The Christie Caper (20 page)

“Mrs. Darling!” The manager bounded across the lobby to block her way. Thirty-fivish and already balding, Ed Merritt looked as aggrieved at the misfortune striking his hotel as Jenny Cain’s father when any kind of crass reality intruded into his carefully manicured, socially vetted world. Merritt’s voice cracked with outrage. “This willful destruction of property must cease. Immediately.”

As if, Annie thought furiously, any of this were
her
fault.
She glared at Merritt. “Vandalism is not included in the program.”

The pudgy manager glared back. “I’ve already had three checkouts this morning. We’ll probably get sued by some nut who claims the vases were improperly secured and the crash has caused him to develop a phobia about sitting beneath balconies. Listen, that vase
couldn’t
have fallen by itself. But the police won’t even let me out on the roof to look at it.”

Annie tried tact. “Don’t worry. Nobody thinks it was an accident Everyone can relax. That vase was aimed at Neil Bledsoe, no one else. So—”

Merritt blanched. “Oh, Jesus, attempted murder?” he wailed.

It occurred to Annie, belatedly, that her efforts at reassurance had backfired.

“What’s going on here?” the manager demanded frantically. “Is this some kind of crazy Christie
cult?
Is there a real murder planned? My God, lady, you can’t really
kill
people!”

“Not to worry,” she snapped. “The police will handle everything. Now, I’ve got to take the Clue Sheets to the registration table.”

As his eyes bulged, she added, over her shoulder, “Clues to the treasure hunt. Not murder.”

She had expected the treasure hunt to be popular. She had not expected the lobby and the hallway to the registration area to be swamped with contestants. Not all of whom were remembering their manners.

A tall, virago-faced redhead almost dislocated Annie’s shoulder with her determined grip. “Rank unfairness, that’s what this is!” She gestured venomously at the mob.

“Huh?” Annie tried to squirm free.

“The people at the front of the line have an incredible advantage,” the woman hissed.

“If life were fair,” Annie rejoined, lurching away, “no mysteries would ever have been written.”

Two plump matrons executed as neat a sequestering as Annie’d ever seen outside the pages of a Mafia book, one fore and one aft.

“Such a lovely conference, Mrs. Darling.” Peppermint breath and a mammoth bosom overwhelmed Annie. “I know
you will agree that working together is surely the American way.”

“Goldie and I always work together,” Aft confided chummily over Annie’s shoulder. Whatever charm that entailed was canceled by unrelenting pressure on Annie’s back.

“The more the merrier,” Annie replied heartily. “After all, Agatha’s father was an American.” That puzzled them enough that she managed a sideways Junge and broke free.

She was almost to the table and she’d spotted Max, head high, searching for her, when a natty old boy in knickers reached out, grabbed her hand, and shook it. “Tremendous excitement generated. Deservedly, of course. But, one can’t help but be concerned. Disputations will undoubtedly arise. Who are the marshals?”

This was a new one. She took in his neatly trimmed Vandyke, horn-rimmed glasses, and terrifyingly intelligent eyes. An academic, of course. “The members of the Broward’s Rock Agatha Christie Centennial Society,” she replied smoothly, inventing it on the spot. She pointed at Henny, who was also battling her way through the crowd. “There’s the president, the lady in the green linen blazer. Direct any questions to her.”

The natty old fellow nodded happily. “Sound organizational structure, that’s obvious.”

When Annie reached Max, she looked at him anxiously.

He gave a reassuring nod, and she sighed with relief. That meant Max had mounted the posters, each containing hints to a particular Christie title. Each poster served as a Hunt Station and was manned by a volunteer from Henny’s book club.

There were twenty-five posters scattered at various points on the ground floor of the hotel.

So that was done. All that remained now was for Max to deliver to each station the Title Slips for that book (actually, twenty-four books and one short story; that was to keep everybody loose) and for Annie to release the Clue Sheets. But, first, it was time to explain the rules. She looked at the surging, intense crowd and realized that she and the box she clutched to her bosom were the cynosure of all eyes. She smiled brightly at Max and handed the box to him, announcing loudly, “The programs for the banquet Saturday night”

Although Max was never one to worry, he glanced up at the clock above Meeting Room A. The treasure hunt would begin in ten minutes. “But I thought—”

Without moving her upper body and with her bright smile still in place, Annie kicked him fiercely in the left shin.
Before she turned to face the restless crowd, she spoke without moving her lips. “Floor. Hand me Clue Sheets. Deliver Title Slips.” It sounded like a cross between a Hungarian with lockjaw and a teenager just home from the orthodontist. She accompanied the request with a brief downward nod, then whirled to face the restless treasure hunters.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please!” From the corner of her eye, she saw Max drop into a crouch. With the registration table as his cover, he put the box safely on the floor, opened it, and placed in Annie’s left hand, which was also screened by the table, the Clue Sheets.

Annie smiled heartily at the treasure hunters. “Welcome to one of our conference highlights, the Agatha Christie Treasure Hunt. We do have a few rules—”

“Mrs. Darling, pardon me for interrupting. I would appreciate an opportunity to speak with the members of your conference for a few minutes.” The knees of Frank Saulter’s khaki trousers were smeared with dirt. Despite the air-conditioning which kept the hotel temperature in the low seventies, sweat trickled down his leathery cheeks, and the armpits of his khaki shirt were circled. He gave her a brisk nod and turned to face the crowd.

“I’m Frank Saulter, chief of police for Broward’s Rock. I would like to have a few minutes of your time.”

Several hundred eyes settled on him.

Max began to edge toward the nearest exit. Annie carefully gave no indication she’d noticed. But she needn’t have worried. The advent of a genuine police officer held her conference-goers in thrall.

“Police officers sometimes find it helpful to take the public into their confidence. This,” Saulter said grimly, “is one of those times. I need the assistance of every person here to prevent a murder.”

Gasps. Rustles. A questioning murmur. Some cynical smiles.

Saulter saw those. “No, this isn’t part of Mrs. Darling’s entertainment for you. I only wish it were.” He paused until it was absolutely quiet. Annie was impressed. This wasn’t an easy crowd to quell. “Twice,” the chief emphasized, “since this conference opened, murder has been attempted.”
Quickly, he sketched the shooting at Death on Demand on Saturday night. “Today someone pushed a four-foot vase from the roof above the Palmetto Court. The vase narrowly missed hitting Mr. Neil Bledsoe, who is also attending this conference. Now,” Saulter planted his hands on the table, leaned forward, and intently eyed his listeners, “anyone who has at any time ever had personal or professional dealings with Mr. Bledsoe is requested to come to the Card Room, which is directly off the main lobby near the coffee shop. Furthermore, if any one of you has any information about the shooting or the vase incident, please come to the Card Room.”

A babble of voices broke out.

Saulter overrode them. “Should it become apparent that anyone here knows Mr. Bledsoe and does
not
come to the Card Room, I will consider that a very serious lack of cooperation with law enforcement authorities and will issue a warrant for that person’s arrest on suspicion of murder. Furthermore, I want to make it clear that Mr. Bledsoe is cooperating wholeheartedly with the authorities and has checked the registration list for this conference and indicated the names familiar to him in any way.”

So the vase got macho man’s attention. It was about time Bledsoe cooperated. And this call for anyone knowing Bledsoe to come forward was a brilliant stroke on the chief’s part. Annie hoped Saulter soon discovered the culprit The person who pushed that vase could not have known with absolute certainty that an innocent victim wouldn’t walk into its path.

“Finally,” Saulter exhorted, “I want to enlist all of you—and you people can think or you wouldn’t read mysteries—I want to enlist all of you as unofficial safety officers. Keep your eyes open. If you see anything odd, suspicious, or unusual, report it to me. Especially keep your eyes open when Mr. Bledsoe is present.” He gave a short, sharp nod. “Thank you very much.”

He faced Annie, and he was still looking stern and official. “All right, Annie, get this thing started. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Inspector.” Despite the outburst of excited chatter at Saulter’s conclusion, Lady Gwendolyn’s musical voice was clearly heard. “A curious parallel exists here. I believe it is
important to consider the effects of Christie’s
modus operandi—”

Saulter, normally the most courteous of listeners, broke in impatiently. “Lady Gwendolyn, it would be a privilege to discuss Mrs. Christie with you at any other time. Right now I’m involved in an investigation.” He managed a tight smile and swung on his heel.

Lady Gwendolyn’s plump cheeks puffed and her vivid blue eyes blazed. If she had been a cat, she would have hissed. As it was, she turned toward Annie, her pleasant face uncommonly determined.

Annie held up a hand placatingly. “Just a minute, Lady Gwendolyn. I’d better start the hunt before this crowd explodes.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Annie shouted. When relative silence reigned, Annie said smoothly, “The organizers of this conference regret very much the unpleasant episodes which have occurred, but we feel confident that Chief Saulter and Broward’s Rock can count on all of you to do your duty. Now, for you Christie fans, here are the ground rules for the treasure hunt. I know everyone will observe these rules cheerfully. Some of you have already spotted Hunt Stations. I know you will understand”—a toothy smile which was about as sincere as Lord Caterham’s geniality when dealing with George Lomax in
The Secret of Chimneys
—“why our dedicated volunteers are forbidden to exchange even a single word with treasure hunters.” Annie leaned forward. “Not. One. Single. Word. O—kay?” Another toothy smile to soften the imperative voice. “Furthermore, anyone attempting to deface, remove, or relocate a poster will automatically be disqualified. As will anyone attempting under any pretext to abscond with the Title Slips.” A brisk nod to emphasize the seriousness of these regulations. “Now, here’s how the treasure hunt works. The objective is to match up the clues and the posters. Each of you will receive a Clue Sheet.” She brandished the bright pink sheets. “There are twenty-five clues. Scattered about on the lower level of the hotel are twenty-five posters. Each is manned by a volunteer. You must find the poster which matches the clue. Upon whispering the correct title to the hunt station attendant, you will receive a slip bearing the name of that Christie title. The first person—or persons, teams are fine—to return to the registration desk with all twenty-five Christie title slips will receive a five-pound box of Godiva chocolates.”