John never cooked at home,” she said, “except to boil an egg or make a cup of coffee. He said this was a perfect hiding place.”

  As far as Henry could see, the oven was empty, but, as he watched, Annette took out the floor which covered the electric elements. Under it was a large manila envelope. She gave a tiny sigh of satisfaction as she took it out.

  Nobody spoke as Annette came back into the living room, opened the envelope, and spread its contents on the table, but Henry saw her eyes widen in incredulity. Hardly breathing, she counted out fifteen crackling thousand-franc notes, and stared at them unbelievingly. Then, in a whisper, she said, “But where did it come from? What does it mean?”