The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [4]
She began to despair. The applicants were very young and all seemed to be decorated with various piercings and tattoos.
Agatha was just wondering whether she should try to do any secretarial work herself when there came a knock at the door of the office. The door did not have a pane of frosted glass, which Agatha would have found more in keeping with the old-fashioned idea she had of detective agencies.
“Come in,” she shouted, wondering if this could be her first client.
A very tall, thin woman entered. She had thick grey hair, cut short, a long thin face and sharp brown eyes. Her teeth were very large and strong. Her hands and feet were very large, the feet encased in sturdy walking shoes, and the hands were ringless. She was wearing a tweed suit which looked as if she had had it for years.
“Please sit down,” said Agatha. “May I offer you some tea? Coffee?”
“Coffee, please. Two sugars, no milk.”
Agatha went over to the new coffee machine and poured a mug, added two spoonfuls of sugar and placed it on the desk in front of what she hopefully thought was her first client.
Agatha was a well-preserved woman in her early fifties with short, shining brown hair, a good mouth and small bearlike eyes which looked suspiciously out at the world. Her figure was stocky, but her legs were her finest feature.
“I am Mrs. Emma Comfrey.”
Agatha wondered for a moment why the name was familiar and then she remembered that Mrs. Comfrey was her new neighbour.
Agatha found it hard to smile spontaneously but she bared her teeth in what she hoped was a friendly welcome. “And what is your problem?”
“I saw your advertisement in the newspapers. For a secretary. I am applying for the job.”
Mrs. Comfrey’s voice was clear, well-enunciated, upper-class. Agatha’s working-class soul gave a brief twinge and she said harshly, “I would expect any secretary to help with the detective side if necessary. For that I would need someone young and active.”
Her eyes bored into Mrs. Comfrey’s thin face and flicked down her long figure.
“I am obviously not young,” said Mrs. Comfrey, “but I am active, computer-literate, and have a pleasant phone manner which you might find helps.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixty-seven.”
“Dear God.”
“But very intelligent,” said Mrs. Comfrey.
Agatha sighed, and was about to tell her to get lost when there came a timid knock at the door.
“Come in,” called Agatha.
A harassed-looking woman entered. “I need a detective,” she said.
Mrs. Comfrey took her coffee and moved over to a sofa at the side of the office.
Vowing to get nd of Emma as soon as they were alone again, Agatha asked, “What can I do for you?”
“My Bertie has been missing for a whole day now.”
“How old is Bertie?”
“Seven.”
“Have you been to the police? Silly question. Of course you must have been to the police.”
“They weren’t interested,” she wailed. She was wearing black leggings and a faded black T-shirt. Her hair was blonde but showing dark at the roots. “My name is Mrs. Evans.”
“I fail to see …” Agatha was beginning when Emma said, “Bertie is your cat, isn’t he?”
Mrs. Evans swung round.
“Oh, yes. And he’s never run away before.”
“Do you have a photograph?” asked Emma.
Mrs. Evans fumbled in a battered handbag and took out a little stack of photographs. “That’s the best one,” she said, standing up and handing a photograph of a black-and-white cat to Emma. “It was taken in our garden.”
She sat down beside Emma, who put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry. We’ll find your cat.”
“How much will it cost?” asked Mrs. Evans.
Agatha had a list of charges but that list did not include finding stray cats.
“Fifty pounds plus expenses if we find him,” said Emma. “I am Mrs. Raisin’s secretary. If you will just give me your full name and address and telephone number.”
Numbly Agatha handed Emma a notebook. Emma wrote down the particulars.
“Now, you go on home,” said Emma, helping her to her feet, “and don’t worry about a thing. If Bertie can be found, we’ll find him.”
When the door closed behind a grateful Mrs. Evans, Agatha said, “You