When she brought the tray in, Wheeler had made himself at home. He sat on the sofa, leafing through a magazine from the stack on the coffee table. “Thank you. That looks very nice.”
He added milk and sugar to his coffee, sipping it with obvious appreciation. “Where’d you learn to make good coffee? What passes for coffee in the fish shop wouldn’t make it anywhere else as mop water.”
Sam laughed, her misgivings temporarily consigned to the nether regions of her mind. “From my grandmother.”
“Grandmother, eh? And where would she be?”
“In heaven, I presume. She died.”
“Oh, I am sorry. Was it recent?”
Sam shook her head. “No, it’s been several years.”
A little silence fell. Then Wheeler said, “Where’s the boyfriend tonight?’
He’s not my boyfriend
. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she bit them back. Wheeler didn’t seem the aggressive sort, but just in case, it was probably prudent if she let him think it was serious between her and Tony.
“Work,” she said without bothering to elaborate.
“In business, is he?”
“Yes.”
It was late by the time Wheeler left. Samantha pushed the door shut behind him and threw the bolt, her breath gusting out in relief. She tidied the living room, washing the coffee cups and putting them away.
In her bedroom she took out clothes for the next day, laying them over a chair. She looked out the window, reassured when she saw that the street was deserted except for the lines of parked cars. Most of the lights in the flats across the way were out.
She opened her window a crack, letting in fresh air. Tomorrow would be fine, she thought, pausing when she heard the crisp tread of feet on the sidewalk. Holding her breath she waited, not that anyone could reach her up here.
A moment later, she exhaled. A police constable, his arms swinging at his side and his cap set at a jaunty angle, walked his beat. As she watched he paused in front of the building, going up the short walk.
Reassured, she turned away. Obviously Inspector Allen’s order to keep an eye on the building was being carried out.
She showered and changed into a nightgown, going back to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She rinsed her mouth, then pressed the soap dispenser to wash her hands.
Under her horrified gaze a sticky crimson liquid oozed over her fingers and dripped into the sink.
Chapter Nine
Her stomach lurched and Samantha bit back a scream. She swallowed hard, the spicy-sweet scent triggering an image that changed her fright to anger.
Ketchup.
In her mind she saw Jason Wheeler mopping up his plate with a triangle of bread. Bringing her fingers close to her nose, she sniffed. Yes, it was definitely ketchup.
With a savage twist she turned on the tap, rinsing her hands clean. The last of the ketchup vanished down the drain in a pink swirl. Only a sticky drop still hung from the nozzle of the soap dispenser.
Damn. Damn. Sam jerked the towel from the rack and dried her hands. Her face stared back at her from the mirror, pale and scared. For just a second she gave in, resting her forehead against the cold glass. She gripped the edge of the sink, her hands shaking as tears seeped out from under her tightly closed eyelids.
Was Jason Wheeler the culprit? He could have gone into the bathroom while she was in the kitchen making the coffee. No, that wasn’t likely. She would have noticed if he’d been gone that long.
On the other hand, someone could have come into the flat during the day. Locked doors didn’t seem to present any barriers to her tormenter.
But it was all so stupid. None of the things that had happened would have proved fatal, except perhaps the incident with the truck, and there she’d been saved by Tony’s hair-trigger reaction and the responsiveness of the car.
She slapped down the towel and went to the phone to dial the police. As she might have expected at this hour, Inspector Allen wasn’t in, but when she gave her name, the polite voice asked her to hold.
“Could I have him call you?” the duty officer asked a moment later.
“Yes, all right,” Sam said, gripping the phone so hard her fingers hurt.
Less than five minutes elapsed before the phone rang. She snatched it up.
“Inspector Allen here. What can I do for you, Miss Smith?”
“Someone’s either playing a bad joke or they’re trying to make me crazy,” she said starkly. “There is ketchup in my soap dispenser. You’ve no idea how much that looks like blood when you’ve got it all over your hands.”
“I can imagine,” the inspector said dryly. “Is there anything else amiss?”
“I haven’t looked,” Sam said. “I rang you right away.”
“Good, good. It may be just a prank but I’ll come and check it out. By the way, we’ve found nothing on fingerprints. The note was clean.”
She hadn’t expected anything else. “How soon will you get here?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
She hung up, then on impulse dialed Tony’s house. No answer.
She didn’t have his office number, but since it was in the Regal Arms, the front desk would connect her.
“Anthony Theopoulos’s office please.”
“I’m afraid he’s not there. He’s in Mr. St. Clair’s room. Hold on and I’ll connect you.”
Mr. St. Clair? Sam stared at the receiver in shock. Maurice St. Clair might have been an old acquaintance of Tony’s, but she’d hardly gotten the impression that either of them was interested in reminiscing about their university days.
“St. Clair.” The voice startled her so that she almost dropped the phone. “Uh, yes. Is Tony there, please?”
St. Clair said nothing for a long moment. Then, with unmistakable caution, he asked, “May I ask who’s calling?”
Curiouser and curiouser. “Samantha Smith.” Not for anyone was she going to call herself Agatha again. Besides, it was unlikely that St. Clair would recognize her name.
She heard mumbling in the background, a buzz of static as the phone was taken up. “Yes, Sam?” Tony said brusquely.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s been another incident.”
That seemed to shake him. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’ve called Inspector Allen. He’s on the way.”
“Good. So it’s well in hand, then?”
She could hear voices behind him, more than one. Who was with him? And what was his business with St. Clair, a man he professed not to have seen in at least ten or twelve years?
“Sam, do you want me there?”
To her ears he sounded distracted, not as if he were about to rush to her rescue. “No, it’s okay. The inspector will check it out.”
“I’m sorry, Sam, but I have to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Without giving her a chance to say goodbye, he hung up.
Sam stared at the phone in disbelief, then slowly put down the receiver. Maurice St. Clair. She’d thought Tony’s behavior was odd in the hotel room with Dubray. And now this, after his vehement declarations that he would help her, protect her.
How much did she really know about Tony? She’d stumbled accidentally into his life, but perhaps his interest in her was more than a coincidence.
Well, from now on she wouldn’t count on his help. Ultimately she could only trust herself.
The first thing Inspector Allen did upon his arrival was to check the flat thoroughly. Sam had spent the interval huddled on the sofa, feeling colder than she’d ever been in her life. Was there nobody she could depend on, nobody she could trust? Even Tony, who’d so quickly entered her life and taken care of her, had seemingly let her down.
She followed Allen’s leisurely progress around the flat, watching as he opened closets and swept aside the neatly hung garments to check behind them. He looked in the cupboards, in the musty space under the kitchen sink, even standing on the toilet seat to check inside the old-fashioned cistern high on the wall.
“Looks clean,” he pronounced at last. He picked up the soap dispenser. “I’ll take that with me, not that I expect to find anything.” He cracked a smile that was obviously intended to cheer her up. “Maybe he used a rare brand of sauce, and we’ll be able to trace it.”
Sitting down on the sofa, he pulled out his notebook. “Now, can you tell me who had access to this flat? Not that we can rule out the person who left the note yesterday, who seems be able to defy locks. But for the moment, we’ll stick to the known.”
“Well, there’s Jason Wheeler. He was in here tonight. I suppose he could have done it, but I can’t imagine why. I hardly know the man.”
The inspectors brows rose. “Oh? A recent acquaintance, then?”
“You must have spoken to him. He lives one floor down, just moved in last week.”
“Hmm.” Allen flipped back several pages, running his fingertip down a row of names. “No, doesn’t seem to be here.”
“Wheeler said he was around after Miss Hunnicott’s death.”
“Did he? I don’t have him down. There’re two flats on each floor, except for the ground floor, which has the equipment room and the manager’s flat. I’ve talked to all the occupants except for the couple in one of the fourth-floor flats who’re away on holiday. But I don’t have Jason Wheeler. 2A? Is that his flat number?”
“I think so.”
“Well, I tried the door yesterday, but no one was there. I suppose I’ll have to try again.”
“Tonight?”
“No, not tonight. We have no evidence to connect him with the ketchup. We can’t accuse a man for no reason. What about your friend of last evening? Have you known him long?”
“Not long. But he’s a respected businessman. He wouldn’t do anything to harm me.” But did she really know that? He’d been in Maurice St. Clair’s room this evening, and he hadn’t sounded too pleased to find her on the phone.
“Did he have an opportunity?” Allen went on doggedly.
“I suppose so. He was here last night for a while.” But he’d kissed her so sweetly. Surely a guilty man wouldn’t have shown such caring and tenderness. “In any case, I used the soap after he left and it was okay.”
“Anyone else?”
“No one else that I know of. It looks like someone’s trying to rattle me, make sure I know he can come and go as he pleases.”
The inspector closed his notebook. “Nothing else appears to be touched. I’m sure you’ll be all right if you put the chain on the door.”
“Tell me,” Sam said in a pleasant voice as she walked the inspector to the door. “Was Miss Hunnicott’s death an accident, or did somebody push her?”
He regarded her through narrowed eyes. “It’s a police matter, but I can say this much. The autopsy results were inconclusive. We’re calling it an accident for the moment.”
A diplomatic answer if she’d ever heard one. Sam ground her teeth, but wished the man a polite good night.
Tense and dispirited, Sam paced restlessly about the flat. The walls around her were beginning to feel more like a prison than a shelter. In the kitchen she picked up the day’s mail, which she hadn’t opened. She sifted idly through the envelopes. The last one caught her attention. The return address was that of Mr. Collins’s office.
Another threat?
The envelope tucked inside reassured her, if only slightly. It was postmarked London, sent from the Grosvenor Hotel. She tore it open, scanning to the bottom of the short note inside.
Aunt Olivia.
“Dear Samantha,” her aunt had written. “I’ll be in London for several weeks. I’m giving this to Mr. Collins to forward to you, wherever you are. If you receive it, please get in touch. Perhaps we can get together.”
New energy pulsed through Samantha’s veins. Aunt Olivia knew Bennett and was familiar with many of his business dealings and social acquaintances. Just the person to quiz to find out what Bennett was up to.
She looked at the clock. It was just after midnight. Going to the living room, she picked up the phone, dialing the Grosvenor’s number that was displayed on the letterhead. Olivia was a night person who often read for hours in bed.
She was right. Olivia answered the phone at once.
“Aunt Olivia, this is Samantha.”
“Samantha. Already? How nice to hear from you. Where are you?”
Until that instant Sam hadn’t realized she must make a decision. Was she going to go on hiding? Or was she going to face the past, dangerous or not?
“I’m here in London.” It hardly mattered, she realized. The police knew her story; they’d offered protection. And her mysterious enemy had probably known who she was for days. ”Practically around the corner.”
“Isn’t that wonderful?” Aunt Olivia said. Her tone changed into one of mock severity. “What have you been up to, Samantha? It wasn’t very nice of you to run off like that and not tell anyone where you were going.”
“I needed some time to myself. I’m sorry you worried.”
“Of course not, child. I didn’t worry. You’re an adult. Do what you want. I only wondered.”
“I’d like to see you, Aunt Olivia. Could we have lunch?”
“I’m afraid I have tomorrow and Thursday already booked, but after that I’m free.”
Sam bit her lip in frustration. “You wouldn’t be able to see me sooner, would you?”
“I’m afraid not, Samantha. I’ve promised these people. But I’ve got an idea. How about if we go to Paris for the weekend? It’ll be like old times.”
Old times. That might work in her favor. They would have more time, and Sam could broach the topic of Bennett casually.
“Yes, that sounds like fun,” she said. “I’ve got a job but it’ll be finished Thursday.”
They discussed the details of transportation. After hanging up the phone, Sam stared at it for a long moment. Aunt Olivia hadn’t asked her any questions, nor had she seemed particularly surprised to hear from Samantha.
Was it possible she’d known Sam was in London?
* * * *
Tony finally contacted Sam at 6:45 on Thursday morning, waking her from a sound sleep.
“Where have you been?” Even through her early morning grogginess, she could hear the impatience in his voice. And the anger. “Your line is either busy or you’re not there. I’ve been going crazy thinking something happened to you. Fortunately, Inspector Allen told me you were okay, at least when he left you Tuesday night.”
“I was at Professor Eldridge’s until late last night. I went straight to bed. The line couldn’t have been busy.”