The Christie Caper (23 page)

One crimson nail tapped the spot where the vase had
stood, then traced the arc down to the table where Bledsoe sat. “I’ve been up there. Great view. But it’s the ground layout that makes it absolutely certain Bledsoe was the intended victim. Number one—The culprit waited until Bledsoe was alone at the table. Number two—There is a fountain directly beside the table where Bledsoe was sitting. Number three—Directly behind the table is the wall that separates the ground floor rooms from the terrace area. In other words, no one could have approached the table without the person on the roof seeing them. Number four—The surrounding tables were empty. Number five—” Henny paused and tried not to look overly smug. She didn’t succeed. “I did a little detective work. There’s no doubt that particular table was targeted. Someone made a practice run in the middle of last night.”

Max put his fork down and stared at her. “Shoved a vase off the roof? Why didn’t we hear it?”

Annie heard Laurel murmur, “Night brings with it so many distractions.”

“Not a vase,” Henny admitted. “A ten-pound sack of sugar. I talked to the cleaning crew.” Another shuffle through her papers. “Tommy Loomis found sugar ‘to hell and gone’ all over the terrace this morning. Of course, he thought it was some kind of prank. He said, ‘Listen, you work in a hotel for a while,
nothin’ll
surprise you.’ So somebody made damn sure of the trajectory a falling object would take. There’s no doubt about it, Bledsoe’s the intended victim.”

Lady Gwendolyn, to Annie’s surprise, said nothing. The author’s eyes were fixed on the mural on the wall.

Saulter reached out for the diagram and studied it.

“Not an innocent bystander.” Laurel admired the high gloss of her pink nails.

“Obviously not,” Max agreed. “But it makes our investigation simpler. If Bledsoe’s the victim, the possible perpetrators are on a short list. A very short list.” He picked up the top sheet and flourished it.

A roll of thunder added dramatic emphasis.

Lady Gwendolyn looked toward the balcony in some surprise. “It was quite clear today.”

“Clouds often roll in after dark. Should have a pleasant rain pretty soon.” Max glanced quickly at Annie. She had no
trouble reading his thought. If there was anything Max enjoyed as much as an afternoon amatory frolic, it was a rainy night frolic. She gave him a tiny wink.

Lady Gwendolyn pushed back her chair. “Believe I’d better trot to my room. I left the balcony doors open.”

Henny assured her it wasn’t necessary, explaining briskly, “Offshore breeze at night. Balconies face the ocean. The rain won’t blow in.”

Lady Gwendolyn nodded absently. “Good-oh. It’s always best to consult the natives. Now, young Max, let’s take a look at you list.”

Annie scanned the list before handing it to Lady Gwendolyn.

“Why not Fleur Calloway?” Annie asked.

Several voices spoke at once, but Saulter’s predominated. “Seems obvious the gunplay at your bookstore and the roof incident are connected. A little hard to believe in two separate attackers, and Ms. Calloway was definitely inside Death on Demand when the gunfire broke out.”

Lady Gwendolyn studied the list, then looked at Saulter. “I presume you’ve interviewed all the suspects?” Her tone indicated her confidence this was a totally unnecessary question
since Chief Saulter obviously was a first-class police official.

Saulter favored her with a weary but pleased smile.

No flies on Lady G. when it came to dealing with men.

Saulter put down his fork, casting a regretful glance at the empty steak-and-kidney pie dish, and heaved a sigh. “Sure. I’ll tell you, those people have got zippers for lips. You’d think they’d taken a crash course in how to talk to the cops and say as little as possible. For Christ’s sake, I’ve never had an investigation where I’ve got as little out of a bunch of suspects. Just name, rank, social security number. Oh, sure, they admit
knowing
Bledsoe. But nobody will give an inch that they had it in for him. Damn mystery people, they know all the tricks. Good guy/bad guy didn’t work with them. Pretending I knew all about their last run-in with Bledsoe, that didn’t work. I’m up a creek without an oar.”

Lady Gwendolyn put down her wine goblet with a decisive click. “I have in mind a possible solution.”

Everyone looked at her.

“First we must accept the obvious: we face a multi-faceted problem.”

Annie marveled at the force of personality unleashed upon them. Such a dumpy, soft, gentle-looking elderly lady, but there was no mistaking the authority, the eagerness, and the competence with which she faced problems.

“Mr. Bledsoe has survived two murder attempts. We must forestall a third.” Her tone was resolute.

Even Henny was willing to take her lead here. “Lady Gwendolyn’s absolutely right. It’s just like Poirot in
The ABC Murders.
Why, look at it! The attempts on Bledsoe’s life—in effect, they are like the warning letters. If we go at it right, we will be able to
prevent
a murder.”

Lady Gwendolyn reached over, gave Henny an approving pat on her hand. “That’s the right spirit.” She looked confidently at the chief. “We have begun our investigations. We are using the facilities at Confidential Commissions to amass information about the individuals attending this conference who are linked to Bledsoe. However,” a meaningful pause, “our task has been both simplified and further complicated by Bledsoe’s attack on Christie.”

Annie leaned forward eagerly.
Now
they were getting somewhere.

“First, we must refute this scurrilous calumny. Annie can contribute here.” Those lively eyes, shining with intelligence, focused on Annie. “It is quite reasonable that Annie appear exercised over Bledsoe’s scurrilous attack. Right?”

Annie nodded eagerly.

“That gives her a reasonable basis upon which to approach the suspects. When she does so, however, she will accomplish a dual purpose: she can vet them as possible murderers and, at the same time, gain derogatory information about Bledsoe. The man obviously is a cur. If he attempts to publish scandalous lies about Christie, we can immediately respond with material that discredits him.”

“That’s brilliant,” Laurel enthused.

“Might work,” Henny admitted grudgingly.

“Excellent idea.” Max nodded. “When we add the results of Annie’s interviews to our investigations, we’ll probably know at once who’s trying to bump off Bledsoe.”

Lady Gwendolyn lifted a plump hand. “However, it is clear to me that a grim sequence of events may be underway.”

Something in her tone froze each in his place.

“I’m terribly surprised that this possibility has not yet occurred to others. As I attempted to communicate this morning to Chief Saulter, there is a disquieting parallel between the toppled vase in the Palmetto Court and the boulder crashing down at Abu Simbel in
Death on the Nile.”

“Oh, my God,” Henny said softly.

In an almost breathless silence, Lady Gwendolyn’s soft voice continued stalwartly, “Oh, yes. You see, the attack on Bledsoe came
after
the flyer was distributed. It could well mean that a deranged Christie devotee was taking matters into his or her own hands. We must not leap to conclusions. The gunfire and the vase may not have been the work of the same individual. There is much going on, possibly including much of which we have little knowledge. We must remember Miss Marple’s maxim:
Nothing is ever quite what it seems to be on the surface.”

•   •   •

Clouds scudded across the face of the moon. Their footsteps echoed from the wooden dock. To the south, lightning flickered, illuminating a clot of rain clouds dark against the night sky. Thunder rumbled.

“Rain pretty soon,” Max observed.

Annie spared a brief thanksgiving the rain had waited until Tuesday night and hadn’t ruined the marvelous fête on Sunday, but she wasn’t worried about the weather.

She was worried about Lady Gwendolyn’s shocking pronouncement.

“Max, you don’t really think we could have a furious Christie fan trying to kill Bledsoe, do you?” She tried not to wail.

Although Max never looked for trouble, he didn’t flinch from reality.

“It could be, sweetie. But, look at it this way. Isn’t it a lot more likely, given the circumstances, that anyone with a rational reason to kill Bledsoe might have the wit to mask a murder behind a facade of madness?”

“Just like
The ABC Murders.
So it still makes sense for me to try and talk to everyone here who knows Bledsoe.”

“Sure. Tomorrow.” Max slipped his arm around her shoulders as they reached the end of the pier.

Annie relaxed against him.

Suddenly, warm lips touched her cheek. “But for now … it’s getting ready to rain. Let’s go in.” The urgency in his voice had nothing to do with inclement weather.

Annie was eager, too, as Max unlocked their door. He took her hand, pulled her toward the bedroom, then Annie saw the blinking red message light on the phone.

She stopped, glanced at the light, and almost ignored it.

But she was co-chairman of the conference. It could be important

A
nnie waited impatiently for the elevator, her thoughts churning. Probably this visit would come to nothing. There were always a few nuts—harmless but weird—at any mystery conference. Though that name—James Bentley, James Bentley—seemed familiar. But she’d better check it out.

The elevator doors slowly parted.

Annie rushed in, punched the Close Door button, and the second floor button.

The information from the hotel message center was precise, if not especially revealing:
Message received: 10:49 p.m. To Annie Laurance Darling from James Bentley. I have some information of great interest to the sponsors of The Christie Caper. Please come to room 239 as soon as possible. Desire confidentiality.

Max had pointed out reasonably that Mr. Bentley could easily contact Annie in the daytime, that it was almost half past eleven, and why not let it go until morning?

Annie understood quite well that none of the above had anything whatsoever to do with Max’s desire to ignore Bentley until morning.

She’d grinned. “Love, it won’t take long. And that’s the price of serving as co-sponsor, on call, day or night. I’ll hurry.” Max was ready to come along, but she shook her head. What Bentley might divulge to one person, he might be unwilling to tell two. Confidentiality.

The elevator doors opened in their stately fashion, and Annie dashed into the hall—and almost barreled into Lady Gwendolyn.

To say she was surprised put it mildly.

Lady Gwendolyn’s suite, the grandest in the hotel, was down the hall from that of Annie and Max on the third floor. Moreover, after the end of their investigative session just before eleven, Lady Gwendolyn departed with Laurel to go down to the bar for a nightcap.

Annie was not only surprised, but suddenly she was tensely aware, just like Bridget Conway in
Easy To Kill,
that something was dreadfully, dangerously wrong.

It was clear from the old author’s alert, wary stance—and from the unopened umbrella that she gripped midway down the staff, the knobby walnut handle poised to serve as a weapon. She studied Annie intently for an instant, then returned to a careful perusal of the wall. “Help me look for the blood.”

The request, made quietly in Lady Gwendolyn’s light, civilized voice, chilled Annie.

Blood—

Then she saw it on the wall—a reddish smear level with her waist. If you hunted, the blood was readily visible, but a casual passerby would never notice the darkish stain against the rattan-colored paint.

“What can it mean?” Annie asked, her voice thin.

“Trouble,” came the crisp answer. “I’m afraid we may discover foul play. I’ve followed the markings from my suite.” Gripping her umbrella firmly, Lady Gwendolyn moved on down the hall.

Annie followed.

Given the nature of their preoccupation, it was disconcerting and made their search all the more surrealistic when a couple came out of room 221, laughing and talking, and passed by with a cheerful “Good evening.” Annie croaked, “Evening.”