carriage with that silver handle which had so bemused her when she had first tried to board, and went inside, aware that someone was crowding behind her, and at the same time feeling a sort of tremor reverberating from her handbag up through the shoulder strap.
She glanced down and saw that her handbag was open again and that her wallet was missing.
Agatha stared wrathfully at the man who had crowded behind her. He was of medium height, white, with black hair, wearing a blue shirt and blue jeans.
“Here, you!” Agatha advanced on him. He nipped out of the carriage and into the next one, with Agatha in pursuit. Just as she was leaning forward to grab him and the train was moving out, he wrenched open the doors of the carriage and escapedonto the platform, leaving Agatha, who did not have the strength to do the same thing, being carried furiously away to the next station.
Agatha blamed the hairdresser. A Parisian hairdresser had told her that there was no crime around Maubert because of the huge commissariat. So Agatha took the Metro back to Maubert, darted up the escalator and demanded directions to the commissariat. She was told it was just round the corner.
It was an ugly modern building with steep steps up to the main entrance. Dripping with sweat and bad temper, Agatha erupted into the entrance hall. There was a very beautiful girl with long dark hair sitting behind bulletproof glass.
Agatha poured out her tale of the mugging, expecting to be shown to some detective’s room immediately, but the girl began to interview her. Agatha thought sourly that someone so young and attractive should give way to someone with a bit more authority.
She was fortunate in that she had only had sixty euros in her wallet and that she had left her credit cards in the hotel safe. Her passport was in another compartment of her bag.
After she had been interviewed and had handed over her passport, she was told to take a seat and wait.
“Why don’t you have air-conditioning in this place?” she grumbled, but the beautiful girl merely smiled at her benignly.
At last a tall policeman came out and led her into a side room. He sat down behind a desk and waved her into a chair opposite. He looked like those illustrations of Don Quixote of La Mancha. Once more, she described the mugger in detail, ending with “Paris is crawling with gendarmes. Why don’t you get down the Metro and catch thieves?”
“We do, every day,” he said calmly in perfect English.
“I myself am a detective,” said Agatha grandly.
“Indeed!” said Don Quixote, showing a glimmer of interest. “To which police station in England are you attached?”
“I’m not. I mean, I’m going to open my own detective agency.”
The flicker of interest died. “Wait here,” he said.
There was a mirror behind his desk. Agatha rose and stared at her face in it. She was bright red with heat and her normally glossy brown hair was damp and limp.
Agatha sat down again as he re-entered the room with a typed letter for her to sign. All in French.
“What’s this about?” demanded Agatha.
“It is for your insurance and states that if we catch him, he will receive three years in prison and a fine of three thousand euros. If we find your wallet it will be sent to the British Embassy. Sign here.”
Agatha signed.
“That will be all.”
“Wait a minute. What about mug shots?”
“Please?”
“Photographs of criminals. I’d know that bastard anywhere.”
“Three other people have had goods stolen this morning by the same man. They are French. There is no need for your services.”
Wrathfully, Agatha got to her feet. “I could do a better job than you any day.”
He gave a faint, uninterested sort of smile. “Then I wish you luck.”
Agatha went straight back to her hotel and checked out. She was going home and she was going to start her own detective agency. She had been dithering about it for weeks, but the theft of her wallet had left her with a feeling of not being in charge of events. Agatha Raisin liked to be in charge of everything.
At Charles de Gaulle Airport, she was just heading for the gate but ran into a crowd of people being held back by police. “What’s happening?” she asked a man next to her.
“Someone’s left a suitcase or package unattended.”
Agatha waited, fuming. Then there was a huge blast. From the chatter around her, she gathered that they had blown up whatever it was with a controlled explosion. At Heathrow or other airports they might appeal to the owners to come and claim their suitcase or package, but in France it seemed that they just went ahead and blew it up.
As Agatha drove from Heathrow, black clouds began to pile up in the sky and by the time she turned down the road to Carsely, the countryside was rocking and rolling under the blows of a tremendous thunderstorm.
Agatha’s two cats, Hodge and Boswell, came to meet her when she opened the door. Her cleaner, Doris Simpson, came round every day while Agatha was away to feed the cats and let them in and out of the garden.
Agatha dumped her suitcase in the hall and went through to the kitchen and opened the back door. Rain poured down from the thatch overhead, but the air was cool and sweet. Anxious not to lose her determination to set up her own detective agency, Agatha decided to visit her friend, Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife.
Ten minutes later, Agatha rang the bell of the vicarage with a guilty feeling that she should have phoned first.
But Mrs. Bloxby answered the door, her gentle featureslighting up in a smile of welcome. “Mrs. Raisin! How nice. Come in. Why are you back early?”
“I got mugged,” said Agatha. She recounted her adventure.
“Well, you got pickpocketed,” corrected Mrs. Bloxby mildly. “Unlike you to let something like that put you off Paris. I thought you loved Paris.”
“I do, most of the time,” fretted Agatha. “It was mainly the heat and the lack of sleep. And being dismissed by the police, just like that! The trouble is they spend all their time policing demonstrations, they haven’t got time for the public.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Anyway, it gave me the jolt I needed to start my own agency. You do think it’s a good idea, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Mrs. Bloxby. Although she thought the work would be dreary and sordid, it would occupy her friend’s restless mind and keep her from falling in love again and getting hurt. Agatha was addicted to falling in love.
“I’ve been thinking about starting a detective agency for a time,” said Agatha. “I feel I need some official status. I’m a good businesswoman and I feel sure I could make it work. The police are so busy these days and the countryside police stations have been closed one after the other. The police haven’t got time for small burglaries, missing teenagers, or errant wives and husbands.”
“And if it doesn’t work out?” asked the vicar’s wife.
Agatha grinned. “I’ll take it off my taxes. Anyone taken James’s cottage?”
It had not been Agatha’s ex-husband James Lacey’s cottage for some time, but Agatha always dreamt that one day he would come back to the village. She could never think of that cottage next to her own as belonging to anyone else. Agatha had fallen in love with two of the previous owners.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. A Mrs. Emma Comfrey, retired civil servant. You should call on her.”
“Maybe. But Eve got a lot to do. I’ll go to the estate agent’s in Mircester tomorrow and see what’s on offer in the way of an office.”
Mrs. Bloxby reflected ruefully that Agatha’s interest in her new neighbour had died as soon as she found out it was a woman, and a retired one at that.
It took much more money to set up a detective agency than Agatha ever dreamt it would. Brought up on Raymond Chandler-type movies, she had assumed that one sat in an office and waited for the beautiful dame with
