The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [110]
Annie shuddered at the grimness of her tone.
AGATHA CHRISTIE TITLE CLUE
Frankie crashes the car,
But that doesn’t get her very far.
She was a hapless egg in a blender, being whipped around and around. She burrowed deeper into the pillow, but the shaking continued. She had been enjoying a lovely dream, a stroll through a Godiva factory. The smell of chocolate permeated the air, thicker than attar of roses. She wanted to go back to that wonderful aroma. She didn’t like being an egg. Who could possibly like being an egg? Beaten. Discriminated against. Certainly not treasured for scent. The dream segued into a Fourth of July sequence, exploding fireworks and the acrid smell of smoke—
“Annie, Annie, wake up!” She was being pulled roughly out of bed.
The pop-pop-pop! of fireworks continued.
As Max swept her off her feet and into his arms, she came thrashing to wakefulness. Her nose wrinkled at the sulfurous odor.
“Fire,” he said grimly. As he spoke, another flurry of pops sounded, then were overborne by the piercing shrill of a fire alarm. Max kept a tight grip on her elbow and hustled her toward the bathroom. Inside, he yanked down towels with one hand, held to her with the other.
Annie wriggled free. “I’m awake.” She pushed the light switch. No light.
“Great,” she muttered. A sopping towel was thrust into her arms.
“Hold on to my shorts,” Max ordered. “Stay down. We’ll try the door.”
It was blindman’s bluff with a vengeance and darker than the shades of hell (one of Annie’s favorite mental images—she could just see gray forms writhing in a stygian dark). Max swore when he bumped into the wrought-iron railing that separated the foyer from the living area.
“The door isn’t hot,” he announced. “That’s a good sign.”
But when he edged it open, a stinging cloud of smoke wafted in. He slammed the door shut.
“We’d better try the balcony.”
By the time they reached the balcony, the scent of smoke seemed lighter. Cries for help echoed in the night. “Stay right here.” Max shouted to be heard over the cacophony of sounds, sirens, cries, calls for help, and the continuing sputter of firecrackers. “I want to see if Laurel’s okay,” and he turned right.
She still clung to his shorts, “I’ll come, too,” she yelled.
“Annie, Max, my dears—” The voice sounded almost beside them, husky, disembodied. A beam of light from a small flash shone from the adjoining balcony. It settled briefly on Annie, who was wearing a very see-through shorty nightgown, leapt discreetly to Max. “Such excitement. Why, it reminds me of the fireworks at Cannes. I met such a darling young man there—Georges—the fireworks blazing in the night sky in accompaniment to—” a pause—“oh, look, here are the lights.”
They came on in abundance.
Annie had a confused picture of the scene.
In the courtyard below, hotel guests stopped in midflight to look up fearfully.
Guests in assorted kinds of sleepwear, clutching wet towels, crowded to the edge of their balconies on the upper floors.
The night manager, the only person fully dressed, clashed into the courtyard, shouting, “False alarm! False alarm! No fire! Remain in your rooms!”
“There’s smoke in the hall!” screeched a woman from a balcony near theirs.
The manager, panting, yelled, “Vandals. Vandals. Smoke bombs. No danger. Stay in your rooms!”
Another siren pierced the air.
The manager lifted his hands. “The