'I'll wait for you,' said Agatha.
Roy went off, straightening his garish tie and wondering whether it was
Mr. Wilson surveyed Roy for a few moments and then said, 'You've got the Raisin woman there.'
'Just dropped by for a chat.'
'That one never drops by for a chat. What does she want? To wring your neck for having buggered up her love-life?'
'No, she wants my help. She's crazy. She wants us to go among the down-and-outs and find out more about her husband's background.'
'Then do it.'
'What?'
'I said, do it. Agatha Raisin may be the nastiest, most ball-breaking woman I have ever come across, but she's the best PR in the business and I would like her on the payroll. I want you to be very nice to her. I want you to point out to her that since she retired, her life has been nothing but stress and murder down in that village. Hint that there's a good amount of money to be made. Put her in your debt.'
'But I've got a meeting with Allied Soaps this afternoon.'
'Patterson can take that. Off with you, and keep the old girl sweet.'
Roy trailed miserably back to his office. Allied Soaps was an important account and Patterson would dearly like to get his hands on it. Life just wasn't fair.
He opened the door of his office and pinned a resolute smile on his face. 'Guess what? I've got a slow day, so we can go.'
Agatha looked at him suspiciously. 'What did Wilson want with you? Not trying to get me back on the payroll?'
'No, no.' Roy knew that if he told Agatha that was the only reason he was going to help her, it would alienate her for all time.
'Well, we'd better get some old clothes and look the part.'
'Do we have to dress up?'
'Don't worry. I'll go and find the right stuff. See you back here in about an hour.'
Some time later, two shabby individuals stood outside Ped-mans in Cheapside and tried to flag down a cab. Agatha had gone to an Oxfam shop for the clothes they were now wearing. Roy was dressed in jeans which Agatha had ripped at the knees for him, a denim shirt, and an old tweed jacket. Agatha was wearing a long floral skirt and two lumpy cardigans over j a blouse and carrying various plastic bags. Both stank of j methylated spirits, Agatha having doused their clothes liberally in the stuff. She had also dirtied their faces.
'This is no good,' said Roy as the third empty cab sailed by them without stopping. Agatha went back into Pedmans and hailed the commissionaire.
'What d'ye want?' he growled.
'It's me, Agatha Raisin,' she snapped. 'Get out there and get a cab for me.'
The commissionaire, who loathed Agatha, stared down at her, a smile breaking across his face. So the old bag had fallen on hard times. Let her get her own bloody cab.
'Shove off,' he said. 'We don't want the likes of you in here.'
Agatha opened her mouth to blast him, but a quiet voice behind the commissionaire said, 'Jock, get Mrs. Raisin a cab, and hop to it.'
Mr. Wilson stood there. 'Going off to a fancy dress party, Mrs. Raisin?'
'That's it,' said Agatha.
Jock ran out into the street and flagged down a cab, and with his face averted held the door open for Agatha and Roy. Agatha pressed something into his hand. He touched his hat. The cab rolled off. Jock opened his hand. A penny! He hurled it into the gutter and stumped back inside.
'You haven't brought your handbag?' asked Roy.
'No, I left it with your secretary. It's in her desk. You left your wallet, I hope?'
'Yes, but who's paying for this cab?'
'You are!'
'But I left all my money behind!'
'So did 1.1 mean, I've got about a pound in change, but that won't pay for this cab to Waterloo.'
'What are we going to do?' wailed Roy. 'Of all the stupid - '
'Let's just hope it's not one of those cabs where they lock the doors.' The cab slowed and stopped at traffic lights.
'Now!' said Agatha.
She wrenched open the door and, followed by Roy, dived out into the street, pursued by the outraged howls of the cabby.
'You can still run,' panted Roy when they finally came to a halt. Agatha clutched her side. 'I've got a pain. I really must get back into condition.'
They started to walk, an aroma of methylated spirits floating out from them. 'I think we had better do some begging,' said Agatha, stopping in the middle of London Bridge.
'We don't look appealing enough. We need a dog or a child.'
'We haven't got one. Can't you sing or something?'
'Nobody would hear a note with this traffic noise. Beg- i gars who get money are either pathetic or threatening.'
'Okay.' Agatha stepped in front of a business man and held out her hand. 'Money for food,' she said. 'Or else.'
He stopped and looked her up and down.
'Or else what?'
'Or else I'll hit you with my bottle.'
'Get lost, or I'll call the police, you scum. It's layabouts like you that are bringing this country to its knees. You're too old to work, but you should get your son to support you.'
Roy giggled maliciously.
The business man appealed to the passers-by. 'Can you believe this? They're demanding money with menaces.'
'Come on, Aggie,' pleaded Roy, getting frightened, as a crowd started to collect. 'Police!' a woman started to shout. 'Police!'
They took to their heels and ran again, thumping their way over the bridge until they had left the crowd behind.
'All this running, birdbrain,' snarled Agatha. 'We should have run back to the office and got some money.'
'Not far now,' said Roy. 'Let's get it over with.'
Dusk was falling. The roar of the going-home traffic drummed in their ears. Agatha thought of James and wondered what he was doing.
James was feeling guilty. He had taken Helen Warwick out for lunch and then gone back to her flat at her suggestion for coffee. She had a day off, she had explained. Life was quiet when the House wasn't sitting.
Perhaps because she had really nothing more to tell him than she had already told to James and Agatha, perhaps be-cause she did not seem nearly as charming as she had when he had first met her, James was able to realize that this visit had been prompted more by a desire not to let Agatha dominate his life than by any real interest in Helen. She was very clever at extracting information, and the information she seemed most interested in was the size of his bank balance. No question was direct or vulgar. Talk of stocks and shares, whether he had suffered over the Lloyd's or Barings disasters, things like that. And the friends they were supposed to have in common began to seem to James like people she had met at parties and in the course of her work but did not really know very well.
'Do you mind if I make a telephone call?' he said at last. 'And then I really must go.'
