The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [66]
“Wait a bit. Bill Wong told me he’d packed up his business. He says he hopes to remarry Catherine. She’s loaded. Now just suppose he wants her money without her. Perhaps the death threat to the daughter was a blind and he really meant to shoot his wife.”
“Aggie, it’s impossible to prove any of this.”
“Well, I’m going to Paris and I’m going to see Phyllis and get an introduction to the handsome drunk. If I can get him to say he impersonated Jeremy, then I’ve got him. In fact, I’m driving to Heathrow now.”
“I’m coming with you. What about Birmingham? It’s closer, easier to park, and they’ve got flights to Paris. Gustav? Pack a bag.”
Charles moaned the whole flight and clutched his head, complaining that his ears were bursting and saying they should have taken the train. “I should have known not to fly with a cold.”
Agatha largely ignored him because she was turning ideas over and over in her head. If they drew a blank, if Jeremy had not got someone to impersonate him, it would be a wasted trip. She edged Phyllis’s card out of her wallet. She should have phoned in advance.
Charles began to recover on the taxi ride to the hotel. They were going to stay at the same one as before. The sun was shining down on Paris, and as they neared the centre of the city, people were sitting out on the terraces in the sunlight.
At the hotel, Agatha was pleased to find that this time they could have a room each. She phoned Phyllis and was relieved to find her at home and asked if she would like to join them for lunch.
Phyllis said she was busy but could meet them for a coffee in the afternoon. Agatha suggested the Village Ronsard in Maubert where they had met before, and Phyllis said she would meet them at three o’clock.
“It’s only eleven,” said Agatha when she had hung up. “Let’s go and see if we can find Felicity.”
“You go,” groaned Charles. “I’m off to my room to lie down. Honestly, Aggie, I’m shattered.”
The old Agatha would have blasted him, called him a wimp, but the new Agatha was suddenly aware of the value of friends, so she said gruffly, “That’s all right. I’ll let you know how I get on.”
She unpacked her few belongings and then went out and took a cab to the Rue Saint-Honore. Once more she entered the salon.
The woman she had met before approached her, her dark eyes flicking up and down Agatha’s rather crumpled trouser suit. Agatha had two Armani trouser suits, but the one she was wearing was a cheap one she had bought in Evesham. She could almost feel the woman pricing it in her mind and then dismissing it and its owner.
“I am here to see Felicity Felliet,” said Agatha, suddenly wishing she had insisted that Charles come with her. Charles had a reasonable explanation for calling on Felicity, being a friend of her father, but Agatha had not.
But the woman said, “Mees Felicity is not with us. She left.”
“When?”
A little Gallic shrug and a spreading of the fingers. “Last week.”
“Have you an address for her in Paris?” “Wait. I look.”
Agatha waited and fretted. Her brilliant idea was beginning to seem more and more far-fetched.
The woman returned and handed Agatha a slip of paper. It gave an address in the Rue Madame.
Agatha again hailed a taxi and found herself once more being borne across the river, but this time to the Sixth Arrondisse-ment, near the impressive baroque church of Saint Sulpice.
She paid off the taxi and looked up at the tall building. It was one of those infuriating entry systems where you needed a code to get into the building.
There was a window at the side of the door. Hoping it was the concierge, Agatha rapped on it. The curtain twitched and a face looked out. After a few moments the door swung open. A small birdlike woman stood there with a pencil thrust through her frizzy hair.
“Miss Felliet?” asked Agatha.
“Numero dix-sept.”
Agatha looked at her in bewilderment. “I don’t understand French.”
The concierge retreated into her room off the hall and reappeared with a piece of paper of which she had written “17.” Then she pointed upwards.
Agatha went over to the lift, one