“I wrote a military history, but now I’m writing travel books.”
“How splendid! Give us a plug. We could do with the business.”
“What about August? All the Parisians flock south.”
“Well, they aren’t flocking here.”
“Have you advertised?”
“Oh, yes,” sighed Kenneth. “Put a small ad in the
“What about the French newspapers?”
“We never actually thought of having French people here,” said Mary. “We advertised good English home cooking.”
“Maybe not a good idea,” said James. “The English like to come to France for French cooking and the French won’t like the idea of English cooking either.”
“Oh, what do you know about it?” Mary’s voice had a waspish tone. “You’re a bachelor. No cares. You’re not stuck in this stinking hot villa miles from anywhere. It was Kenneth’s idea. I sometimes think men never grow up. When we had our first guests, all he wanted to do was play mine host while I slaved in the kitchen.”
There was an awkward silence. I want to get out of here, thought James. But I’d better suffer it for a day or two in case Agatha does turn up. Aloud he said, “Why don’t I take the pair of you for lunch in Marseilles?”
They both brightened. “That would be great,” said Kenneth.
So James entertained them at an outdoor restaurant on the Corniche where Mary ate too much and Kenneth drank too much. The hard sun glittered on the water.
And then James saw a stocky woman with good legs walking towards the restaurant. She was wearing a large straw hat and dark glasses. Agatha at last.
He leaped to his feet. “Agatha! Over here!”
The woman removed her sunglasses and stared at him blankly. James actually blushed and sat down hurriedly. “Sorry,” he called to her. “A mistake.”
Charles leaned back in his chair and surveyed the group. “You’re in for some hard questioning from the police. They’ll want to know why you didn’t tell them about your suspicions.”
“I’m not going to tell them.” Agatha looked strained and weary. “What would they have done anyway if Harry had told them about that necklace? Nothing, that’s what. It wouldn’t have been enough to justify a search warrant.”
Her heart sank as Betty Teller walked into the hotel. A policeman led her towards a little-used smoking room which the police had commandeered as an office. They would take Betty through the events of yesterday evening. They would ask her if she had left the desk. She might tell them about Harry calling her to the door.
“I’d better check in,” said Charles, getting to his feet. “Where’s James?”
“He decided to visit friends in the south of France.”
“Typical,” said Charles cheerfully.
Agatha watched his well-tailored figure approach the desk, now manned by the manager, Mr. Beeston. Agatha never knew whether Charles was fond of her or simply looked on her as someone who occasionally provided interesting diversions.
After ten minutes, Betty Teller emerged. “Mrs. Raisin,” called the policeman. Agatha suppressed a groan and walked into the smoking room.
“Mrs. Raisin,” began Barret, “first of all, I would like to know why you are still here and why two members of your staff are here also. We checked up on you. That unsavoury-looking youth, Harry Beam, is employed by you, as is Patrick Mulligan. You all had your photographs in the newspaper a year ago. Mr. Lacey, your companion, has left.”
“It was my scarf that was used in the first murder,” said Agatha defensively. “I am a detective. I felt compelled to stay on to see if we could find out who had committed the murder.”
“Indeed. Now to yesterday evening. Betty Teller, the receptionist, said that you were sitting in reception, reading a magazine, when Harry Beam came down the stairs. He walked to the door and called to her. He told her he had just seen a man on stilts with a monkey on his shoulder, but she could not see anyone there. Did you take the key to Wayne Weldon’s room?”
“No.”
“This is only the initial interview. You will be asked to report at the station later, make a full statement, and sign it. Why do you think Harry Beam lied?”
“I really don’t know.” Agatha felt herself becoming flushed and cross. “Maybe he didn’t lie. Maybe he fancied the receptionist.”
“We’ll ask him. Now, why do you think Mr. Weldon and his wife were murdered? Do you think they knew the killer of Mrs. Jankers?”
Agatha decided to tell the truth. “I found out that Mrs. Jankers’s second husband, Charlie Black, robbed a jewellery store, but the jewellery was never been recovered. Harry noticed that Chelsea Weldon was wearing a necklace that looked like real diamonds. I think they may have had the jewels and Charlie Black may have murdered both of them for them.”
“These suspicions of yours—did you tell anyone else, apart from your colleagues?”
“No, certainly not.” Agatha felt uneasy, thinking of how she had talked about the jewels in that pub and then in the restaurant.
“I think you stole the key to that room,” said Barret. “I think you waited until young Weldon and his wife went out and went upstairs.”
“Of course not,” said Agatha, glad now that Patrick had had the foresight to wipe that key clean.
“Right, just you wait there. We’ll get Mr. Beam in here and see
Harry was summoned. He must have made a lightning change of clothes, thought Agatha. The studs had been removed. He was wearing a plain charcoal-grey suit, striped shirt and silk tie.
“Sit down on that chair next to Mrs. Raisin,” ordered Barret. “Now, yesterday evening, why did you distract the receptionist by telling her that fairy story about a man on stilts?”
“I was considering chatting her up,” said Harry. “I felt like having some young company for a change.”
Agatha winced.
“Then I spotted Mrs. Raisin in reception. I hadn’t noticed her before because she had been hidden behind the magazine she was reading. Mrs. Raisin expects us to work all hours of the day. So I dropped the idea.”
Barret studied him for a long moment. Then he said, “I want both of you to stay in the hotel. A policeman will call for you later and take you both down to the station, where you will make official statements.”
At that moment, the door opened and the policeman who had been on guard outside said, “A word with you, sir. It’s urgent.”
Barret joined him. They went out together. Agatha half rose to leave. “Sit down!” barked Detective Sergeant Wilkins.
The door opened again and Barret called, “Wilkins!”
The detective went out to join him. A policewoman was seated in a corner of the room. Had she not been there, Agatha would have pressed her ear to the door.
At last Barret came back, looking excited. “You pair can go,” he said. “We’ll be in touch later.”
“What’s happened?” asked Agatha.
“Mind your own business.”
Charles Fraith had been joined by Cyril and his wife. “This is awful,” said Cyril. “Why are the police going away? We were told to wait to be interviewed.”
“Something’s happened,” said Agatha, “that’s sent them running off.” Dawn Hammond was crying quietly.
“Where’s Patrick?” Agatha asked Charles.
“He went up to his room to make some calls.”
“I think we should go up and join him. He may have heard something.”
“Give me his room number,” said Charles. “I’ll join you there. I haven’t unpacked yet.”
James sat gloomily nursing a glass of wine in the villa garden. Perhaps it was just as well that Agatha hadn’t joined him. Kenneth moaned constantly about the folly of having ever left Britain and of having sunk his savings into
