The following morning Maria sat behind Charles’s desk and fielded the twentieth phone call that day. ‘The latest news is that Charles is in a serious but stable condition. No, he isn’t up to seeing visitors at the moment, but I will be in touch with all his clients just as soon as the situation changes. Thank you. Yes, I will. Certainly. Goodbye.’
She replaced the receiver and sighed. She had repeated the same tired words on at least a dozen occasions that morning, and with each rendition of his condition she grew ever more depressed. More than anything she wanted to visit Charles, sit by his bedside and simply hold his hand. The medical staff at the hospital had been adamant, however: absolutely no visitors were to be allowed until Mr Elder’s condition had changed for the better.
She glanced at the wall clock and was surprised to find that it was almost one. She had been working continually since nine that morning and now she was famished.
She was considering taking a break for lunch when the phone rang again. She took a deep breath, fixed a smile on her face – which she found always made her sound a little more cheerful, even if she were feeling dreadful – and said, ‘Hello, this is the Charles Elder Agency. Maria speaking …’
‘Maria, my dear.’
‘Amelia, how nice you called.’
‘I said I’d be in touch about meeting up. I suppose you’ve already eaten – but we could always meet for a drink, if you can tear yourself away from the office, that is.’
‘Actually I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time for lunch. I was just thinking of taking a break.’
‘Wonderful! I’m in Highgate, and there’s a wonderful little French place around the corner. Le Moulin Bleu.’
‘I know it. I’ll drive over and meet you there at … say one thirty?’
‘Delightful. And I have so much to tell you, Maria.’
‘Well, I heard from Donald about what happened at the castle.’
‘Oh, “Donald” is it, now? Are you two by any chance …?’ Amelia paused suggestively.
Maria laughed. ‘And I have a few things to tell you, too, Amelia,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ trilled Amelia, ‘how talk of romance cheers a dull day!’
Maria replaced the receiver and attended to her make-up, applied a little lipstick and was just about to step from the office when she saw, through the window overlooking the street, the unmistakable form of Gideon Martin striding across the road towards the agency. What a ridiculous little man he was, she thought with annoyance, with his thick, barrel-shaped chest thrust forward, his disproportionately short legs – and his big, lantern-jawed face and tiny eyes!
She swore to herself and ran, as fast as her high heels would allow, through the outer office to the door. She dropped the catch and sagged against the door with relief. Seconds later she heard the handle turn, followed by a sharp knocking.
‘Hello! Hello, Maria!’ His presumptuous summons filled the room.
Maria crept away from the door on tiptoe, cringing. She cursed the man and hoped he’d desist and leave sooner rather than later.
He knocked again, then rapped on the door with something more substantial than his knuckles – his pretentious swordstick, no doubt. He sounded as if he were intent on battering the door down.
‘Maria!’ The tattoo sounded again. ‘Maria, will you please open up!’ Was it her imagination, or did he sound a little drunk? ‘I have … have an important matter to discuss.’
And she could guess what that might be – his farcical infatuation with her, his ‘undying love’ … She felt a welling anger, and she almost ran to the door, snatched it open and told him to go to hell.
Seconds later, however, she heard the sound of his rapid footsteps beating a retreat down the steps. She moved to the window and, peeping out, saw Martin stride off down the pavement, aggressively swinging his swordstick.
She took a deep breath and wondered how long it might be before the coast would be clear. She gave it a couple of minutes, gathered her handbag, then slipped through the door. Her Sunbeam was parked directly outside the agency. Martin might still be lurking in the area, but if she ran to the car, ducked in and made a quick getaway …
She tapped down the steps at speed, unlocked the car door in record time, jumped in and started the engine. A glance in the wing-mirror satisfied her that he was not racing along the pavement in pursuit. She put the car into gear and eased it out into the quiet street, and seconds later she was bowling through the leafy environs of Pimlico with a growing sense of accomplishment.
Five minutes later she arrived at Highgate and pulled up outside Le Moulin Bleu. She looked at her watch: one twenty. Despite Gideon Martin’s importunate arrival, she was on time.
She swept into the restaurant, scanned the diners for Dame Amelia and, not seeing her, asked the maître d’ for a table for two.
She was escorted to a table at the back of the restaurant. She ordered a sparkling mineral water and scanned the menu. She normally only ever dined at expensive restaurants with her father, who always insisted on footing the bill, but she supposed that this was a special occasion as she only saw Dame Amelia once or twice a year.
A minute later she looked up as a shadow fell across the table, and expecting to see Dame Amelia she arranged her features in a smile.
Her smile froze, however, when she saw who was staring down at her, his face thunderous.
‘Why, Gideon … What are you doing—?’
‘I saw you leave … leave the agency,’ he said, his barrel torso thrust forward, his teeth showing, ‘after having ignored my summons.’ He swayed, reached out and steadied himself by clutching the back of a chair. ‘So I had my taxi follow you here!’
He pulled out the chair and sat down quickly – or rather slumped down. He was, she decided, very drunk. She looked around, ner-vously, to see if the other diners had noticed his inebriated arrival. To her relief they were absorbed in their meals.
He stared at her, resting one hand on his ridiculous swordstick.
She leaned forward and hissed, ‘What do you want, Gideon!’
His face, reddened with drink, seemed even larger than usual. His little piggy eyes were lachrymose. She prayed he wasn’t about to cause an even bigger scene.
‘I want,’ he said and hiccupped. ‘I want you to return my pistol!’
She sat back, relieved. She had feared he might pledge his undying devotion to her, and cause a ruckus when she spurned his entreaties.
‘Well,’ he said, swaying in his seat, ‘are you going … going to give it to me?’
She smiled sweetly. ‘I am afraid, Gideon, that I am not in the habit of carrying a weapon around in my handbag. And even if I were, I would hardly hand it over to you while you’re in your present condition.’
She sat back, pleased with her little peroration.
He blinked at her. ‘My … my present condition has little to do with it!’ he said. ‘I need the pistol!’
She could not resist the cruel taunt, ‘Whatever for, Gideon? Are you finally going to do the honourable thing and shoot yourself?’
‘Not myself, Maria. I intend to … to perforate …’ and he laughed at his fancy turn of phrase, ‘a blaggard or two at the Crime Club dinner this evening.’
Maria concealed her alarm and said, ‘Well, in that case I would certainly not give up the weapon, even if I were carrying it.’
He leaned forward, clutched the edge of the table, and slurred, ‘Please, the pistol. Drive me back to your place, trot up those steps like a good little thing, and just give me the blasted pistol!’
Her anger rising, Maria hissed, ‘Gideon, if you don’t leave now I shall call the maître d’ and request he summon the police. You’re making a damnable scene, and you’ll only be sorry when you sober up. Please, just muster whatever dignity you can summon and go.’
He regarded her with that glassy-eyed stare of the unfeasibly drunk, and she wondered if he’d comprehended a word of her request. At last he said, enunciating his words with exaggerated care, ‘I don’t think you quite understand, Maria. I’ve had enough. Enough! Do y’know … do you know – even the Crime Club barred my entry last year! Me! I’ve published … published enough in their grubby little genre to deserve membership … but no! Not me! So …’ He stared at her. ‘So I intend to ventilate a liver or two tonight – if not with my trusty but elusive pistol, then with this!’ And so saying he lofted his swordstick and swung it about his head.
This latest exhibition of his insobriety had alerted the attention of the diners. Heads turned and eyes goggled at Martin’s feeble imitation of a gyrocopter.
‘Gideon! For God’s sake just go!’
The maître d’ hurried to the table and said, ‘Madam, if this gentleman is causing you …’
‘He is just about to leave, aren’t you?’ she said.
To her surprise, Martin almost jumped to his feet. ‘I know when I am not welcome, Maria – and despite your refusal to give me the pistol, be in no doubt that my love for you is eternal.’ And, with this farcical avowal, and a ludicrous little bow, he turned on his heel and staggered from the restaurant.
She apologized to the maître d’ and said, ‘He was not my guest, I assure you. Ah …’ She raised a hand and waved as Dame Amelia appeared on the threshold.
Amelia swept through the restaurant, clutching Poirot to her bosom, her entry earning as many turned heads as had Martin’s exit. ‘My dear, but was that Gideon Martin I saw debouch with ill-grace from this establishment not seconds ago?’
‘I’m afraid so, Amelia. He followed me here from the agency.’
‘He did? But what did he want this time, my dear?’
The maître d’ eased the chair beneath Dame Amelia’s ample bottom and provided a cushion for the dog. Amelia settled Poirot on the third chair, then ordered a bottle of champagne. ‘And Thierry, a plate of chicken livers for Poirot, if you please.’
Maria said, ‘Would you believe, Amelia, that Martin wanted me to return his pistol?’
‘His pistol? Why, this gets juicier by the second! Do tell.’
They ordered grilled sole with asparagus, and Poirot tucked into the chicken livers. Maria recounted the contretemps at her flat a few nights ago. ‘The upshot was that I snatched the gun from his grip and tossed it across the room, and he left rather hastily. With his tail, I think the saying goes, firmly between his legs.’
‘Good for you,’ Amelia said. ‘But what on earth did he want with the gun today?’
‘Oh, nothing much. He just wanted to, and these are his own words, “perforate a few livers” at the Crime Club dinner this evening.’
‘In that case I’m delighted I shan’t be there,’ said Dame Amelia. ‘What a frightful little man. I take it you refused to give him what he wanted?’
‘Of course – so he said he’d run a few members through with his swordstick instead.’
‘Remarkable. The jackanape ought to be locked up. I say, this sole is rather exquisite, don’t you agree?’
‘Divine,’ Maria said. ‘But tell me about your encounter at the castle, Amelia. Donald said you and Poirot were a formidable double act.’
Amelia waved modestly. ‘If not for Donald and his friend, Maria, I might not be here to tell the tale. They arrived in the veritable nick of time.’
And Dame Amelia proceeded to recount – with embellishments and many witty asides – what had obviously been a rather terrifying ordeal. ‘And would you believe,’ she said, ‘that he had even brought a vast stone – he intended to tie it around my neck and pitch me into the moat! The cheek of it!’
Maria murmured her shock, but could not hide a smile at Amelia’s savoir faire.
‘But enough of that little escapade,’ she said. ‘Now, do tell me more about you and Donald. And before you start, I must say that he is a rather eligible catch, my dear.’
Maria tried not to blush. She shrugged. ‘Where to begin? I have admired Donald for many years. But Donald, being English and therefore reserved, he would not screw up his courage to ask me to dinner.’
‘Ah, the malaise of the English male,’ Amelia sighed. ‘But in that case how did you two …?’
Maria sipped her champagne. ‘We were thrown together, as it were, by the events of the past week – the blackmail of Charles and his subsequent shooting. It has been a terrible business, Amelia.’
‘Donald told me all about it. I rather think that someone in our dear little fraternity has it in for us. Donald told me that he, too, was on the “hit list” as he called it – though how I dislike that American term! He mentioned a clutch of soggy paperbacks … Quite the detective, your Donald.’
Open-mouthed, Maria stared at Dame Amelia for a second or two in absolute silence.
‘Maria? Maria, are you quite all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I … I think I have, Amelia,’ she said. ‘Oh, what a blind fool I’ve been,’ she whispered.
‘My girl, what’s come over you?’
‘The killer … the gunman. He’s short, portly, ginger – according to the description of the only person to have seen him.’
‘I don’t quite see …’
‘And the killer, he has a grudge, Donald told me, a grudge against those writers more successful than himself in the crime genre, and against agents and editors who might have slighted him in the past.’
She stopped, feeling alternately hot and cold as the realization dawned. She whispered, ‘Who do you think that description fits to a tee, Amelia?’
‘Why,’ Dame Amelia began, then fell silent and stared at Maria with a shocked expression. ‘You don’t think …?’
‘He fits the bill,’ Maria murmured, ‘and tonight, on his own admission, he intends to go to the Crime Club dinner and …’
Amelia reached out and clutched her hand. ‘You must contact Donald forthwith,’ she said, ‘and dessert can go to hell.’
‘There’s a phone box around the corner,’ Maria said. ‘I’ll phone the flat and see if he’s in. Do excuse me. I’ll leave some money …’ she went on, indicating her plate.
‘Nonsense, child! This meal is my pleasure. Now, go and ring Donald, and do keep me informed.’
Maria kissed Dame Amelia on her soft, powdery cheek, gathered her bag and hurried from the restaurant.
She found the phone box and rang her flat. The call tone rang out for a minute without reply. ‘Come on, come on … Oh, Donald, do please pick up the phone!’ She gave it another minute – which seemed like an hour – and was about to replace the receiver when the line clicked and Donald said, ‘Hello? Hello …?’
‘Donald. Oh, thank God you’re there.’
‘Maria? You sound terrible.’
She tried to order her thoughts. ‘Donald, I think I know who the killer is.’
‘What?’
‘Stay there. I can’t explain over the phone. I’m on my way!’
‘But Maria—’
She slammed down the receiver and ran back to the Sunbeam.
On the way to Kensington she went through the logic of her deductions, alternatively thinking it absurd that someone she knew should turn out to be the culprit, then assessing the evidence and realizing that in all likelihood Gideon Martin was indeed the guilty party.
She recalled the touch of his hand all those months ago, his kiss, and she felt physically sick.
She pulled up outside her flat and raced up the steps, unlocked the door and ran up the stairs to her apartment, almost tripping in her haste. Before she could fumble with the key, Donald pulled open the door and embraced her.
He led her into the lounge, sat her on the settee and knelt before her. ‘Now, Maria, what’s all this about the killer?’
She took a deep breath, her heart racing. She nodded, ordering her thoughts, and said, ‘Do you recall me describing an encounter with someone I knew last year, a man called Gideon Martin? He came here with a gun last week, threatening to shoot himself. He’s a failed writer and a little crazy …’
Donald looked incredulous. ‘And you think he’s the killer?’
She grasped his hands. ‘Listen to me, Donald. I saw him today. He followed me from the agency and confronted me in a restaurant. He demanded I return his pistol. He was drunk, a little mad. He said … he said he was going to the Crime Club dinner this evening and wanted to shoot …’
‘The dinner? My God, I’d forgotten all about it.’
‘In the end he left, but he’s threatening to attack diners with his swordstick.’
Donald nodded matter-of-factly. ‘Very well, but threatening to attack members of the club and actually killing …’
‘Donald! Listen to me! He fits the description of the motorcyclist – the man in the public baths described by that boy. He’s short, plump, ginger-complexioned and balding. And … and I know he hates Charles and Dame Amelia.’
‘But I thought …’ Donald began. ‘I mean, wasn’t he chasing after you?’
Maria blinked. ‘So …?’
‘So, the killer is the other way inclined. He used Kenny Wilson in the baths, remember?’
‘So,’ she said impatiently, ‘Martin must be bisexual – not that I ever suspected.’ She clutched his hand. ‘Donald, you’ve got to do something!’
He gave her hand a last squeeze, hurried across to the phone and dialled. He looked at her from the bureau and said, ‘I’ll contact Jeff Mallory.’
Maria nodded, sitting on the edge of the settee.
‘Hello, could you put me through to Detective Inspector Mallory? If you could tell him it’s Donald Langham.’
She sat with her fingers to her lips and watched him as he traced the scar on his forehead impatiently.
‘Jeff,’ Langham said, sitting up. ‘Developments. Long story, but Maria just had an encounter with someone who fits the killer’s description, and he’s threatening to attend the Crime Club dinner tonight.’
Donald listened, staring down at the rug and still fingering his scar. He nodded. ‘That’s right. The Albemarle Club, Pall Mall. It’s due to kick off at seven thirty.’
He was silent for a second, then looked across at Maria. ‘The man’s name – and do you know his address?’
She stood and crossed the room to him. ‘He is Gideon Martin. And his address … Let me think, let me think! He lives in Belsize Park, Victoria Street, but I can’t recall the number.’
Donald relayed the information to Mallory, then said, ‘Right-ho. Excellent. I’ll see you then.’
He replaced the receiver and looked up at her. ‘Jeff says you deserve a medal. He’s coming for me right away.’
They embraced. ‘Donald, do be careful.’
‘No heroics,’ he promised her. ‘Jeff said he’ll station people in the club and flood the area with plainclothes officers. I’ll be fine.’