Dishing the Dirt

“It must be my eyesight,” he said ruefully. “I’ll swear I saw some fool swimming in the canal.”


Agatha shrugged and sat back down and sipped her brandy. She began to feel a lethargy creeping over her body and decided it was time to go to bed. That was when she found she could not move. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out.

The man in the panama hat came down and sat next to her.

“It’s a wonder what plastic surgery, contact lenses, a beard and a strict diet can do,” he said. The only part of Agatha still working was her brain. What had happened to her famous intuition? This was Anthony Tweedy and he was going to kill her.

“I put a drug in your drink,” he said. “It paralyses you. I want to see you suffer before I shove an overdose of heroin into you, you interfering horrible woman. Yes. I went to see Jill Davent. She seemed so easy to talk to and I wanted to tell my secret to just one person. She tried to blackmail me! Me! It was a real pleasure to get that neck of hers and wind a scarf round it and pull it till she choked to death.

“You bothered me, although I felt sure that all the stories about your detective abilities had been wildly exaggerated. I knew who Tremund was because before I killed Jill, I watched to see who called on her and found out who they were. He met me down by the canal because I said I had the dirt on Jill, so goodbye to him. And goodbye to Bannister, Herythe and Dell. Getting bored? I’ll put an end to you soon. Oh, what is it?”

“Anything more to drink?” asked the waiter.

Agatha tried to signal something to him but even her eyeballs seemed frozen.

“No, we’re fine.” Anthony put his hand over Agatha’s.

The waiter left them and went to tell the other staff that the nice Englishwoman had found romance. Agatha was considered nice because she tipped generously.

Anthony stifled a yawn. “I’m tired. Let’s make an end of it before I bugger off to South America and forget you ever existed.”

He took a syringe out of his pocket. God, thought Agatha, get me out of this and I’ll give up smoking.

Anthony pulled Agatha’s limp arm towards him. “Nice bare arms. Makes it easy.”

At that moment, Charles, standing at the entrance to the bar, seized a champagne bottle from the drinks trolley and threw it with all the skill he had learnt playing village cricket with deadly accuracy. It struck Anthony on the head and he collapsed like a stone.

Horrified staff clustered in the doorway. “Ambulance!” yelled Charles. “Police!”

He gathered Agatha in his arms. “What has he done to you? Can’t you speak? Is that Anthony with a face change?”

He waited in agony until a police launch roared up to the landing stage, closely followed by the ambulance launch. Charles insisted on going to the hospital with Agatha and said he would make his statement there, but he was sure the man he had struck down was the murderer, Anthony Tweedy, wanted by Interpol.

Charles was relieved to find out at the hospital that Agatha had a strong pulse. The doctors said they would not know exactly what drug had been given her until they did tests. But he was puzzled when the police told him they had not been alerted to any danger to Agatha. Surely, before he had rushed to the airport, he had told Gustav to phone the police.

Anthony Tweedy had suffered a severe concussion but was going to live. He had been travelling under a fake passport, but his real passport had been found amongst his luggage, although the police were waiting for the results of DNA tests to make absolutely sure of his identity.