The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [61]
At Paddington, Agatha took a taxi to Fetter Lane, got out and began to search up and down for Jeremy’s import/export business. She phoned Patrick and said, “Have you got the number in Fetter Lane of Laggat-Brown’s business?”
He gave it to her. Agatha walked along and saw, in a dark doorway that she had already passed, “Asterix Import/Export.” She climbed up a narrow, dusty staircase to the top floor, where there was a frosted glass door with “Asterix” painted on it in gold letters.
She knocked, but there was no reply.
She retreated to the landing below, where there was a sign on the door indicating it was the office of Cutie magazine.
She opened the door and went in. A receptionist with gelled hair and Gothic make-up stared at her indifferently.
“I want to ask about the import/export business upstairs,” said Agatha. “There’s no one there.”
“Hardly ever is,” said the girl laconically. “There was a secretary, but I ain’t seen her in ages.”
“What did she look like?”
“La-di-da. Yaw-yaw voice. Blonde hair. But they’re all blonde these days. So naff.” And she touched a finger to her own black hair complacently.
Agatha thanked her and retreated. She tried a solicitor’s office on the floor below. A secretary there said she thought no one worked at Asterix anymore. “There was a lot of coming and going a year ago,” she said. “Lot of visitors. But lately, there’s been nothing.”
Agatha then tried the sandwich shop on the ground floor, but the Greeks who ran it said they were too busy to notice anyone other than their customers.
She wanted to see Jeremy. She realized she wanted him to smile at her and tell her he had said nothing of the kind and it was all Catherine’s idea. Agatha had fallen a little in love with Jeremy. She went to a doorway across the street and waited and waited to see if he would arrive. At last, she glanced at her watch and realized that if she caught the five-o’clock commuter train, he might be on it.
She went to Paddington. But once she had boarded the train, one of the very long ones run by the Great Western Railway, she could see no sign of him.
Charles drifted in and out of sleep, and by evening decided he was feeling well enough to get up for a little.
Gustav tenderly helped him into his armchair in the study and poured him a brandy.
“I’ve prepared a light supper of roast quail for you,” said Gustav. “You should try to eat something. Are you sure you don’t want me to call a doctor?”
“No, it’s just a bad cold. Didn’t Agatha call?”
“There’s been no call from Mrs. Raisin.”
Selfish, thought Charles sulkily. She might have sent me flowers.
Agatha arrived home to find Bill Wong waiting outside for her. “Don’t be alarmed,” said Bill. “It’s a social call.”
“Come in,” urged Agatha, “We haven’t had a chance of a proper talk in ages.”
Bill followed her through to the kitchen. “You never use that dining room of yours.”
“If this case ever gets solved, I’ll give a dinner party. You can come and bring a girl.”
“I don’t have a girl at the moment. The work gets more and more, and if I set up a date I usually have to break it.”
“Coffee?”
“I suppose it’s safe now that Emma’s inside, but she won’t stand trial. She’s really flipped. They tried their best to get sense out of her. At one point she even tried to claim she’d hired Mulligan to bump you off, but then she relapsed into rambling incoherently. But of course, the powers that be want to believe her and get the case closed. Which leaves us with the shooting at the manor.”
“I went up to Jeremy Laggat-Brown’s office today,” said Agatha, plugging in the kettle. “Oh, Eve got some biscuits.” And seeing the look of apprehension on Bill’s face, she added, “No, not mine. Doris baked them.”
“PC Darren Boyd, the good-looking one who was on duty