Death on the Agenda

by Patricia Moyes

  Henry felt the hair on the back of his neck bristling. He was suddenly very cold. He looked quickly at Emmy. She sat with her head turned away from him, twisting a small handkerchief in her fingers.

  Paul Hampton smiled pleasantly. “Now, I am a businessman, Henry,” he said. “I am not the person to blame you for making a little money where you could. I have always maintained that so long as the police are underpaid this sort of thing is bound to happen. My own view, for what it is worth, is that you are innocent of the murder, which was probably committed for some quite different reason. Nevertheless, I have to admit that the police have a remarkably good case, and I think that your chances of acquittal are very small indeed. Let me freshen your glass.”

  “No, thank you,” said Henry. His brain was racing. Desperately he told himself, “They can’t make this stick”; and then he remembered John Trapp and the Novaris and the excellence of the organization, and was forced to admit that perhaps they could. His only consolation was the thought that his enemies must be desperate to make such a rash move. They must know that he was close behind them.

  To Paul he said, “Thank you for telling me this.”

  “Don’t thank me. You can imagine that I feel pretty bad about the whole thing. However innocent, I feel responsible. I tried hard to think how I could help you, and believe me, you need help. When the solution came to me, it was so obvious that I couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t thought of it straightaway.” He leaned forward and fixed his bright blue eyes on Henry. “By a happy chance,” he said, “Natasha is leaving tonight to visit friends in South America. She catches a plane for Brazil at half past five, in just under two hours’ time. This plane is run by a private airline in which I have an interest, and I can arrange for you and Emmy to be on the same flight. At my expense, of course.”

  Henry looked at him, long and earnestly. Then he said, “Why are you prepared to do this for me? You hardly know me.”

  Paul looked down. “That’s true,” he said. “Put it down to my bad conscience, and to the fact that you have a very exceptional wife indeed.”

  “I see,” said Henry. “Well, I’m very grateful, but the answer is no. To run away would be the last...”

  Paul smiled ruefully. “I knew that you would instinctively refuse,” he said. “You are the type of admirable, impractical Englishman who prefers to stay and face the music. That’s why I asked Emmy to dine with me, so that I could put the scheme to her first and enroll her as an ally. Henry, I do beg you to consider this offer carefully. It is made in all friendship and quite disinterestedly. Of course, you are perfectly free to turn it down but above all I ask you to think of Emmy.” He paused. “I won’t say any more. I realize that this is a shattering decision for you to make. Fortunately, there is still a little time left for you to think it over, and it is something that you and Emmy must decide together. Natasha and I will leave you to talk about it.”

  Natasha stood up without a word, and walked out of the room. Paul followed her. At the door he turned and said, with the gravity of a politician addressing his country in an hour of crisis. “Please be sensible, Henry. You are in a desperate position.” Then he went out, closing the door behind him.

  There was in interminable pause. Then Henry said, “Emmy, are you really a party to this idea?”

  Emmy shook her head wretchedly. “I don’t know what to think,” she said. “I just feel numb. When Paul told me all this...”

  Henry went over to her, and took her head between his hands, turning her face until she could no longer avoid his eyes.

  “Look at me,” he said. “Do you really believe that I have been selling secrets?”

  “I don’t know.” It was a whisper. “When I found that you’d lied to me about...other things...”

  “Do you think I am a murderer?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, that’s something,” said Henry. He grinned at her, and was delighted to be rewarded by a tiny answering smile. “Poor darling Emmy. There’s so much to say I can’t say now. We’ve both been through our own kinds of hell, but it’s nearly over now.”

  “Nearly over? But Henry, the police...”

  “First of all,” said Henry, “get this into your head. I did not kill John Trapp. I have not been selling information, and there is absolutely no question of running away, however well-meaning Paul’s offer may be. Is that clear?”

  “But if they arrest you tomorrow...”

  “Emmy,” said Henry, “if they arrest me, it will be unpleasant, but I shall have a chance to prove my innocence. If I ran away now, it would be as good as a confession. Can you imagine what the rest of our lives would be like? Stranded in South America, virtually as fugitives from justice, with no job, no money.”

  “There would be money.” They both turned at the sound of Natasha’s voice. She had come in quietly through a door at the far end of the room, and was walking toward them through the shadows, insubstantial as a ghost in her floating black chiffon dress.

  “Ah, Natasha. I’m glad you came back. I want to talk to you.”

  Natasha opened a silver cigarette box, took out a cigarette and lit it from a slim porcelain lighter. “What is there to talk about?” she said.

  “Plenty,” said Henry. “For one thing, how long are you staying in Brazil?”

  “That depends.”

  “On whether or not we go with you?”

  Natasha blew out a cloud of smoke. “Henry,” she said, “Paul really is trying to help you.”

  “And you,” said Henry, “are trying to help yourself.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “With Annette released, and with me virtually proved guilty by disappearing to South America,” said Henry, “there will be no scandal, and you will be able to come back.”

  Natasha sighed impatiently. “You are so stubborn,” she said. “We are all trying to help you. I will give you enough money straight away to...”

  “It’s very kind of you,” said Henry, “but you have no money.”

  “Oh, yes, I have.”

  “You told me yourself that Paul didn’t allow you any ready cash.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I have a certain...”

  “I’m sorry to disillusion you,” said Henry. “You haven’t. Mahoumi has let you down. He didn’t get into John’s flat, and even if he had it would have been too late, because the police had already taken the money away. As a matter of fact, it’s probably safer with them. I think Mahoumi was planning to decamp with it.”

  Emmy was looking from Henry to Natasha in bafflement. Natasha showed no emotion. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “When Annette was arrested, I naturally wanted both the money and the will out of the way. Enough mud would have been slung in court without that, and it was the only concrete evidence against me. Without it, I could have denied everything and Paul would have stood by me. Now, after Annette is released, I shall just have to wait for the will to be proved.”

  “That particular will,” said Henry, “was never signed.”

  Natasha, in the act of raising her cigarette to her lips, froze into immobility. Then she said, “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying. It’s Mahoumi who has done that. I imagine he was too scared to tell you the truth.”

  “How do you know?” Natasha’s voice rose slightly, with an undertone of hysteria. “How can you possibly know?”

  “Because I saw the draft will myself, and so did Emmy. John was to have taken it to Mahoumi to be signed on the day he died.”

  Natasha turned to Emmy. “Is this true?” she demanded.

  “It’s true that I saw a draft will in your favor,” said Emmy. “As for the rest, I haven’t an idea what either of you is talking about.”

  “It’s very simple,” said Henry. “Natasha had a horror of poverty, and she realized only too well that Paul would throw her out without a penny if she got herself involved in an open scandal—and she was sailing close to the wind most of the time. So sh
e decided to lay up a little nest egg in cash against a rainy day. Isn’t that right?” he added to Natasha.

  Natasha was trembling. “What happens to it then?” she said. “Who gets my money?”

  “Annette Delacroix.”

  “That little bitch!”

  “She’s a nice girl,” said Henry. “She may even give some of it back to you.”

  Abruptly Natasha sat down and began to cry.

  “I agree, it’s hard luck on you,” said Henry. “I imagine it took some time and effort to get it together.”

  Natasha sniffed. “I dared not open a bank account,” she said. “Not even a numbered one. Paul and I are too well known, and he’d have found out.”

  “So you used John as your bank.”

  “I trusted him.”

  “You let him believe that it was money you and he could use when you eloped,” said Henry.

  “He was completely honest. I knew he would give me the money any time I asked for it, even if I did throw him over. It was he who insisted on drawing up a new will, so that I’d get it back if anything happened to him.”

  “As a matter of interest,” said Henry, “where did it come from?”

  “It was so difficult.” Natasha wiped her eyes. “I sold little bits of jewelry that Paul had forgotten about. I bought expensive dresses on account, and then took them back and got cash for them. I had to do it like that. Every time I collected a few thousand francs, I gave them to John to keep.”

  “That’s what you were doing in your room on the night of the party, wasn’t it?” said Henry, interested. “I thought it was a silly time and place for a romantic rendezvous. It was only afterward that I realized it was a business appointment.”

  “You are horrible,” said Natasha. “It’s true I had some money to give him, but...”

  “All right,” said Henry. “You gave him the money. What did he do with it?”

  “He hid it in different places all over his apartment. I never thought the police would find the lot in the oven. They must be brighter than I thought. But that was less than half of the total. I had about thirty-five thousand francs altogether.”

  “Three thousand pounds,” said Henry reflectively.

  “I know it’s miserably little,” said Natasha, misreading his thought completely, “but it was all I had, and it would have seen me through for a bit. And now...now that miserable little cow gets it all. No wonder she killed him.”

  “You think she did?”

  “It’s obvious,” said Natasha bitterly.

  “If I were you,” said Henry, “I’d keep that opinion to myself. It’s in your best interests to decide that I’m guilty and persuade me to go to South America with you. Perhaps when you come back you can find another reliable banker who won’t get himself murdered.”

  Natasha looked at him for a long moment. “You don’t believe, do you,” she said, “that I love Paul?”

  “On the contrary,” said Henry.

  The big door from the hall opened, and Paul Hampton came in.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but time is getting short, and...” He broke off as he saw Natasha. “What are you doing here?”

  “Natasha has been adding another persuasive voice to get me to run away,” said Henry. “I do appreciate what you’re trying to do, Mr. Hampton, but...”

  The revolver shot shattered the quiet unreality of the night with the brutal force of a street accident. Paul froze into immobility, his hands still upraised in what looked like a benediction; Natasha gave a little scream and dropped her cigarette; Emmy clutched Henry’s arm. Almost at once came the sounds of a struggle outside the window, in the dark, wild garden beyond the comforting curtains. Before any of them could reach the window, there was a crash of splintering glass, and Alfredo Spezzi stumbled into the room, clutching at the dark red curtains for support. With horror, Henry saw that the red of the curtains matched the stain that was spreading across Spezzi’s white shirt.

  “Enrico...” he gasped, every word an agony, “...gun...I tried...”

  He fell clumsily onto the shining parquet floor at the exact moment when the curtains parted again, and Konrad Zwemmer stepped into the room, holding in his hand a small, evil-looking revolver.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THERE WAS A MOMENT of incredulous silence. Then Zwemmer said, in English, “Please all stay quite still, and you will not get hurt.” He looked down at Spezzi, and said contemptuously, “He is not dead.” He addressed himself to Paul Hampton. “I apologize for this intrusion.” Henry could not decide whether his voice was sarcastic or not. “However, it was necessary. You were beginning to interfere with my plans.”

  Before any of them could reply to this, the door leading to the hall was kicked open from the outside. In a split second, Henry had time to see that Gamboni was there, in the shadows outside, and that he had a gun in his hand. Then there was another shot, deafeningly close, and the revolver flew out of Gamboni’s hand and crashed to the floor somewhere behind him.

  “The gun,” said Zwemmer, “will not be necessary.” To Gamboni, who was nursing his hand with an expression of bewilderment and injured innocence on his face, he said, “Can you drive the Rolls?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Zwemmer nodded curtly to Hampton. “Throw him the keys of the car,” he said.

  Expressionless, Paul did so.

  “Now,” said Zwemmer precisely to Gamboni, “pick up this gentleman.” He prodded Alfredo ungently with his foot. “He is not badly hurt. Take him somewhere where he will be looked after. Tell the other servants that there has been a slight but not serious accident, and send them back to bed. Then return here as soon as possible. Quickly, now. Don’t waste time.”

  Unprotesting, Gamboni picked up the unconscious Spezzi as easily as if he had been a baby and carried him out to the hall.

  “And shut the door behind you,” added Zwemmer pleasantly.

  Gamboni did so. Zwemmer went over to it and turned the key in the lock. Then, still with the gun trained on his four prisoners, he said, “Now perhaps we can talk a little in peace.” The rimless glasses glinted, reflecting the lamplight. “You are a great nuisance, Inspector Tibbett. I presume it was you who stationed the inefficient Spezzi as an unarmed watchdog in the drive.” Paul Hampton looked sharply and interrogatively at Henry. “It was a foolish thing to do,” Zwemmer went on. He glanced with distaste at the gun in his hand. “I dislike having to use this thing. It is noisy and messy.”

  There was a pause. Then Zwemmer continued, “Before we get to the business in hand, there are one or two matters to clear up. For example, Tibbett, what were you doing in John Trapp’s apartment last night?”

  “Looking around,” said Henry. “What were you doing in Mahoumi’s apartment?”

  Natasha drew her breath in sharply. Zwemmer said, “I am asking the questions. Did you find anything?”

  “Nothing that would interest you.”

  “I see. Thank you. Now to the next point. You have known the truth for some time, I imagine.”

  “No,” said Henry. “I suspected it, but it was only this evening...”

  “I see that I am just in time.” Zwemmer smiled without humor. “You see why I could not allow you to complete this visit undisturbed. I imagine you were planning a getaway.”

  “Something like that.”

  “It would have been very inconvenient for me.”

  In a voice which expressed more contempt than Henry would have believed possible, Paul Hampton said, “You really are a laughably clumsy villain, Herr Zwemmer. Gamboni will be back soon with every policeman in Geneva at his heels. I don’t know how you intend to explain away this melodramatic intrusion.”

  Zwemmer smiled again, unattractively. “Please do not insult me, Mr. Hampton,” he said. “I have my professional pride. Have you not yet realized that Gamboni is working for me?”

  “For...?” For the first time, Paul Hampton seemed utterly taken aback. He sought for words, but found no
ne.

  “Poor Gamboni,” said Zwemmer. “I trust his hand is not hurt. I had to deprive him of his gun, because he is inclined to be overenthusiastic, and might have used it foolishly. Also, it was necessary to dispose of Spezzi. Gamboni knows just where to take him and what to do with him.” Still holding the revolver, he shot his cuffs. “I am sorry to have to keep you all waiting for so long. All will soon be over. What shall we talk about?”

  “Let’s talk about the security leakage,” said Henry. “For example, who is Sophie?”

  Zwemmer shrugged. “A silly Frenchwoman who was infatuated with Trapp,” he said. “She has no part in this. The principals in this drama are all here, in this room.”

  “No,” said Henry.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the person who killed John Trapp.”

  Zwemmer looked piercingly at Henry for a moment, and then turned to Natasha, who was standing as though petrified, never taking her huge brown eyes off the dapper figure with the gun.

  “You are very quiet, Mrs. Hampton. Have you nothing to add to the conversation?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” said Natasha very distinctly.

  “Oh, but I think you have. Poor Mrs. Hampton. I’m afraid you allowed your emotions to rule your head. You should not have trusted Mahoumi. In your position, you should not have trusted anybody.”

  Natasha, Henry thought suddenly, was in her small way not unlike Cleopatra. Foolish, self-indulgent, even wicked—in the final moment of despair she gained an unquestioned dignity. The movement with which she turned her small, beautiful head away from Zwemmer was at once doomed, decisive, and exquisite.