Behold a Fair Woman

by Francis Duncan

  The wind was still spraying sand against the dunes, and the three of them spent the afternoon in St. Julian Harbour. It was a thought that seemed to have occurred to most of the holiday population of the island, for the narrow streets were crowded. They were making their way back to the quayside where Mark had parked the car when they caught sight of Geoffrey Bendall and Nicola Paston some distance ahead.

  ‘I wonder what the relationship is between those two?’ Tremaine said, musingly. ‘They aren’t engaged, are they?’

  ‘I haven’t heard so,’ Belmore said. ‘But they seem to spend a good deal of time in each other’s company.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because of Mr. Holt and Miss Latinam,’ Tremaine went on. ‘As the remaining members of the foursome they naturally tend to pair off, even if there isn’t really anything in it.’

  Geoffrey Bendall puzzled him. He did not seem to be in love with Nicola Paston, although she was an attractive young woman. At times, indeed, his manner was casual towards her. And yet there was a certain intimacy between them, hard to define and yet indisputably there.

  The next morning the wind had dropped and Tremaine took his newspaper down to his accustomed seat on the rocks.

  The Armitage affair was still on the front page. Marfield, who had made such a daring escape from Parkhurst prison, was still at liberty despite an intensive man-hunt.

  As usual, the scent was being confused by conflicting reports from people who claimed to have seen or to have spoken with the fugitive. He was said to have been recognized in a dozen different places between Yorkshire and the south coast. The official police view was that he was lying low somewhere in London, and a thorough search was being carried out in the neighbourhoods he was likely to have chosen.

  In the afternoon Tremaine spent a pleasant hour with Exenley at his bungalow. He raised the matter of the dance, wondering whether Latinam’s invitations had been scattered with a lavish hand over Moulin d’Or, but Exenley smiled.

  ‘I don’t know Latinam well enough to receive invitations from him. I doubt whether he’s even aware of my existence.’

  ‘He seems to be making quite an occasion of this dance.’

  ‘You mean he’s going into the highways and by-ways?’ Exenley chuckled. ‘Well, I suppose it’s one way of getting publicity for his hotel. From all accounts it isn’t doing too well. If what I hear is correct it would pay him to turn over to growing tomatoes!’

  ‘I don’t think he’s concerned about making money. And I’m sure he isn’t likely to become a grower. I tried to draw him out the other day about the growing industry but he didn’t seem very interested in tomatoes. He started talking about someone called Smooth Jonathan.’

  ‘Smooth Jonathan? That’s an odd sort of name.’ Exenley frowned, pulling thoughtfully at his dark chin. ‘Something familiar about it, though.’

  ‘According to Latinam he was a highly successful criminal,’ Tremaine explained. ‘He made a good living out of crime—which is unusual enough—and managed to retire without being caught.’

  ‘One of the exceptions, eh? I’m sure I’ve heard the name before, although I can’t quite place it. I wonder what made Latinam refer to him?’

  ‘We were talking about crime and Latinam mentioned Smooth Jonathan as being a master of his profession. He seems to have a high opinion of his talents.’

  Exenley raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Hardly the type of hero you’d expect a respectable citizen to have!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Crime has a fascination even for people who wouldn’t dream of doing anything against the law themselves.’

  Exenley put down the chip of tomatoes he had been carrying, his brow wrinkled.

  ‘I’ve got it now,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve read a bit of criminology, as I told you the other day. This chap was an artist all right. When he decided that he’d made enough out of his crooked activities he disappeared without leaving a trace. So Latinam thinks a lot of Smooth Jonathan, does he? He was almost boasting about him in fact. H’m. Interesting.’

  ‘What’s in your mind?’ Tremaine asked curiously.

  ‘Latinam came here and bought the Rohane hotel—a place, by the way, nobody over here wanted—and yet he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to make it a paying proposition. I wonder why? And I wonder where all his money came from?’

  ‘You don’t think—you’re not suggesting—?’

  ‘That Latinam is—or was—Smooth Jonathan?’ Exenley pursed his lips. ‘That sounds to me too much like slander. But I must say it’s an intriguing thought. A very intriguing thought.’

  Tremaine was in a pensive mood when he left his companion. It had been difficult to be sure whether or not Exenley had been joking; he had a habit of saying things with a perfectly straight face but with his tongue metaphorically in his cheek.

  Had he meant what he had said about Latinam? Or was it merely that he had seen the opportunity for a little gentle leg-pulling, and, knowing his visitor’s preoccupation with crime, had been unable to resist making use of it?

  8

  PROBLEM FOR TWO LOVERS

  OVER TEA AT the bungalow the conversation turned naturally upon the Rohane hotel and the night’s dance. Tremaine waited for the right moment to put his question.

  ‘Where did Latinam live before he came to the island, Mark?’

  ‘Somewhere in Yorkshire, I fancy.’

  ‘Has he any business connections?’

  Belmore looked blank and Janet prompted him.

  ‘What Mordecai wants to know is where he got his money. Isn’t that it?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Tremaine admitted.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there,’ Belmore said. ‘He certainly hasn’t carried out any business deals over here. Apart from buying the hotel.’

  ‘There wasn’t any difficulty about that? I mean because he isn’t an islander?’

  ‘The place was up for sale for a long while although the previous owner kept it going. Nobody on the island wanted it—too expensive a white elephant, I suppose—so there wouldn’t have been any objection to Latinam’s taking it on.’

  Janet looked thoughtfully across the table.

  ‘You seem very interested in Hedley Latinam, Mordecai.’

  ‘I suppose it’s my natural curiosity,’ he smiled. ‘Anyway, I feel I ought to know something about him since he’s invited me to the dance tonight.’

  ‘Is that all?’ she said, and he fancied that her voice held a faint note of disappointment.

  When they drove towards the Rohane hotel several hours later a number of cars were already parked in the drive and lights were blazing all over the building although it was not yet dark.

  Latinam received them, resplendent in evening dress and with the air of a plump penguin.

  ‘Glad you were able to come. Straight ahead. We’re using the bar lounge as a ballroom.’

  At one end of the long room overlooking the sea a drummer, a saxophone player, and a pianist had established themselves. A few couples were already circling the floor. Most of them were strangers to Tremaine, but he recognized Geoffrey Bendall. When the music stopped Bendall escorted his companion to a chair and then sauntered towards him.

  ‘Mrs. Paston not coming?’ Tremaine enquired.

  ‘Oh, Nicola will be here in a few moments,’ Bendall returned. ‘She’s just putting the finishing touches to her war-paint.’

  Tremaine found the expression slightly jarring—Bendall seemed to have an unhappy facility for saying things that impacted harshly upon his sentimental soul—and tried to save himself from making an over-sharp rejoinder by looking about the ballroom. He saw Ruth Latinam standing by the doorway, her dark hair acting as a foil to her pale face and her creamy shoulders with the barest golden tan emerging from her low-cut evening gown.

  ‘Is Mr. Holt back?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s back from his trip,’ Bendall said. ‘But he doesn’t seem to be here yet.’

  There was a whisper of curiosity in his vo
ice. He turned to gaze in Ruth Latinam’s direction, and then strolled towards her, Tremaine following. She saw them approaching and made a visible effort to appear at her ease. She smiled, but it was a sad smile in which there was a hint of fear.

  ‘What’s happened to Ivan?’ Bendall said.

  She met his question with a careful unconcern.

  ‘I thought he must be with you.’

  ‘Haven’t seen him since just after he got back. Haven’t seen anybody,’ Bendall said, with a mock air of tragedy. ‘Nicola’s been missing for hours.’

  ‘Never mind,’ she told him, with an attempt to match his manner. ‘I’m quite sure your loneliness is only temporary.’

  ‘I hope so. We’ve made a pleasant little party. I wouldn’t like anything to happen to any of us.’

  She met his gaze steadily.

  ‘Is anything likely to happen?’

  ‘I gave my crystal-gazing outfit away,’ he said lightly. The band struck up again and he touched her arm. ‘May I?’

  Her hesitation was only slight.

  ‘Of course.’

  Bendall waltzed expertly. Tremaine watched them, wishing that his own limbs were as supple as they had once been.

  He did not, however, spend the evening as a mere spectator. He took the floor several times with Janet, and twice with Nicola Paston after her appearance, beautiful and elegant, her fair hair gleaming against the clinging black gown she wore.

  Once, as they passed Bendall, he saw the other’s grey eyes upon her, openly admiring as though he was seeing her for the first time. So it was possible to arouse some real emotion in that young man!

  Tremaine surprised himself by the intensity of his feelings. So much so that he hesitated in his step and Nicola Paston gave him a rueful glance.

  ‘You aren’t very flattering!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said guiltily.

  ‘You know quite well what I mean! Here I am doing my best to charm you and you’re allowing your attention to wander all over the place! What’s Geoffrey been doing to you?’

  Her shrewdness momentarily disconcerted him, but despite her smile there was a note in her voice that was urgent and feverish.

  ‘I’ve been a little worried about Mr. Bendall,’ he said deliberately, and he felt her become suddenly rigid.

  ‘Worried about him?’

  ‘He hasn’t seemed to me to be enjoying his holiday. He’s given me the impression that he has something on his mind.’

  ‘Why on earth should you think that?’

  ‘He’s inclined to be a little cynical at times. People who talk like that often do so because they’re unhappy about something. It’s a method of hiding their feelings.’

  ‘I think you’re mistaken,’ she said. ‘About Geoffrey, anyway.’

  ‘There’s one explanation that might account for it.’

  ‘What explanation?’ she said quickly.

  ‘He may be in love.’

  The rigidity went out of her body and he felt her relax against him. Her laughter was vibrant with relief.

  ‘Poor Geoff! You think he may be suffering from a secret passion! Who’s the lady in the case? Surely not Ruth?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Tremaine, shocked. ‘Not Miss Latinam. Yourself.’

  She did not reply for a moment or two. Her face had become suddenly serious again.

  ‘You must think me a very rude and interfering old man,’ Tremaine said, with a shameful pretence at contrition. ‘But you did ask me about Mr. Bendall just now.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s on my own head, isn’t it? But I’m sure you’re wrong. Geoffrey doesn’t feel like that—at least, not about me. I know you’ve seen us about together a good deal. But that’s because—’

  She broke off, and a flush came into her cheeks.

  ‘Put me down as a sentimental old bachelor who doesn’t know when to keep a still tongue,’ Tremaine said hastily. ‘I hope I haven’t offended you?’

  ‘Of course you haven’t,’ she reassured him, smiling. ‘I’ve been a married woman. I’m not starry-eyed from the convent.’

  Nevertheless, there was a certain constraint between them now which lasted until the music had stopped and he was escorting her back to her seat. It might have been coincidence, but somehow he thought not, that Bendall should have immediately taken the vacant chair next to hers.

  It was growing warm. Tremaine went out to the terrace beyond the open window facing the sea and strolled slowly around the hotel. It was well past dusk now and the cliff ended in a dark line from beyond which came the gentle sigh of a calm sea washing against the shore.

  As he turned the corner of the building he heard footsteps coming up the path towards him. A moment later a figure came into view and in the faint light that glowed from a curtained window near at hand he recognized Ivan Holt.

  He saw that Holt was holding a handkerchief to the side of his head. The handkerchief was stained and there were smears of dirt and what appeared to be dried blood on his face.

  ‘You look as though you’ve had a nasty blow,’ Tremaine said levelly. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, quite all right, thanks,’ came Holt’s voice in reply. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. I slipped coming up the cliff—hit my head on a rock. It was my own fault for being so careless.’

  They could hear the sound of the dance-band, and Holt made a gesture towards the hotel.

  ‘Is everything in full swing?’

  ‘Just getting nicely warmed up.’

  ‘I dare say there’ve been a few enquiries after me. I’ll get cleaned up and then go along and show myself.’ Holt’s manner bore a trace of hesitancy. ‘Look here, do me a favour, will you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me. Not like this, anyway.’ He indicated his head with a slight movement of the hand still keeping the handkerchief pressed against it. ‘I don’t want to cause any fuss.’

  ‘I quite understand. I won’t tell Miss Latinam.’

  ‘I didn’t mention Miss Latinam particularly.’

  ‘I know you didn’t. But it was Miss Latinam you really meant, wasn’t it?’

  For an instant or two Holt stood facing him with a grim expression, and then his features relaxed into a smile.

  ‘Maybe it was. I wish I knew a little more about you,’ he added ruminatively. ‘You and I might—’

  Tremaine waited.

  ‘You and I?’ he prompted, but Holt shrugged.

  ‘Nothing. You won’t say anything?’ he added, and then he turned and went quickly round the building.

  Tremaine followed him slowly. He liked Ivan Holt. He was a dependable type of young man. He wished he had been a little more communicative.

  Had he really been injured in the way he had said? If so, what had he been doing on the cliff path when he was supposed to be attending the dance at the hotel? And what had he been on the point of saying when he had turned and gone off so hurriedly? Frowning, Tremaine continued along the narrow path that circled the hotel.

  He came to an open doorway, and mechanically, immersed in his thoughts, he passed through. It was not until he found himself in a dark passage inside the building that he realized what he had done. He could hear the dance-band plainly, however; it should be an easy matter to find the ballroom.

  A door in front of him appeared promising. He pushed it open. The light was on and he saw at once that he had made a mistake; the room he had entered possessed only the one door.

  He looked about him curiously, guessing that it must be Latinam’s office. There was a big desk in the centre of the floor and a filing-cabinet stood against the left-hand wall.

  Standing on the desk was a picnic basket. It seemed incongruous in its present setting and instinctively he moved closer to examine it.

  He lifted the basket’s wicker lid and saw a thermos flask, a package wrapped in greaseproof paper that looked as if it might contain sandwiches, two small tins of pressed meat and
a tin opener, with several other small parcels packed around them. Tucked down at one side was a packet of cigarettes.

  He realized then what he was doing. Since the light was on someone—probably Latinam himself—was likely to return shortly. Explanations would sound painfully thin if he was caught in such a compromising situation.

  He went out of the room, closing the door cautiously behind him. He could see now the way he should have taken, and after traversing another short passage, found himself approaching the ballroom.

  Hedley Latinam was blocking the entrance. The plump man’s smile was as pleasant as ever but there was a perceptible narrowing of his eyes.

  ‘Been taking the air?’

  Tremaine nodded, hoping that he did not look as guilty as he was feeling.

  ‘I suppose I’m not used to this kind of thing!’

  ‘You could have gone out on to the terrace,’ Latinam said, pointing. ‘Get the sea breezes there, you know.’

  He sounded casual, but to Tremaine’s uneasy conscience there was suspicion underlying his words.

  ‘I know,’ he returned, as carelessly as he could. ‘As a matter of fact I did go out that way. I went for a stroll round the building intending to come back through the main entrance. I must have been day-dreaming and came in through the wrong door.’

  ‘Day-dreaming! That’s a bad sign!’ Latinam said jovially. ‘You found your way all right?’

  ‘Oh yes, quite easily. It was just a matter of following the sound of the music.’

  Latinam made no comment but stood aside to allow him to pass into the ballroom. Facing him Tremaine saw Ruth Latinam, sitting where she could watch the doorway. Her expression was troubled and her hands were nervously twisting a handkerchief in her lap.

  He wanted to do something to help her; it was wrong that there should be unhappiness in her face. But he realized that if Ivan Holt came in and saw them together he could not fail to suspect that his confidence had been betrayed; young men in love couldn’t help being suspicious even at the best of times.

  Cautiously he glanced back towards the doorway. Latinam was no longer there.