Read Online Toured to Death by Hy Conrad - Free Book Online Page A

licensed pilot on the plane.
    The luggage had already been taken care of, transported from the hotel hallways to the covey of waiting cars. Meanwhile, the teams were finishing up their breakfast and wondering where their first clue of the day would come from. When the sound of breaking dishes erupted from the nearby kitchen, they were ready.
    The breakfast room fell silent. Into that stillness floated a muffled curse. A woman’s voice. Then came another crash, like a dish being thrown against a wall.
    Amy was pleased at how well the noisemaker was working. The owners of Hotel Cézanne, an older British couple, wonderfully friendly and cooperative, had placed some broken tiles and pieces of china in a wooden box. It was their own invention. Dropping the box onto the kitchen floor produced a nicely realistic sound. After the second crash of crockery, the dialogue started—raised, angry voices, which everyone in the breakfast room could recognize as belonging to their hosts.
    â€œYou mean he didn’t give you a credit card?” the wife was heard shouting. “Not even for security?”
    â€œHe insisted on paying cash,” the husband moaned. A note of authenticity flavored his hen-pecked performance. “We have to accept cash. It’s the law.”
    â€œBut no one pays cash. Only drug dealers and runaway convicts.”
    A swarm of players were pressing their ears against the swinging door, all convinced that the “he” in question was their runaway friend, Daryl.
    The husband tried to explain. “When he checked out, he said he hadn’t made any calls. The system must not have updated the computer. So, the fellow cheated us out of one trunk call. Hardly the end of the world.”
    â€œIdiot.” The crockery box dropped again, eliciting a startled jump from the mass of humanity piled against the door. “You never checked the computer, Nigel. Did you?” A practiced sigh. “All right. Where was the call to? How much was it for?”
    â€œI have it written down right here.”
    Pens were withdrawn from pockets and purses.
    The phone number was barely out of the man’s mouth when there was a stampede from the breakfast room. From there they went scurrying in every direction, some to their cell phones, some out to the cars, others racing upstairs to use their room phones. Amy waited in the breakfast room, out of harm’s way. She had been up early, driving to Aubagne to plant the first clues, fighting the maddeningly slow farm traffic on one-lane roads, and getting back just in time to make her sad announcement. Now she relaxed over a croissant and a café au lait. By the time she cleaned her plate, the lobby was empty.
    â€œThanks a mint,” she said, walking up to the registration desk. “What a performance.”
    Nigel Yardley glanced up from the computer, his green eyes twinkling over his half-glasses. “Our pleasure. Marley adores amateur theatricals. It’s the one thing we miss, living here.” The owner’s gaze fell back to the monitor. “I suppose you want to know the damage our little scene caused.” He laughed, a thick Yorkshire chortle. “Unlike my fictional counterpart, I’m checking the computer.”
    â€œA few calls to the French Foreign Legion headquarters in Aubagne?” Amy guessed.
    Nigel’s finger scanned down the list. “Four. Room two-seventeen called twice. They must have been skeptical.”
    â€œWho can blame them? Daryl is a bit old to be enlisting. Maybe he has something to forget.”
    â€œThere must be one very confused receptionist at the Foreign Legion.” Nigel chuckled. “I hope your people were discreet.”
    â€œMe too. Do the French give prison time for crank calls?”
    â€œHmm.” Nigel frowned as he tapped a line of green print. “And one trunk call to the States.”
    â€œTo the States? That must have been from