“I’m afraid I haven’t time to talk. I’m being picked up in a few minutes.”
“Emmy, are you crazy?”
“Yes, a little.”
Emmy opened the wardrobe, slipped her golden silk dress off its hanger, and went into the bathroom again, slamming the door. A few minutes later she emerged. Henry was forced to admit that she looked extremely attractive. He was also delighted to notice that she had failed to do up the top button at the back, the one which he always did for her. The bedside telephone rang. Henry put out his hand to take it, but before he could do so, Emmy had picked it up.
“Thank you,” she said. “Yes, tell him I’ll be right down.”
She put down the telephone, picked up her long white stole and her bag, and smiled brilliantly at Henry.
“Good-by, Henry dear,” she said. “Enjoy yourself.”
And with that she was gone.
For some moments after the door had closed behind Emmy, Henry stood quite still. Then he strode into the bathroom and tripped over the chiffon peignoir, which was lying in the middle of the floor. He kicked it crossly aside, and made his way over to the window, which, unlike that of the bedroom, overlooked the front entrance of the hotel. In the street below, traffic roared and flowed; hurrying, laughing, conversing, people moved quickly and purposefully along the pavements and up and down the steps of the hotel; but of Emmy and her escort there was no sign whatsoever.
For a moment Henry seriously considered ringing up Mary Benson. He was prevented from doing so chiefly by the conviction that she would refuse to see him, and a snub would have been more than he could bear. So, dogged and depressed, he returned to work.
The trouble with the job he was trying to do was its vagueness. There are few more exasperating pursuits than compiling a timetable in which every entry has to be marked “approx.” Henry looked ruefully at his attempted tabulation of Paul Hampton’s party, and cursed its inaccuracy.
9:00 approx. Bill Parkington tells H.T. of security leak. Was he overheard? Do not believe it is possible.
10:15 approx. Hampton takes his guests on tour of house. Dagger definitely in position on library wall.
10:20 approx. Natasha and Trapp go upstairs by different routes for their rendezvous.
10:30 (sheer guesswork) Annette arrives and is shown into the library.
10:35 Hampton called to the phone. Guests disperse. H.T. loses his way and overhears Natasha and Trapp.
10:40 approx. Hampton comes out of his room and meets Trapp and H.T. They go downstairs. Annette leaves through the garden.
10:42 approx. Natasha comes down through the library. Dagger still in position. Immediately after this, presumably, Gamboni goes to library to look for Annette and finds her gone. Guests depart.
11:00-11:15 First Parkington, then Lenoir. Moranta drives the Spezzis and Tibbetts home. Trapp leaves with Natasha.
11:30 Gamboni locks up library, and notices dagger missing.
Henry read this through several times, and then put it aside impatiently. On this reconstruction, certainly, it looked as though Annette could not possibly have taken the dagger, but nobody, not even Annette herself, had any idea of the exact times of her arrival and departure. Besides, there was another possibility as to how she might have got hold of it. Henry sighed, and turned to his second timetable. This concerned the arrival times of the various people concerned at the office suite in the morning. It read:
8:58 approx. John Trapp.
9:00 ” Mary Benson.
9:15 ” Zwemmer and Helène Brochet, together.
9:18 ” Spezzi.
9:20 ” Annette.
9:23 ” Bill Parkington.
9:26 H.T.
9:30 approx. Lenoir.
9:50 Moranta.
The third and final sheet of paper was headed, cumbersomely, “Whereabouts of Suspects at Time of Murder.” It was short and not very communicative.
Mary Benson and H.T. in interpreters’ room.
Parkington in filing room (no witness).
Helène Brochet and Lenoir in rest room.
Zwemmer and Spezzi in conference room.
Annette in ladies’ cloakroom.
Moranta, not yet arrived.
Henry studied this last document with great care, and deepening gloom, for the pattern was falling into place now, revealing a picture that was far from pretty. On another sheet of paper he wrote down a series of questions.
Why was John Trapp killed?
Who is Mahoumi’s client?
How many words a minute?
After a moment of thought, he added a fourth question: “Who is Sophie?” It was the only one of the four to which he did not know the answer.
His next action was to pick up the telephone and ask for the number of the Villa Trounex, not the private number which Natasha had given him, but the one officially listed in the telephone book. The call was answered by Gamboni.
“Villa Trounex.”
“May I speak to Monsieur Golaz?” Henry asked, in what he hoped was a passable imitation of a Genevese French accent. He felt glad that Gamboni was Italian.
“One moment. I will connect you to the garage flat.”
The receiver clicked and buzzed, and then a young voice said, “Golaz speaking.”
“This is the police,” said Henry, and then, without any warning, fired off two questions, and got his replies before the young man had had time to think. The answers were a surprised, “No, certainly not” and an even more baffled, “Yes, once, for a minute or two.” Then, recovering himself, Golaz said, “But who are you? Why do you want to know these things? Inspector Colliet did not…” Henry rang off quickly. Then, in a state of infinite depression, he went supperless to bed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HENRY WOKE WITH A START, to the sound of the telephone’s imperious command. He fumbled for the switch of the bedside lamp, and, as the room was flooded with light, he registered two facts simultaneously: first, that it was nearly 3:00 A.M. by his traveling clock; and second, that Emmy had not yet returned. Suddenly wide awake, and not a little alarmed, he picked up the telephone and said, “Tibbett here.”
“Henry.” It was Emmy’s voice, and she sounded desperate and very frightened. “Henry, I’m sorry about...”
“Where are you?”
“Henry, you must come here at once. We...I mean...I must talk to you.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Come back to the hotel this minute,” said Henry. His voice was harsh with alarm.
“You don’t understand. I can’t. You must come here.”
“Where?”
“The Villa Trounex.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“No, I’m not. Please. Henry. You must come. At once.”
“Emmy, are you all right?”
There was a tiny hesitation, and then Emmy said, with curious emphasis, “I’m all right. It’s you that...”
There was a click, and the line went dead. Henry was left sitting up in bed in his blue-and-white striped pajamas, with the telephone receiver buzzing meaninglessly in his hand.
He jumped out of bed and struggled into his clothes, trying as he did so to come to some sensible conclusion. Obviously Emmy was in some serious sort of trouble, and he must go to her. Should he telephone Colliet and ask for police protection? Protection against what? Nobody would take him seriously for a moment. Was he walking into a trap, for which Emmy was the bait? The word “trap” recalled John, sitting at the desk as though he were alive, with a knife in his back. It was not a reassuring thought.
He picked up the telephone, and when the night porter answered, said, “Can I hire a self-drive car at this time of night?”
The porter showed no surprise. “Certainly, sir.”
“How long will it take?”
“I will telephone at once, sir. The car should be here in five minutes. There will be a few forms to sign, and a deposit.”
“Geneva is certainly well organized.”
�
�Thank you, sir.”
“Meanwhile,” added Henry, “will you get me an outside call?” And he gave the number of Spezzi’s hotel.
Alfredo was obviously sound asleep when the call came through, and replied through mists of drowsiness. It took Henry some time to rouse him and make him understand what he wanted him to do. Alfredo, once awake, was half amused, half angry. He probably thinks I’m drunk, Henry thought.
“To the Villa Trounex? Ma... Enrico, at this hour? Is it a party?”
“Not as far as I know,” said Henry. “In fact, it may even be dangerous. That’s why I’m asking you to come with me.”
“But who is there?”
“I have no idea, apart from Emmy. She was obviously frightened when I spoke to her. I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t want to go out there alone.”
Even over the telephone, Henry was aware of Alfredo’s shoulders shrugging. Finally Spezzi said, “Well, if you insist.”
“Bless you, Alfredo. I’ll pick you up in about ten minutes.”
The car was waiting when Henry got downstairs, and a dapper little man in a neat, dark suit stood by the desk with insurance forms to be filled in, as calm and chipper as if it had been three o’clock in the afternoon. Obsessed by the sheer unreality of the situation, Henry got into the gray Simca and drove off through the empty streets of the city.
Alfredo was standing, unshaven and shivering, on the steps of his hotel. He climbed into the car beside Henry, and said, “Gerda is not at all pleased, with you or with me.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Henry. “I wouldn’t have...”
Alfredo grinned at him. “I think we shall enjoy this adventure, Enrico. What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid,” said Henry. “I want you to wait in the car outside the house. If I don’t come back within a couple of hours, call the police. If anything else happens, use your own discretion.”
“If I didn’t know you so well,” said Spezzi resignedly, “I’d think you were mad. As it is, I know it for sure.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Henry.
They drove on in silence. As they approached the gates of the Villa, Henry said, “Better get your head down now.” Alfredo ducked down out of sight. Henry parked the car in a shadowy corner of the drive, and walked up to the front door.
There was a light burning in the hall inside, and hardly had Henry’s hand touched the bell when the great door opened, and he found himself face to face with Paul Hampton. The American was as immaculate as ever. He wore his usual miniature rosebud in the buttonhole of a midnight blue dinner jacket, and he was smoking a very good cigar.
“Inspector Tibbett,” he said, warmly. “This is splendid. We were so afraid you might not come. Please come in.”
Henry went in. The door closed softly behind him. Paul led the way across acres of parquet to the salon. At the door he paused, and said, “I must apologize for stealing your wife from you this evening, but there was a reason. She will explain.” He opened the door of the drawing room, and they both went in.
The huge room was shadowy, lit only by a pair of table lamps at one end. The heavy curtains were drawn, and, in the one small area of light, a sofa, two armchairs and a drinks table were assembled around the remnants of a log fire, which still smoldered in the elegant white marble fireplace. Henry was vividly reminded of a visit he had once paid to a film studio, where a tiny set representing a cosy sitting room had been isolated in a circle of bright light in the middle of a vast barn of shadows. Emmy and Natasha were sitting side by side on the sofa, each with a glass in her hand.
Paul said, “Henry has arrived,” and both women looked up. Natasha’s face was expressionless, a beautiful, blank mask of make-up. Emmy looked suspiciously as if she might have been crying.
“Now,” said Paul, “the first thing is to get you a drink, Henry. Whisky? Gin? Vodka? I hardly know what to suggest at this hour of the morning.”
“Whisky, please,” said Henry. The scene had such an air of normality that, but for the hour of the night and the strain on Emmy’s face, it could have been a perfectly ordinary informal gathering of friends. Paul poured out the drink, and only the clink of ice and the hissing of the soda siphon broke the silence.
“Say when?”
“Thank you.”
Henry took his drink and sat down. He smiled at Emmy, who turned her head away. Then he said, “Good morning, Natasha.”
Natasha smiled very faintly. “I’m glad you came, Henry,” she said.
Paul poured himself a drink and walked over to the fireplace. He raised his glass, drank, and then said, smilingly, “I’m afraid we owe you an explanation, Henry.”
“You certainly do,” said Henry pleasantly. “I’ve come to take Emmy home.”
“Oh, Henry, don’t be silly,” said Emmy impatiently.
Paul gave Emmy a quick, encouraging look. “You can’t blame him for being annoyed, Emmy dear,” he said. “I think I’d better explain, don’t you?”
“Yes, Paul, I do.”
“Well.” Paul sat down and stretched his long legs. “When I saw you driving off with the Benson girl this morning, it occurred to me that Emmy might be at a loose end, and since Natasha was out and a business luncheon of mine had just been canceled, I took the liberty of calling her.”
“Charming of you,” said Henry. Paul ignored this remark.
“I’m afraid I was the bearer of bad news. Emmy didn’t know until I told her that the Delacroix girl had been arrested. Of course, I had no idea you knew her. I’ve never set eyes on her in my life, but we knew all about it, because the police were here most of the morning, questioning Gamboni. It appears that, for some extraordinary reason, the girl came out here on the night of the party, demanding to see me. Gamboni let her in, and so he had to identify her this morning. Now, Emmy was very distressed to hear what had happened, and we discussed the case at some length over lunch. I began to feel more and more sorry for the Delacroix girl, and after lunch I began racking my brains to see if there wasn’t any piece of evidence we’d overlooked that might help her. I came back here and had a talk with Gamboni, and suddenly I realized that I had the very bit of evidence in my hand all the time. Mind you, I wish now I’d kept my mouth shut, but believe me, Henry, I acted for the best. I only wanted to help that poor girl, and to please Emmy.”
“Quite a little friend to all the world, aren’t you?” said Henry.
Emmy raised her head and looked at him. There was agony in her candid brown eyes. “Henry,” she said. “Please. Paul is trying to help you.”
“I don’t need his help, thank you.”
“But you don’t understand.” Emmy shot a beseeching glance at Paul.
“Let me get ahead with the facts,” said Paul. “As you probably know, one of the great difficulties the police have had in this case has been to establish reliable times for the various happenings, especially those on the evening of our party here. Nobody goes around at a party looking at his watch every five minutes, and time just slips by. The only thing I’m sure of is that it was just eleven fifteen when the last guests left, but before that...” He shrugged. “Gamboni is even vaguer than I am. He was naturally run off his feet, poor man. He couldn’t give the police any definite idea of what time the Delacroix girl turned up here, and it seems that she herself doesn’t know either. She was thoroughly wrought up over something or other, and she had been drinking.” Natasha made the slightest movement of turning her head away from Henry. Paul did not glance at her, but went straight on. “When I spoke to Gamboni, I realized from what he said that the police had been assuming that the girl got here after we’d been on our tour of the house. Their case rests on the fact that she was left alone in the library and stole the dagger. But I can tell you quite definitely that Gamboni brought me the message that she was here quite some time before our little expedition. In fact, she had already been and gone before you and Juan Moranta had the dagger off the wall to look
at it. I felt that this evidence was important.”
“It certainly is,” said Henry. “It virtually destroys the police case against Annette. What did you do next?”
“It just so happens,” said Paul, “that the Chief of Police is a friend of mine. I thought that it would cut through a lot of red tape if I went direct to him. May I get you another drink?”
“Thank you,” said Henry. Paul got up and went to the drinks table, still talking as he refilled the glasses.
“I saw him this afternoon. He agreed with me that this new evidence makes it certain that Delacroix is innocent, and he told me that she would be released tomorrow. Now, he is a man of the greatest integrity and would never discuss the details of a case with an outsider like myself. Nevertheless, knowing my great interest—for I am in some measure involved—he did, as an old friend, let fall a really shattering piece of information. He told me that in the event of Delacroix’s release the police would certainly arrest you.”
He handed Henry his drink. “I only got back from Paris yesterday evening,” he went on, “so I knew very little about the case. I had not the faintest idea that you were in any way involved. I presume, however, that this news does not come altogether as a surprise to you.”
“You presume correctly,” said Henry. His throat felt very dry, and he took a gulp of whisky.
“Naturally, I don’t intend to ask you whether you’re innocent or guilty,” Paul went on. “It’s none of my business. But the fact of the matter is that apparently the police have what they consider a watertight case against you. According to my friend, only you or the Delacroix girl had the opportunity of killing Trapp, and whereas in her case it would have been a question of split-second timing, in yours—well, it seems you went into the office, and would have had plenty of time to kill the man before you raised the alarm. They also found your fingerprints on the dagger, but not hers.” He raised a hand to silence Henry’s protests. “I know you’ll say that they can be accounted for by the fact that you handled it here the night before. There are also some smudges which indicate that it was subsequently handled by somebody wearing gloves, but it seems that Mlle. Delacroix had no gloves with her at the Palais that morning. My friend told me in confidence that the evidence had pointed to you all along, but that naturally the Swiss authorities were not anxious to arrest a high-ranking officer of a foreign police force without incontrovertible proof. By an ironic coincidence, the final and damning piece of evidence came through when I was actually there at police headquarters. A confession from a drug trafficker in Germany that his information on the conference came from you.”
Death on the Agenda Page 18