Queue here for murder, p.2
Queue Here For Murder, page 2
Smiling, Dorrie reclaimed her place in the queue, nodding ostentatious thanks to the young couple at the head of the queue to prove her right to take the place. She would even have nodded thanks to the man immediately in front of her, but he looked past her with a faint sneer, refusing to acknowledge her existence.
All right. Dorrie sniffed and turned away, busying herself with the process of wriggling back into the residual warmth of her sleeping-bag, pulling it up around her hips, propping the cushions against the wall so that she could sit up comfortably, and retrieving the hot-water bottle from her holdall and snuggling it into the small of her back.
Ah, that was better. With a faint sigh of satisfaction, she turned and smiled at the new arrivals. They regarded her solemnly, but did not seem unfriendly. Shy, poor things. Young people often were, however much they tried to pretend differently. Especially in front of their peers. But they needn't worry about her. Dorrie tried to project this information into the warmth of her smile.
It was up to her to take the initiative, though. She was their elder in years, as well as in the pecking order of the queue.
'Hello,' she said. 'Just arrived, have you?'
'Yes.' The girl bit the word off impatiently.
Well, of course, it was a silly question, but one had to start a conversation some way. She ought to be more tolerant. She ought also to toss the conversational ball back.
'We've got a long wait ahead of us.' Dorrie tried again. 'We might as well get acquainted. I'm Dorothy Witson— but everybody calls me Dorrie.'
The girl looked as though she would like to call her something else. What had she said to offend her? The girl wasn't the stand-offish sort, was she? How could she be and join a queue like this? Perhaps she had private problems—but that needn't keep her from being friendly.
The silence stretched on for another awkward moment, then the girl spoke slowly, almost reluctantly.
'My name is Lucy . . .' she said. 'Lucy Bone.' It was close enough.
The old trout was still staring at her. Was she supposed to volunteer anything more? Or had she given herself away in some way?
It couldn't all come to nothing so soon!
Lucy felt a wave of despair. The idea had seemed so good, so foolproof. Too late, she realized what was wrong with it.
Other people. She hadn't thought about them, hadn't taken them into consideration at all. They had been nothing more than a painted backdrop in her imagination. But they were alive, surrounding her—and curious.
Who was it who had said Hell is other people!
She was trapped among them for the next five days. Along with everything else, she now had to worry about them. Their eyes watching her, their minds weighing her up and assessing her, coming to some private opinion which might ruin the whole plan.
She felt Sakim's hand close gently on her ankle, steadying her. He was right. She mustn't go to pieces now. She drew a deep breath, becoming aware of a new disquiet. He had steadied her, but he had also underlined the fact that he was one more pair of eyes studying her . . . spying on her.
But the elderly woman ahead of her had begun speaking again. Asking another question. She frowned slightly, trying to catch up with the bit she had missed. What was she on about?
Oh yes. Yes, of course. The natural, the inevitable question. But those sharp blue eyes were disconcerting. How much did they see and register?
Uncomfortably, Lucy wriggled her foot, shaking off Sakim's hand. Had the woman noticed?
'The coat — ' she blurted quickly, trying to distract. 'The floor-length mink. It's such a bargain, isn't it? I — I've never done anything like this before. I — I'm sorry, I don't know the ropes at all. But it's such a bargain. So tempting. I simply couldn't resist it. So I came along and got into the queue really early.'
Oh no! Oh dear! Oh, how awful. How sad. The poor, poor child.
How could she break it to her? And had Mr Nasty heard?
A swift sideways glance convinced Dorrie that he had. His sneer was more pronounced than ever. And there was an extra degree of smugness in the self-satisfied air about him. It was just the sort of situation he thrived on—you could tell. It was going to be an extra delight to him to deprive a pretty young girl of her heart's desire, snatching it out from under her nose himself. He'd probably laugh as he did so.
This time, the silence on her part had stretched on for too long. She knew, too, that her face might have betrayed her —she never had been good at keeping a neutral expression. 'Dorrie, you've got a speaking face,' her dear old Mum had always said and it was the unfortunate truth. Already, the young girl — Lucy — was looking at her with apprehension, as though she sensed the blow that was to come.
'Oh my dear,' she said. 'I'm so sorry, so very sorry—'
'I—' He had heard, all right. He leaned forward now, crowding Dorrie back against the building to speak past her. 'I am here for the floor-length mink! And I am ahead of you! I will get it! It is mine!'
'Oh!' Lucy Bone shrank back. Well, naturally, she wasn't accustomed to manners like that. Who was? It was all very well to say that he was a foreigner, but that didn't excuse him. There was no need to behave like that.
'Excuse me—' As though to prove her point, the young man behind Lucy Bone leaned forward. 'I introduce myself, yes? I am Sakim —'
'Saki—?' Dorrie asked hesitantly. The rest of the name was unintelligible.
'Sakim is enough,' he said firmly, as though he had had long experience of the trouble English tongues had with his name. 'I am here to buy the much-reduced Persian carpet.' He smiled winningly. 'For my mother. It is a surprise for her.'
'How nice!' Dorrie beamed approvingly at him. Wasn't that just what she had been thinking? Some foreigners were really quite nice. And planning a surprise for his mother, too. How pleased she would be. It was a lovely carpet —if you liked them that ornate —and £75, down from £1800. Another of the real bargains that made Bonnard's Sales so much more spectacular than those of its competitors.
'She will be pleased, I believe.' Sakim smiled again and leaned back, obviously feeling that he had established his credentials, as, indeed, he had.
Lucy Bone was still looking stricken. Dorrie glanced at the man behind. Still sneering, he had dropped out of the conversation as abruptly as he had joined it. But he was still listening, she could tell that by the set of his head.
'Look, dear — ' Dorrie lowered her voice and edged closer to Lucy. 'You mustn't give up. It's early days yet. He may not have any staying power. I've seen people in these queues and they come early and brag about what they're after, but a few cold nights or a bit of rain or snow and they give up and go off. You can't tell. It wouldn't surprise me to find he was one of that sort. You just sit tight and keep hoping.'
'Thank you.' Lucy smiled wanly. 'I —I suppose it was silly of me to imagine I'd be the only one after a bargain like that. As I told you, I —I'm not used to this sort of thing. I've never done it before.'
She had not lowered her voice and there was a muffled snort from the man on the other side of Dorrie.
'Never you mind, dear.' Dorrie rummaged in her holdall and pulled out the Thermos flask. 'Have a nice cup of coffee with me and you'll feel better. You mustn't let it get you down. Just remember . . . "There's many a slip"
'I suppose so.' Lucy Bone seemed faintly cheered, perhaps at the immediate prospect of a cup of hot coffee. Dorrie wondered if she'd eaten a proper breakfast before leaving home that morning. These first-time queuers didn't realize the importance of food. Like an army marching on its stomach, a queue's stamina was derived as much from good solid food as from the anticipation of the bargains that awaited them at the end of their vigil.
The morning was growing brighter; that helped, too. Especially if there was going to be a bit of sun. Everything looked better in the sunlight. And soon the Bonnard's sales force would start clocking in and, not long after that, the customers. It was always cheerier with more people around. Even in a queue, you got bored with the limited company available, it was nice to sit back and watch the passing parade.
There was movement at the end of the street. A chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce turned into it smoothly and glided along towards Bonnard's.
'Here comes one of the big bods now,' Dorrie announced to the others. It was not her first time in a Bonnard's queue and she knew some of the executives by sight.
She turned back to Lucy, holding out the cup of coffee, but the girl had gone.
'Thank you — ' A wisp of blonde hair and the tip of a pert nose just showing at the opening of the girl's sleeping-bag. 'I —I don't think I want any coffee, after all. I'd rather try to get a bit of sleep. I —I had to get up so early this morning.'
'Best thing for you, I'm sure.' Dorrie began to drink the coffee herself. The girl would feel stronger and more hopeful after a little nap. They could put their heads together then and perhaps plot out a course of action. There were short cuts from one department to another inside Bonnard's that Mr Nasty probably didn't know anything about. There was plenty of time and the race wasn't always to the swift.
Lucy Bone ducked her head deep into the sleeping-bag, like a turtle disappearing into its shell, just as the Rolls-Royce slid past the main entrance to Bonnard's and turned the corner to pull to a halt at the Staff Entrance at the side.
CHAPTER 3
'I could always go back to New York,' Maggie Saunders said. 'That would solve all your problems.'
'It would solve nothing and you know it.' Lucien Bonnard sat down, putting the width of his desk between them. 'We've had a very pleasant holiday together, haven't we? Why do you want to spoil it now?'
'Very pleasant,' she mocked. 'With you jumping every time a telephone rang, even though no one knew where we were staying. And every time you thought I wasn't looking at you, you kept watching the door or staring out of the window. You make me feel like a jailer!'
'Maggie, I've said I'm sorry.'
'Oh God! No, Lucien, I'm sorry.' She perched on the end of his desk. He wished she wouldn't do that. 'It was all my fault. I shouldn't have dragged you away at a time like this.'
'No, no, Maggie, you were quite right.' He sighed heavily. 'I was sentimentalizing to think that she might want to get in touch with me at Christmas. As you pointed out, if she hadn't bothered to lift the telephone to speak to me over the past ten months —including my birthday and her birthday —it was unrealistic to expect her to do so just because it was Christmas.' His mouth twisted wryly. 'There wasn't even a card.'
'That's what I mean,' Maggie said. 'If I go, she'll come back.'
'Back to square one?' Lucien shook his head. 'As I said, that won't solve anything. She's nineteen. Another year, or two, or three —and she'll want to get married herself. She'll run off and leave me without a backward glance. Just as she has this time. Only, if you've already left me because of her, I'll be alone. And so will you. Is that your idea of a satisfactory solution?'
'No.' She slid off the desk and turned to face him squarely. 'Oh, Lucien! It's all such a mess when it ought to be so simple. You wife's been dead for six years. Who are we hurting? Why shouldn't we have some happiness together?'
'Why, indeed?' He gave the Gallic shrug he had cultivated, although he had been born and bred in England and the French ancestor who had founded Bonnard's had been his great-great-grandfather. 'Perhaps, since we are back at work after our little holiday, it would be best to concentrate on work.'
'All right.' She straightened her shoulders and Lucien recognized his mistake. Such a suggestion had been the red rag to the bull. (No, no, that was incorrect — anatomically as well as literally. But to say red rag to the cow' did not convey the right idea, apart from being most ungallant.) He had started another hare. Rabbit? Doe? He abandoned metaphors abruptly.
What he had started was another fight — and he was in the middle of it. Again. As usual.
'You're right.' She had brought a file folder into the office with her and she pulled some papers out of it, all business now.
'The queue for the Sale,' she said. 'It's forming already. When do we put out the photo call to the newspapers to come and take their pictures?'
'We do what we have always done in the past.' He frowned. She should have read the files and familiarized herself with the routine. 'We put out the photo call on New Year's Eve so that they can take the pictures when we serve champagne to the queue —and to the photographers and journalists. They will be expecting it then. It is what Bonnard's has always done.'
'What Bonnard's has always done!' The challenging note was back in her voice. 'The good old Victorian tradition. Don't you think it's time to drag Bonnard's, kicking and screaming though it may be, into the twentieth century? After all,' she pointed out, 'we're getting very close to the twenty-first century now.'
'There are still some years to go,' he said wearily. They had already been through this argument several times. 'And our Centenary Year is not the time to abandon tradition.'
'Bonnard's is just about the last store in London to hold their Sale in January. All the other stores start their sales the day after Boxing Day now.'
'We don't lose anything by it,' he said. 'People are willing to wait for Bonnard's Sale. The other sales are played out by the time ours starts.'
'That isn't the point,' she cut in impatiently. 'It's time Bonnard's caught up with modern merchandising methods. In New York — '
'In New York, the department stores now lock every door except their main entrance to try to cut down on the shoplifting losses. Is that the sort of lead you wish Bonnard's to follow?'
'You know it's not, although it wouldn't do any harm to — ' She broke off, realizing that he was no longer listening.
He was remembering. They had flown to New York in the spring for the dual purpose of attending the wedding of Maggie's younger brother, which would provide an excellent opportunity of introducing him to the family and intimating their own eventual intentions, and business. The secondary purpose, of course, was to study the current methods of American merchandising and acquire any suitable luxury merchandise for Bonnard's to introduce to the Great British Public.
Lucien Bonnard had still not quite recovered from that trip. Maggie's family had been so unexpectedly daunting.
The younger ones so tall and so alarmingly self-possessed. Was it really just the American way or had he gone terribly wrong in the way he had tried to bring up his daughter? The elder members of the family had been kind, polite and self-satisfied. None of them had more than a vague idea of who he was, nor had they ever really heard of Bonnard's.
The New York department stores had been even more alarming. The plague of shoplifting in London, bad though it was, had not yet reached the pandemic proportions New York was experiencing. The horror stories were appalling, even when they were faintly funny. Despite a watchful staff, store detectives and locked doors, how had someone managed to strip a heavy double bedspread from the double bed in a furniture display and smuggle it out past the guards at the entrance?
Not funny at all had been the constant scenes erupting in nearly every shop. The first time it had happened, Lucien had been shocked nearly speechless.
He had been at a jewellery counter, looking for a trifle to buy for Maggie, when the screaming and shouting had started at the far end of the floor. Some of the customers wheeled about and rushed towards the scene of the excitement, others moved away from it. The girl on the counter met his questioning gaze.
'Somebody caught shoplifting,' she explained. 'They think if they yell loud enough, we'll let them go.' She gave a bored shrug. 'It doesn't work.'
He hadn't realized that New York store detectives accosted their suspects while still in the store, but it made sense. Once outside, the streets were so crowded that an agile thief might easily escape by dodging out into the traffic; the less agile could repeat the hysterical shouting they specialized in and perhaps draw some unwary Samaritans into the argument and escape while the store detective was being distracted. It was more than possible, also, that American laws operated differently and —
He had realized abruptly that his salesgirl, although still politely smiling, was watching his hands carefully. She suspected him! She actually thought that he might be in league with the person creating the disturbance, ready to snatch the jewellery that had been taken out of the case and run.
He had to fight down an impulse to bring out his credentials and explain who he was, perhaps even to offer her a job in London. Instead, he had bought more than he had intended: a peridot brooch for Maggie, an aquamarine ring for his daughter.
But Lucien Bonnard had been more shaken by the incident than he had realized. He remained shaken now. Somehow, over the past two years, all the quiet assumptions upon which his life had been based had been quietly eroded. Some latent instinct for survival deep within him had begun signalling that he must rebuild ... or die.
'All right.' Maggie had been scribbling notations to herself on some of the papers. 'We'll get the photographers round tonight. Then what? What about the mechanics of Opening Day? Do we give them chits attesting to their place in the queue and send them home after the photographers have gone?'
'Certainly not!' Lucien was shocked. 'They enjoy the queue. Sometimes I think they enjoy the queue as much as the bargains. Go out and look at them and you'll understand. It's— it's — '
'I know,' she interrupted him. 'It's an English thing!'
'Precisely.' He smiled wryly.
'Which I couldn't possibly be expected to comprehend.'
'I didn't say that.'
'You were thinking it!'
'That's too much!' He made another of the mannered Gallic gestures that had, by now, become a part of him, an abrupt scissors motion of both hands. 'I refuse to be held accountable for what you think I'm thinking!'
'Oh, Lucien!' Abruptly she began to laugh. 'Listen to us! We sound like a couple of kids!'
