The Amorous Agatha Christie 07

Chapter Nine.

And Then There Were None.

xxx

A bitter wind swept over the chill waters of the River Thames, sending savage gusts into the faces of the three huddled men. It was a moonless night as the men drew their scarves about their necks and brought their cloth caps further down onto their heads.

"This haul should fetch us a pretty penny, eh Lefty?"

"Shut yer trap! And take up the slack there."

"Don't mind him, Charlie. Lefty is as pleased as Punch at this cargo."

Lefty huffed as he gave Charlie and Lumper filthy looks. By the year of 1924, there was a surge in plundering on the river. Thefts were mainly of export wares, especially those bound for ports in Australia, New Zealand, and Tasmania. These goods were primarily stolen from dock sheds, principally the Royal Albert and Victoria Docks. The commodities kept in these sheds could remain there for

several weeks. During the day, the sheds would be opened and labourers would move goods to various vessels for transport. Lefty's paltry gang had just broken open the tarpaulin of an unattended barge and had lifted the cargo of coal.

"A bit nippy for the Marine Police Office to be out too. They shouldn't bother us none."

"Yeah, nobody would want to be out on a night like this. Not even the Rozzers."

"Yet here I am, gentlemen. Good evening to you."

"Strewth! There's a bloke!"

"Bloody hell! Sexton Blake!"

Private detective Sexton Blake stood before them. The man knew no fear. He was stiff-upper-lipped, square-shouldered, straight-backed, intellectually superior, morally unassailable, principled, generous, dry-witted, self-sacrificing, and entirely superior.

Criminals didn't stand a chance.

With the speed of a deadly cobra snake, the feared private detective leaped into action, tearing into the three villains in a furious onslaught. In the blink of an eye, all three were writhing in pain on the floor and groaning loudly. As the tall figure of a man composed himself, shrill whistles could be heard getting closer and closer.

"Ah, here comes the law."

"Sexton Blake. What the devil..."

"Inspector Wilson. Not a moment too soon. I had a tip-off that these no-gooders would be up to mischief tonight."

"Watch your step, Blake, You'll have me out of a job before long. Leave the law-breaking to us. Please?"

"As you wish, Inspector. I bid you good night."

Blake smiled to himself as he made his way back through the deserted streets to his apartment. The minute he entered the modest premises he heard the door. Who on earth would call at this late hour unless it was urgent?

"Yes? Who is calling?"

"Telegram, Sir."

Sexton opened the door and took the message from the boy. He handed him a tip of sixpence.

"A tanner! It's one in the morning and brass monkeys! Thanks a lot!"

"No pleasing some people."

As the boy fumed and left, Blake tore open the envelope and began to read.

"Sexton. Come to Raven Manor in Maidstone. Need your help urgently. Agatha Christie."

"I say. This is unexpected and no mistake. Well, I never refuse a cry for help. And especially from the dear Agatha."

x

Thompson left Agatha's bed to answer the front door of her flat in Smithfield. He returned and slipped back under the sheet. The naked crime writer turned to hug the burly hunk who served as her chauffeur and manservant and sighed blissfully.

"Who was it?"

"Telegram boy. Here."

Agatha sat up and rubbed her chin. Odd. She opened the message and frowned.

"Agatha. Come to Raven Manor in Maidstone. Need your help urgently. Sexton Blake."

"It seems I am needed. We shall drive down first thing tomorrow."

x

The mighty Rolls Royce Silver Ghost tore through the Kent countryside heading East. Agatha settled in the back seat and contemplated the situation.

"Raven Manor, in Maidstone. Yes, that is the home of the millionaire Edgar Wolstenholme. He writes crime stories for the popular paperback magazines. He writes cheap trollop for the gullible masses. Why would Mister Blake require my help in this matter? Because I write also?"

"Suppose we'll find out soon enough, Madam. We're almost there."

Thompson hit the floor as he sped up. As they drove past tree-lined avenues, the ominous-looking Raven Manor appeared in the near distance. Several other cars were already parked outside on the gravel drive as they pulled up. A pea-souper was quickly descending as Agatha and Thompson got out of the car.

"Who's this?"

A taxi cab arrived at that moment and the familiar figure of Sexton Blake got out and paid off the driver. He was dressed as usual in a sombre grey suit and black shoes.

"Well, well. Mister Blake. What's all this about then?"

"I was rather hoping you might tell me. I've just dashed here from Victoria Station on your request."

"My request? You asked for MY help. Here is the telegram."

Agatha retrieved the message from her purse and looked keenly at the bemused crimefighter.

Despite the slight chill as the fog thickened, the slim redhead looked resplendent in a cream dress with a green silk taffeta sash and a bouquet of bright ribbon poppies at the waist. The length was daringly short and all eyes were drawn to her slender pins. On her head was a straw hat with a wide-brim and velvet flowers. Sexton read the message and spread his hands.

"I never sent this. Did you write this perchance?"

He reached into his breast pocket and handed her the telegram he had been sent.

"No, I did not. It appears to me that we have both been duped."

Her lips remained parted and Sexton noted how red and moist they were.

Blake had not seen her since the affair of the purloined documents of Sir Oscar Trevelyan of Mostyn Manor, in Surrey. One of the best-known financial magnates in the City of London. The memories of their affair flooded back. She had been outspoken, and daring and he had become smitten with the famous writer. The only thing he didn't like was her short-cut bobbed hair that was the fashion.

"Well, it's nice seeing you again."

"You too. What next?"

At that moment the front door of the Manor opened and a uniformed manservant looked out. He then vanished back inside for a few moments and then reappeared with another. A portly gentleman with a receding hairline and clad in a silk dressing gown.

"I say! What's going on here? Who are you?"

"Allow me. I am Sexton Blake, and this is Mrs. Agatha Christie."

"Good lord! Really? The famous author? And the renowned detective? I am honoured. I am Edgar Wolstenholme, and this is my home. Seeing as the weather is deteriorating rapidly, I suggest you come inside. We're just having a house party as it happens. I think you'll find it... entertaining."

Agatha looked at Blake and shrugged. He nodded and they entered the house behind their mysterious host. She took Thompson to one side and suggested he have a brew in the servant's quarters.

"I'm sure you are aware of the fact I write mystery stories. Hundreds of them over recent years. Mostly successful. Have you read any, Mrs. Christie?"

"Can't say I have."

"A pity. But there you have it. Ah, allow me to introduce you to my guests."

They all came to the library where there were several men seated smoking and drinking.

"First, we have Simon Smith. Then, the charming Sam Greaves. This is Colin Motson, a dear friend indeed. And Jack Hammer, the very capable middleweight boxer. Maybe you've heard of him, Mister Blake?"

Sexton lit two cigarettes and handed one to Agatha. Hammer was large, swarthy, and seemed to have a permanent sneer on his lips.

"I should say so. Top-notch fighter."

"Quite. Here is Archie Gold. My agent. And Jeffrey Banks. My editor. And my butler, Carstairs, you met at the front door. And that's it."

"No ladies, I perceive," noted Christie.

"No. Ah-ha-ha! How observant, my dear." he made a rather dismal chuckle. "Gee up, Carstairs. Get our unexpected guests a drink."

Agatha and Sexton withdrew to one corner of the room and mulled over matters.

"My word. What a motley crew. Each one of them looks like they may sell their mother for a shilling."

"You're not wrong there."

"And I find Wolstenholme to be immensely irritating."

"Mister Blake? Mrs. Christie?"

Carstairs held a drinks tray and they each took a glass.

"Listen. I have to speak to you. The truth is, Wolstenholme plans to kill you both!"

"What! Why?"

Agatha looked startled by the man's accusation.

"I can't speak here. Meet me in half an hour in the servant's quarters."

"Right. Act casual, my dear. The others appear to be staring at us."

"Mrs. Christie. Do sit and tell us of your remarkable success in writing."

"Keep them busy, while I investigate. And keep your eyes skinned."

x

Sexton found the stairs leading down to the servant quarters dressing and at the bottom he knocked on the door. A shaky-sounding voice asked who it was.

"Blake."

The creaky door opened and the butler crooked a finger and beckoned the detective to come closer. The two men backed into the deep shadows at the foot of the stairs to the quarters.

"Alright Carstairs. Start talking."

"It's all a diabolical plot to ridicule you and the lady. Wolstenholme is a very jealous fellow. He hates the rivalry."

Blake rubbed his chin and then pricked up his ears at the ominous sound of a click of steel on steel.

"Take heed! There's something afoot."

The butler yelped as a bolt from a crossbow spiked him between the shoulder blades and collapsed. At that precise moment, Wolstenholme and entourage came down the stairs.

"We heard a strangled cry. Is there something amiss?"

"Indeed there is. Your man has been shot."

"Shot? We heard no gun."

"The culprit used a crossbow. Most ingenious."

"Good lord. This is awful. But who would do such a thing?"

Smith examined the body of the butler and shook his head.

"He's dead."

"So."

All eyes turned to the only female in the house. Agatha paused to take in a lungful of smoke from her cigarette holder and waved her hand.

"A killer stalks Raven Manor. How intriguing." she leaned in close to study the bolt in the butler's back. "And speaking of crossbows, there appears to be one abandoned outside."

"Must be the murder weapon. Greaves. Be a gent and fetch it."

Sam Greaves nodded at Edgar and hurried out. Sexton looked out of the window and saw the man pick up the crossbow and wave. Then, he arched his back as he appeared to take a bullet in the back.

"Good lord! Greaves is shot!"

Agatha turned to Sexton with a look of alarm on her face.

"Nothing interests me more than the news of a curious murder, Sexton. However, this matter is unprecedented."

Blake's face tightened as he studied his pocket watch. It was getting late.

"I think it might be an appropriate time to call the police."

"Agreed, my dear. They'll have to know sooner or later."

He found the nearest candlestick telephone and cursed.

"The line has been slashed to ribbons. The line is dead."

"Somebody seems to have been busy. I say, where is my man Thompson?"

Colin Motson stood over the seated chauffeur who had his head face down on the table top. He raised a cup of cold tea and took a sniff.

"I do declare that this chap has been drugged. He's fast asleep."

"The plot thickens. Sexton. Go and check my car."

Blake took off outside and returned grim-faced.

"The two front tyres have been run through with a very sharp blade. It rather seems we won't be going anywhere tonight. Anyway, the fog is far too thick to drive. Greaves is a goner by the way."

"This does leave you both in the deuce of a hole," said Edgar with a hint of a sardonic grin. "I have a suggestion. Since it will be dark soon, and there can be no notion of leaving, why don't you and Mrs. Christie take rooms here tonight?"

Agatha shrugged and studied the stern face of the detective.

"There is no other choice, Sexton. We shall bed down here for the night."

"With one eye open," he added as an afterthought.

As a general rule, the dedicated detective was not of the most cheery disposition, and tonight he was in more of a black mood. The situation was rapidly going to the dogs.

x

"I shan't get any sleep tonight, Sexton. May I join you?"

"By all means do."

Wolstenholme's home had many rooms and the intrepid pair of sleuths were berthed next to each other at one end of the landing. The hour was two when Agatha ventured inside Blake's room. Dressed only in his undershorts, he sprawled in the middle of the bed. Semi-nude, his body was lean, rangy, with toned muscles. His eyes were steely and had lowered lids. His presence gave her a pleasant thrill.

He watched in silence as the willowy female pulled her dress off over her head. Her cheongsam followed and then she stepped out of her pants. Naked, the red-haired woman was an incredibly erotic vision. Long-limbed with perfectly formed breasts that jutted out delightfully. She had a sharp inverted V of the ribcage with a fairly flat belly beneath it, punctuated by the deep pucker of the navel. Then, there was the ginger bushy triangle of the pubes and the flared hips, and the long white thighs. Everything came back to him with a rush to his loins, and he was just as eager as her to repeat their sexual congress.

"I haven't seen you here for a while, handsome. And I require you to satisfy my needs. Don't pout, my dear. It's the modern age. The war is long over and I want to live a life. Have fun. Dance. Make love without consequences. You know my methods of deduction. I find sexual congress to be utterly thrilling, and it stimulates my little grey cells. Hold me, Sexton."

He got up and they stood belly to belly, nuzzling each other's faces with noses and lips. His hands were instantly at her breasts, his strong fingers manipulating her erect nipples. Agatha moaned, feeling a warm flush through her body. She squeezed closer, trapping his hands against her bosom, and welcoming his cock hard through the material of his shorts. She busied herself with grasping the rounded firmness of his buttocks. They kissed hard, in the French fashion. Their tongues wagging and entwining seductively.

"Cheeky!"

He grinned as the ravishing minx dragged his shorts down so that she could squeeze his pulsing shaft.

"That's the way, old girl," he whispered and pressed his body against hers.

His organ grew harder in her hand until it was a rigid club, hot and thick in the palm of her hand. She glanced down to perceive its purple veins and engorged crown.

They fell onto the bed and Christie let Blake lie on top of her. He eased his staff between her thighs and guided himself inside her slippery labia. He followed through and pushed deep into the hot cave of her muff. The pleasure-seeking and independent Flapper drew him in closer with her arms and legs, imprisoning his bulk in a sensual hug. Blake stuck his toes in the mattress for more balance as he drove in and out of the delighted woman. Ripples of pleasure coursed through her as he moved faster and faster.

"Yes! Keep that up. My mind is clearing."

Agatha unclasped her legs from his waist and stretched them straight out, her heels riding the sheets. Sexton was moving in great, demanding heaves now, lifting

her entire body at each stroke. Her feet rubbed back and forth on the soft bed with each motion. She looked at his face. His eyes were half-lidded and his mouth hung open. The little groaning noises he was making excited her still further. Her fingernails raked his back as she tried to merge her whole body with his.

"You are a tiger!"

The amateur sleuth responded by raising her buttocks again. He got the idea at once, and began to work in concert with her, pushing all the way into her, then all the way out, over and over again. Her head began to swim as he fucked her relentlessly. They were good together, easily finding a natural rhythm, and they moved in a smooth elliptical motion. His hands braced her hips as he heaved up in powerful arcs.

Faster and faster they moved, the bed shaking beneath them. Christie was panting uncontrollably, a deep warm glow growing within her. She was almost there now, as her cunt pulsated around his length. She climaxed and hissed through gritted teeth, embracing the shuddering earthquake of her orgasm. She felt Blake's muscular back become slippery with perspiration under her fingertips. He raised himself on his elbows and smiled at her.

"Too much!" he murmured as he exploded inside her.

He spasmed four times and then relaxed on top of her.

"That was a good one," she said. "God, was it good."

Agatha wriggled out from under him and stood up. She lifted her hair away from the nape of her neck to let the air cool her. His eyes followed her as she took a towel and cleaned herself up.

"You look positively radiant, old girl."

"I feel glorious. And I have a vague idea as to what is going on."

As he lit up a smoke and lay back, he thought he heard a dull thump from the room upstairs. Within a minute, there came an agitated voice from without.

"Blake! Blake! Come at once! There is more mischief!"

Wolstenholme hammered on the door until Sexton rose to answer.

"Best chuck on that dress, my dear," he advised the still-naked woman.

They both stood on the threshold together to see the same group of faces.

"Ah, there you are. And Mrs. Christie. How very modern. Hark, we heard loud thumping from the room above. Archie Gold's room. You don't think he's taken a tumble, do you?"

"Let us investigate."

Sexton led the way up the stairs with Agatha taking up the rear.

"That's his room," said Edgar, pointing with a bony index finger. "We should take a look. Maybe he's been taken ill."

Blake hurried to the door as the others looked uneasily at one another and followed him. The bold detective rapped upon it.

"Hello! Archie Gold! Are you alright in there?"

There was no reply.

"Gold! Hello? Answer me, man!"

He pushed at the door and found it to be locked.

"I don't like this at all!" said Edgar. "Why doesn't he answer? Do you think we should break the door down?"

"Maybe he's not in there at all," pondered Agatha. "He could have left the room and locked it behind him."

Wolstenholme waved a hand.

"I shan't rest until we find out what is on the other side. Jack? Do your thing."

The massive boxer braced and smashed into the door, splintering the lock and thereby opening it. In the centre of the room lay the crumpled figure of Gold.

"Great heavens!" exclaimed Edgar, as he pushed past the others. "A dagger! A dagger has been driven straight into his heart! The beggar's killed himself!"

Agatha shook her head.

"Impossible! Look at him. He's on his back with his arms folded beneath him. How could he fall like that if he'd stabbed himself?"

"But the door was locked! And look, so is the window! Anyway, no one could get out that way, it's too high!"

"I say!" exclaimed Jeffrey Banks. "Do you think the man who did this is still in the room?"

They all looked around nervously but quickly realized that there was simply nowhere a man could hide apart from beneath the bed or in the wardrobe and there was no one in either place.

Blake narrowed his eyes. He couldn't make sense of it. What was the motive behind these senseless killings? And what of Carstairs's warning? Mayhap Agatha had more of an idea. Indeed, the red-haired writer was rapping her knuckles against the panelling on the walls, searching for a secret opening. After two minutes of investigation, she concluded there was nothing of the kind present, either in the walls, floor, or ceiling.

"The room's secure. If it weren't so obvious from Gold's position on the floor that the blow was not self-inflicted, I should say that suicide was the only possible solution. As it is, we must find some other answer."