Death on the Riviera (11 page)

“Very good,” gulped Freddy. “Is that all, sir?”

Meredith shot him a swift, sly glance and winked.

“As far as I'm concerned—yes, Sergeant. But if anything else occurs to you…well, use your own initiative. Private enterprise, eh?” Meredith winked again. “See how I mean?”

“Yes, sir,” said Freddy, for the second time that morning flushing to the roots of his hair. “I think I get the…er…general idea.”

III

“Well,” murmured Dilys, coming to an ominous stop on the first-floor landing, “I must say this is a bit of a shock. You might have warned me that you were coming.”

“But I didn't know myself until about an hour ago,” protested Freddy. “Honestly, Miss Westmacott, I didn't mean to kid you about all this. Just couldn't help myself. I mean to say, I'd had strict orders to preserve my incognito. So of course…”

“But Mr. John Smith!” exclaimed Dilys with a censorious shake of her head. “You might have thought up a better one than that.”

“Yes, it was a trifle unenterprising,” admitted Freddy ruefully. “But now you know who I really am and why I couldn't come clean about it when we first met…?”

“Well, it naturally makes a difference.”

“Good!” said Freddy. “I hoped perhaps it would.”

“I suppose I ought to apologize for being so absurdly suspicious?”

“Apologize!” cried Freddy in shocked tones. “What on earth for? It wasn't your fault. Good heavens—no!
I'm
the one who ought to apologize.”

“But why? I quite see now that you couldn't help acting as you did.”

“Yes—but to lead a girl up the garden path, just when we seemed to be…be…”

“When we seemed to be…what?” asked Dilys with a mocking, utterly demoralizing glance.

“Well, you know,” floundered Freddy. “Sort of getting together and…well, making a pass at each—No, dammit! I don't mean that exactly. I mean…” He gazed at her appealingly. “Oh lord! Can't you give me a bit of a leg up, Miss Westmacott?”

“I might,” she smiled. “If you could possibly bring yourself to call me Dilys.”

With an impetuous whoop, utterly forgetful of his surroundings and that professional reticence proper to a policeman in the execution of his duty, Freddy fumbled for her hand and squeezed it warmly.

“Heck! That would come easy, if you really meant it, Miss Westmacott. It's ‘Dilys' from now on. And in case you didn't know, I'm Freddy. Ridiculous sort of moniker, I admit, but—”

“One better than John Smith,” said Dilys with a teasing look; adding on a more practical note as she gently freed her hand: “Now we really must be sensible. The Inspector will be absolutely furious if you—”

“Back on the beat, eh?” growled Freddy. “O.K. But before we break up the party there's just one suggestion that occurs to me.”

“And that?”

“Why shouldn't we have another stab at getting together on the Casino terrace—say, twelve o'clock tomorrow, eh?”

“Twelve o'clock tomorrow!” echoed Dilys.

Freddy nodded emphatically.

“Is it a bet?”

“I don't see why not.”

“The lord be praised!” said Freddy, ostentatiously mopping his brow with an invisible handkerchief. “And now, having cleared up this little misunderstanding, what about showing me round the domestic quarters? Quite an experience to see a pukka C.I.D. wallah in action!” Freddy cleared his throat and with a passable imitation of his superior's finest official manner, rapped out: “Now tell me, young lady, when did you last see that blighter, Dillon? I want you to think carefully, because if he's been getting fresh with you—!”

But Dilys, fearful that her aunt might suddenly appear from the terrace, was already half-way down the stairs.

Chapter XII

L'Hirondelle

I

For two solid hours that afternoon Meredith sat at the table in his hotel bedroom poring over the notes and depositions that he and the Sergeant had brought back from the Villa Paloma. The heat, which seemed to slither into the half-darkened room through the slats of the closed shutters, was shattering. Although Meredith had yanked off his coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves and loosened his collar, he was still perspiring profusely. Even the glass of iced lager at his elbow brought little relief.

But for all his bodily discomfort, his mental processes were ticking over with their customary smoothness and precision. Little by little he was sorting out the relevant data from the disjointed scraps of information that he and the Sergeant, like a couple of scavenging hens, had picked up from the various members of the Hedderwick household.

One point stood out sharply from this welter of facts. Latour had “moonlighted” from the villa—presumably some time during the course of the previous twenty-four hours—i.e. Sunday. Admittedly neither Mrs. Hedderwick nor her niece had seen him since Saturday evening, but both the cook and the parlour-maid had heard him coming down the back-stairs just before lunch on Sunday. Lisette, the maid, had actually seen him crossing the yard to the back-gate. According to the Sergeant's excellent notes, the girl was convinced that Latour wasn't portering any form of luggage. So much for that.

But late last night, or rather during the small hours of the morning, Miss Pilligrew had wakened from an uneasy slumber with a touch of indigestion. Unable to get off to sleep again she'd switched on her bedside lamp and started to read. A few minutes later she'd heard sounds coming from Latour's studio, which was directly above her own room. She thought little of it because Latour often sneaked into the house during the small hours and went up to bed via the back-stairs. According to Miss Pilligrew the time when she'd heard these noises was just after one a.m. Although there was no other witness to corroborate this statement, Meredith felt certain that Miss Pilligrew's evidence could be accepted as reliable. So Latour had left the villa shortly before lunch on Sunday and re-entered it some time after midnight. And there was little doubt that on his return to the villa he'd immediately packed his belongings and cleared out of the place as quickly as he could.

But why? That was the real teaser.

Even if he were a member of the counterfeit gang—as Meredith now firmly believed—what had driven him to make this sudden flit? Presumably something that he'd learnt between noon and midnight the previous day. Some move on the part of the police, perhaps, acting as a straw in the wind. But if so who had warned the fellow of the investigations that were afoot? Had he made this discovery for himself or had the information been handed on by A. N. Other? Bourmin, perhaps? Not that Meredith had any proof that Bourmin and Latour were acquainted. Strang's enquiries among the domestic staff, in fact, had clearly revealed that Latour had never made contact with the chauffeur when he was over at the villa on Fridays. Moreover, as far as Meredith knew, Bourmin had no inkling that he'd been tailed in Monte Carlo. Nor did he know anything of their visit to his rooms above the Colonel's garage. Unless, of course, Malloy was double-crossing him—a theory that Meredith flatly refused to consider. Besides, would Bourmin have had the opportunity to get in touch with Latour after their interview with Malloy on Sunday morning? Well, a 'phone-call to the Villa Valdeblore would soon settle this little point. At the same time it would be just as well to find out how Malloy had made first contact with Latour. After all, it was the Colonel who'd introduced him to Mrs. Hedderwick—presumably in all good faith. He decided to ring Malloy there and then.

Ten minutes later he was back in his room with the answers, so to speak, in his pocket. Malloy's explanation of his chance meeting with Latour in a Nice café seemed perfectly feasible and above-board. There was absolutely no suggestion that, when he'd introduced the fellow to his old friend Mrs. Hedderwick, he'd any inkling of Latour's real character. So much for that. His statement concerning the chauffeur's movements was equally clear and convincing. Bourmin hadn't left the Villa Valdeblore, except when on duty at the wheel, during the course of Sunday afternoon or evening. Malloy was emphatic. Bourmin had spent the afternoon chatting with the maids in the kitchen. In the evening he'd driven the Colonel and his wife over to Antibes where they were dining with friends. They hadn't arrived back at Beaulieu until well past eleven. So what? That was one cat, at any rate, that wouldn't jump.

What else had they done the previous day? Met Blampignon, of course, at the local Commissariat to discuss plans for that night's coastal patrol in connection with the smuggling racket. And, by Jove, yes! That visit to the tenement-house near the Quai de Bonaparte—the “chase of the wild goose”, as Blampignon had voiced it—that had led them, not to “Chalky” Cobbett, but to Nikolai Bourmin's mistress! Was this where Latour had picked up his information? Was it Mam'selle Chounet who'd tipped him the wink? True, Blampignon had given her no hint of the business that had brought them to the Maison Turini, but she was probably quite intelligent enough to put two and—

Meredith swore under his breath. What the devil was he blethering about? Hadn't Blampignon satisfied himself that the girl knew nothing of Bourmin's criminal activities? Which included,
ipso facto,
the counterfeit racket. And what Blampignon held to be true Meredith was unprepared to refute. Was this just another obstinate cat that wouldn't jump?

He thought: “But hang on a minute! What about the old woman in the carpet slippers, the
concierge?
She must have guessed from our interrogation that the police were interested in Bourmin. Was
she
responsible for the leakage? More than possible, eh? It all boils down to this. Did Latour visit the tenement yesterday some time between noon and midnight? Better check up on this. Get Gibaud to come down with me this afternoon and make the necessary enquiries.”

II

With the cunning and sagacity nurtured by long experience of criminal investigation, Meredith suggested that Gibaud should refrain from questioning the old woman until he'd interrogated other, presumably disinterested, witnesses living in the building. Before leaving the Villa Paloma that morning he'd obtained an excellent photograph of Latour from Mrs. Hedderwick. As they neared the Maison Turini Meredith handed this photograph over to Gibaud.

“I'm going to sit down under these palm-trees, my dear chap, and smoke a pipe. Point is if I show up the old girl's bound to recognize me, and at the moment we don't want to put her on her guard. All you've got to do is to walk slap by her cubby-hole and start making enquiries round the ground-floor rooms. Find out if anybody's seen Latour hanging about the place. If they have then rejoin me here and we'll tackle the
concierge
together. Agreed?”

Gibaud, who was in plain clothes, wasted no time. Making straight tracks for the building, he mounted the steps and disappeared swiftly through the open door. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. Meredith shifted uncomfortably on the iron-slatted seat, trying to curb his impatience. A great deal, he felt, depended on his colleague's enquiries. If only it could be proved that Latour was in the habit of—

He glanced up quickly. Gibaud was almost trotting up the road towards the oasis of palms. Long before he reached the spot Meredith could see that he had a grin on his ferret-like features worthy of the Cheshire Cat. He jumped up and hurried forward eagerly to meet him.

“Well?”

“We're on to something here!” shot out Gibaud. “I found no less than four witnesses who're prepared to swear that they'd seen Latour about the place.”

“The devil you did!” exclaimed Meredith, unable to conceal his elation at the news. “And yesterday?”

“He turned up about ten p.m., stayed chatting for about twenty minutes with the old woman in her cubicle and then left in a hurry.”

“It's always the old woman he comes to see?”

“Yes—invariably. None of the witnesses I questioned has ever actually spoken to the fellow—just noticed him in conversation with the
concierge
as they were entering or leaving the building.”

“What about the girl—Celeste Chounet?”

“I asked about her. They were certain Latour had never gone up to her room. They've never seen them together at any time.”

“I see. Well, it's obvious what we've got to do now. Stick that photograph under the old woman's nose and ask her point-blank if she can identify the fellow. If she hedges or denies that she knows Latour, then, by heaven, we've got her in a cleft stick!”

And five minutes later that was just where they'd got the old biddy. Quietly but relentlessly, in the little glass-fronted cubby-hole, Gibaud grilled her to a turn; breaking off every now and then to put Meredith
au fait
with the progress of his interrogation. Throughout the interview her husband sat at the table, chuckling and nodding and talking to himself in some strange, incomprehensible lingo.

Once she realized that her denials were cutting no ice, Madame Grignot trotted out her explanation readily enough. The facts, as she related them, were simple. Thirty years ago, in an obscure little village on the outskirts of Dijon, she'd taken a position as nurse to the Latours' three children. Paul, her eldest charge, was then three. She'd stayed with the family until Paul's father had died; and then, since his mother could no longer afford to pay her wages, she'd taken another situation near Aix-en-Provence. Paul, who'd been devoted to her, was then fourteen and, although he'd seen little of her in the intervening years, he'd never failed to keep in touch with her. Just after he'd come to live at Menton, she wrote asking if Paul could find her a job and it was through his good offices that she'd eventually obtained the post of
concierge
at the Maison Turini. He often called round to have a chat with her about old times and to bring her poor demented husband a bottle of wine. Then why, demanded Gibaud, had she gone to the trouble of denying that she knew M'sieur Latour?
Eh bien!
That too was simple. Only the day before the Englishman had called round with an Inspector of police and they'd asked her many searching questions about a M'sieur Bourmin. And now, today, he was here again, and they were asking many questions about M'sieur Latour. Was it not natural that she should refuse to give to the police information which might cause trouble for poor M'sieur Latour? Was it not natural that she should pretend not to know him?

III

“Well,” demanded Gibaud, as they turned into the Quai de Bonaparte and began to stroll at a leisurely pace along the waterfront, “what do you make of our dear Madame Grignot? Do you think her explanation holds water?”

Meredith said cautiously:

“Well, yes and no. A subtle mixture of fact and fiction—at least, that's how it struck me.”

“I don't quite follow,” said Gibaud, unable to see how Meredith had arrived at this conclusion. “Her story seemed perfectly feasible. She certainly rattled it off without any hesitation.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Meredith. “That's just what makes it suspect. When Blampignon questioned her about Bourmin…well, you should have heard the old biddy! The facts were so thickly encrusted with embellishment that it was darn difficult to isolate the evidence we were after. She just couldn't keep to the point. If you ask me, my dear chap, today's story was a trifle
too
pat. Rather as if she'd learnt it off by heart, eh?”

“You mean Latour had more or less primed her with what to say in case we should ever question her?”

“Just that,” nodded Meredith. “I don't say the general facts aren't true. It's quite possible that she
was
the family nurse. But I'm darned if I'll accept her explanation for Latour's recent visits. The old lady knows plenty and I'll wager a week's wages that it was she who tipped him the wink to get clear while the going was good. You see, our enquiries about Bourmin would naturally” Meredith broke off and stood there in the middle of the pavement, his mouth agape, a look of wild incredulity on his aquiline features. “Well, I'll be—!”

“What the devil's the matter with you?” asked Gibaud, bewildered.

“That launch, moored over there against the harbour arm,” pointed out Meredith. “The one with the two thin scarlet stripes painted on its hull…”

“Well, what about it?”

In a few curt sentences Meredith described their Saturday night encounter over at Cap Martin. Gibaud whistled.

“And you think this is the same boat, eh?”

“Certain of it. Here, quick! Let's take a walk out on to the breakwater. Somebody's sure to know who owns the confounded thing.”

In this assumption Meredith was right. A group of swarthy, bare-footed fishermen were just swarming ashore off one of the many gondola-prowed fishing-boats tied off along the quayside. In answer to Gibaud's enquiries they broke into voluble and concerted explanations. When at length the babble had died down, Gibaud turned to his colleague who'd been teetering with impatience at his elbow. Meredith rapped out:

“Well?”

“She's a privately owned pleasure launch by the name of
L'Hirondelle.
A pretty roomy and luxurious affair according to these fellows.”

“But who owns her?” snapped Meredith. “That's what interests me.”

Gibaud smiled.

“You'd better take a grip on yourself. You're going to get a high-voltage shock.”

“Oh for crying aloud, man! Don't keep me dangling.”

“Well, believe it or not, it's that wealthy countrywoman of yours.”