Aggie.”
“Stop being frivolous,” snapped Agatha. “This is a murder investigation, remember?”
They opened the door and went in. Six couples were gyrating in a genteel version of the tango. A tall thin woman wearing a leotard and black tights came forward to meet them.
“Are you interested in joining the class?” she asked. She thrust out a bony hand. “I’m Jane.”
“I’m a private detective,” said Agatha, “and this is Sir Charles Fraith.”
Jane looked alarmed. Her penciled eyebrows rose nearly into her black hair. “It’s all rubbish,” she said. “I never touched the silly man.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Didn’t Mrs. Smither send you?”
“Never heard of her.”
Jane visibly relaxed. “We’ve had some trouble because some woman is claiming I made a pass at her husband, but you should see Mr. Smither! Fat and fifty, my dear.”
The music stopped. “Excuse me,” said Jane. She started the CD over again and called, “Once more and put some
Agatha wondered why Jane was dressed more for a ballet class than for ballroom dancing. As if reading her thoughts, Jane said, “I take them through some ballet exercises first to limber them up. Now what can I do for you?”
Agatha told her about the murder of Geraldine and how Geraldine had first come to the classes with a man name Peter.
“Oh, I remember her,” said Jane. “Seemed a quiet woman but quite a nifty dancer. I believe she hit it off with Mr. Jankers very quickly and then we never saw Peter Brody again.”
Are you sure his name was Brody? Not Silen?”
“Definitely Brody.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Come into the office and I’ll find his address.” She turned to the class.
The small man called Hugh dipped so far, his partner fell to the floor with him on top of her.
“Leave the swoop for the moment,” said Jane in a tired voice. And to Agatha, “Follow me.”
“Is Jon your husband?” asked Agatha as Jane led them into the cubicle that served as an office.
“He was.”
“Where is he now?”
“Pentonville.”
“In prison? Why?”
“Dealing drugs. So I’ve got to manage the business on my own.” She squeezed in behind a desk and switched on a computer. “Let me see. Brody. Ah, here we are. Fifty-two B Carriage Way.”
“Where is Carriage Way?” asked Charles.
“Go outside and turn right. It’s the fourth turning on your right.”
They thanked her and left.
“I suppose we couldn’t really expect this Peter to be Peter Silen,” said Agatha. “I mean, if he was that easy to find, the police would have arrested him ages ago.”
“Still, he might shed some light on Geraldine’s past,” said Charles. “Here we are. Carriage Way. I thought with a name like that they’d be mews cottages.”
They walked along past tall stuccoed Victorian buildings until they came to number 52. “B must be the basement,” said Agatha.
They opened an iron gate and walked down stone steps. “No bell,” said Charles, knocking on the door.
A few moments passed and then the door was opened by a small wiry man wearing a tank top and stained jeans. He had sandy hair and small features: small brown eyes, small mouth and small nose. Charles guessed he was in his fifties.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Agatha launched into her spiel of being a private detective investigating the death of Geraldine Jankers.
“What’s it to do with me?” he asked.
“Well, you used to escort Mrs. Jankers to the ballroom classes. We thought if you could tell us a bit about her, about her friends, anyone who might have hated her, that sort of thing, it would be a great help.”
He hesitated for a moment and then said, “Come in.”
He ushered them into a sparsely furnished but tidy living room. Apart from an old-fashioned hatstand loaded with coats, the furniture consisted of three hard upright chairs, a table and a large television set.
They sat down at the table. “How did you meet Geraldine?” asked Agatha.
“I met her at the market. I was shopping, so was she. We got to talking and went for a drink. She said she had never learned to dance properly and one thing led to another and I volunteered to take her. I only went with her to two classes and then she got her claws into Jankers.”
“So you didn’t know anything about her before then?”
“No. I thought it would be a bit of fun, but I tell you, I was a bit fed up when she left me standing to go chasing after Jankers. Wait a bit. I thought the police got the murderer. Some armed robber.”
“Charlie Black murdered the son and his wife,” said Agatha. “But he’s got a cast-iron alibi for the night Mrs. Jankers was killed.”
“Sorry, I can’t help you. I thought she was nice at first but she turned out to be a bit of a bitch. I told her I was angry with her for getting me to sign on for the classes and then dumping me. She had seemed quite refined, but then she gave me a mouthful that would have made a sailor blush.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Brody?” asked Charles.
“Oh, this and that. Why?”
“Just making conversation.”
Peter Brody seemed in that moment to change from quite an amiable man into someone hard and angry.
“Look, bugger off, the pair of you,” he said. “I haven’t got time for this. I’ll show you out.”
Charles turned round as he and Agatha approached the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Silen,” said Charles.
Peter reached behind the hatstand and pulled out a sawn-off shotgun. He held it on them. “Get back in the room.”
“It was a slip of the tongue,” said Charles desperately.
“Oh, yeah? Get in that room over there. Move it!”
They retreated before him. “The police know where we are,” said Agatha.
“Move! Drop your handbag and leave it on the floor.”
He backed them into a room, empty except for a few packing cases, and then slammed the door on them and locked it.
Agatha and Charles looked at each other in dismay.
“Why did you call him Silen?” whispered Agatha.
“Because I felt he was lying. What are we going to do?”
Charles went to the window. It was barred. They could hear the sound of hurried movements coming from the other room.
“Have you got your phone?” asked Agatha.
“I left it behind,” mourned Charles.
They heard the outside door of the flat slam shut and then footsteps mounting the stairs.
“He’s gone,” said Agatha. “He may be back. We’ve got to get out of here. Can’t you break the door down?”
Charles aimed a kick at the lock and then hopped around the room, moaning, “I think I’ve broken my foot.”
“I’m going to look in these cases,” said Agatha. “There might be something we can use. Stop howling and help me.”
