Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

the oblivion of sleep.
    She collected her key from the desk. ‘Staying here, Aggie?’
    Charles again.
    ‘I want a quiet night,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Fallen out with James?’
    ‘Mind your own business.’
    He got his own key and followed her to the lift. ‘Come for a drink.’
    ‘No,’ said Agatha firmly. ‘I am going to sleep.’
    ‘I can lend you a pair of pyjamas. We’re on the same floor,’ he said, squinting at the number on her key tag. ‘And I’ve got a spare toothbrush, never touched before by the human mouth, still in its pristine wrappings.’
    ‘That’s kind of you,’ said Agatha gruffly. ‘But I’m not sleeping with you.’
    ‘Did I ask you?’ he said mildly.
    In his room, he took out the pyjamas Agatha had worn before, freshly cleaned and ironed by the hotel laundry, and a toothbrush.
    ‘Drink?’ he offered.
    ‘Oh, why not?’ said Agatha. ‘I’ve had so much already but I still feel wide awake. May I smoke?’
    ‘Of course. I smoke occasionally myself. I’ll have one of yours.’
    They sat out on the balcony. Charles leaned back in his chair and looked at the stars twinkling over the sea and did not speak.
    Agatha watched him covertly, wondering what made him tick. He was a remarkably clean man, tailored and laundered. Even his neat features and well-brushed hair appeared tailored and laundered. Like a cat, she thought suddenly, neat and self-sufficient.
    At last she finished her drink and stood up. ‘Thanks for the silence, Charles. I really mean it.’
    ‘I can be silent any time you like, Aggie. See you around.’
    And so she left, half-amused, half-puzzled that he could be so casual, so unembarrassed.
    At the reception desk, James asked, ‘Which room is Mrs Raisin in?’ The receptionist told James. ‘Can you phone her for me?’
    The receptionist phoned and then said, ‘There is no reply, sir, but Mrs Raisin went upstairs with Sir Charles Fraith. Would you like me to try his room for you?’
    ‘No,’ said James furiously. ‘Damn her.’
    Agatha curled up in her hotel bed and thought about James. She desperately did not want him to be angry with her. He surely must be jealous of Charles. But how could the man be so jealous and be living with her and yet not attempt to make love to her?
    She suddenly plunged down into a deep sleep. The night was warm but pleasant and she had not switched on the air-conditioning but had left the windows and shutters open.
    At around three in the morning, the lock on her bedroom door clicked softly open. Agatha slept on. A dark figure moved softly towards the bed. With one swift movement, the pillow was snatched from under Agatha’s head and pressed down on her face.
    Agatha awoke instantly and began to fight for her life. She thrashed and fought and then suddenly, with a wrench of her head, found her mouth free and screamed and screamed. She heard her door slam.
    She switched on the bedside light, phoned reception and babbled for help.
    An hour later, feeling sick and shivering despite the warmth of the room, she faced Pamir.
    She tried to protest that she had told her story to the hotel manager, to various policemen and detectives, but he took her through it again.
    When she had finished, he said, ‘We have taken Mr Lacey in for questioning.’
    ‘What?’ said Agatha dizzily. ‘What has James got to do with it?’
    ‘Mr Lacey was heard earlier this evening threatening your life. He subsequently tried to call your room and when you were not there, the receptionist volunteered the information that you had gone upstairs with Sir Charles Fraith and might be in his room and then offered to phone that number, but Mr Lacey went off in a temper. We must not be sidetracked by the unsolved murder of Rose Wilcox. We think that Mr Lacey, overcome with jealousy, may have tried to murder you.’
    ‘I was able to fight off my attacker,’ said Agatha. ‘If James had tried to murder me, I wouldn’t have been able to fight him off.’
    ‘He may have changed his mind at the last moment.’
    ‘Oh, this is rubbish.’
    ‘We think this is jealousy. Sir Charles is being questioned also. You are, I believe, wearing Sir Charles’s pyjamas.’ Agatha blushed. She had been too shaken to change, to do anything more than sit on the edge of the bed and shiver.
    ‘I told you. I had a drink with him. That’s all. He kindly lent me the pyjamas. How did whoever it was get the key to my room?’
    ‘Someone may have stolen a passkey. We are questioning