“I thought we might go over to the French side of the lake,” said Mary. “I know a beach there which is still relatively undiscovered. You can’t drive right down to it, but it only means walking a few hundred yards from the road, through the woods. I go down there when I want to get away from everything, and just be alone. Will that be all right?”
“Anything you say,” said Henry, settling himself happily back in his seat. “You’re in charge.”
The little car roared gaily through the city and out along the southern shore of the lake. As they passed the imposing wrought-iron gates that guarded the Villa Trounex, Henry had a glimpse of the dark green Rolls-Royce waiting to turn out into the road. He did not see who was in it, nor did he care.
As soon as the frontier post was passed, it became clear that the French shore was considerably less sophisticated than the Swiss. They turned off the main Evian road, and found themselves negotiating the cobbles of tiny gray-stone villages, where geraniums and petunias bloomed in window boxes, and dogs, cats, and cows ambled in happy unconcern around the women drawing water from the village pump. The lanes grew narrower and more unkempt, and through the trees they caught the silvery glint of water.
At last Mary stopped the car under a chestnut tree, at a point where the lane, now little more than a track, ended in the entrance to a farmyard. She got out and led the way across a field, a drift of white chickens at her heels, and then into a dense copse, where a mossy path ran downhill through ferns and brambles and wild roses. In a few minutes she and Henry emerged abruptly from the wood onto a deserted, gray-pebbled beach, lapped by the blue wavelets of the lake. Rugs and picnic basket were arranged on the shore, and Mary pulled off her green cotton dress to reveal a trim black swimsuit underneath.
Henry retreated modestly into the woods again, and put on the swimming trunks which he had smuggled into his briefcase before leaving the hotel. By the time he was ready, Mary was already swimming away from the shore, doing a strong, efficient crawl. Henry plunged into the fresh, clear water, which deepened with amazing rapidity a few yards offshore, and set out to join her. For ten minutes they splashed and laughed and dived. Then they clambered up onto the beach again, and lay down on the warm, smooth pebbles, staining them black with the dampness of their wet bodies. Mary pulled off her white rubber bathing cap and shook her bronze hair in the sunshine.
They spoke little, for there seemed to be no need for words. But after a few minutes, Mary, lying on her back with her eyes closed against the sun, said, “It seems wicked to be enjoying oneself so much with this terrible murder hanging over us.”
“Life at the moment,” said Henry, “would be intolerable if it weren’t for moments like this.”
“Do they...the police...do they really think that you...?”
“I’m afraid they do,” said Henry. “And I can’t blame them. It’s up to me to prove them wrong.”
“And can you?”
“I’m doing my best.”
“But are you succeeding?”
“I’ve got a few leads to follow,” said Henry. “The girl who called at John’s apartment with a message purporting to come from me—have I told you about her?”
“I heard you telling Helène,” said Mary. “It all sounds very odd to me, insisting on an answer in writing, and all that. Aren’t the police suspicious about her?”
“I doubt if they even know of her existence,” said Henry. “I haven’t told them.”
“You said the concierge had left for Italy,” said Mary. “What are you doing about getting hold of her?”
“Nothing,” said Henry. “It’s too late.”
“What do you mean, too late?”
“She’s dead.”
Mary’s voice was chilled with horror as she repeated, “Dead? But how?”
“She and her husband and their little boy were all killed in a car crash yesterday.”
“But...it’s impossible...they can’t have been.”
“They were,” said Henry. “It’s in this morning’s paper.”
Mary suddenly sat up. “Henry,” she said, “do you think that was an accident?”
Henry sighed. “How do I know? I find it hard to believe, but it could have been.”
“So,” said Mary, “if you do tell the police about this mysterious girl, there’s nothing to prove you’re not making it up?”
“Nothing. In any case, they’d think it was some girl I’d hired to deliver the message.”
Mary frowned. “Who on earth could it have been?”
“I have my own ideas about that,” said Henry. “But as far as proof is concerned, it could have been anybody. It could have been you.”
He spoke lazily, almost jokingly, but Mary answered seriously, “Yes, it could have been. It wasn’t, of course, but I don’t know how I’d ever prove it.”
“For heaven’s sake, Mary. I didn’t mean that.”
“I know you didn’t. But it made me realize what a devilish position you’re in. If one is suddenly called on to prove where one was at a certain moment, and what one was doing...”
“Tell me one thing,” said Henry, suddenly. “Did John Trapp know how to use a typewriter?”
“Oh, yes. He was as good as I am. You could see that from the note he was writing when he was killed.”
“Yes.” Henry was remembering that and many things. “Oh, well, let’s not talk about it. Let’s eat. I’m ravenous.”
Half an hour later, replete with food and wine, Henry said, “Do you know the Hamptons at all?”
“Me?” Mary laughed. “Hardly. They’re way out of my class. I’ve met them occasionally through show jumping. I have ridden Paul Hampton’s horses for him once or twice. Of course, he’s very much the rich owner. He doesn’t speak to humble people like me.”
“And his wife?”
“She’s very pretty,” said Mary. “That’s about all I know. Every so often she comes to the stables in an organdie dress and deigns to give a pony a lump of sugar. It’s generally so saturated with perfume that the poor thing spits it out.”
“You’d heard the gossip, though, about John Trapp?”
“John?” Mary looked puzzled. “What gossip? I mean, I know the Hamptons had taken him up lately, and that he used to go out to the Villa and so on. They’re like that, they’ll suddenly take a fancy to some quite ordinary person and make a great fuss of him for a bit, and then drop him. John wasn’t the first.”
“You don’t like Paul Hampton very much, do you?” said Henry.
There was a perceptible hesitation before Mary said, “I wouldn’t say that. I don’t know him. I just don’t like his type.”
“What type do you like?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Mary smiled. “I like simple people.”
“Big simple Californians with red hair?” Henry suggested.
Mary laughed. “Just because I occasionally have a drink with Bill Parkington.” But Henry noticed, with a distant pang of jealousy, that she was blushing.
“But you do like him?”
“Oh, yes.” There was no hesitation now. “He’s straightforward and very sincere.”
“And he talks a lot.”
Mary gave him a sidelong glance and then said, “What do you mean by that?”
“What’s your theory,” Henry said, “of why John was killed?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know. Please, can’t we talk about something else?”
Mary was obviously ill at ease, and Henry decided that she must know all about the leakage of information, but did not want to tell tales on Bill Parkington. Aloud he said, “O.K. Let’s have another swim, and then I suppose we should get back.”
It was the merest coincidence that Mary should have stumbled on a stone as she was coming out of the water, and that Henry had to take her arm to steady her. What happened immediately after that, he never quite knew, but somehow she was in his arms, and he was kissing her wet face, her neck, her hair, with uncharacteristic fervor. For a p
oised moment of time they stood there, ankle deep in the blue lake, clinging to each other and oblivious of the whole world. Then Mary said, almost with a sob, “No, Henry. No, no, no.”
She broke away from his arms and ran up the beach. Henry followed her. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he said. “I had no right.”
“It was my fault, you idiot,” said Mary. She turned to look at him, and her eyes were shining. “It was wonderful, and I’d never have forgiven you if you hadn’t. Now it’s over, and we won’t mention it again. Go and get dressed. Here’s a towel.”
They were both very silent on the drive back. At the entrance to the Palais, Mary stopped the car and said, “I’ll drop you here. I have to go and park the car. I’ll see you inside.” She paused, and then added, “Thank you for a glorious day.”
“I’ll never forget it,” said Henry.
“Nor shall I.”
Henry put out his hand to take hers, but she moved it quickly away and put the car into gear. “Go now,” she said. “Please, Henry.”
Henry got out of the car and walked slowly through the beige marble arch and back to reality.
***
Marcelle, bright and bouncy as usual, came out of the office as Henry was being signed in by the doorkeeper. “Ah, Inspector Tibbett. There have been some calls for you.” She led the way into the office. Henry followed. “Inspector Colliet phoned. He would like to see you after the meeting. And Mrs. Tibbett rang.”
Henry’s heart sank. “Did she leave a message?”
“No.” Marcelle consulted a notebook beside the telephone. “She rang at eleven thirty this morning. Apparently she thought you were here. I explained that you were not expected until after lunch.”
“What did she say then?”
“She said that she had quite forgotten that you had an appointment outside the Palais this morning.” Marcelle looked at Henry’s damp hair speculatively. “I offered to take a message, but she said it was not important. She suggested you ring her in the course of the afternoon.”
“Thank you, Marcelle,” said Henry. He walked out of the office feeling wretched and trapped. Some people, he reflected bitterly, just can’t get away with anything. Like me. Henry was a man who had lived for so long with a clear conscience that he found himself hopelessly inept at any sort of dishonesty.
The rest room was empty. Henry went in, picked up the phone, and asked for the number of the Hotel Étoile.
“Madame Tibbett?” The porter’s voice was light and impersonal. “I do not think she has come in yet, monsieur. Just a moment.” A buzzing noise intervened. “No, I am afraid she is still out.”
“This is her husband. Did she say when she’d be back?”
“Inspector Tibbett? Ah, I have a message for you, sir. I believe you gave instructions that any calls for Mr. Wilberforce Smith were to be passed to you.”
“That’s right.”
“A gentleman phoned this morning, asking for Mr. Smith. I put him through to Madame, but apparently she had no knowledge of the matter, so she transferred him back to me. He asked me to ask Mr. Smith to call at Dr. Mahoumi’s apartment at seven o’clock this evening. He said it was important.”
“Thank you,” said Henry. “But about my wife?”
“I cannot tell you any more, sir. She left the hotel at noon with a gentleman. She gave me no instructions.”
The door behind Henry opened, and Jacques Lenoir came in.
Henry said, “I see. Thank you. When she comes back, tell her that I called, and that I’ll be back at...” He hesitated, and then amended, “Tell her I may be back late. If she likes, she can phone me at the Palais des Nations this afternoon.”
Somewhat relieved at this postponement of a tricky interlude, Henry turned his mind gratefully to the business of the day. Apart from the fact that Moranta had telephoned Marcelle to say that he had had a sudden attack of flu, and would not be at the meeting, there was nothing exceptional about the afternoon session. The morning’s respite seemed to have soothed the delegates, for the atmosphere was smooth, dull, and drowsy. Voices droned on; points were made, preliminary drafts approved, amendments considered. Mary’s small machine tapped out its soft obbligato, as she bent her auburn head studiously over her work, carefully avoiding Henry’s eye. Henry was very much aware that, with the security leakage still unsolved, he had been forced to postpone all the really important items on his committee’s agenda. Nevertheless, even these routine matters were absorbing, and it was only when the hands of the clock were creeping toward five that he disengaged his attention from work and began to worry about his impending interview with Colliet. He felt convinced that it had to do with Annette. What story had she told the police? Henry began to wonder what a Swiss prison would be like. He knew that an arrested person could be held incommunicado until the police had prepared their case—a legal system which he found singularly unappealing from his present viewpoint. He supposed they would let him fetch a suitcase from the hotel and see Emmy, but he had serious doubts about whether Mr. Wilberforce Smith would be in a position to call on Dr. Mahoumi at seven o’clock.
It was, therefore, with relief and surprise that Henry, pushing open the door of Colliet’s room, saw the latter advancing with outstretched hand and a beaming smile, and heard him say, “Inspector Tibbett. My felicitations.”
“Felicitations on what?” asked Henry.
“I must confess that there was a moment when even I was forced to conclude...but all that is over now. Please accept a cigarette.”
“Thank you,” said Henry, taking one. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand. How has the situation changed?”
Colliet waved a hand. “I see you have not yet bought an evening paper,” he said. “The case is solved. We have made an arrest.”
Henry suddenly felt very cold. “Who?”
“Mademoiselle Annette Delacroix.” Colliet pulled deeply on his cigarette. “It is a shocking story, yet understandable in human terms. She will get a light sentence, you will see.”
“Inspector Colliet, I don’t believe...”
“I had been worried all along,” said Colliet in full spate, “by the thinness of motive. Two reasons for murder presented themselves. The murderer’s fear of being exposed as the seller of secret information. Or, as an alternative, the jealousy of a deceived lover. Neither of these reasons seemed sufficient to me. It had not occurred to me before that the same person might have both motives. And when you add to them a strong financial interest, the picture becomes plausible for the first time. Mind you, one has sympathy for the girl. I can tell you in confidence that she is pregnant. It is a great tragedy, but in the circumstances the court will certainly be lenient.”
“I find all this very confusing, Inspector,” said Henry. “On what evidence have you arrested Mlle. Delacroix?”
Colliet sat back in his armchair. “She came to us this morning,” he said, “with a story about knowing a secret hiding place where John Trapp kept his most important papers, including his will. We went to Trapp’s apartment—she, I, and Trapp’s lawyer—and found these papers hidden in the oven, of all ludicrous places. Of course, one realizes that the English care nothing for food.
“At all events, there was an envelope there, which contained a large sum of money in cash, a will in favor of Mlle. Delacroix, and the draft of a new will which made it clear that if Trapp had lived a day longer, the bulk of his money would have gone to Madame Hampton. Mlle. Delacroix made a pretense of being surprised to find the money, but it was not convincing. And then we found a curious thing. Neither the envelope, the money nor the papers had fingerprints of any sort on them. They appeared to have been wiped clean. Now, Inspector, you will agree that nobody draws up and signs his will while wearing gloves. No, Delacroix knew very well what was in that cache. She was driven to act by the fact that we inefficient gendarmes had not found it for ourselves, and she knew that the apartment would soon be relet. The first roast of meat in the oven, and pouf! Fifteen thousand francs gone up
in smoke!”
Henry said nothing. Colliet went on. “She broke down under questioning, and admitted that she had a key to Trapp’s apartment. She alleges that it is now lost. That is a matter for conjecture. At any rate, the matter was clinched by the fact that she was heard quarreling violently with Trapp the night before his death, and when Mr. Hampton’s butler was called to the police station, he identified her as the mysterious young woman who arrived at the Villa Trounex during the party and demanded to speak to Mr. Hampton. The butler left her alone in the library, and when he came back to tell her that Mr. Hampton could not see her, she had disappeared.”
“And the dagger?” asked Henry.
“The butler cannot be sure.” Colliet admitted. “Since it hung on the wall beside the door, he would not have seen it in any case on that occasion. However, he is positive that it was not there when he locked up at eleven thirty.”
Henry said. “Why are you telling me all this, Inspector?”
Colliet ignored this and went on. “The security aspect of the affair is more concern of yours than of mine, Inspector. It is clear, of course, that Trapp and the girl were working together. Who else should he have as a confederate? It is strange how often one overlooks the obvious. Yes, they were partners, and had been for some time, in more ways than one. Their romance was an open secret. Recently, however, they had split up, owing to Trapp’s infatuation with Madame Hampton.”
“How can you know that?” Henry asked.
Colliet spread his hands wide, and smiled. “The draft of the new will, the Delacroix girl’s visit to the Villa Trounex—these things gave us grounds for suspicion. But, in fact, we have a witness. There is no doubt as to the situation. Naturally, we shall be discreet. We have said nothing to Madame Hampton at this stage. We have not even interviewed her. And we shall try to avoid any mention of the affair in court. On the other hand, regrettably, the defense may well drag it up. Inevitably, in fact. That is a matter outside our control. Now, where was I?”
“Mlle. Delacroix’s romance had broken up,” said Henry.
“Ah, yes.” Colliet settled down into his stride again. “Here, then, is the situation. Mlle. Delacroix is becoming a serious nuisance to Trapp. She is pregnant. She is demanding money—her share, doubtless, of the payment for information. She has even threatened violence. Finally she commits the deadly sin of turning up at the Villa Trounex. We shall never know whether or not Trapp spotted her there, but it is perfectly possible that he did. The lights in the library were on, the curtains undrawn, and quite a few of the guests were still outside. Now, during the evening, Trapp learns that the security leakage has been discovered and that he is under suspicion. So he has a brainwave. He will save his own skin, and at the same time get rid of this troublesome woman. He will see you, and denounce Mlle. Delacroix. We can be sure he had enough evidence against her. He reckons he can cover up his own part in the affair, and any accusations she may make against him afterward will be disregarded. I see now that I interpreted wrongly the note we found in the typewriter. His reluctance, real or assumed, was not at the idea of confessing himself, but of denouncing a girl whom everyone knew to be his mistress. He wished to give you the impression that he was acting from a sense of duty, and against his heart. Unluckily for him, Mlle. Annette had had ideas of her own. It is possible that she took the dagger from the Villa Trounex merely to frighten him; but one glance over his shoulder at the note in the typewriter, and she knew she must silence him, or be lost.
Death on the Agenda Page 16