Murder in the CIA (8 page)

“Not that I recall. They might have muttered something or other but … Yes, one of them said he was a business associate of Miss Mayer. I believe he said his name was Mr. Hubler.”

“David Hubler?”

“I don’t think he used a first name, madam.”

“What did he look like? Was he fairly short, dark, lots of black curly hair, handsome?”

“That doesn’t quite fit my memory of him, madam. Tall and sandy would be more like it.”

Cahill sighed and said, “Well, thank you so much. I think I’ll go back upstairs and take a nap.”

“May I bring you anything? Tea at three?”

Like Barrie, Cahill thought. “No, make it four,” she said.

“Yes, madam.”

She called David Hubler a few minutes before tea was scheduled to arrive. It was almost eleven in the morning in Washington. “David, Collette Cahill.”

“Hi, Collette.”

“I’m calling from London, David. I’m staying in the same hotel Barrie always used.”

“Eleven, Cadogan. What are you doing there?”

“Trying to sort out my mind about what happened. I took a vacation and am heading home, but thought I’d stop here on the way.”

There was silence.

“David?”

“Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking about Barrie. Unbelievable.”

“Have you been here in London since she died?”

“Me? No. Why?”

“Someone at the hotel thought you might have been the one who picked up her things from the room.”

“Not me, Collette.”

“Were any of her things sent back to you at the office?”

“Just her briefcase.”

“Her briefcase. Was it the one she usually carried?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. What was in it?”

“Papers, a couple of manuscripts. Why are you asking?”

“I don’t know, David. My mind just hasn’t functioned since you called me with the news. What’s happening back there? The agency must be in chaos.”

“Sort of, although not as bad as you might think. Barrie was incredible, Collette, but you know that. She left everything in perfect order, right down to the last detail. You know what she did for me?”

“What?”

“She had me in her will. She left me insurance money, one of those key-man policies. In effect, she left me the agency.”

Cahill was surprised, enough so that she wasn’t quite sure what to say. He filled the gap with, “I don’t mean she left it all to me, Collette. Her mother benefits from it, but she structured things so that I’m to run it for a minimum of five years and share in the profits. I was flabbergasted.”

“That was wonderful of her.”

“Typical of her is more like it. When will you be back in Washington?”

“A day or two. I’ll stop by.”

“Please do, Collette. Let’s have lunch or dinner. There’s a lot we can talk about.”

“I’d like that. By the way, do you have any idea who she might have seen here in London before … before it happened?”

“Sure, Mark Hotchkiss. They were scheduled for dinner the night she arrived.”

“Who’s he?”

“A British literary agent Barrie liked. Why, I don’t know. I think he’s a swine and I told her so but, for some reason, she kept talking to him about linking up. With all Barrie’s brights, Collette, there were certain people who could con her, and Hotchkiss is one.”

“Know how I can reach him while I’m here?”

“Sure.” He gave her an address and phone number. “But watch out for him, Collette. Remember, I said swine,
cochon
.”

“Thanks, David. See you soon.”

She replaced the phone in its cradle as the porter knocked. She opened the door. He placed the tea tray on a coffee table and backed out of the suite, leaving her sitting in a gold wingback chair. She wore a light blue robe; shafts of late-afternoon sunlight sliced through gaps in the white curtains and across the worn Oriental rug that took up the center of the room. One beam of light striped her bare foot and she thought of Barrie, who was always so proud of her feet, gently arched and with long, slender toes that were perfectly sized in relation to each other. Cahill looked at her own foot, short and stubby, and smiled, then laughed. “God, we were different,” she said aloud as she poured her
tea and smeared clotted cream and black cherry jam over a piece of scone.

She caught Mark Hotchkiss just as he was leaving his office, introduced herself, and asked if he were free for dinner.

“Afraid not, Miss Cahill.”

“Breakfast?”

“You say you’re Barrie’s friend?”

“Yes, we were best friends.”

“She never mentioned you.”

“Were you that friendly that she would have?”

His laugh was forced. He said, “I suppose we could meet for something in the morning. You have a decent place near you on Sloane Street, right around the corner. It’s a café in back of the General Trading Company. Nine?”

“Fine. See you then.”

“Miss Cahill.”

“Yes?”

“You do know that Barrie and I had entered into a partnership arrangement just prior to her death?”

“No, I didn’t know that, but I was aware it was being discussed. Why do you bring it up now?”

“Why not bring it up
now
?”

“No reason. You can tell me all about it in the morning. I look forward to it.”

“Yes. Well, cheerio. Pleasant evening. Enjoy London. The theater season is quite good this year.”

She hung up agreeing with David Hubler. She didn’t like Hotchkiss, and wondered what aspect of him had seduced Barrie into entering a “partnership agreement,” if that claim were true.

She called downstairs and asked if they could get her tickets to a show. Which one? “It doesn’t matter,” Cahill said, “something happy.”

The curtain went up on
Noises Off
at seven-thirty, and by the time the British farce was over, Cahill’s sides hurt from laughing, and the unpleasant reason for her trip had been forgotten, at least for the duration of the show. She was hungry, had a light dinner at the Neal Street Restaurant,
and returned to the hotel. A porter brought cognac and ice to her room and she sat quietly and sipped it until her eyes began to close. She went to bed, aware as she fell asleep of the absolute quiet of this street and this hotel, as quiet as the dead.

Cahill arrived on time at the General Trading Company, whose coat of arms heralded the fact that it had provided goods to at least one royal household. She took a table in the rear outdoor area. The morning had dawned sunny and mild. A raincoat over a heather tweed suit made her perfectly comfortable.

She passed the time with a cup of coffee and watching tiny birds make swooping sorties on uncovered bowls of brown sugar cubes on the tables. She glanced at her watch; Hotchkiss was already twenty minutes late. She’d give it ten more minutes. At precisely nine-thirty, he came through the store and stepped onto the terrace. He was tall and angular. His head was bald on top, but he’d combed back long hair on the sides, giving him the startling appearance of—not swine, David, she thought, duck—he looked like a duck’s rear end. He wore a double-breasted blue blazer with a crest on its pocket, gray slacks, a pair of tan Clark’s desert boots, a pale blue shirt with white collar, and a maroon silk tie. He carried a battered and bulging leather briefcase beneath his arm. A similarly well-worn trench coat was slung over his shoulder.

“Miss Cahill,” he said with energy. He smiled and extended his hand, his teeth markedly yellow, and she noticed immediately that his fingernails were too long and needed cleaning.

“Mr. Hotchkiss,” she said, taking his hand with her fingertips.

“Sorry I’m late but traffic is bastardly this hour. You’ve had coffee. Good.”

Cahill stifled a smile and watched him ease into a white metal chair with yellow cushions. “Not chilly?” he asked. “Better inside?”

“Oh, no, I think it’s lovely out here.”

“As you wish.” He made an elaborate gesture at one of the young waitresses, who came to the table and took their order for coffee and pastry. When she’d gone, he sat back, formed a tent beneath his chin with his fingers, and said, “Well, now, we’re obviously here to discuss Barrie Mayer, poor dear, may she rest in peace. You were friends, you say?”

“Yes, close friends.”

“She never mentioned you, but I suppose someone like Barrie had so many friends or, at least, acquaintances.”

“We were close
friends
,” Cahill said, not enjoying his inference.

“Yes, of course. Now, what was it you wished to discuss with me?”

“Your relationship with Barrie, what she did the night before she died, anything that might help me understand.”

“Understand? Understand
what
? The poor woman dropped dead of a heart attack, coronary thrombosis, premature certainly but Lord knows what life has in store for any of us.”

Cahill had to remind herself of her “official” role in looking into Mayer’s life. She was a grieving friend, not an investigator, and her approach would have to soften to reflect that. She said, “I’m actually as interested for Barrie’s mother’s sake as I am for my own. We’ve been in contact and she asked me to find out anything that would … well, comfort her. I’m on my way to Washington now to see her.”

“What do you do for a living, Miss Cahill? I know that’s
hardly a British question, more what you Americans seem always to ask at first meeting, but I am curious.”

“I work for the United States Embassy in Budapest.”

“Budapest! I’ve never been. Is it as gray and grim as we hear?”

“Not at all. It’s a lovely city.”

“With all those soldiers and red stars.”

“They fade into the background after a while. You had dinner with Barrie the night before she died.”

“Indeed, at the Dorchester. Despite the Arabs, it still has London’s finest chef.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You must let me take you. Tonight?”

“I can’t, but thank you. What mood was Barrie in that night? What did she say, do? Did she seem sick?”

“She was in the pink of health, Miss Cahill. May I call you Collette? I’m Mark, of course.”

“Of course.” She laughed. “Yes, call me Collette. You say she seemed healthy. Was she happy?”

“Irrepressibly so. I mean, after all, we forged a partnership that evening. She was bubbling.”

“You mentioned on the phone that you’d become partners. I spoke with David Hubler in Barrie’s Washington office. He had no idea it had gone that far.”

“David Hubler. I dislike being indiscreet but I must admit Mr. Hubler is not my favorite person. Frankly, I thought he was a stone about Barrie’s neck, and I told her so.”

“I like David. I always understood from Barrie that she was extremely fond of him, and had great professional respect for him.”

“Besides being a consummate businesswoman, Barrie Mayer was also gullible.”

Cahill thought of Hubler saying the same thing. She said to Hotchkiss, “Mark, are you aware of Barrie’s will and what it contains relative to David Hubler?”

“No.” He laughed loudly, revealing the yellowed teeth. “Oh, you mean that nonsense about ensuring that Hubler runs the Washington office if she should die. A bone, that’s all, a bone tossed at him. Now that the agency … 
all of it
 … passes to me, the question of Mr. Hubler’s future has little to do with a piece of worthless paper.”

“Why?”

“Because the agreement Barrie and I entered into takes precedence over what was decreed before.” He smiled smugly and formed the finger tent again. The waitress delivered their coffee and pastry and Hotchkiss held up his cup. “To the memory of a lovely, talented, and beautiful woman, Barrie Mayer, and to you, Miss Collette Cahill, her dear friend.” He sipped his coffee, then asked, “Are you truly not free this evening? The Dorchester has a very nice dance band and, as I said, the chef is without parallel in London these days of mediocre food. Sure?” He cocked his head and elevated one bushy eyebrow.

“Sure, but thank you. You signed a paper with Barrie that night?”

“Yes.”

“May I … I know this is none of my business, but …”

“I’m afraid it would be inappropriate at this time for me to show it to you. Are you doubting me?”

“Not at all. Again, it’s just a matter of wanting to know
everything
about her just before she died. Did you go to the airport with her the next morning?”

“No.”

“I just thought …”

“I dropped Barrie back at the hotel. That was the last time I saw her.”

“In a taxi?”

“Yes. My goodness, I’m beginning to feel as though you might have an interest beyond that of a close friend.”

Cahill grinned. “The hall porter at the hotel said the same thing. Forgive me. Too many years of asking stranded American tourists where they might have lost their passports.”

“Is that what you do at the embassy?”

“Among other things. Well, Mark, this was extremely pleasant.”

“And informative, I trust. I’ll be coming to Washington
soon to tidy up things at the agency. Do you know where you’ll be staying?”

“With my mother. She lives outside the city.”

“Splendid. I shall call you there.”

“Why not contact me through David Hubler? I’ll be spending considerable time with him.”

“Oh, I think I’ve placed one foot in one very large mouth.”

“Not at all.” She stood. “Thank you.”

He stood, too, and accepted her hand. They both looked down at the check the waitress had placed on the table. “My treat,” Cahill said, knowing it was what he wanted her to say.

“Oh, no, that would be …”

“Please. I initiated this. Perhaps I’ll see you in Washington.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Hotchkiss left. Cahill stopped on her way through the large store to buy her mother a set of fancy placemats, and a book for her nephew. She walked around the corner to the hotel, where she made a series of calls to the physicians who’d performed the autopsy on Barrie and whose names she’d gotten from Red Sutherland before leaving Budapest. The only one she reached was a Dr. Willard Hymes. She introduced herself as Barrie Mayer’s closest friend and asked if she could arrange to meet with him.

“Whatever for?” he asked. He sounded young.

“Just to put my mind, and her mother’s mind, at rest.”