Queue here for murder, p.7
Queue Here For Murder, page 7
'Brick Ronson and Belva Barrie,' Dorrie sighed happily. 'They're over to make their new film here. Everyone stays at the St Edmund's.'
'How funny,' Lucy said. 'They seem so different. They're a lot smaller than I thought they were.'
'It's always that way with film and theatre people, dear,' Dorrie assured her. 'They're always smaller than you think they are. And the men usually have terrible complexions. It's all that make-up they have to wear. Strange, isn't it? Make-up seems to protect a woman's skin, but it's hell on a man's. It just goes to show, it's not really natural for them to wear it. But they have to do it for their Art, poor things.'
'What a lot of luggage,' Faye said, not without admiration. 'Do you suppose they left anything at home at all?'
'I wouldn't have liked to be behind them going through Customs,' Tim said. They watched the hotel minions dealing with the mounds of suitcases. 'They must have a couple of suites to hold all that.'
'One suite, more likely.' Dorrie was knowledgeable on the subject. 'They've been living-in friends for years now.'
They watched the famous couple cross the pavement and go up the steps to the entrance, where they paused and looked back over their shoulders. Seeing the queue, they turned in unison, beaming and bracing themselves. It seemed to disconcert them when the queue did not rush across the street to mob them.
Brick and Belva waved encouragingly, seeming puzzled when the queue, although waving back enthusiastically, remained where they were. It was obviously not the kind of behaviour they were accustomed to, but they appeared to attribute it to the well-known British reserve. Belva's smile widened, Brick waved more warmly. Still they remained unmobbed.
The doorman advanced and murmured something to them; the encouraging expressions faded from their faces. Brick Ronson turned abruptly and entered the hotel. Belva Barrie beamed a small shrug across the street, sharing her amusement with the queue and blew a kiss to them before turning to follow him. Either she could take a joke against herself or she had a better sense of Public Relations.
'Americans don't really understand about queues,' Dorrie explained to the others. 'Most of them. They don't have them over there. The only ones who really know about queues are the ones who were here the first year of the Laker Skytrain.' She sighed nostalgically. 'Now there was a real queue!'
'You were in that one, were you?' Tony Adair asked with interest. 'That must have been quite an experience.'
'Bless you, it was,' She sighed again. 'I really enjoyed that queue. Such lovely people.'
'You have been to America, then?' Zoltan regarded her with new interest. 'I have often thought — '
'Oh no!' Dorrie said. 'I've never been. It was just,' she explained to the confused expression on their faces, 'that I read in the papers about that queue, and how all those poor people were going to have to wait for three or four days for their seats on a flight home, and I thought what a shame it was when they wanted to be out sightseeing instead of sitting for days in a queue. So I went along and kept places in the queue for a few of them so that they could get out and about and not have their holiday ruined entirely.'
'That was very good of you.'
'Oh, I enjoyed it. I met ever so many nice people and I can't tell you the number of invitations I got to go and visit them in America. I do believe I could go from coast to coast over there and not stay at hotels once.'
'Then why have you not gone?'
'Oh, well.' Dorrie said, flustered. The activity across the street at the St Edmund's had ceased and the queue had now transferred its attention to her and was listening raptly to her interrogation.
'Well, it still takes a lot of money. I know it's cheaper than it used to be, but there's still the transport, and you'd want to bring presents for everybody—you couldn't just pitch up on their doorstep empty-handed to stay with them. And it all mounts up. I've worked it out and I've started saving up, and I buy nice little bits and pieces I find in the Sales after I've got what I'm queuing for. Perhaps I'll manage it some day before I'm too old to enjoy it.'
'You are too generous, I think.' Zoltan nodded, pronouncing his verdict. 'With your time and with your money. You should not worry so much about other people.'
'Well, really!' It was all right for him to talk. Easy enough to see he'd never worried about anybody else in his whole life. But what kind of a world would it be if everyone were like him?'
'You should go, you know,' Lucy Bone said. 'You'd have a wonderful time. It's so — '
'You have been?' Zoltan shifted his intent gaze to her. She shrank under it.
'Oh no.' Denial seemed easiest. 'No, I've never been out of the country.' Was that believable? 'Except for school trips to the Continent,' she added hastily.
They were all looking at her now. She should never have joined in the conversation. Once she started talking, more was apt to slip out than one intended. Sakim had warned her about that. She daren't turn to look at him, it was enough that she could sense his suppressed fury seething behind her.
'Why do you not go?' Zoltan demanded. 'If you have enough money for the mink coat, then you have enough to fly to America for a holiday. It is off-season now, you would still be in time to see all the holiday decorations in New York —they are much more sensational than here. So why do you sit in this dreary queue? Why do you not take the money and fly?
Well! Dorrie thought. Don't tell me his conscience is bothering him! He knows he oughtn't to take the mink coat when a nice young girl truly wants it for herself and all he wants is to resell it for a nasty little profit. Perhaps he'll give in if she sticks it out to the bitter end in the queue. And he's afraid he will himself, that's why he's trying to get rid of her. Perhaps there's hope for him yet.
But his words had a strange effect on Lucy Bone. She lost colour and slipped down into the turtleshell of her sleepingbag. Even Zoltan seemed amazed at her reaction.
He could not know that his words had reminded her of that old telegram traditionally sent to guilty parties: Fly at once—all is discovered!
Maggie crossed to the window to see what Lucien was watching so intently. She was just in time to catch Belva Barrie's last laughing wave to the queue.
'Very nice,' Maggie said. 'I expect she'll be over here for her shopping spree as soon as the store opens in the morning?'
'She always is,' Lucien agreed. 'All of them come to Bonnard's. That's often why they stay at the St Edmund's, it's so much more convenient for them. They can slip over here in the time they have free between interviews and filming, or whatever they're visiting the country for.'
'And no worrying about waiting for the Sale to start for them,' Maggie said. 'Nothing but the best and the price is no object.' She laughed shortly.
'What's so funny?'
'I just had a sudden thought.' Maggie abruptly became aware that it might not sound so amusing to Lucien. 'I —I just thought, suppose she falls for the floor-length mink, too? Wouldn't that be something? To have her lined up in the queue with the others?'
'Very droll.' Lucien turned away impatiently and stalked back to his desk.
Maggie sighed. All right, so it wasn't that funny, but Lucien was letting this get to him too much. It was destroying his sense of humour, overshadowing their relationship.
Which was precisely what Lucinda Bonnard wanted.
For that reason alone, it could not be allowed to. Maggie prowled after Lucien, stepping as delicately as a cat. He gave no indication that he was aware that she remained in the room.
'I'll say one thing.' Still she tried for the light touch. 'You do see life here at Bonnard's. And isn't there some Middle-Eastern potentate arriving at the St Edmund's any time now? I suppose we'll get the harem in here doing their shoplifting.'
'The Sheikh is one of our most valued customers!' Lucien snapped out of the lethargy he had been drifting into, a merchandising gleam appeared in his eye. 'He hasn't been here for some time. All the trouble in his territory has kept him close to home over the past few years. I look forward to welcoming him to Bonnard's again. And his entourage.' He frowned briefly. 'Your suggestion that any of them might indulge in shoplifting is, of course, ridiculous. The Sheikh is an honourable man and the penalty he would exact from any one of his people — '
'You mean, "Off with their hands"?' Maggie asked uncertainly. Could Lucien be joking?
'Exactly,' Lucien said. 'I can assure you we never have trouble from any of his subjects.'
'He sounds a real charmer,' Maggie said weakly. Her stomach seemed to have just done a loop-the-loop.
'He is.' Lucien was unaware of irony. 'Just wait until you meet him. And wait until you see him in action. It's shopping on the grand scale. You may think you've seen something with some of the other Middle-Easterners we've had in here, but . . .' He shrugged dismissively. 'Nothing! Compared to the Sheikh. There's been nothing like him since the old-style Maharajahs at the turn of the century.'
'I can hardly wait,' Maggie said. 'Racks full of haute couture and floors full of furniture, eh? Perhaps we ought to alert the Shipping Department to stand by for action.'
'They're already prepared,' Lucien answered absently, reminding her afresh, although he probably hadn't intended it that way, that Bonnard's was a long-established institution, with no need of Johnny-come-latelys to teach them how to conduct their business.
'I should have known.' Maggie's voice was subdued. Bonnard's had been smoothly and efficiently functioning for a century before she had come along. If she were to die tomorrow, it would go on without so much as a ripple on the surface to mark her passing.
'Maggie?' Lucien became aware of her mood suddenly. He stretched out his hand and drew her to him. 'Maggie, you've got a lot to learn about Bonnard's —the store and the family. But, please — ' his arms tightened around her —'please don't let anything you learn discourage you. We're all depending on you now. More than you may ever know.'
Three children, Maggie decided, nestling against him. Three was a good number and the sex didn't matter. Three would ensure that the Bonnard line was safely carried on for generations yet.
And three would keep Lucien so preoccupied that he might forget the disappointment Lucinda had been to him.
CHAPTER 11
They had all been half dozing through the long somnolent afternoon. The earlier greyness had turned into a steady dull rain which discouraged any thoughts of leaving their comfortable, carefully-constructed little snugs of blankets and cushions and roaming away from the queue. Heads had stopped throbbing and stomachs had settled down. Among the more ambitious, there was even the hope that energy might return by tomorrow morning—or at least the morning after that when the Sale started.
Behind them, Bonnard's display windows glowed brightly, providing enough light to read the newspapers they had bought from an enterprising newsvendor who had walked slowly past the queue, in rather the manner that taxis slowed as they passed long bus queues. The news thus obtained was enough to provide a mildly interesting reading session, but not of sufficient portent to jolt them into full wakefulness.
Another degree of darkness shaded over the city and the street lamps switched on. The large golden globes flanking the entrance to the St Edmund's sprang into life, glowing discreetly with a soft diffused radiance that meant one could look directly into them without blinking.
The world began to seem a warmer, more cheerful place.
'These film people — ' Even Zoltan seemed to feel it. He ventured what was practically his first civil word since his advice to Lucy Bone had been rebuffed earlier in the day. 'On page 5, there is a photograph of them arriving at the airport this morning.' He frowned at it judiciously. 'I think she is prettier in real life.'
There was a flurry of turning pages as the others hurried to respond to his overture.
'Probably exhausted, poor dear, getting off the plane at that hour of the morning,' Dorrie said. 'And with having just gone through Customs.'
'She photographs like a dream,' Tony Adair judged professionally. 'It's just that everything looks better in colour. Just look at that bone structure!'
Sakim glared at Tony, although it had seemed a perfectly innocent remark. Lucy raised a hand absently to brush her own cheekbone. 'I suppose that's a colour camera you're after?' she asked.
'Good Lord, yes!' Tony turned to look fondly over his shoulder at the displayed cine-camera. He did this anyway, so frequently that one might suspect he feared someone was going to discover that a mistake had been made and rush into the show window at the last minute to remove it from the sale.
They all harboured this secret nightmare, Dorrie had decided a long time ago. Certainly, she even felt twinges of it herself, especially when she was queuing for something someone else wanted desperately. Which brought her recent thoughts round full circle again. It was a shame that poor little Lucy was waiting so patiently in the queue and yet hadn't a hope of getting her heart's desire.
Dorrie had tried to divert her to some more accessible fur. As one would with a child, she had pointed out the lustrous gloss of the chinchilla stole, the artful drape of a sable cape, praising them in the hope that they would stir a spark of acquisitiveness. But the child had just smiled wanly and bravely, refusing to give up on her original choice.
Worse, Zoltan had begun listening with more interest than was comfortable. He needn't think he was going to walk off with all the furs in the Sale! It shouldn't be allowed —it probably wasn't. But somebody ought to do something about that one. He was sharp enough to cut himself — after which, being the sort he was, he'd undoubtedly bleed messily over everyone else in sight.
A word appeared mistily at the back of Dome's mind and she struggled to force it away from her consciousness. It was not a particularly nice word, but it was one the late Mr Witson had been in the habit of using frequently. More in connection with horse races than with the human race, but the principle was the same.
The word was: nobbled.
Sakim was growing excessively tiresome. Once Lucy Bone had admitted the thought, it would not go away.
How could it when, every moment, Sakim was proving the truth of it?
Not content with bobbing his head into her line of vision every time she tried to speak to Tony Adair, he had now started a low growling obligato to the conversation Tony was trying to carry on with her. The fact that whatever Sakim was saying was in his own native language did not matter, the implications were coming over loud and clear. In another few minutes, he'd be making a scene.
Really, it was very kind of Tony Adair to continue trying to talk to her at all under the circumstances. And, let Sakim growl as much as he liked, she had no intention of being intimidated into silence. She was not one of his downtrodden countrywomen, she was English.
Ironically enough, in the beginning, he had claimed that he liked her because she had a mind and a will of her own. It was increasingly noticeable lately, however, that whenever she tried to use either of these qualities, they infuriated him.
'. . . and then, for the finale . . .' Tony swung forward, trying to maintain eye contact around the implacable barrier of Sakim's back.
'Yes?' She leaned outwards to meet him. Sakim's glower increased.
'Well, we — '
Sakim stood up abruptly. 'We go get something to eat now,' he announced.
'I don't want anything,' Lucy said. 'But you go ahead.'
This was obviously unsatisfactory. Sakim sat down again. His fury mounted visibly.
'Go along, old man, if you're hungry,' Tony said amiably. 'Don't worry. I'll keep your place for you.'
'That was not what Sakim was worrying about. He turned and glared at Tony, then swung back to glare at Lucy.
If looks could kill . . . Dorrie thought uneasily.
'He should be careful, that young man,' Zoltan said softly at her shoulder. 'He will wind up with a knife between his ribs. These people are very jealous of their women.'
'Oh, it would never come to that.' Dorrie spoke as much to protest her own thoughts as his.
'You think not?' Zoltan smiled disbelievingly. 'I have lived in the East. I have seen such things—' He seemed to notice that he was causing distress. Dorrie was shaking her head in negation, Faye and Tim were listening with horror.
'Perhaps you are right,' he conceded. 'Perhaps he will only beat up the girl to teach her her place.'
This caused even more distress.
'Oh no!' Faye cried, appalled.
'He can't do that —she's English,' Tim said comfortingly.
'Ah, but he is not,' Zoltan pointed out. He looked at their stricken faces and shrugged. 'Whatever happens,' he said, 'we can only hope that it does not happen here. We do not want to be involved.'
'Dorrie! Auntie Dorrie!' The children, running ahead of their mother, engulfed her abruptly. She had been so caught up in the conversation that she had not noticed them approaching.
'We brought your tea,' Carol announced proudly: her brother, Ron, nodded shy agreement.
'Did you then? Wasn't that kind of you?' She smiled at Sandra, who had now joined them, her carrier bag bulging.
'I made a nice thick beef stew,' Sandra said, beginning to unpack. She gave Dorrie a wide-mouthed vacuum flask. 'Hot and hearty. And fresh tea — '
'And rock cakes,' Carol reminded. 'Lots and lots of rock cakes.'
'Lots?' Dorrie played along obligingly. 'Shall we have one now, then?'
'They're for you.' Sandra frowned at her daughter. 'We have plenty more at home for ourselves.'
Dorrie decided to let the matter drop. Young Sandra had her own ideas about child-raising and didn't thank you for going against them.
'A few sandwich rolls — ' Sandra passed over a parcel. 'I made fresh rolls, they've cheese-and-chutney filling.'
'Lovely!' Dorrie began transferring the items into her holdall. She wasn't really hungry right now, but she would be later.
