Monsieur Roche smiled, too, but he seemed very pale.
Isobel said, “I want you to telephone for the police.”
“The police?” Monsieur Roche said with forced gaiety. “The police. Ah, yes. May I ask — that is, may I ask, why?”
“I have information about a murder,” Isobel said.
Mr. Grube and Monsieur Roche exchanged sickly smiles.
“Ha, ha,” said Mr. Grube. “The joke again. Such a one you are for jokes!”
“Ha, ha, ha,” said Monsieur Roche. “We are on to you! We perceive!”
“This is no joke,” Isobel said sternly. “I said I have information about a murder and it is my duty to...”
“Ho, ho, ho!” Monsieur Roche doubled over, his hands clasping his stomach in mirth.
Every eye in the lobby had turned towards the desk and the orange ski suit with the dangling price tag. Roars of laughter began to echo through the room.
Isobel turned and ran wildly towards the steps.
Monsieur Roche sobered instantly.
“Every year we get such a one,” he said gloomily. “Me, I do not understand it.”
“Also me,” said Mr. Grube.
At the first bend in the steps Isobel paused to catch her breath. Through the window on the landing she saw a cutter go past with a flutter of snow and bells.
A voice behind her said, “I have quite a way with horses.”
Isobel turned and regarded Mr. Hunter.
“How nice for you,” she said. “And them.”
“I was wondering,” Mr. Hunter said, undeterred by a certain coldness in Isobel’s eye. “I was thinking perhaps you and I could go for a cutter ride.”
“No doubt Joyce is behind this invitation?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. But I concur.” He leaned towards her and looked almost wolfish for a moment. “I violently concur.”
“Well,” Isobel said faintly, “in that case, I don’t mind if I do.”