The Affair of the Ellsworth Women

Fiction by

Frank Knebel

Fknebelwrtr@aol.com

A NOTE TO THE READER: In some places in this narrative I have departed from my usual practice of recording only my personal experiences of the events of the case. In some instances those directly involved in actions for which I was not present recount their own experiences, and other scenes are written in third person. The third person accounts were created by me in close consultation with the parties involved, and represent an attempt to give the reader a greater sense of the drama and mystery of the situations. They are as accurate to the actual events as humanly possible. Due to the sensitive nature of many of these descriptions, this account will be another of Peugeot’s cases that must remain upon my shelf until all the actors involved are beyond the public gaze. --- MAJOR ALLEN BOSWORTH, D. S. O., M. C.

“OH, MY DEAR Lady Ellsworth!”

     It was a woman’s deep and rather artificial voice that came to our ears as we stood sipping our champagne. The voice continued:

     “How perfectly lovely to see you again!”

     My wife and I turned to see the considerable figure of Mrs. Landwell-Hobbs advancing upon us. In her left hand she held a glass of champagne. Her right hand was extended toward Brenda in a gesture of sociability so ardent that it approached menace.

     Brenda quickly raised her own hand and deftly parried the threatening limb, taking the lady’s hand with easy grace.

     “Mrs. Landwell-Hobbs! How delightful! But I’m no longer Lady Ellsworth, you know. I’ve been married to Major Bosworth for nearly a year.”

     The lady regarded me rather vaguely as Brenda passed her hand to me.

     “Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Landwell-Hobbs,” I said.

     “Bosworth, … Bosworth, …” She absently repeated my name a few times. Finally, a gleam of recognition came to her eyes. “Oh, yes, I know who you are! You’re the former Ambassador to Belgium, aren’t you? Or was it France?”

     “Not exactly,” I replied patiently. “I work with Henri Peugeot, the Belgian detective.”

     Mrs. Landwell-Hobbs amply chinned face took on a look of consternation and distaste.

     “That’s absolutely awful!” she exclaimed. “Is he one of those horrible little men who follow decent people through parks and pick through the dustbins searching for something that can be made into grounds for divorce and such?”

     Brenda laughed.

     “Really, Mrs. Landwell-Hobbs,” she scolded gently, “Monsieur Peugeot doesn’t do anything of that sort.”

     “No?” The woman looked utterly astonished.

     “Certainly not,” continued my wife. “He’s assisted the police in solving a number of murders, recovered many precious jewels, and rescued a number of kidnapped persons.”

     Brenda’s voice dropped to a conspiratorially low register.

     “They say that he saved a Prime Minister’s daughter.”

     “Really?” asked the wide-eyed Mrs. Landwell-Hobbs, obviously reassured and much impressed. Perhaps in unconscious response to my wife’s recital, she had begun fingering the ostentatiously displayed jewels in her own necklace as she mulled over this new information regarding Peugeot’s (and my) respectability.

     “Well, that’s all right then,” she declared, her face breaking into an enthusiastic smile. “But I didn’t come to you to speak of crime, you know.”

     She looked earnestly into Brenda’s face.

     “My dear, we’re all dying, simply dying to know when we shall see you on stage again. You haven’t done anything since Murder Stays to Dinner, and that was over a year ago.”

     Brenda smiled graciously. I greatly admired her ability to deal with annoying people in such good-humoured fashion.

     “It’s so kind of you to ask,” she replied. “But getting married to Allen and all the duties of setting up a new house have occupied me quite fully.”

     Mrs. Landwell-Hobbs’ face fell.

     “But I’m talking to Jessup and Aubrey about a new play for next spring,” she added. She turned her head to indicate the group in which Penelope Jessup and Philip Aubrey occupied a central position.

     Her stout admirer looked delighted.

     “I hoped that was why you were here tonight,” said Mrs. Landwell-Hobbs. “Though it’s going round that you’re also being sought by some American film producer. Will there be an announcement of some kind?”

     “Actually, we’re here to see my stepdaughter Daphne in her stage debut,” said my wife. Noting the woman’s puzzled expression, she added. “She played Mary, the doctor’s youngest daughter.”

     Mrs. Landwell-Hobbs frowned, deep in thought.

     “She was the blonde,” I added in an effort to be helpful.

     “Oh, I thought she was quite delightful!” said the lady, her expression suggesting that she was still not quite certain of whom she was speaking.

     We were rescued by the arrival of her husband, Colonel Landwell-Hobbs.

     “Hullo, Bosworth,” he said stiffly. “Heard something about you getting married a while ago.”

     “It’s true, sir,” I said, slipping my arm about Brenda’s waist. “Brenda and I have been married almost a year now.”

     The colonel applied his monocled eye to a full-length look at my wife. He obviously enjoyed the view.

     Brenda was quite radiant for the occasion, dressed in a strapless evening gown of royal blue from the bustline to the waist and loose pearl-white folds from the waist to the floor. The creamy skin of her beautiful shoulders, neck, and back and the exquisite tapering of her figure from her full breasts to her trim waist stood in stark contrast to the manner in which Mrs. Landwell-Hobbs filled her gown.

     Colonel Landwell-Hobbs kissed Brenda’s hand.

     “Very pleased to meet you, my dear,” he murmured pleasantly.

     I continued to sip my champagne as the colonel made small talk with my wife, his eyes frequently returning to her décolletage. I kept sweeping my eyes over the room in search of Peugeot, whom I had seen at the second interval but not since. A few of the actors had finished removing their makeup and joined the hundred or so invited guests, but Daphne was not yet among them. I felt sure that she would be eager to join the throng that had so warmly received A Blackmailer Comes to Call.

     As I gazed about the room, I cerebrated on the many changes in my life in the past year and a half since meeting the Ellsworth sisters. Thanks to their consultation of Peugeot, I now had a most beautiful, intelligent, and talented wife who understood my love of detective work and enthusiastically supported my continuing assistance of my friend in his cases. My financial condition had improved to the point of my solicitor engaging in negotiations to purchase a cattle ranch in Canada. Brenda’s relations with her stepchildren continued to be warm and satisfying, and all three were all happy and successful in their pursuits. The only looming cloud for us was the same one that hung over all of Europe at present. Germany had reoccupied the Rhineland, and there was now talk of an annexation of Austria. The strutting tyrant, whose agents had cost Brenda’s first husband his life, was now on the verge of plunging the entire continent into a war that somehow I knew would be even more destructive than the one I had so miraculously survived. Despite the gloomy turn my musings had taken, I resolved to keep my thoughts on the happy occasion at hand.

     Mrs. Landwell-Hobbs soon grew tired of watching her husband eyeing Brenda and dragged him off to another conversational group.

     “You’re very fortunate,” I remarked to her in a low tone. “The Colonel hasn’t been forced to make a retreat like that since the campaign in the Sudan in ’98.”

     Brenda smiled at me.

     “He was about to tell me some of his Boer War stories.”

     “The old boy was actually wondering what was holding up your gown.”

     “Mostly his age held it up,” she replied, sipping her champagne.

     Another female voice interrupted our badinage.

     “Why, Brenda! How too marvelous!”

     An elegant looking woman with a voluminous, well-arrayed mane of red hair, dressed in a bright red form-fitting gown, and draped in a white fur cape was crossing the room in our direction. My first impression of striking beauty was somewhat tempered as the distance between us lessened, but she was still quite a handsome woman of about forty, and obviously an actress. She embraced Brenda and went through the motions, if not the actual act, of kissing her on both cheeks.

     “It’s too, too marvelous to see you again, darling!” our new arrival purred, her tone rather noticeably forced.

     She took a step back, hands still holding my wife’s, and swept Brenda with a head-to-toe look as appraising as any man’s.

     “You’re looking quite ravishing tonight!” she continued, her sincerity apparent. She slipped an arm about Brenda’s waist.

     “How are you, Drusilla?” Brenda said, with what I could tell was a brave smile.

     “I am Queen of all I survey, as usual, darling,” she pronounced, looking about the crowd.

     A number of heads had turned to watch as she strode regally across the room to us, and a few of the heads now nodded or bowed, either in recognition of the actress or in amused enjoyment of her flamboyant costume. In acknowledgement the actress nodded with the air of one graciously accepting what was only her due.

     “Ah, yes,” she continued to us, “one must be gracious to the public at all times, though I sometimes regret that I can no longer attend a performance in quiet anonymity. Truly, fame is quite a double-edged sword!”

     It was difficult to believe that anyone seeking anonymity could possibly dress or behave in such a manner, but Brenda showed no trace of a smile and gently pressed her toes on mine to prevent me from making any reply.

     “Yes, crowds can be a problem for an actress,” agreed my wife.

     Drusilla made an exaggerated expression to show that Brenda’s solicitude had touched her deeply.

     “How wonderful of you to say so! Even though you’re pretty much retired now, it’s perfectly delightful that you’re staying so well in touch with us.”

     “I’m hardly retired, dear,” Brenda replied patiently. “I’ve just been very busy with all the details of getting married and setting up a new house. Do you know my husband, Major Allen Bosworth?”

     Drusilla followed Brenda’s gesture to me with a blank expression.

     “Allen,” Brenda continued, “this is an old and dear friend, Drusilla Gordon.”

     “I’m very pleased to meet you,” I said, extending my hand.

     She took my hand disinterestedly.

     “Well, let me assure you, Brenda dear, that I never let my marriage occupy so much of my time. Women of our age must concentrate on our careers.”

     I wondered what she meant by ‘our age,’ since Brenda, at thirty-two, was obviously eight or nine years younger than she was. However, one must allow for the vanity of the aging actress.

     Brenda and Drusilla began to talk theatrical shop, giving me another opportunity to look for Peugeot. From time to time I glanced back at my wife’s companion and it all finally fell into place. Miss Gordon had been a very sought-after leading lady for a dozen years or so just after the War. She had married a well-known leading actor, but the union had been a stormy one by all accounts. After many accusations of mutual unfaithfulness, they had parted ways some five years ago. Unfortunately for her, this was just about the time that she began losing out on some of the choice leading parts to other, younger actresses, such as Brenda. I came out of my reverie just in time to hear Drusilla say:

     “… And you must come down and see me in the country next summer!” “That’s jolly nice of you,” I put in.

     Drusilla Gordon looked at me blankly.

     “Why, of course, you must come too, Captain,” she said without enthusiasm.

     “It’s Major actually…” I began as gently as I could.

     I was checked by another flood of words from Drusilla. As she went on, I noticed that Brenda was trying desperately to hide a smile behind her champagne glass. She had also slipped out of Drusilla’s grasp.

     Presently, Drusilla excused herself and sidled over to a group of younger actresses including Melinda Riddle, Brenda’s protégée and one time understudy, and her flatmate, Margaret Shaw. Both had appeared in the play, Melinda in one of the leading roles.

     “Oh look, Allen,” said Brenda, pointing. “It’s Melinda and Maggie.”

     We waved to them. As Drusilla joined their circle I noted a repetition of her habit of putting her arm around the waist of the person standing next to her, in this case Maggie Shaw.

     “Drusilla must be more friendly to other actresses with her arms than with her words,” I said to my wife.

     Brenda gave me one of her best indulgent looks.

     “Drusilla’s somewhat notorious among theatre people for her sexual tastes,” she said delicately. “You notice that she puts her arm around only the women.”

     I looked again. As the group went on chatting amiably, Maggie Shaw deftly and unobtrusively extricated herself from Drusilla’s tentacles.

     I was appalled.

     “You don’t mean…!”

     “You remember her marriage to Gavin Manning?”

     “A rocky one as I recall. He had a number of affairs, didn’t he?”

     Brenda sipped her champagne again.

     “She had more mistresses than he did.”

     I shook my head in disbelief. Brenda slipped her arm through mine.

     “She’s really all right, darling,” said Brenda. “The younger girls may have an awkward moment or two, but she knows where I stand. And I have you to prove it.”

     As the party continued, a steady stream of people, male and female stopped to chat with Brenda. Most were curious about her next stage appearance, had heard rumours of her film offer, or wished us well in our marriage. Lady Maycen drew Brenda into a long discussion about the problems and expense of operating a country house (something of which we were in no immediate danger), while I chatted with Sir Charles Maycen about Bobby Jones’ views on the utility of the mashie-niblick. An attractive brunette of about Brenda’s own age strolled by and injected herself into the ladies’ conversation.

     “Well hello, Brenda,” she said rather unpleasantly. “I was a bit surprised not to see you in tonight’s who-done-it. Thought you’d be out again after making your latest catch.”

     Brenda’s expression was pained, but she kept her voice pleasant.

     “Hello, Zoë.”

     The brunette looked disdainfully at me.

     “Is he the new model? Rather good-looking isn’t he? I can see why you didn’t waste much time.”

     I was about to reply with some heat, but my wife laid her hand on my arm.

     Before any of us could say anything, the brunette continued:

     “He’s not bad, but I’d have taken care of the old model a bit better.”

     Though she spoke the last sentence insolently, almost immediately her eyes moistened, and she appeared ready to weep. Without waiting for a reply of any kind, she strode on.

     “Well!” huffed Lady Maycen. “Such behaviour!”

     “Damned cheek, if you ask me,” grumbled Sir Charles.

     Brenda looked sadly at us.

     “Please,” she said softly, “you must forgive her. That’s Zoë Frobisher, an old friend of Garrick’s. I’m afraid that she’s taken his death very hard.”

     The Maycens relented a bit.

     “Well, it’s still quite rude, no matter what the circumstances,” said Lady Maycen.

     “Too bad, too bad,” mumbled Sir Charles. “Still, one should be agreeable in public. Bad form, bad form.”

     After the Maycens had moved on Brenda slipped her arm through mine again.

     “I want to thank you, darling, for curtailing your normal instincts about rising to my defence,” she said softly.

     “It took a good deal of doing.”

     “You see, Zoë knew Garrick for years, though he was several years older than she is. When Frances, the first Lady Ellsworth, died Zoë hoped to marry him, and was quite disappointed that he married me instead.”

     “So she blames you for his death?”

     Brenda nodded.

     “Like everyone else, she’s been told he died in a mountain climbing accident, and she’s convinced that Garrick wouldn’t have been working abroad if he had been happy at home.”

     I nodded ruefully.

     “And we can’t very well tell her that the Nazis murdered him while he was doing intelligence work for the Crown, can we? It’s all very awkward, I can see.”

     We were interrupted by the approach of Peugeot, resplendent in his evening dress and accompanied by not just one attractive woman, but two. On one arm was the faithful Miss Lime, looking quite fetching in a simple but elegant green chiffon evening dress. On the other arm was a dark–haired woman of about thirty-five or so. Despite her quite pretty face and trim figure, she did not seem entirely at ease in her black sheath-style dress.

     “Who’s the other woman with Peugeot?” asked Brenda, as the little company stopped to accept good wishes from a nearby group.

     “That’s Andromeda Oliphant, the mystery novelist,” I explained. “This play is the first of her novels to be adapted for the stage.”

     “Of course! Her stories are quite ingenious, though I can’t see why she made her principal detective hero a Dane.”

     “I daresay that she knows precious little of Denmark,” I said with a laugh. “Still, those Nels Nielsen stories are quite the thing now.”

     Peugeot and his entourage resumed their journey in our direction, Mrs. Oliphant having to nod to or pause to shake the hands of well-wishers. We were on the point of moving to meet them when Sir Richard and Lady Valerie Ellsworth joined us. Richard was twenty-seven, tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired and good-looking in the same way as the portraits and photos of his late father. He and Julia resembled Sir Garrick, while Daphne was short and blonde as their mother had been. Lady Valerie was a very pretty girl of twenty-five with sandy hair and an attractive, willowy figure. They had married about three months after Brenda and I had.

     Lady Valerie and Brenda were soon deep in conversation. Sir Richard, with something of a worried look, took me aside and spoke earnestly.

     “Look here, Bosworth, you’re a good chap in a tight spot, and you know rather more than I do about things like this.”

     He drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me.

     “I want to know what you make of it.”

     I unfolded the paper. It was an unremarkable piece of inexpensive white notepaper. A message was neatly typed in the centre.

     You Ellsworths have had the run of the country long enough, especially your women with all their flaunting in the society pages. Your time has come to be on the other end of the stick.

     Very soon now some of those useless cows’ll find themselves in a real spot.

Greenhampton Avenger

     “Vague threats with a typed signature,” I noted. “How was it delivered?”

     “By regular post,” answered the baronet. “The envelope was also typewritten, no return address, and posted from Greenhampton. I have it here.”

     He showed me the envelope. It was just as he had said.

     “It looks like the same typewriter,” I observed. “When did you get this?”

     “Day before yesterday. I haven’t shown it to Valerie or mentioned it to my sisters yet. I haven’t any idea if it should be taken seriously or not, nor can I even figure out who’s being threatened or with what.”

     The young man’s face showed signs of the strain of bearing his burden alone. I must confess that I also had no idea if the note constituted a serious threat or not, but I had an idea who would.”

     “Let’s show it to Peugeot,” I suggested. “He’s the very man for the problem.”

     Richard agreed. Presently the little man and his attractive escorts joined us.

     “Ah, Bosworth, mon cher ami, and Madame Bosworth!” he cried delightedly, kissing Brenda on both cheeks, then greeting me in the same fashion. “The married life looks well upon you both, though I regret that la belle madame takes you so much from our cases.”

     This was not strictly true, since we had worked together several times in the preceding few months.

     Peugeot turned to Mrs. Oliphant.

     “Madame Oliphant, I wish to present to you my good friend Major Bosworth and his most excellent wife,” he announced.

     Mrs. Oliphant smiled rather shyly and extended her hand to Brenda.

     “Everyone in London knows you from your work, Mrs. Bosworth,” she said. She turned to me. “And I suppose that I should regard you as a competitor, Major. But that’s silly, since my stories are made up while yours are entirely true.”

     I liked her modest, engaging manner, and took her offered hand.

     “I enjoy your Nels Nielsen stories immensely.”

     “Allen should have said that we like the Nielsen stories immensely,” added Brenda, who was in truth a serious devotee of mystery stories.

     It was not long before Brenda, Valerie, Miss Lime, and Mrs. Oliphant were deep in discussion of the play and Daphne’s performance. Richard and I took the opportunity to draw Peugeot aside and show him the letter. He read it most attentively, then studied the envelope for some moments. He turned to Richard.

     “Tell me, Sir Richard,” he said slowly, “Is there a major financial dealing underway at present, in property for example? Anything that would affect the residents of Greenhampton or any of the lands around Ellsworth Manor in any way?”

     “There is nothing that I know of that would have any impact on the villages around the manor,” said the young man, shaking his head as he spoke.

     “Eh, bien. Has there been any social occasion held at the manor or sponsored by you? Any mention of Mesdemoiselles Julia or Daphne in the society columns, or anything that could be construed as ‘flaunting’ of your family’s wealth?”

     “Well, Julia’s engagement to Thomas Glenville was in the papers a few weeks ago, the tenth of October, I believe. But that’s not going to be a high society affair. Julia’s insisting on a very modest ceremony, I think because though he’s a bright young chap his family’s not particularly well off. Besides, that won’t be until June.”

     “It hardly sounds as though it would qualify as flaunting either wealth or social position,” added Peugeot.

     Richard seemed genuinely puzzled.

     “Aside from that we’ve been invisible to the press,” he continued. “Father was never one to play the bountiful squire or parade his good deeds in the papers, and I’ve tried to follow his example.”

     Peugeot nodded. He refolded the paper, put it back into the envelope, and returned it to Richard.

     “Retain this for the time being, Sir Richard,” he said gravely. “I cannot really say if there is any danger here but, should anything happen, it may be important to the police.”

     On this rather disquieting note we returned to the ladies. Daphne had joined the party and was now part of a conversational circle that included Melinda, Maggie Shaw, and Julia. Drusilla Gordon had moved away to another cluster. Some of the older guests were taking their leave, and we took advantage of the thinning of the crowd to make our way to Melinda and Daphne and their circle.

     A man staggered past us, obviously suffering from the ill effects of drink. He cannoned off me, ricocheted off Peugeot, then Mrs. Oliphant, and ended up in the arms of my wife.

     “Ben, are you all right?” Brenda asked gently.

     The man was in his early forties, tall and slender with brown hair turning to grey. He turned his square face to her and blinked his watery blue eyes several times. For a moment he seemed at a loss for words. Then a look of recognition came over his face.

     “For a momen’, I almosht shed I was sorry,” he slurred. I think he had tried to snarl the words out, but the power of speech was slipping away.

     “We’ll see that you get home, Ben,” said Brenda.

     “Thash very nice of you,” he replied softly. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. When he looked at her again he appeared to be on the verge of tears. “But why didn’ you do shomethin’ nice when I coulda used it?”

     He sagged in Brenda’s arms and began to sob. Richard and I took him by the arms and held him up.

     “Who is this man, Brenda?” I demanded.

     She looked pityingly at the wretch we held.

     “It’s Ben Darrowby, the director. He was one of the men considered for directing my last play, but Philip Aubrey didn’t think him reliable enough. Finding work hasn’t been easy for him lately, and he seems to think I’m largely responsible for that.”

     “If he’s often in this condition I’d hardly blame anyone for not giving him a job,” grunted Richard, as we struggled to hold up our charge.

     “Let’s get him to a cab and see that he gets home,” I said.

     We half-dragged and half-carried him out of the reception and put him in the charge of a waiter and the porter. I gave them cab fare and the porter found an address in the man’s wallet. The fit of weeping had passed, and Darrowby had begun to sing softly and incoherently as they took him outside.

     We returned to the reception hall to rejoin our party and found that they had now been joined by Daphne, Julia, Melinda, and Maggie. Brenda embraced Melinda and Maggie in turn.

     “I thought you were just wonderful, darlings,” she said warmly.

     She gave Daphne an especially ardent hug and gazed at her fondly.

     “And you were especially good and very appealing in your first role, dear,” she added.

     “It was wonderful!” Daphne cried delightedly, her blue eyes shining. “I’ve never been quite so happy about anything!”

     “A smashing debut!” said Julia, raising her glass of champagne.

     “Hear, hear!” we all cried, lifting ours in return.

     Though Daphne’s contribution to the play had been only two dozen or so lines, it was very true that she had quite an appealing presence on stage. And as beautiful as she had looked in her costume, she looked even more radiant now in a low-cut, form-fitting long black dress that attractively displayed her buxom figure. Her blond hair was just barely long enough to brush the spaghetti straps on each shoulder, and a thin gold belt girt her trim waist.

     Her sister Julia was also an eye-catching figure in a pale blue gown with a camisole top and floor length skirt, and her deep brown hair in an elegant chignon. She smiled at her sister as she took another sip of champagne.

     “We must also toast our leading lady,” said Daphne, with a nod to Melinda. “A star has probably been born tonight!”

     Melinda bowed modestly.

     “And I want to thank Mrs. Oliphant for a wonderful role,” she said graciously. “I hope that we can all do one of her plays again very soon.”

     Mrs. Oliphant blushed, smiled, and looked at the floor, mumbling some words of thanks to all of them.

     It would have been difficult for any man not to be caught up in the high spirits of the moment. In addition to the liveliness and gaiety of our little party, there was the sheer physical beauty of the women around us, not only Julia, Daphne, and Brenda, but the stunning auburn-haired beauty of Melinda Riddle and the slender, fine-featured blonde, Maggie Shaw. And while Miss Lime and the demurely pretty Mrs. Oliver had not quite the flair and skill in presentation and makeup as the theatrical set, they also added their own quiet attractiveness. Even the meanest and gloomiest man would have been moved to poetry in this company. Peugeot in particular always came alive in the company of attractive young women, so this promised to be an entertaining evening.

     “I think the party’s beginning to break up a bit,” Richard noted with a look round. “Perhaps we should go somewhere for a bit of supper.”

     This suggestion met with enthusiastic approval. As we made our way to the cloakroom in search of coats and wraps, the actresses continued to receive congratulations from people in the crowd. A couple of particularly effusive admirers cornered Brenda and me as we were putting on our coats and held us in conversation for several minutes. When they finally left, all of our little company was ready and waiting save Julia and Daphne.

     “Where are the girls?” Brenda asked Valerie.

     “They went off in the direction of the powder room,” she replied.

     “It appears that there will be a short wait,” put in Richard with a smile.

     Melinda Riddle laughed.

     “A short wait? How can a man be so utterly ignorant of this own sisters’ habits?”

     We all laughed at Melinda’s rejoinder, but as the minutes passed the humour began to fade. Brenda looked at her wristwatch.

     “I think I’d better go in search of them.”

     She headed for the door to the powder room, followed by Lady Valerie. They had barely gone inside, when the door reopened and Brenda looked out toward me.

     “Allen! Something’s wrong here! Come quickly, and bring Monsieur Peugeot!”

     Peugeot and I hurried to her.

     “What’s happened?” I asked.

     “I’m not certain. You’d better see for yourselves.”

     She opened the door wider so we could enter the room. It was a good-sized lounge containing a sofa and several armchairs to our right. On the left were several chairs pulled up to a built-in counter that ran under a long mirror on the wall, obviously for the ladies to check and apply make-up. There were two doors on the wall facing us and one other, clearly a cupboard, near the door by which we had just entered.

     “Where are they?” I asked.

     Brenda shrugged.

     “They’re not here.”

     “What about the toilets?”

     “Valerie’s looking now.”

     The door on the right of the two facing us opened, and Valerie appeared.

     “There’s no one in here,” she said.

     “And there’s this,” added Brenda gravely, pointing to the floor to our right.

     Two handbags lay several feet apart upon the carpeted floor. They had the appearance of having been dropped rather than placed there for convenience, since they were not close to any of the padded chairs and the clasp of one of the bags had popped open, partially displaying its contents.

     “Are those their handbags?” I asked.

     “I think so.”

     Brenda took a step toward them and started to reach down only have Peugeot interpose himself between her and the bags. He raised his forefinger.

     “Touch nothing as of yet, madame,” he said quietly. He looked at the door next to the one leading to the toilets. “And where does that door lead?”

     No one seemed to know. He strode across the room, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket. Using handkerchief-covered fingertips, he carefully opened the door. A wave of cold air came into the room as the alley behind the hotel appeared. Peugeot bent and looked at the outside knob.

     “There are scratches here,” he noted. “It may have been forced, or the lock picked by a wire.”

     I looked around.

     “Shouldn’t there be an attendant in the room?” I wondered aloud.

     As if on cue, from the store-cupboard by the entrance came a thump and a moan. Brenda moved toward the cupboard door, but I stepped in front of her, forestalling her by a raised hand. I grabbed the knob and flung the door open.

     I found myself looking at a woman’s feet. A young woman wearing only her slip and underthings hung suspended by her feet from a horizontal clothes-pole across the top of the cupboard, her shoulders resting upon the floor. Looking down, I could see no face, as it was swathed in cloths that covered both the eyes and mouth. Lines of sashcord ran about her upper body on several places and her arms were pulled behind her back, evidently tied there. Her legs had been bound at the knees and ankles, and a line from the ankle ropes was securely connected to the sturdy pole. Oddly enough, her captor evidently had taken great pains to protect her modesty, since other ropes held the woman’s slip to her body to keep it from sliding toward her waist, avoiding any display of thigh or undergarments. A uniform dress of the hotel staff lay on the closet floor.

     Valerie screamed. Instinctively, I reached out to untie the ropes holding the poor woman’s feet to the pole. Peugeot stopped me.

     “Use your knife, mon ami,” he cautioned. “We must preserve the knots for the police.”

     I took out my knife and sawed through the rope that held the woman’s feet pinioned to the pole. Peugeot stepped forward to assist me in lowering the poor girl from her suspended predicament.

     “Apparently, we have another mystery before us,” said the little Belgian gravely.