Queue here for murder, p.9
Queue Here For Murder, page 9
'Well, then . . .' The woman shrugged.
In the distance, a church clock chimed the half-hour after midnight.
'It's morning already,' the woman pointed out. 'There's only one more day now.'
'And two nights,' the man said, but it was a losing battle and he was aware of it.
'Anyway, this night's half over, for a start.' While the men stood by, defeated but still reluctant to admit it, the women began settling into their new territory.
Janice took the place immediately behind the makeshift barrier separating them from Tony Adair, the other woman behind her. They did not have sleeping-bags, but set up camp stools and cocooned themselves in blankets.
They would not be particularly comfortable, Dorrie reckoned, but it wouldn't kill them, either. You could tell it was their first time in a long-term queue. Before this, they'd probably never waited more than half an hour at the butcher's.
The men hovered, edging imperceptibly towards the end of the pavement and the waiting car.
'Look,' one of them said. 'If you change your minds . . . get fed up . . . just ring and one of us will come and collect you. Don't be silly about it. We won't tease you for giving up. Just ring. Promise?'
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After murmured assurances, the men turned and gratefully escaped. The women watched the car drive away, then turned to survey the queue.
But the queue had retreated into itself. It was too late to be sociable. Morning was time enough to enquire into the new arrivals. By morning, or perhaps mid-morning, it was on the cards that still more people would have joined the queue. Let the newcomers make friends with them. The long-established queue members were already a group on their own, knit together by the long hours spent in each other's company. They knew each other's little ways now and it hardly seemed worthwhile to bother to accommodate themselves to people who were going to be with them for such a short while.
Besides, the newcomers had already cut themselves off by their ridiculous barricade. Dorrie was not surprised to find that she had formed definite allegiances. This was not the best queue she had ever been in, but it could have been worse. It was stupid, as well as insulting, for these new people to behave as though there was something sinister about it. If they felt like that, why had they joined it at all? Why didn't they go back where they came from?
Zoltan raised his head and stared at her. For a moment, she was afraid she had spoken the final thought aloud. There were too many people near her who might take it personally, neither of them the people it was intended for.
'What do they want?' he repeated his earlier question. 'What are they queuing for?'
'We'll find out in the morning, I expect,' Dorrie said comfortably. 'It's a bit late to start a conversation at this hour.'
He nodded, half-asleep but reassured. Even if they were after the furs he had earmarked for his own, they were too late. He was so far ahead of them in the queue that they hadn't a chance. Apart from which, they might
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be after something quite different. In that case, it was someone else's worry.
Dorrie took an automatic maternal check up and down the queue. Faye and Tim were already back to sleep, Zoltan was dropping off even now. Tony Adair had turned his back—quite properly —on the strangers and huddled down in his sleeping-bag. Sakim was also back in his sleeping-bag, seemingly over his fit of temper. One arm was stretched across the bottom of Lucy's sleeping-bag, his hand lightly probing as though to imprison her ankle again.
It was all very well if you liked that sort of thing, Dorrie supposed, but that constant possessiveness would drive her up the wall. It was surprising Lucy didn't mind it. Perhaps modern young girls weren't so independent as was commonly supposed.
Still, even if the girl didn't mind it now, that wasn't to say she wouldn't find it cloying and infuriating in a few more years. Perhaps not that long. Dorrie looked at the girl's face. Her eyes were closed, but she was frowning. As though in her sleep, she turned on her side, curling up slightly, neatly removing her ankle from the groping hand. With her head safely turned away, she opened her eyes abruptly and caught Dorrie watching her.
Dorrie blushed, hoping it was too dark for it to be noticed, and glanced away quickly. When she looked back, the girl had her eyes closed again and Sakim had retreated completely into his own sleeping-bag. That was all right, then.
Damned old bag] If anything more was needed to fan Lucy's fury, that provided it. Peeping Thomasina! Getting second-hand thrills, was she from watching and imagining activities that were beyond her now? She should know —she should really know —the truth of the matter. That would give her something to think about and jolt
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her out of her complacency.
It wasn't love, desire, or even lust that kept Sakim's hand creeping towards the foot of her sleeping-bag. It was the constant need to reassure himself that the loaded gun was still there, safely hidden away in the secret pocket sewn into the bottom of her sleeping-bag. Waiting for the moment when they would use it.
CHAPTER 13
'It's started snowing,' Lucien said from the window.
'It may not be snowing in London.' Maggie was damned if she was going to get out of the warm bed and join him at the window. The fire was a barely-remembered glow in the fireplace and the chill wind was curling into the bedroom through a thousand chinks, loose-fitting doors, casements, wastepipes, ventilating ducts and God knew what else. Maggie could never understand why the English bothered to open windows. The way they built their houses, they were never very cut off from the Great Outdoors. What did surprise her was that people occasionally managed to commit suicide by gassing themselves to death, having first sealed off all the draughts. That took real determination.
'It probably isn't snowing in London,' she said wistfully. 'It's always warmer in the city.'
'Possibly.' Lucien sounded unconvinced. As she had feared he would, he opened the window and leaned out, squinting up at the sky as though trying to gauge the extent of the storm. An icy wind swirled snowflakes into the room.
'Luu-cien,' Maggie wailed. 'It's freezing in here.'
'Yes, yes.' Lucien drew back into the room, but remained standing by the open window.
'The window,' she said patiently. 'Shut the window, Lucien. You might even,' she added hopefully, 'do something about the fire.'
'Oh, yes.' He moved absently to the fireplace and tossed pieces of wood on to the smouldering ashes, sending up a shower of sparks. It was clear that his mind was not on what he was doing and he had still left the window open.
He sank into the chair beside the fire and poked halfheartedly at the wood, trying to ignite it without further effort.
'Lucien!' With a deep sigh, Maggie threw back the covers and pulled on her robe, shivering as she tied it around her. She crossed to the window and slammed it shut, then went over to the fireplace and took the poker from Lucien's hand, wielding it briskly. A faint growing glow rewarded her. She added tinder and watched it catch.
'Lucinda is warm and comfortable in her sleeping-bag.' Maggie spelled it out for him. 'There's no need to worry about her. You know where she is and where she'll be for the next thirty-six hours. We'll get a chance to talk to her at the "impromptu" cocktail-party tomorrow. Maybe we can get through to her. If not, at least you'll have tried.'
'And . . . after that?' Lucien voiced the thought uppermost in his mind. He had made other overtures. Endlessly. He had not Maggie's optimism about the outcome of this one.
'Then we'll think of something else,' Maggie said firmly. 'Now come back to bed and stop worrying. She's all right —and giving me pneumonia won't solve anything.'
But it would, Maggie realized abruptly. If she were to die, Lucinda would once again be the sole heiress to the Bonnard estate, with no step-brothers or sisters looming on the horizon to challenge her inheritance.
Without her, the threat might never arise again. Lucien was not a man who loved easily. Not for him the casual changing of partners to sport a younger, more up-to-date model on his arm. Lucien loved deeply—and for keeps. And so did she.
Three children, my darling, she promised silently. She had already stopped taking the Pill, although she had not mentioned the fact to Lucien. Nothing had happened yet, but she hoped . . . soon. Then she could show Lucien what family life could be like, what it ought to be like —in a happy, united family. Meanwhile, the wedding would go forward as planned —immediately after the Sale —and nothing would stop it.
'All right,' Lucien rose with a sigh. 'You're right, of course. Let's go back to bed.'
Three children, my darling. She nestled in his arms. And I won't die on you and leave them to be brought up by strangers and turned into strangers to you. There'll be parties and love and laughter. You don't know how happy you're going to be.
Frost sparkled on the rooftops and glazed the pavement as the morning gradually dawned. Another grey day, but what could you expect at this time of the year?
Dorrie was the first awake, she usually was. She preferred it that way, it gave her time to pull herself together and get settled comfortably for the day before the others began to stir.
Moving quietly, she collected her empty Thermos, lukewarm hot-water bottle and sponge-bag and wriggled out of her sleeping-bag. She'd freshen up, taking her time about it, in the luxurious warmth of the St Edmund's, refill her hot-water bottle and make fresh tea in her Thermos. It occurred to her that the St Edmund's was better value to the Bonnard's January Sale queue than to their July Sale queue. All that gloriously hot, nearly boiling, water constantly on tap wasn't so necessary in July.
Well, just this last day, and then the next time she was in a Bonnard's queue, it would be the July one. Almost certainly. There was always something someone wanted from Bonnard's.
The night porter nodded resignedly to her as she entered. Once past him, Dorrie glanced at her watch. It was just about another half-hour before he went off duty, so she could stay quite a long while if she pleased. The day porter wasn't to know that she hadn't come in just before he went on duty. In any case, he wouldn't much care. The porters were too concerned with their constant flow of celebrities and dignitaries to worry about something so insignificant as the Bonnard's queue. They were simply something to be suffered twice a year and forgotten about the rest of the time.
She was half way across the foyer before she became aware of the following footsteps and a voice hailed her.
'You're an early bird, Dorrie.'
'Look who's talking.' She smiled as Tony Adair came up to her. 'I didn't know you were awake, or I'd have said good morning.'
'I just woke up as you were starting across the street and decided to follow your lead.' He brushed a hand across his blue-shadowed chin. 'Get an early start and make myself presentable.'
'Mmm-hmm.' Dorrie noted the electric shaver not quite concealed in his hand. No prizes for guessing who he wanted to see him at his best. She nodded approvingly. It wasn't a bad idea. There he'd be, all bright-and-shining morning face, while Sakim — there was no denying—looked at his seediest and sleaziest first thing in the morning. Lucy was bound to notice the contrast. It might be a slightly dirty trick, but all was fair in love and war.
'It feels good to get into the warmth, doesn't it?' He was in no hurry to get on with his morning routine. Of course, there was never a chance for a private conversation in the queue with everyone listening.
'I always like to sit down for a bit here in the lobby and thaw out,' Dorrie said, not quite truthfully, but giving him an opening if he wanted to take it. It appeared that he did. He seated himself beside her on the leather sofa opposite the palatial grand staircase leading up to the Salons and down to the Rest Rooms.
'This is a beautiful old building.' He looked around appreciatively, breathing in the atmosphere. 'They don't make them like this any more.'
'More's the pity,' Dorrie said. 'I always think it's a shame everyone doesn't get the chance to see places like this, then maybe they'd begin to realize what they're missing with all the glass-and-steel boxes they're having foisted on them these days.'
'You feel that way too, do you?' he asked eagerly. 'I've been thinking that I wish I could show it to people. You see,' he confessed, almost shyly, 'I never see a place that's out of the ordinary, either very grand or the opposite, without thinking what a marvellous film set it would make.'
'It would, wouldn't it?' Dorrie looked around with new interest, seeing it through his eyes. 'That staircase now, you could do a lot with that.'
'Real Busby Berkeley stuff,' he agreed. 'And room on it for the full chorus. Practically room enough for the orchestra, too.'
'And all the beautiful colours. They would photograph well, wouldn't they?' She was suddenly anxious, entering into the spirit of the thing.
'Like a dream,' he said. 'Especially with the new cine equipment I'm queuing for. There's no end to what we'll be able to do with that — ' He broke off and sighed. 'Dreams . . . dreams . . .'
'They might let you film here,' Dorrie encouraged. 'If you asked them the right way.'
'Other hotels, possibly. But not the St Edmund's.' He shook his head. 'Too old and too snobbish. They don't need money —even if I had any to offer—and they don't need publicity. There's not a chance.'
'What a pity,' Dorrie commiserated, liking him more every minute.
'And what a waste!' He brooded over the marble staircase, the ornate moulded ceiling, the glittering crystal chandelier. 'You could really do something here —and there's plenty of room for a film crew, which is something else you don't often find.'
'It's selfish of them.' Dorrie was thoroughly on his side now. 'And, as you say, it's such a waste. I know I'd just love to watch a leading lady make an entrance down that staircase. It would be something to see.'
'It would indeed.' His gaze started at the upper landing and travelled slowly down the staircase as though following a stately progress.
'I couldn't help hearing you tell Lucy she had a lovely bone structure,' Dorrie said slyly. 'Funny that should be her name, isn't it? Lucy Bone with the lovely bones.'
'Oh?' He turned to her quickly. 'It's that obvious, is it?'
'No, no,' Dorrie denied quickly, but her mind was already racing ahead. Lucy Bone was such a plain name, almost ugly, for such a pretty girl. Lucy Adair. Mentally she tested the new name for suitability. It sounded much better.
'Look,' he said. 'I don't know how to explain this to you. It was just a passing thought, that's all.' His gaze returned to the staircase thoughtfully. 'Besides — ' he was elaborately offhand — 'she's pretty tied up with that Arab fellow, isn't she? They seem thick as thieves.'
'But thieves fall out,' Dorrie said.
'You're a disgraceful old matchmaker!' But he couldn't help laughing.
'I'm not,' she denied automatically. 'I just think she's too nice a girl to get tied up with a type like that.' She shuddered. 'He frightens me.'
'He frightened me, too, last night,' Tony admitted, abruptly serious. 'I couldn't let him see it, of course.'
'If you ask me,' Dorrie said, 'he's a very nasty customer.' She looked at him in surprise as he laughed again.
'I'm sorry,' he apologized. 'It was just — customer is so apt! When we're all waiting outside Bonnard's for the sale to begin.'
'I didn't think of that.' She smiled reluctantly, hoping it wouldn't weaken her case. 'I just don't like him.'
'Neither do I.' He was serious again. 'However, he seems to be the lady's choice and I don't see what either of us can do about it. We might not approve of her taste but, essentially, it's none of our business.
Oh dear! Dorrie restrained a sigh. He didn't seem disposed to go out and fight for his lady fair. That was the trouble these days, everybody was too conscious of everybody else's point of view. If you asked her, there was a bit too much live-and-let-live in today's attitudes. That old competitive spirit was missing. There were people who thought that a good thing, but she wasn't so sure herself. It just seemed to flatten life out, somehow.
'On the other hand . . .' he said reflectively.
'Shh!' Over his shoulder, Dorrie could see Lucy Bone advancing towards them.
'Ideal for filming . . .' He picked up her cue and changed conversational gear effortlessly, turning slightly as he did so, and nodding to Lucy, so that it was unclear whether he was speaking about the St Edmund's or the girl.
Lucy hesitated uncertainly, nodded to them both, and continued on her way, her back betraying that she was conscious of the eyes focused on her.
'Doesn't she walk down the stairs beautifully?' Dorrie asked meaningfully. 'She couldn't do better if she had a book on her head.'
The rest of the queue were stirring when Dorrie returned. She slid her hot-water bottle into her sleeping-bag and followed it half way, propping herself up with cushions to read for a while and make an early breakfast out of the freshly-filled Thermos of tea and remaining rock cakes. Later, when the nearby cafes were open, she'd roam off and treat herself to a proper breakfast. It was the sort of day when bacon and eggs and fried tomato, with lots of toast and marmalade and a big strong pot of tea would just hit the spot.
Next to her, Zoltan yawned, opened his eyes, blinked, rolled over and, still encased in his blankets, proceeded to do a series of press-ups that threatened to overturn his camp bed. Dorrie stared in amazement; this was a new wrinkle.
'I must be fit.' Turning his head, Zoltan caught her eye and explained. 'The Sale starts tomorrow. I must be in top shape and ready.'
'I'm sure you needn't worry about that,' Dorrie said faintly. 'You look in the pink of condition to me.'
'You are not an expert.' He dismissed her opinion brusquely and went back to his exercises.
'I never claimed to be.' Dorrie turned away. Really, this was a miserable queue; it was not going to become one of her favourite memories. It wasn't nearly so nice as the Skytrain queue that time, with all the Americans.
