Free Murder in the CIA by Margaret Truman Page A

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 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’shardly 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.