Agatha's First Case (3 page)

A little voice of caution was telling her not to be a fool and to phone Jules Bar at eight and say she could not make it. She had allowed herself to be picked up. But Agatha was easily seduced by what she considered as posh.

So, at eight o' clock on the dot, she entered Jules Bar, found a table, and sat nervously waiting … and waiting.

Over in his home in Kensington, Colin cursed himself for having nearly forgotten his wife's dinner party. That little girl would be waiting in Jules Bar. Oh, well. Hard luck.

*   *   *

Agatha left the bar at eight-thirty feeling very young and vulnerable. She bought herself a sandwich and coffee before returning to the office and preparing for bed. She had found, to her relief, that the offices boasted a shower as well as a toilet. She fished two towels and a bar of soap out of one of her suitcases, showered, and finally rolled into bed. The airbed let out a sound like a loud fart. Agatha hoped the gods were not pronouncing judgement on one overambitious girl and then fell asleep.

II

The room in Wigmore Street set aside for the press conference was full to overflowing. Bertha sat nervously in an armchair facing them, her plump face lit up by the lights from the television cameras.

Bertha tried to speak and then burst into tears. Agatha handed her a box of tissues and hissed, “Pull yourself together!”

Bertha gulped and said in a weak voice, “I'm that ashamed. How I could believe that a fine man like my boss could murder anyone? He's forgiven me, and God bless him.”

“What was your opinion of the late Lady Teller?” asked a reporter.

Bertha popped on her glasses and peered down at a piece of paper on which Agatha had written out what she must say.

“I don't want to speak ill of the dead,” she said. “But she was something cruel. Always bitching and complaining and treating my boss like dirt. Hardly ever home in the evenings.”

Agatha immediately regretted writing that bit about “treating my boss like dirt.” Talk about broadcasting a motive!

Time to make the vultures really sit up and take notice.

“According to a reliable source,” she said, “Lady Teller frequented a lesbian club. But came on to men as well as women.”

“Which club?” shouted several voices.

“I will let you know when I have completed my enquiries,” said Agatha.

“Shouldn't you be leaving that to the police?” demanded a woman reporter.

“Why?” demanded Agatha. “So far, they have tunnel vision. I have not. That will be all, ladies and gentlemen.”

Ignoring further questions, she ushered Bertha from the room, followed by Freda, and then escaped into the downstairs toilet and burst into tears. Agatha was beginning to feel the strain. Underneath was the sensitive girl trying to match up to the hard exterior. She washed her face and carefully made up her face.

Freda was waiting anxiously outside with the business manager, George South.

“I've been to your office, Agatha,” he said. “We cannot go on holding press conferences here. I found a makeshift bed in one of the rooms. Why haven't you got a flat?”

“I was waiting until I earned enough to justify renting one near the office,” said Agatha.

“You could easily have drawn on the funds at your disposal. Anyway, here's the key to a flat in a property Bryce owns in Chelsea. I suggest you move there as quickly as possible.”

Agatha stammered out her thanks and then asked, “May I see Bryce?”

“He is in hospital for a checkup.”

“What's up with him?”

“That is for him to tell you.”

In New Scotland Yard, right after the midday news had broadcasted the press conference, Chief Superintendent Mike Topping summoned Chief Detective Inspector Jim Macdonald and Detective Sergeant Fred Baxter.

“What the hell have you two been playing at?” he roared. “You're letting a slip of a girl no one's ever heard of before run rings round you.”

Macdonald was a surly Scot. “It seemed a straightforward case,” he said. “We're damn sure the husband did it.”

“Get over to that Raisin girl's office and grill her. For a start, who is this source and what's the name of this damned club?”

*   *   *

As Freda and Agatha finished lunch, Freda said, “I have a feeling the police will be waiting for you at the office, Agatha.”

“Why?”

“That conference will have been screened on the midday news. They'll have a lot of questions for you.”

Agatha clutched her hair. “I never thought of that. I'd like to get to that club this evening first.”

“It might be a good time to look at your new flat,” said Freda.

“Good idea. I hope it's furnished.”

*   *   *

The flat was in a block in Sloane Square. The porter was expecting Agatha and told her the flat was on the second floor. They took the lift up. Agatha inserted the keys in the two locks and swung the door open.

The thickly carpeted narrow passage had rooms off it to the right and left. Agatha wandered through them in a daze. There was a sitting room, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, three bedrooms, and a toilet near the door for guests. It was fully furnished and fully equipped. Freda burst out laughing as Agatha executed three cartwheels down the corridor.

“I just hope all this doesn't fade like fairy gold,” said Agatha. “Where do you live, Freda? I've forgotten.”

“Out at Edgeware.”

“Rented?”

“Yes.”

“Why don't you move in here? Keep your own flat on in case you can't bear living with me. If it works out, you can live here rent free.”

She then ignored Freda's stammered thanks and said, “I daren't go back to the office to get clothes for tonight. I'd better hit the thrift shops and hope they've something glamorous.”

“Agatha, George is puzzled at your thrift. Go to Bond Street and buy some Armani or something.”

“Maybe.”

At ten o' clock that summer evening, Agatha paid off a cab in front of the Pink Lady. Two powerful-looking female bouncers were guarding the door. They looked Agatha up and down. She was wearing a very short, very low-cut gold spangled dress and high-heeled gold leather strapped sandals. She had shopped at a little boutique in Notting Hill, balking at the idea of wasting money. The one big expense was the shoulder-length blond wig on her head.

“Are you a member?” asked one of the bouncers.

“No, but I'd like to join,” said Agatha.

“Fifty pounds, and pay at the desk inside.”

They opened the door and ushered Agatha in. The club was in a basement. Agatha paid for her membership and walked down the stairs. Eyes turned in her direction. Women were dancing with women. Most of them looked glamorous. Dear me, thought Agatha cynically. Homosexual men looked after their appearances and were often handsome. Does being heterosexual mean being frumpy? Agatha went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. “My friend, Nigella, the one that was murdered, told me about this place,” said Agatha. “Have one yourself.”

“Thanks,” said the woman behind the bar. She looked as tough as the bouncers.

Agatha began to hope no one would recognise her from the television news and was glad she was wearing a wig.

“Nigella was frightfully keen on someone. She here tonight?”

“Hetty Clarkson was her latest squeeze. Over there in the white dress.”

Agatha twisted round on her bar stool. Hetty was tall and slim with long dark hair. Agatha thought she might be in her thirties. She stared at Agatha, who flashed her a radiant smile.

Hetty said something to her companion and then rose and joined Agatha at the bar. A revolving crystal ball on the ceiling sent sparks of light shining from Agatha's dress.

“Drink?” offered Agatha.

“I'll have a daiquiri.”

Agatha ordered it but decided to nurse her gin and tonic. “New in town, are you?” asked Hetty.

Agatha reverted to her old Birmingham accent. “Not long arrived from Birmingham. It's all so glamorous.”

“Which clubs did you go to in Birmingham?” Hetty asked.

“Didn't,” said Agatha. “Too scared. I lived with mum and dad, see? That's why I moved here.”

The music swung into “Strangers in the Night.” “Dance?” asked Hetty.

“In a mo,'” said Agatha.

“So, how did you hear about this club?”

“Advertisement in
Time Out
,” said Agatha, hoping desperately that the club had advertised in the magazine.

“I'm Hetty Clarkson. “What's your name?”

“Agatha Demer,” said Agatha, borrowing Freda's second name.

To her horror, the woman behind the bar said to Hetty, “She's a friend of Nigella's.”

Hetty had black eyes, the sort of eyes that do not reflect the owner's thoughts. “My, my,” she said, “and how did a little Brummie girl like you meet Nigella?”

Fear lent Agatha's imagination wings. “It was one of her husband's charity parties. I had an evening job as a waitress. Nigella and I got talking and she was so sympathetic and, after the party, she asked me to go to a bar with her for a drink. We ended up spending the night together. It was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me.”

“And the bitch never said a word to me,” hissed Hetty. “Said I was her one and only. Mind you, I found out that was a load of bollocks.”

“Are you sure?” asked Agatha, hoping the music would never stop because it was covering any noise that might be coming from the large tape recorder in her bag. “She was ever so sweet. A real lady.”

Hetty seemed to relax. “You
are
a little innocent, aren't you?” She put her hand on Agatha's knee. Agatha fought down a desire to run away.

“Now, we dance,” said Hetty.

But to Agatha's relief, the smoochy music stopped and The Village People began to belt

out “Y.M.C.A.” So Agatha was able to bop, sway, and dance a foot away from Hetty.

Hetty eyed up that young body and those long, long legs. When the dance was over, she said, “Too noisy here. Let's go back to my place.”

Agatha hesitated only a moment. “Okay.”

*   *   *

In an unmarked car outside the Pink Lady, detectives Macdonald and Baxter wondered what to do next. The bouncers had told them that they could not enter without a warrant. “We've been round three les clubs already,” moaned Macdonald.

“Here come a couple of them,” said Clarkson. “Hey, that blonde. Give me that photo of the Raisin girl.”

“Not good. We shot it off the telly.”

“I swear that's her in a blonde wig. Let's get her.”

“No,” said Clarkson. “Let's follow and see what the bitch is up to now.”

*   *   *

The taxi bearing Agatha and Hetty stopped at a block of flats in Victoria. Hetty led the way into a spacious flat decorated in the minimalist style with everything in black-and-white except for two large rubber plants in the sitting room and a large abstract painting on one wall.

Agatha had suffered a tongue down her throat in the cab. Her knowledge of sex was pretty limited, Jimmy Raisin belonging to the fumble, fumble, and pass out school unless sober, when it was wham, bang, snore. What did lesbians do? Maybe with any luck, just kiss and cuddle.

“I'm going to watch telly in the lounge,” said Hetty. “The kitchen's on the right. Fix me a brandy, there's a darling. The bottle's on the counter.”

I thought she would have a bar in her sitting room. And to think, I was told that “lounge” was common. Wonder where her money comes from.
With all this swirling in her head, Agatha reached for the brandy bottle and then stopped short. Lying on the counter was a round of cheese and beside it, a cheese cutter, a thin wire with two wooden handles.

“What's keeping you?” called Hetty.

“Can't find the glasses.”

“Bring the bottle. The glasses are in here.”

Agatha froze on the threshold. The room was dominated by a large television set, and, there on the screen was herself, facing the press.

Hetty bounded from the couch and snatched the wig from Agatha's head. Then she slapped her across the face. “Get out! You dirty little sneak!” she yelled.

Agatha dropped the brandy on the floor and fled. She rushed down the stairs and was nearly at the bottom when she was met by the porter. “It's something to do with you, miss,” he said, “Two men tried to get in, saying they were police. I asked them if they had a warrant and when they said no, I asked them to wait outside. Actually, they don't need a warrant to get in and knock on the door, but they said to call them when you were leaving. They wanted to go up to Mrs. Clarkson's apartment. There is a back way out of here.” He discreetly held out his hand. Agatha stuffed notes from her bag into it.

“Show me,” said Agatha.

He led her along a corridor and out into a yard filled with garbage bins. He took out a ring of keys and unlocked a high back gate. Agatha found herself out in a side road and by some miracle, a cab with its light on came cruising along. She hailed it and gave directions to her new flat. Agatha knew she should not avoid the police, but the days of her upbringing had made her terrified of them. Her father had been arrested many times for drunk and disorderly and her mother for shoplifting.

Before going to sleep, she phoned the Associated Press and dictated a statement that a Mrs. Hetty Clarkson had been the last person to see Lady Teller alive after leaving the Pink Lady club with her. It would be too late for the morning papers but radio and television would broadcast it.

*   *   *

In the morning, she pulled the clean clothes she had worn the day before out of the washer dryer and put them on. The soles of her feet throbbed, the result of wearing high heels the previous evening.

Freda came into the kitchen while Agatha was drinking coffee. Agatha thanked her for stocking up on groceries and told her to take the money out of the petty cash in the office and then wearily told her of her adventures.