Behold a Fair Woman

by Francis Duncan

  His smile had a fixed, unreal quality, as though it was a mask behind which he was trying to adjust himself to an unexpected situation.

  ‘I think I’d keep clear of it if I were you,’ he added, after a pause. ‘It’s in a dangerous state. Should have been pulled down long ago. It’s easy to fall through the boards, and if you were on your own it could be pretty serious. Might lie there for hours with a broken leg or something before anybody found you.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Tremaine said.

  Clearly Latinam was waiting for him to go. He looked at his watch.

  ‘I must be getting on or my friends will be wondering what’s happened to me.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Latinam said.

  He made no move, however, and it was Tremaine who was the first to turn away.

  Fifty yards along the road he glanced back. Latinam was still standing in the same position.

  The plump man’s behaviour seemed decidedly odd. Despite his denial he had been making for the ruined mill. Why had he been so secretive about it?

  And there was another queer point. The rough-looking man in fisherman’s clothes had vanished; he had never reached the road.

  Had that quick gesture Latinam had made anything to do with it? If he had not imagined it and the incident had really happened, what had been the reason for it?

  He was still preoccupied when he reached the bungalow.

  ‘I happened to meet someone on the way back,’ he replied, to Mark’s bantering enquiry.

  ‘Anyone we know?’

  ‘Mr. Latinam.’

  Mark’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘Why should meeting him give you such a furrowed brow? He’s usually overpoweringly full of the joy of living!’

  Tremaine did not answer the question directly.

  ‘Do you know anyone in the district who’s rather a rough-looking character, Mark?’ he said slowly. ‘Might be wearing a fisherman’s clothes. Big, burly fellow, with a scowling appearance?’

  ‘The description’s a bit wide,’ Belmore observed with a frown. ‘Plenty of fishermen live on the island, you know. There are scores of small boats around the coast. Big, scowling sort of chap, you say? There is one of the locals who might fit. His name’s Le Mazon—Gaston Le Mazon.’

  ‘What’s his reputation like?’

  ‘Not very good. He’s been in trouble with the police once or twice. Why?’

  ‘I saw him coming from the ruined windmill this afternoon.’

  ‘What happened? If he tried to cause trouble I’ll take it up with the police.’

  ‘It wasn’t anything like that,’ Tremaine said quickly. ‘We didn’t get very close to each other. You say his reputation isn’t very good? Then you don’t think he’s likely to be acquainted with Mr. Latinam?’

  ‘What put the thought that he might be acquainted with Latinam into your mind?’ Mark said evasively. ‘Did you see them together?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’ve no real reason for connecting them at all. But Le Mazon was coming from the mill at the same time that Latinam was going towards it. The impression I had at the time was that they were going to meet each other.’

  ‘That was easily proved, surely? Didn’t you wait to see what happened?’

  ‘That’s the odd thing about it. Latinam and I saw each other at the same time. We spoke for a moment or two and when I looked round to see what had become of the man you’ve called Le Mazon he’d vanished.’

  ‘I dare say he went off somewhere when your attention was being taken up with Latinam.’

  ‘But where could he have gone without my seeing him?’ Tremaine persisted. ‘You know what it’s like around the mill. It’s open ground. He couldn’t possibly have crossed it without my seeing him.’

  ‘It’s your mystery. What do you think happened?’

  ‘I had a feeling at the time that Latinam had signed to the other man to keep out of sight and that Le Mazon had ducked down somewhere until I’d gone. But that means that Latinam and Le Mazon must be on fairly close terms and you don’t seem to think that’s possible.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Belmore objected. ‘I just wanted to find out exactly what had happened before I committed myself. There’s something about Latinam I can’t place although he always seems open and cheerful enough when you meet him. It isn’t surprising that he wasn’t anxious that you should see him with Le Mazon. He wouldn’t want the news to get around that he’s keeping that kind of company.’

  Tremaine adjusted his pince-nez.

  ‘What do you imagine they can have in common? They certainly appear to be an oddly-assorted pair.’

  At that moment Janet came into the lounge where they were holding their conversation.

  ‘Tea’s ready when you are.’ She glanced from her visitor to her husband. ‘You’re both looking very serious about something.’

  ‘I met Hedley Latinam on the way back,’ Tremaine said, ‘and I was just telling Mark that I had the idea he was going to meet a local fisherman called Gaston Le Mazon but that my coming along rather upset him.’

  ‘Le Mazon?’ Janet frowned. ‘Isn’t that the man who was supposed to have been smuggling tobacco, and wines and spirits across to the mainland, Mark?’

  ‘He’s supposed to have been mixed up in a good many shady things,’ her husband returned. ‘He’s usually well supplied with money, but nobody seems to know just where he gets it. There’s no doubt that it doesn’t come from the fish he catches.’

  ‘So he was seeing Latinam—’ Momentarily there was a shadow in Janet’s eyes, and then she shrugged. ‘Mordecai’s on holiday. He doesn’t want to be bothered with our local affairs.’

  It was clear that she did not wish to pursue the subject any further. It remained on Tremaine’s mind, however, and he was still puzzling over it when he went to his room that night.

  What was it that was troubling Janet? There was something, and an unresolved mystery represented a challenge. He would have to try and persuade her to tell him what was in her mind.

  He was sitting on the edge of his bed, facing the open window with its view over the bay, and suddenly he thought that a speck of light winked and vanished again out in the darkness.

  At first he was not sure that he hadn’t imagined it, but a few minutes later he saw it again. An answering speck somewhere along the coast showed briefly. He counted three quick flashes.

  He peered out of the window but although he watched the area from which the flashes had come they were not repeated. Nor did he observe a repetition of the light he had noticed out at sea.

  He waited for a long while but there was nothing more. The excitement that had flared within him subsided into a faint disappointment. He undressed and climbed into bed.

  6

  THE WOMAN IN THE BACKGROUND

  THE CONTINUED FINE weather was attracting the majority of the holiday-makers in Moulin d’Or to the local bay rather than to the numerous other beaches scattered around the island’s coast. It was difficult for Tremaine to find a quiet spot on the stretch of rocks he had come to regard as his own. Various small boys were clambering over his favourite resting place.

  He liked small boys and appreciated their need for self-expression, but he sighed as he searched for some other refuge. He was engaged upon this activity when he came upon Alan Creed and his wife.

  The gaunt man gave him a friendly smile.

  ‘Enjoying your stay on the island?’

  ‘Very much so,’ Tremaine returned. He glanced at Valerie Creed. ‘Have you had your regular dip yet?’

  ‘Not yet. But we’ll be going in soon,’ she added, indicating the bathing towels they had brought with them.

  Despite her heavy features and the thickness of her body there was something shy about her; something that was almost shrinking, as though she was not at her ease and didn’t know quite what to say to him.

  ‘I think your friends are trying to attract your attention,’ Creed remarked suddenly, and Tremaine had a feeling that he ha
d been glad of the opportunity to take the interest away from his wife.

  Several people were coming from the dunes. He saw Nicola Paston’s fair hair glinting in the morning sunshine, with Ruth Latinam beside her. Geoffrey Bendall’s tall figure was just behind, and a yard or two in front, as if leading the cavalcade, was Hedley Latinam’s plump form.

  It was Latinam who had seen him and waved; his arm was still in the air in slightly over-hearty greeting.

  Tremaine waved back but he did not go over to meet them. He did not wish to appear discourteous towards the Creeds and he expected that in any case they would come in his direction.

  They did not do so, however, but chose a place further down the beach, spreading out wraps and towels. Tremaine glanced at his companions. Valerie Creed was staring towards the water. She seemed to have become rigid, as though she was on guard against something; the fingers of her right hand were probing nervously among the pebbles around the base of the rock against which she was leaning. Alan Creed was outwardly unconcerned, but there was a slight twitching of a muscle along the side of his jaw.

  ‘Mr. Latinam appears to be taking advantage of the fine weather, too,’ Tremaine observed carefully.

  ‘Latinam? The Rohane hotel man?’

  There was an enquiring note in Creed’s voice and Tremaine gave him a look of surprise.

  ‘Yes. There he is, with the people who’ve just come on to the beach. They’re from the hotel.’

  Creed shaded his eyes against the sun.

  ‘Yes, I see. Latinam’s the short, rather stout fellow, isn’t he?’

  Somehow his choice of adjective seemed to strip away Latinam’s good-natured joviality, leaving him a figure who was vaguely coarse.

  ‘I thought you knew him,’ Tremaine said.

  ‘I know him by sight, of course,’ Creed rejoined. ‘I’ve seen him about the district. But we haven’t been introduced.’ He studied the group sitting with Latinam on the sand. ‘I had an idea the others must be from the hotel. I’ve noticed them here quite a lot. I suppose one of the two girls is Latinam’s sister. I know she’s running the hotel with him.’

  ‘The dark-haired one is his sister. The other is Mrs. Paston. They’re rather a jolly crowd.’

  ‘I’m afraid Valerie and I don’t mix very much. Unsociable of us, I suppose, but we get along.’

  Valerie Creed had been sitting in silence, still with that guarded, taut look upon her face, but now she stirred and looked at her husband.

  ‘Shall we go in for our swim now, Alan? I’d like to get back fairly early. There are one or two things I must do before lunch.’

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ Creed said quickly. He rose to his feet. ‘You’ll excuse our leaving you?’ he added to Tremaine.

  ‘By all means,’ Tremaine returned.

  He watched them as they went down to the water. They plunged straight in and began swimming strongly. He went slowly across the beach. Latinam saw him approaching.

  ‘Come and join us. I see your friends have gone in. Local people?’

  ‘I understand they’ve been living here for some months now,’ Tremaine returned. ‘Their name’s Creed.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Latinam nodded. ‘I’ve heard of them. Husband’s an artist or something.’

  Tremaine made no comment. Latinam and Creed had been talking very confidentially indeed when he had stumbled upon them several days previously, and yet each of them had now pretended that he knew the other only casually. It was more than a little curious.

  Geoffrey Bendall slipped off his bathing robe.

  ‘I think I’ll go in myself. Anybody else coming. Nicola? Ruth?’

  ‘Not for me,’ Ruth Latinam said. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  When Bendall and the fair-haired Nicola had gone down towards the water, Tremaine glanced at the dark-haired girl who was sitting up with her arms around her knees. There was a note of enquiry in his voice but he did not put a direct question.

  ‘I notice Mr Holt isn’t here today.’

  ‘No,’ she returned, without looking at him. ‘He had to go over to the mainland.’

  ‘I hope he hasn’t had to cut short his holiday.’

  ‘He expects to be back in a day or two.’

  She sounded disinclined to pursue the subject and it was her brother who persisted with it.

  ‘I had no idea he was going until he mentioned it after breakfast this morning. What made him decide in such a hurry?’

  ‘He had a letter,’ she said. ‘He told me he had to go over on business.’

  ‘Pretty important business to make him go off—under present conditions, eh?’ Latinam said, with an expressive wink in Tremaine’s direction.

  Tremaine adjusted his pince-nez. He was rather embarrassed. He didn’t want to offend Latinam, but on the other hand it wasn’t likely that his sister would be anxious to talk about Ivan Holt.

  ‘You don’t go in for the local growing hobby?’ he asked, after a pause.

  ‘Growing?’

  Latinam’s plump face looked blank.

  ‘Tomatoes,’ Tremaine explained.

  ‘Oh, tomatoes. No, can’t stand ’em,’ Latinam said. ‘Suppose it’s the sight of so many baskets of ’em around here.’

  ‘It’s quite a science—much more so than I imagined. I’ve been talking to one of the growers, Mr Exenley. I expect you know him.’

  ‘Exenley?’ Latinam frowned. ‘No, can’t say I do.’

  He stared down over the beach to where Bendall and Nicola Paston were splashing about in the water. Tremaine stroked his chin unhappily. He didn’t appear to have been very successful in trying to change the subject.

  But to his relief Latinam didn’t return to the question of Ivan Holt. When he abandoned his pensive study of the figures in the water he was his usual jovial self.

  ‘Never mind the tomatoes,’ he said breezily. ‘Suppose we talk about you. I’ve been hearing quite a lot about you since we first met. Something of an amateur detective I’m told. Are you only over here for a holiday or is there more to it?’

  Ruth Latinam stirred. Her dark eyes went from her brother to Tremaine, speculative, shadowed.

  ‘It’s just a holiday,’ Tremaine said hurriedly. ‘Nothing more, I assure you. Anyway, there’s nothing in the nature of crime on the island, is there? Real crime, I mean.’

  ‘As distinct from motoring offences?’ Latinam grinned. ‘I know that’s about all the crime the local newspaper carries. But you never can tell. All sorts of things go on under the surface. If you keep your ear to the ground you may be surprised at what you’ll pick up.’

  ‘You sound as though you’ve found something yourself,’ Tremaine said, probing.

  ‘I’m as interested in crime as the next man,’ Latinam confessed. ‘Most criminals are small fry, of course, but now and again you do come across somebody who’s really worth studying. Somebody to whom you can take off your hat as a master of his profession. Like Smooth Jonathan was, for instance.’

  ‘Smooth Jonathan?’

  ‘Why, yes.’ Latinam raised his brows. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him?’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t,’ Tremaine admitted.

  Latinam chuckled, a rich, rumbling sound.

  ‘Hear that, Ruth? It’s a tribute to a rogue if ever there was one! Smooth Jonathan always did cover his tracks.’

  ‘Who was he?’ Tremaine asked.

  ‘One of the cleverest crooks who ever kept out of the way of the law. As far as I know he was never put behind bars—which is why not many people have heard of him.’

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘Very much so,’ Latinam said, as if he was savouring the words. ‘Enjoying his ill-gotten gains and snapping his fingers at the police.’

  ‘What was his line?’

  ‘He didn’t have a line. That was the beauty of it. There was no modus operandi record to trip up Smooth Jonathan. Safe cracking, the confidence trick, or just plain fraud—you never knew what he was goi
ng to do next. He must have got away with thousands in his time.’

  Tremaine regarded him doubtfully.

  ‘You sound quite enthusiastic about him.’

  ‘I admire efficiency,’ Latinam rejoined, ‘wherever it’s to be found. You have to give the fellow his due even if he was a crook. He kept himself in the clear and then retired to live on the proceeds of his criminal activities just like any respectable bank clerk living on his pension. He even found time to get himself married. His wife died a long while back, but I think there was a daughter. Yes, I’m sure there was a daughter.’

  ‘Although the police may not have been able to prove anything against him,’ Tremaine said thoughtfully, ‘I dare say they knew all about him and how he made his living. Even when he committed his last crime and retired, as you termed it, that wasn’t the end of the matter. There’s always a chance of additional evidence turning up and all criminals must spend their days wondering whether they covered their tracks as well as they imagined. This Smooth Jonathan is probably still living in uncertainty, even now, not knowing whether his next visitor is going to be someone to tell him that his past has caught up with him.’

  ‘Death the only release, eh?’

  Latinam sounded amused.

  ‘The police aren’t his only worry,’ Tremaine persisted. ‘There isn’t any honour among thieves. Your Smooth Jonathan must be just as worried about some of his old colleagues catching up with him as he is about the police. They wouldn’t be above blackmail if they thought they could get away with it.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s very likely,’ Latinam said. He was less eager, as though he had grown bored with the topic. ‘I don’t doubt that he’s taken good care to protect himself—wherever he is.’

  He broke off. Bendall and Nicola Paston were coming back up the beach.

  ‘Good swim?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Bendall returned, rubbing himself down vigorously.

  ‘Meet any interesting characters?’

  Bendall nodded cheerfully.

  ‘We always do, don’t we, Nicola? You ought to come in some time. Maybe you’d find out some of the things that come our way.’