The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [2]
Agatha blamed the hairdresser. A Parisian hairdresser had told her that there was no crime around Maubert because of the huge commissariat. So Agatha took the Métro back to Maubert, darted up the escalator and demanded directions to the commissariat. She was told it was just round the corner.
It was an ugly modern building with steep steps up to the main entrance. Dripping with sweat and bad temper, Agatha erupted into the entrance hall. There was a very beautiful girl with long dark hair sitting behind bulletproof glass.
Agatha poured out her tale of the mugging, expecting to be shown to some detective’s room immediately, but the girl began to interview her. Agatha thought sourly that someone so young and attractive should give way to someone with a bit more authority.
She was fortunate in that she had only had sixty euros in her wallet and that she had left her credit cards in the hotel safe. Her passport was in another compartment of her bag.
After she had been interviewed and had handed over her passport, she was told to take a seat and wait.
“Why don’t you have air-conditioning in this place?” she grumbled, but the beautiful girl merely smiled at her benignly.
At last a tall policeman came out and led her into a side room. He sat down behind a desk and waved her into a chair opposite. He looked like those illustrations of Don Quixote of La Mancha. Once more, she described the mugger in detail, ending with “Paris is crawling with gendarmes. Why don’t you get down the Metro and catch thieves?”
“We do, every day,” he said calmly in perfect English.
“I myself am a detective,” said Agatha grandly.
“Indeed!” said Don Quixote, showing a glimmer of interest. “To which police station in England are you attached?”
“I’m not. I mean, I’m going to open my own detective agency.”
The flicker of interest died. “Wait here,” he said.
There was a mirror behind his desk. Agatha rose and stared at her face in it. She was bright red with heat and her normally glossy brown hair was damp and limp.
Agatha sat down again as he re-entered the room with a typed letter for her to sign. All in French.
“What’s this about?” demanded Agatha.
“It is for your insurance and states that if we catch him, he will receive three years in prison and a fine of three thousand euros. If we find your wallet it will be sent to the British Embassy. Sign here.”
Agatha signed.
“That will be all.”
“Wait a minute. What about mug shots?”
“Please?”
“Photographs of criminals. I’d know that bastard anywhere.”
“Three other people have had goods stolen this morning by the same man. They are French. There is no need for your services.”
Wrathfully, Agatha got to her feet. “I could do a better job than you any day.”
He gave a faint, uninterested sort of smile. “Then I wish you luck.”
Agatha went straight back to her hotel and checked out. She was going home and she was going to start her own detective agency. She had been dithering about it for weeks, but the theft of her wallet had left her with a feeling of not being in charge of events. Agatha Raisin liked to be in charge of everything.
At Charles de Gaulle Airport, she was just heading for the gate but ran into a crowd of people being held back by police. “What’s happening?” she asked a man next to her.
“Someone’s left a suitcase or package unattended.”
Agatha waited, fuming. Then there was a huge blast. From the chatter around her, she gathered that they had blown up whatever it was with a controlled explosion. At Heathrow or other airports they might appeal to the owners to come and claim their suitcase or package, but in France it seemed that they just went ahead and blew it up.
As Agatha drove from Heathrow, black clouds began to pile up in the sky and by the time she turned down the road to Carsely, the countryside was rocking and rolling under