by Graham Ison
‘I did it for her. I thought that she was in trouble and I didn’t want anything to happen to her.’
Fox stretched out his legs. ‘Well, I’ve got news for you, Mr Benson. Mrs Meadows’ real husband is serving seven years’ imprisonment … for blackmail. Same MO as yours.’
‘I’m sorry? Same what?’
‘MO, Mr Benson. It’s short for the Latin, modus operandi. They’ve been at it for some time, apparently. Attractive young girl, rich elderly man, and suddenly in through the door comes the husband. Pay up or else.’
‘Good God!’ said Benson. ‘But then why isn’t she in prison?’
‘Very simply, because she always played the innocent party. The Director of Public Prosecutions, in his infinite wisdom, decided that there was no case against her.’
Benson shook his head unbelievingly. Then he looked up and smiled. A crooked smile. ‘No fool like an old fool, eh?’ he said.
‘This so-called husband. Was it the man in the photograph I showed you, Mr Benson?’
‘Yes, it was.’ Benson frowned. ‘D’you mean you knew all along?’ he asked.
Fox smoothed his hand across his knee. ‘We had a pretty good idea,’ he said, and stood up.
‘Will I be in any sort of trouble over this?’ asked Benson as he escorted his visitors to the front door.
‘That I can’t say, Mr Benson. The matter will of course be the subject of a report to the Crown Prosecution Service, but I shouldn’t worry too much if I were you.’
*
Detective Constable Ransome of the Sussex Police snatched up the phone. ‘CID Brighton,’ he said tersely, and for the next few minutes listened intently. He asked one or two questions and advised the caller to keep the information to himself. Then he dipped the receiver rest and dialled the direct-line number for the Flying Squad at New Scotland Yard. ‘DI Gilroy, please,’ he said when the Squad operator replied.
*
‘I am Inspecteur Principal Ronsard, m’sieur. You are Anton Desfarges?’
‘That is so, m’sieur.’ The café owner wiped the copper top of the bar and dropped the cloth out of sight. ‘You would like a drink, perhaps, m’sieur?’
‘Beer.’
Desfarges turned away and paused. ‘Pression?’ He was about fifty and heavily built. There were a few strands of black hair across his otherwise bald head and he had a large moustache. He had the look of a man who perspired a lot. He was perspiring now.
‘Yes.’
Desfarges began the laborious task of filling a glass with frothy beer. When he had finished he put it on the bar, pointedly placing the till receipt next to it. ‘How can I help you, m’sieur?’
‘You know an Englishman called Thomas Harley?’ Ronsard took a sip of beer.
‘Perhaps.’ Desfarges shrugged.
‘I suggest that you think carefully,’ said Ronsard. ‘It is a serious matter.’
‘It is difficult,’ said Desfarges. ‘So many customers come here in the season. So many English.’
‘Perhaps this will help.’ Ronsard laid a copy of the golf club photograph on the bar. Knowing Harley’s predilection for Nice and Cannes, Fox had left several copies with Ronsard when he had been over to see Jeremy Benson.
Desfarges looked closely at the photograph. ‘Ah yes, of course. Now I remember … and that is his wife, Jane, isn’t it?’
‘She was here with him?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘You knew him well, this Harley?’
Desfarges shrugged again and held out his hands, palms uppermost. ‘A little.’
‘Well enough to give him a reference when he wanted to rent a house … in England.’
Avoiding Ronsard’s gaze, Desfarges screwed up the till receipt and tossed it on the floor behind him. ‘It was business,’ he said.
‘What sort of business?’
‘May I be perfectly frank, M’sieur l’lnspecteur?’
‘I hope that you would not be anything else,’ said Ronsard.
‘I was doing him a favour. He has been in here many times over the years. Spends a lot of money. One day he asked me if I would vouch for him if I got a telephone call. It was of no importance. As you say, he wanted to rent a house. He asked that if anyone was to telephone to enquire if he was a reliable person …’ Desfarges waggled his head from side to side. He seemed to be sweating more now. ‘There was no harm. It happens all the time. It is business.’ Desfarges looked nervously at Ronsard. ‘I hope there is no trouble, m’sieur. Has M’sieur Harley done something wrong?’
‘The English police think that he may have committed a murder, m’sieur,’ said Ronsard and laid a ten-franc piece on the bar before walking out into the sunshine.
*
‘Just had a call from the CID at Brighton, sir,’ said Gilroy.
‘Oh yeah, and what did they want?’
‘They think that our man’s surfaced at one of the bigger hotels down there, sir.’
‘Really?’ Fox sounded less than enthusiastic. ‘How many’s that we’ve had, Jack?’
Gilroy thought for a second or two. ‘About twenty-five, I suppose, sir.’
‘Damned right,’ said Fox. ‘Cornwall, Sheffield, Edinburgh and Manchester, to name but a few. What’s so special about this one?’
‘This bloke claims to have worked in the South of France until the end of the season and has produced references to back it up. They’ve taken him on as a floor waiter.’
‘Ah!’ said Fox, ‘that’s a bit better. Whereabouts in the South of France?’
‘Nice, sir.’
‘And have they checked the references?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Bloody marvellous,’ said Fox. ‘And these people wonder why they get ripped off. Send Fletcher down there and tell him to take a discreet look at this finger and see what he thinks. And tell him to get photostats of those references. We’ll get Ronsard in Nice to make a few enquiries. What name’s this character using, incidentally?’
‘Spencer, sir.’
Fox sighed. ‘You could have said that in the first place, Jack.’
Gilroy grinned. ‘I thought I’d keep the best bit till last, guv,’ he said.
*
The clerk placed a form on Fox’s desk. There was a sheaf of receipts attached to it.
‘What’s that lot?’ asked Fox.
‘DS Crozier’s expenses for his trip across to France, Mr Fox.’
‘He didn’t waste any time,’ said Fox. Slowly he stood up and jabbed a finger at the total. ‘Is this a bloody joke?’ he yelled.
But the clerk had already gone.
*
Gilroy tapped on Fox’s office door and went straight in. ‘Fletcher’s just back from Brighton, sir,’ he said. ‘He had a good look at this Spencer, the floor waiter, and he reckons it’s definitely Harley … at least, as far as he can tell from the photograph. And that’s the best we can do until we nick him. There’s no way that we can get Hawkins to ID him, of course. Not until Harley’s in custody. Apart from which it might bugger up the case … when eventually we get it all to court.’
‘Hawkins? Who’s Hawkins? I’m losing track of this job, Jack.’
‘Hawkins is the manager of the hotel that was ripped off, guv.’
‘What about the references, Jack?’
‘Already in hand, sir. They were faxed across to Ronsard yesterday.’
‘I’d better give him a bell,’ said Fox. ‘Just to gee him up a bit.’
*
‘There are times when I think that I’m doing more work for this M’sieur Fox of Scotland Yard than I’m doing for France,’ said Ronsard, sighing heavily as he put down the phone after yet another conversation with the head of the Flying Squad.
The first call he had to make on Fox’s behalf was to finish off the enquiry about the references that Harley had given when he rented the house on Kingston Hill. But at least this call was almost a pleasure.
It was a large and elegant villa, discreetly hidden by palm
trees, in the Carabacel district, not far to the west of the Quai Gallieni. The maid who opened the door bobbed briefly before leading Ronsard into a richly furnished room and inviting him to take a seat. A few moments later she returned with a glass of pastis and a jug of water.
Ronsard was just taking his first sip when the door opened again. Madam Calmet was at least sixty but in extremely good shape for a woman of her age. Her short dark hair was immaculately arranged and she wore a flowing, floor-length gown. When she saw Ronsard she held out both hands, each heavy with costly rings, and advanced on him. ‘My dear inspector,’ she said. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’ She took his right hand in one of hers and gently patted the back of it with the other as she spoke.
‘Madame.’ Ronsard inclined his head.
‘But, you are looking well.’ Madame Calmet beamed at him. Then she relinquished her hold on his hand. ‘Wait,’ she said, ‘I have something to show you.’ She walked towards the door and spoke briefly to someone in the hall. Seconds later, she ushered in an attractive girl of about nineteen dressed in a diaphanous chiffon creation that dipped daringly at the neckline. ‘This is Lisa, my latest girl. Do you not think that she is beautiful?’
‘Very,’ said Ronsard. ‘But, madame, I am here on business. Police business.’ He smiled at the older woman.
Madame Calmet shrugged and spread her hands. ‘It is a dull day when you cannot take a little time for pleasure, m’sieur,’ she said, shepherding the young woman out again and closing the door behind her.
Ronsard laughed. ‘You are always trying to tempt me, madame,’ he said.
Madame Calmet laughed too. ‘And one day I shall succeed, m’sieur,’ she said. ‘Now what is this important police business you wish to discuss with me? There are no irregularities here. You must know that. Everything is conducted properly —’
Ronsard held up his hand. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘this concerns a man you may know. An Englishman called Thomas Harley.’
Madame Calmet clapped her hands together. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘A real English gentleman.’
‘How did you come to meet him?’
The woman shook her head gravely. ‘You are making jokes, m’sieur?’ she asked. ‘How do you think I met him? He is a client here. As I said, he was the perfect gentleman. He treated my girls so well. Always courteous. And he always gave them little gifts, you know. A very generous man.’ She looked dreamily at the large ormolu clock on the mantelshelf behind Ronsard. ‘If I had been a little younger, who knows …’
‘You knew him well enough to give him a reference when he was renting a house in England, then?’
‘Of course. What are these questions about?’ Madame Calmet suddenly became incisive again.
‘It is an enquiry from Scotland Yard.’
‘From Scotland Yard? Now you are definitely making jokes. You are telling me that Scotland Yard are making enquiries about a man renting a house in England? Pah! I do not believe it.’
‘It is true, madame.’
‘But why? What is wrong with that?’
‘There is nothing wrong about renting the house, madame, but murdering people is against the law in England … as it is in France, and it seems that —’
‘Murder!’ Madame Calmet put both hands to her cheeks. ‘I do not believe it,’ she said. ‘There must be a mistake.’
‘It is not known for certain, of course.’
‘And to think that he would come here regularly and would be with my girls … alone. It is terrible.’
‘Do not distress yourself, madame. It was not that sort of murder. I do not think that your girls were in any sort of danger, and even if he comes here again —’
Madame Calmet let out a hoot of derision. ‘Come here again, m’sieur? I tell you, he will not set foot in my house again. A murderer indeed.’
‘That is not known for certain, madame,’ said Ronsard again. Wearily this time. ‘The police in London want to talk to him about a murder. It does not mean he did it.’
Madame Calmet shook her head slowly. ‘There was always something about that one,’ she said. ‘Something that I did not like. He had a beautiful wife, you know.’
‘So I have heard, madame.’
‘I saw him with her at a restaurant one evening. At least, I imagine it was his wife. They weren’t talking to each other very much …’ Madame Calmet gave an elegant shrug of the shoulders. ‘She had good hips, that girl. So why, I asked myself, should he have to come here? I don’t understand why he wanted my young ladies.’
‘There is an English saying,’ said Ronsard, ‘that a change is as good as a rest.’
‘Huh!’ said Madame Calmet scornfully. ‘He would never have got a rest here. Not with my girls.’
*
‘Ronsard’s been on the phone, sir,’ said Gilroy. ‘Reckons his commissaire wants to know if we’re going to put him on our payroll.’
‘Bloody frogs,’ said Fox darkly. ‘Any joy?’
‘Not a lot, guv,’ said Gilroy. ‘The two hotels where Spencer claims to have worked have never heard of him, and certainly never gave references to a person of that name. According to Ronsard they expressed some surprise that anyone should think that they’d employ an Englishman as a waiter in the first place.’
‘Chauvinist bastards.’
‘As for the two references that Harley gave Davidson when he took the house at Kingston Hill, guv’nor, well they both exist, for what that’s worth. One’s a bar-keeper who saw Harley from time to time … as a customer only. The other keeps a brothel. Harley was quite a regular visitor there, it seems.’
‘Hope he caught something nasty,’ said Fox.
*
‘We’ll play this low-key, Jack,’ said Fox. ‘It doesn’t matter how few people we tell, some bastard’ll let the cat out of the bag, that’s for sure.’
‘What d’you want me to lay on, then, sir?’
‘You and Percy Fletcher can hover. And I want Henry Findlater and his team standing by, ready to house this character if I can persuade him to take it on the toes. And you can tell Henry from me that if he loses him I’ll have his guts for garters.’ Fox smoothed his hand across the top of his desk and smiled. It was a disconcerting sort of smile. ‘Rosie Webster and I will do the business. Simple.’
Gilroy sighed inaudibly. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. He had been involved in some of Fox’s simple jobs before. And some of them had gone horribly wrong.
Chapter Seventeen
The following afternoon, the Flying Squad went to Brighton. Not all of them, of course, but enough. Swann drove Fox’s Ford Granada with Fox and Rosie in the back, and Gilroy and Fletcher were in a second car, which, Fox had said, should make its own way there. Discreetly, he added. Whatever that meant. He did not, he emphasised, want a convoy turning up at the hotel. DI Henry Findlater had made his own arrangements. His task was to make sure that the man the Squad had gone to Brighton to see was not lost.
At about four o’clock the Granada swept on to the forecourt of the hotel and stopped. Immediately, a top-hatted linkman stepped forward and opened the door. Despite his attempt at restraint, he found his gaze transfixed by Rosie Webster’s nylon-clad knees as she swung her long legs gracefully out of the car. It was only when she stood up that the linkman discovered that she was taller than he was. He hurriedly redirected his attention to Fox and touched his hat. ‘Will your chauffeur be staying at the hotel, sir?’ he asked.
‘Certainly not,’ said Fox, and taking Rosie’s arm led her into the entrance hall.
‘Do you have a booking, sir?’ asked the receptionist.
‘Yes,’ said Fox airily. ‘Mr and Mrs Newman.’
Rosie Webster turned away to examine a show-case full of china animals, unable to restrain a smile.
The receptionist fiddled briefly with her computer terminal and then returned. ‘Room two-one-seven, sir,’ she said, and touched a bell on the desk.
A bell-boy appeared in traditional livery complete with pill-box hat. �
�D’you have any luggage, sir?’ he asked.
‘Only this,’ said Fox handing over his briefcase.
‘This way, sir. It’s on the second floor,’ said the boy and led the way across the lobby.
Despite his earlier intention not to inform anyone of the Squad’s operation, Fox had realised that he would have to take the hotel manager into his confidence. Otherwise, he might have finished up on a floor that was not served by the man under surveillance.
It was an elegant room, looking out on to the front of the hotel, dominated by a large double bed and comfortably furnished with armchairs and a coffee table.
‘With any luck we’ll only be here half an hour,’ said Fox as the door closed behind the bell-boy, ‘so you needn’t make yourself at home.’
‘Nothing was further from my thoughts, sir,’ said Rosie with an impish grin and a glance at the bed.
‘Good.’ Fox opened his briefcase and taking out his personal radio made a call to satisfy himself that DI Findlater and his men were in position. Then he rang room service and ordered a bottle of Bollinger. ‘The Commissioner can pay for that,’ he added as he put the phone down.
It was a good seven or eight minutes before the knock came at the door, by which time Fox and Rosie were seated in the two armchairs. The waiter entered, placed the ice bucket containing the champagne on a side-table, and put the two flutes beside it.
‘Shall I open the bottle, sir?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Fox.
As the waiter went about the business of stripping off the foil and easing the wire cage from the top of the bottle, Fox studied him. He was of medium height, and had the smooth, refined features so often to be found in thieves who specialised in hotel crime. His hair was combed flat to his head, conveying an indefinable air of servility, and although the style was different from that in the photograph taken at the golf club there was no mistaking the facial similarity. Fox was quite satisfied that the man now gently twisting the cork from the champagne bottle with an assiduous panache was Thomas Harley.
‘Isn’t your name Harley?’ asked Fox, managing to inject an inflection of doubt into his voice.
There was not a flicker of reaction, save for a slight tightening of the waiter’s grasp on the neck of the bottle as he poured the champagne. ‘I think you must be confusing me with someone else, sir,’ he said calmly, shooting a quick sideways glance at Fox. ‘My name’s Spencer, sir.’ With a deferential smile, he handed one flute to Rosie and the other to Fox. ‘Will that be all, sir?’ he asked, in the manner of a servant confidently expecting a tip.