The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [74]
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.”
The smears appeared every few feet. The farther they went down the hall, the larger and wetter the splotches.
Lady Gwendolyn stopped to study each one, her face expressionless. “When I came upstairs from the bar, I found the door to my suite open—and I smelled blood. It’s such an identifiable odor.”
Annie suppressed a shudder.
“It was obvious, of course, that something bad was afoot I pushed open the door and switched on the light.” The bright blue eyes paused on another smear, then moved ahead. “I found my cape—I do enjoy capes, they are so comfortable for travel—crumpled just inside the door—and massively stained. I found my response interesting, psychologically. Outrage, followed by fear. It’s quite a comeuppance, you know, to realize you are the target of malevolence. That, of course, at the very least. Malevolence and, no doubt, the unmistakable intention to embroil me in a sticky wicket. After all, how could I hope to explain the presence of blood on my cape? But the situation, surely a bizarre one, dictated I should quickly report to your authorities. I stepped back into the hall, intending to go downstairs and alert the desk, when I saw more smears. I began following them. So here I am.”
Her light, clear voice betrayed no fear. In fact, Annie was sure she detected a vibrant note of exhilaration.
“And you, dear?” Was there just a hint of reservation in her query? But surely that was understandable.
“I got a message asking me to come to room two thirty-nine. From James Bentley. He said he had important information for the sponsors of The Christie Caper.”
“Hmm. So that’s where we’re going.” Lady Gwendolyn picked up speed, brandishing her umbrella.
Annie took a deep breath, then gripped a plump arm. “Lady