The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [67]
There was one door with a bell-push beside it. Agatha rang the bell. She heard sounds of movement inside. Then the door was opened and a tall bespectacled man stood there.
“Can I help you?” he asked. The accent was American.
“I’m looking for Felicity Felliet.”
“No one here of that name, but I’ve only just moved in. Come in.”
Agatha walked in and looked around. There were packing cases everywhere. French windows opened out onto a balcony and a view of the rooftops of Paris.
He went over to a desk. “I’ve got the name of the estate agent here. Maybe if you tried them you could find out where she has gone. I never saw her but I assume she must have been the previous tenant. I was lucky to get a place with an elevator. The higher you go, the cheaper it gets and even cheaper if there isn’t an elevator, but I didn’t fancy carrying everything up miles of stairs.”
“How far from here is this estate agent?”
“Turn left as you go out and walk straight down to Saint Germain and then turn right. It’s about one block along.”
Agatha thanked him and creaked down in the maddeningly slow lift. She spent some time figuring out how to open the street door. She knocked at the concierge’s door but there was no reply. Then she saw a button under the light switch and pressed it. The door gave a click and Agatha pulled it open. As it was one of those enormous carved wooden doors they have in buildings in Paris, she had to use both hands.
She turned left and walked, stopping occasionally to ask people for directions by simply saying, “Saint Germain?” and following where they pointed.
At the estate agent’s, there was a wait while the people in the front office went through to the back to find someone who spoke English.
A neat little Frenchman appeared and listened courteously, his head cocked to one side like a sparrow, while she asked if he knew the whereabouts of Felicity Felliet.
“Her lease was up last week,” he said, “and she said she did not want to renew it. She said she was returning to England.”
So that’s a dead end, thought Agatha. She’s probably back with her parents.
By the time Agatha and Charles met Phyllis, Agatha was beginning to feel her whole idea was ridiculous. But Phyllis listened eagerly, exclaiming that it all sounded very exciting. “What is this Jeremy Laggat-Brown like?” she asked.
“He is well-built with a tanned face, very bright blue eyes and thick curly white hair.”
“There’s someone like that who goes to meetings. Jean-Paul. He came off the streets and looked a mess, but after he sobered up, he didn’t look at all like the same person.”
“Could we meet him?”
“Actually I have his phone number.” Phyllis took out her mobile and dialled and then proceeded to speak in French. When she rang off, she said triumphantly, “He lives near here and is coming to join us. He won’t be long.”
Agatha began to feel excited. Oh, please let this Jean-Paul be the spitting image of Jeremy.
Ten minutes later, Phyllis exclaimed, “Here he is.”
Agatha swung round in her chair and her heart sank. Jean-Paul had white hair streaked with grey and his eyes were blue-grey. He was tall but had a stoop. But his main feature was a very large, very prominent nose.
He joined them and listened carefully while Charles and Phyllis, speaking in French, explained what they were looking for. Agatha sat in frustrated silence, privately vowing to take French lessons as soon as this wretched case was over. If ever.
Charles said, “It’s certainly not him and he can’t think of anyone it might be.”
Agatha’s heart sank. The police would be looking for her because she hadn’t turned up to give a statement. If they checked the airports, they would find she had left