The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [75]
“In due time, my dear. I never ignore a challenge. Someone wants to involve me in this malfeasance. You and I are much too late to help the victim—if there is a victim. And, at this point, I don’t expect peril for us. Had there been danger, it would have awaited me in my suite. So, let’s play out the hand.” She sniffed. “Someone has cleverly intended me to be the scapegoat in this devious plan … well, we’ll see about that. I may be old, but I am not—as you Yanks say—a patsy.”
The door to room 239 was ajar.
Lady Gwendolyn poked the tip of the umbrella against the panel.
Slowly, the door swung in.
“Oh, my God.” Annie heard her own voice, high and strange.
The old author merely stood there, those brilliant blue eyes absorbing the hideous scene.
A young man’s body lay facedown on the pale carpet. A wide scarlet wound curved round the back of his head.
The murder weapon was propped against his hip.
An unusual weapon, shaped like an adz. Although blood clotted along its sharp cutting edge, crimson and blue ornamental stones could be glimpsed in the handle. Made of brass, it was topped by a cocky ornamental brass bird.
“How curious,” Lady Gwendolyn observed thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen a sugar cutter before—but I recognized it instantly.”
Annie stared at the bloody weapon. Sugar cutter. Sugar cutter!
Frank Saulter loped up the hallway. The chief stopped at the open door, looked past Annie and Lady Gwendolyn. For an instant, the usual policeman’s mask of imperturbability slipped. Astonishment made his face look young and vulnerable, then, once again, the mask returned and he was impassive.
“Have you touched anything?” he asked crisply.
“No, of course not” Annie had hurried downstairs to the desk to make the call, and then quickly returned, to find Lady Gwendolyn still in the doorway. But she couldn’t help noticing that her famed companion made no response.
A cluster of curious onlookers was gathering in the hallway. Annie saw a bellhop exit from the elevator, take in the scene, and step quickly back into the elevator. She started to say something, but Saulter interrupted.
“All right. If you’ll both return to your rooms—”
Briskly, Lady Gwendolyn succinctly outlined the condition of her room.
Saulter tensed. “You say there’s blood on a cape. Your cape?”
Annie intervened. “Now, Frank, it’s obvious that—”
“Nothing’s obvious, Annie. All right then.” He looked grimly at Annie. “If you and Lady Gwendolyn will go to your suite and wait there …” It was nicely phrased. But it was a command.
To say that there was instant antipathy would be to understate.
It was, as Max said later, a glorious effusion of hostile vibrations unequaled since critics attacked The Murder of Roger Ackroyd as basically unfair to readers.
Perhaps it was because Lady Gwendolyn eyed Circuit Solicitor Brice Willard Posey upon their introduction with all the enthusiasm of Hercule Poirot confronting a cold draft.
The famous author glanced inquiringly at Annie. “I say, I understood Inspector Saulter to be the man in charge. He’s a sensible chap.”
That tears it, Annie thought.
And it did.
Posey drew himself up to his full six feet four inches, which was an effort because he was barrel-chested, and glared down at the diminutive writer.
As always, Posey was immaculately dressed, a navy blue suit (taut against his girth) and blue shirt (best for television) and smelled strongly of cinnamon aftershave. “I, madam, am a circuit solicitor for the great state of South Carolina, and I am taking charge of this homicide investigation.” His watery blue eyes bulged as he smugly surveyed the room.
It must have been extremely disappointing to his massive ego when he realized his audience consisted merely of Lady Gwendolyn, Annie, and Max, none of whom responded with the anticipated respect.
Posey’s glance grew chilly. He flipped open the little notebook in his hand. His mellifluous voice became considerably less mellifluous. “You, madam, are Mrs. Gwendolyn Tompkins of Maidstone, Kent, England?