Murder in the CIA Read online

  “You’re more upset about your family going to Moscow than you want to admit,” she said.

  He nodded, eyes on his glass. He grunted, looked up, and said, “I have never told you about my family, about my dear children.”

  Collette smiled. “No, you haven’t, except that your daughter is very beautiful and sweet, and that your son is a fine boy.”

  There was a flicker of a smile, then gloom again. “My son is a genius, a very bright boy. He is sensitive and loves artistic things.” He leaned forward and spoke with renewed animation. “You should see how the boy draws and paints, Collette. Beauty, always such beauty, and the poetry he writes touches me so deeply.”

  “You must be very proud,” Collette said.

  “Proud? Yes. And concerned for his future.”

  “Because—”

  “Because in Russia, he will have little chance to develop his talents. For the girl, my daughter, it is not so bad. She will marry because she is pretty. For him …” He shook his head and finished his drink.

  Cahill was tempted to come around and hug him. Any initial thoughts of the chauvinistic attitude he’d expressed were tempered by her understanding of the society in which he, and his family, functioned.

  She thought, then said, “It would be better for your son here in Hungary, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, there is more freedom here, but who knows when that will end? America would be best. I am not a religious man, Collette, but I sometimes pray to someone that my son will be allowed to grow up in America.”

  “As I said before, Árpád, I’ll try to …”

  He wanted to continue, and did. “When I first came to you and offered my services, I talked about how my beloved Hungary had been destroyed by the Soviets. I talked of disgust with their system and ways, of how this wonderful country has been forevermore changed by them.” He sighed deeply, sat back, and nodded in agreement with whatever he was thinking at the moment. “I was not completely honest, Collette. I came to you because I wanted to find a way to see my family—my son—reach America. Instead, he goes to Moscow.”

  Cahill stood. “Árpád, I will make every effort to help bring that about. No promises, but a decent effort.”

  He stood, too, and extended his hand. She took it. “Thank you, Collette. I know you will do what you say. I have been here a long time. I must go.”

  He was paid and she escorted him to the door. She said, “Árpád, be careful. Don’t take risks. Please.”

  “Of course not.” He looked back to the center of the room. “The tape and camera are off?”

  “I assume they are. The main show is over.”

  He motioned her into the hall and spoke in a whisper, so close to her ear that his lips touched it. “I am in love.”

  “In … love?”

  “I have met a wonderful woman recently and …”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Cahill said.

  “Good idea, bad idea, it has happened. She is very beautiful and we have commenced … an affair.”

  Collette wasn’t sure what to say, except, “What about your family, Árpád? You say you love them so much and …”

  His grin was sheepish, a little boy caught in a quandary. His eyes averted her and he shuffled his feet. Then he looked at her and said, “There are different forms of love, Collette. Surely, that reality is not a Socialist aberration.” He cocked his head and waited for a response.

  Cahill said, “We should meet again soon and discuss this. In the meantime, take extra care. Discuss what you’re doing with no one. No one, Árpád.”

  “With her?” His laugh was guttural. “We have so little time together that discussion is the last thing on our minds. Köszönöm, Collette.”

  “Thank you, Árpád.”

  “Until the next time a tack appears in the pole. Viszontlátásra!”

  Rule Six: Do anything you can to keep your agent from having an affair—at least with anyone else.

  5

  Collette Cahill got off a Malev flight in London, went to a phone booth, and dialed a number. A woman answered, “Eleven, Cadogan Gardens.”

  “My name is Collette Cahill. I was a close friend of Barrie Mayer.”

  “Oh, yes, what a tragedy. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yes, we were all terribly shocked. I’ve just arrived in London for a few days’ vacation and wondered if you had any available rooms?”

  “Yes, we do, a few suites as a matter of fact. Oh, goodness.”

  “What?”

  “Number 27 is available. It was Miss Mayer’s favorite.”

  “Yes, that’s right, she always talked about it. That would be fine with me.”

  “You wouldn’t mind …?”

  “Staying where she’d stayed? No, not at all. I’ll be there within the hour.”

  She spent the first hour sitting in the Victorian living room and imagining what Barrie had done the last day and night of her life while in London. Had she watched television, gone across to the private park, read, called friends, napped, walked the pretty, quiet streets of Chelsea and Belgravia, shopped for relatives back home? It eventually became too sad an exercise. She went downstairs to the main drawing room and flipped through an array of magazines and newspapers, then caught the attention of one of the hall porters. “Yes, ma’am?” he said.

  “I was a very good friend of Miss Mayer, the lady who’d stayed in Number 27 and who recently died.”

  “Poor Miss Mayer. She was one of my favorite guests whenever she was here, a real lady. We’re all terribly sad at what happened.”

  “I was wondering whether she did anything special the day she arrived, the day before she died?”

  “Special? No, not really. I brought her tea at three … let me see, yes, I’m quite certain it was three o’clock the afternoon she arrived. We made a reservation for her that evening at the Dorchester for dinner.”

  “For how many people?”

  “Two. Yes, for two. I can check.”

  “No, that’s all right. Did she take a taxi, or did someone pick her up?”

  “She took the limousine.”

  “The limousine?”

  “Ours. It’s available to our guests twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Did the limousine pick her up at the Dorchester?”

  “I don’t know, madam. I wasn’t here that evening when she returned, but I can ask.”

  “Would you mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  He returned a few minutes later and said, “To the best of recollection, Miss Mayer returned a little before ten that evening. She arrived by taxi.”

  “Alone?”

  He looked at the floor. “I’m not sure, madam, whether that would be discreet to comment upon.”

  Cahill smiled. “I’m not snooping. It’s just that we were such good friends and her mother back in the States asked me to find out what I could about her daughter’s last hours.”

  “Of course. I understand. Let me ask.”

  He returned again and said, “She was alone. She announced she was going straightaway to bed and left an early call. That was the morning she was leaving for Hungary, I believe.”

  “Yes, that’s right, to Budapest. Tell me, didn’t the police come and ask questions about her?”

  “Not to my knowledge. They came and took her things from the room and …”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Friends, business colleagues, I think. You’d have to ask the manager about that. They spoke to her. They took everything and were gone within ten minutes. The other one … there were three chaps … he stayed behind for at least an hour. I remember he said he wanted to sit where Miss Mayer had spent her last hours and think. Poor chap, I felt terrible for him.”

  “Did any of them have names?”

  “I feel like I’m getting a proper interrogation,” he said, not angrily but with enough of an edge to cause Cahill to back off. She smiled. “I guess so many people knew and loved her that we’re not be
having in our usual manner. Sorry, I didn’t mean to ask so many questions of you. I’ll check with the manager a little later.”

  He returned the smile. “No problem, madam. I understand. Ask me anything you wish.”

  “Oh, I think I’ve asked enough. Did they have names, the men who came here and took her things?”

  “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.

  6

  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 markedl
y 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.”