Queue here for murder, p.5
Queue Here For Murder, page 5
'Oooh!' Dorrie giggled as the tray of champagne glasses was held before her. 'I'm not really sure that I ought to. I mean, how does champagne mix with everything else we've been drinking tonight?'
'Magnificently, dear lady!' Zoltan's glass swooped aloft, amazingly not spilling a drop. 'It is legend that champagne mixes with everything.'
'Well, then.' She allowed herself to be persuaded and took a glass from the tray.
'In any case, it does not matter,' Zoltan added. 'Bonnard's does not open on New Year's Day. We shall be able to rest undisturbed in the morning.'
'The staff work,' Lucy Bone said unexpectedly. 'It's one of their busiest days. They get most of the ticketing done for the Sale.' She sipped at her champagne, swamped by a wave of nostalgia. It was one of the busiest days, but also one of the happiest. Without any customers underfoot, the Bonnard's staff worked as a joyous laughing team. They were paid overtime for working on that day and the canteen did an extra special meal; wine was served with the compliments of the Bonnard family and the aisles rang with jokes and laughter while everyone worked at top speed to prepare for the Sale.
'As I said — ' Zoltan gave a shrug, dismissing the staff as negligible. 'They will use the service entrance. We shall not be disturbed.'
'Of course, the service entrance.' Instinctively, Lucy Bone's hand crept to the chain around her neck and the key suspended from it —the most exclusive latch key in town. She was abruptly aware of Sakim's warning growl and dropped her hand quickly.
'This way, people!' A blast of light exploded in their faces.
'That's fine. Let's have another one, please. Raise your glasses — ' Another flashbulb set them blinking, yellow and blue lights dotting their vision even when they closed their eyes.
Lucy Bone flinched and turned away. There had been other photographers earlier, but she and Sakim had seen them coming and managed to escape. They had been from the newspapers obviously bent on faking the New Year's Toast pictures so that they wouldn't have to interrupt their own festivities by coming out in the cold at the proper time. It had been easy to evade them and then to outwait them. They had delayed for a short time, hoping the missing queue members would return, but eventually had given up and had the others close up so that it could not be noticed that not everyone was there.
Dorrie had been sympathetic when they had returned. 'You missed having your picture taken,' she told Lucy. 'A shame. Your mother would have enjoyed seeing you in the paper.'
'My mother's dead,' Lucy had said shortly.
'Oh, I'm sorry — '
'It's all right. It was years ago.' But Lucy felt the tears rising behind her eyes. It was not all right. It never had been. It never would be.'
'I didn't let anyone mention anything about you.' Curiously, Dorrie seemed to understand. She wasn't a bad old duck.
'I thought it would be better not. If the newspapers heard that you were after the same thing as him — ' She had jerked her head towards Zoltan. Well, they'd have played it up, wouldn't they? They always do. And we don't want that. Least said, soonest mended — ' She gave an oddly rakish wink. 'You can't tell what will happen until it's all over. He might give up and go home. If we get a cold snap. Or something—'
Instead of being irritated, as she might have expected, Lucy found herself curiously comforted. The old duck didn't understand a thing—how could she? —but there was so much sheer good will emanating from her that it was impossible not to feel it and, however unwilling, respond.
'Thank you.' She had returned the smile. 'I —I'd have hated to have the newspapers make a thing of this.'
'No, no! This way! Look this way!' The 'Please' was added as an afterthought. 'You don't want to ruin the picture, do you?'
That was precisely what she did want. Under cover of being obliging, Lucy swivelled rapidly just as the flashbulb exploded. That ought to produce a nice unidentifiable blur.
'Let's try again, shall we?' The photographer pleaded, with nerve-grinding patience. 'That was probably okay, but let's try it one more time. For good luck.'
'You got that, did you?' Tony Adair moved forward with professional interest. 'What are you using?'
'Ah — ' The photographer expanded, recognizing a fellow enthusiast. 'I'm using a setting of—' His voice dropped, he held out his camera for inspection, the two men lapsed into incomprehensible jargon as the camera was passed back and forth between them.
Wisely, the St Edmund's people recharged the champagne glasses.
'There go the bells!' Dorrie remained alert. 'It's midnight! Happy New Year!'
'Happy New Year!' Automatically they raised glasses to each other as the bells chimed out the hour.
The lightning flash caught them by surprise. They had almost forgotten the photographer, assuming him to be too preoccupied to take a picture at that moment.
'That's great,' he encouraged them. 'Let's have one last one now—just to make sure.'
'Excuse me.' Zoltan frowned at him. 'But I did not catch the name of your newspaper. It is a national one? These pictures will appear —where?'
'Oh, er . . .' For the first time, the photographer appeared embarrassed, diminished somehow. 'I'm not with a paper. Not just now. I'm with Bonnard's. The Publicity Department. These pictures are mainly for our records. Although, of course, we'll send them out with captions for our next Press Release on the Sale. But I couldn't tell you which papers might pick them up and use them. Perhaps all of them,' he added unconvincingly.
'And perhaps not!' Zoltan drained his glass, replaced it on the waiting tray, and sat down with an air of finality.
'Oh now, don't be like that,' Dorrie said, annoyed. You might just know he'd turn sulky if he thought he wasn't getting the right sort of attention.
'Come on, now— Should auld acquaintance be forgot. . .' With horror, she heard her unsteady treble rise into the night. Oh dear, she had had too much. No two ways about it —
'And never brought to mind . . .' But the others didn't seem to mind. In fact, they seemed quite glad someone had started the singing. They linked hands and, between them, Dorrie and Tim jerked Zoltan to his feet to join in the chain.
'Should auld acquaintance be forgot . . .' Lucy was abruptly aware that Tony Adair had pushed in between her and Sakim and was holding her hand. Sakim would be infuriated. She'd have to pay for that later —even though it wasn't her fault. She tried to disengage her hand, but he held fast. The photographer was going to take another picture, too.
'And days of auld lang syne . . .' Stupid sentimental tears were suddenly too close. Lucy Bone raised her chin defiantly and stared directly into the lens. Well, why not? They'd have to know some time. That was the point of the whole thing. Or, rather, one of the points.
'For auld lang syne, my dear . . .' The melody filled the night, the flashbulbs sent out waves of sheet lightning, the queue were caught up in the moment.
'For auld lang syne . . .' The St Edmund's waiters began a strategic withdrawal while the others were unnoticing. The champagne bottles were empty and it was obvious that the people in the queue had enough supplies of their own to keep them happy for quite some time yet. Bonnard's and the St Edmund's had done their duty for another year.
'We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet . . .' Lucy Bone choked and stopped singing. But no one noticed.
CHAPTER 7
'Are you sure?' Maggie scrabbled in her top drawer for the magnifying glass, usually only brought into play to check the detail of a reduced line drawing in one of the ads. It wasn't really needed, but the search gave her a moment's respite while she tried to decide what to do.
'Certain as I can be, Miss Saunders.' The man on the other side of her desk, staring down at the glossy prints, was sympathetic. It was not a decision he would like to make himself—which was why he had dumped the problem in her lap.
'I thought she looked familiar, just from the glimpses I got of her in the queue the other day. Of course she's changed some over the past year or so, but girls do at that age, don't they?' Foster, with no doors to guard today, had come in to help out with the pre-Sale activity. For that matter, they all had. Today was like a big family party, all Bonnard's people, undisturbed by customers, working busily and looking forward to the splendid late afternoon luncheon which turned the whole day into more a New Year's Party than a strictly workday.
Force of habit had driven Foster automatically to check the front doors and the state of the queue. He liked to see it grow as more and more people joined it the closer the day of the Sale came. The face he had seen —or thought he had seen —among the semi-comatose forms had sent him rushing to the Publicity Office to verify his suspicions against the photographs always taken of the queue enjoying their traditional midnight champagne.
'You could call Mrs Kane down,' he offered. 'Just to make sure.' Angela Kane, Lucien Bonnard's private secretary, was the last Court of Appeal before the matter had to go to Lucien himself.
She would know, if anyone would. Maggie picked up the internal phone and dialled the extension.
'Angie, could you come down here a moment?' She listened in silence to the surprised protests at the other end. It seemed that Lucien was about to start dictating almost immediately.
'It will only take a minute.' Maggie hesitated. 'It is urgent.'
Foster shook his head as Maggie indicated a chair and continued standing before her desk. They waited in silence, not needing to share their thoughts.
They watched in silence as Angela Kane crossed the room to stare down at the pictures on the desk. She was the one to break the silence.
'Oh God!' She shook her head despairingly. 'Lucien will have to know!'
They both looked at Maggie. She realized wryly that it was a tacit admission of her as yet unannounced new position: she was —or was about to be —one of the family. One of the Bonnards. It was, therefore, her duty to break the news to Lucien.
It was an acknowledgement she could have done without.
'All right.' Maggie pushed back her chair and gathered up the blurred photograph and the other one. The beautifully clear one with the girl staring straight in to the camera lens and holding her glass aloft in a mocking toast.
'All right,' she said again, as though they had been arguing with her. 'All right, I'll tell him.'
'I don't understand.' Lucien Bonnard dropped the photographs on to his desk, bowed his head and shielded his eyes briefly with one hand.
'We thought you ought to know,' Maggie said inadequately.
'Quite right.' He dropped his hand and gave her a glacial unnerving smile, not really seeing her at all, not seeing anything except the bright mocking face looking up from the photograph.
'I don't understand,' he repeated. 'What can she hope to gain by this? What does she want?'
Before Maggie could speak, he answered his own question.
'She wants to humiliate me.'
He understood all too well. He had just proved it.
'She wants to cause a scandal.'
'Well,' Maggie said judiciously, 'it isn't done —not even in the States. It's sort of like those contests where the rules always state that the contest isn't open to employees of the firm or their families, or employees of the advertising agency and their families. It isn't strictly illegal, but it — '
'It leaves a nasty taste in the mouth.' Lucien looked as though his taste buds were shrivelling and protesting under the impact of a strange and sinister new flavour. One which was unlikely to find favour in the marketplace.
Maggie nodded, avoiding his eyes. It was ridiculous that she should feel so guilty. It was his store, his daughter —none of this was her fault, but still she felt guilty. It was unfair, it was wrong that she should be made to feel this way.
Worse, it meant that Lucinda Bonnard was winning. In this strange unequal war the girl had declared, where she set the rules, chose the battlefield, decided the weapons, she was almost inevitably bound to win. And yet, she could not be allowed to win.
If she won, Lucien perished. The final outcome was as simple and as inexorable as that.
'She could have anything in the store she wanted.' Lucien seemed to be pleading. 'She knows that. All she had to do is ask. She needn't even ask me, if she doesn't want to speak to me. All she'd have to do is to walk in and take what she wants. The staff know her, they'd let her walk away with anything she wanted and simply send me an indent for it. They'd know I'd pass it. Why should she go out to spend days in the queue?'
He had already answered that question, but Maggie did not remind him of it.
'We could disperse the queue,' Maggie suggested. 'Other stores are doing it these days. We could give them chits according to their place in the queue and reserve the items they've queued for until they come in to pick them up when the Sale opens.'
'That would only make the situation worse.' Lucien put his finger on the weakness in the plan even as it belatedly occurred to her. 'She'd have the chit then, and we'd have no way of proving that she had ever been in the queue at all. This way, at least people can see that she's been queuing the full length of time. So there's a limit — ' his mouth twisted wryly— 'to the amount of favouritism we can be accused of showing.'
'Oh, Lucien — ' Maggie stopped herself just in time. Too much criticism of his daughter was not the way to his heart. In this situation, she was the outsider, the intruder, the one who must always tread warily.
'Lucien . . .' She crossed to stand behind his chair, letting her arms encircle him, her cheek rest against the top of his head. It was safer to put nothing into words.
He allowed it briefly, then wriggled his shoulders impatiently, freeing himself from her embrace.
She moved away quickly, putting the desk between them again. He did not appear to notice. His face expressionless, he sat looking down at the photographs, lost in some distant memories, disappeared into a world in which she could not reach him.
'I'll start some enquiries,' Maggie said briskly, heading for the door. 'If we can find out what she's queuing for, that might give us some clue as to how to deal with the situation.'
'That's fine.' It was an acknowledgement of her desire to be helpful, not carrying any hope that she could possibly be successful. 'You do that.'
Fury rose in her; he was halfway defeated already. And all because he was allowing himself to be. Why didn't he fight back? If only he'd lose his temper, it would be a start.
'Well, anyway — ' She paused in the doorway and flung it at him recklessly.
'At least you'll know where she is tonight!'
CHAPTER 8
It might not be fair of her, but personally she blamed the slivovitz.
Dorrie managed to twitch one eye open and instantly regretted it deeply.
Scotch and brandy were well known to be medicinal. A drop of gin never hurt anybody. The arak had been so strange that she had barely tasted it. Champagne was famous for being something you could drink all night with no ill effect.
No, it had to be the slivovitz.
A hollow groan from the head of the queue told her that she was not alone in her misery. They'd been knocking back the slivovitz, too.
She ought to open her eyes . . . she ought to try to pass an encouraging word to the others . . . she ought to . . .
Never again. Never slivovitz. Her precarious grip on the world dipped and slipped away. Her head still ached, her stomach still protested, but she slept.
When she woke again later, there was only one consolation. At least the sun hadn't come out. It was a nice grey gloomy day. Thank heaven. Bright, blinding sun would have been more than one could have stood.
The world still had a nasty tendency to begin spinning if she moved her head, but somewhere deep within her some atom of raving optimism insinuated that she might possibly begin to feel human again . . . some day. She wasn't sure she believed it.
'What time is it?' a disembodied voice asked.
A series of groans suggested that people had instinctively moved too quickly to check their watches and were now regretting their helpfulness.
With an effort, Dorrie managed to open both eyes. After the initial shock, she decided her condition was improving. Very gradually.
No point in rushing your fences. She lay motionless, adjusting to the idea of a new day ... a new year. Unbidden, the first New Year's Resolution formed in her mind: No more slivovitz.
More groans sounded around her and she began to wonder about the state of the other survivors. She turned her head cautiously and saw that Lucy Bone was head and shoulders out of her sleeping-bag, mouth open gasping for air and eyes staring sightlessly upwards, looking like a beached fish.
'Are you all right, dear?' she asked anxiously.
'I think I'm dying,' Lucy Bone said.
'That's all right then.' Dorrie was obscurely comforted. 'You go back to sleep. You'll be right as rain when you wake up again.'
'Never,' Lucy Bone said, but her eyes closed obediently.
Beyond her, Sakim lay brooding, but Dorrie was beginning to suspect that brooding was his natural state. It was, for some of them. And he had certainly drunk less than anyone else last night and this morning. It was almost as though he did not trust himself to relax among strangers. No need to waste sympathy on that one.
A deep heart-rending groan wrenched her head about too sharply and she groaned herself. When she opened her eyes again, she found Zoltan regarding her with an expression close to sympathy.
'We should never have touched that arak,' he said. 'It is not a Chrr-rristian drink!'
'Do you people realize it's nearly noon?' The voice rose from the head of the queue with querulous incredulity.
'That's all right,' Dorrie comforted. 'We're not going anywhere.'
'Speak for yourself,' Tim Moore said. 'Faye and I have been debating whether to kill ourselves or try for a hair of the dog that bit us.'
