‘It was Gaston Le Mazon,’ said Janet’s voice, from the rear of the car. ‘I recognized him in the headlights.’
‘So it was Le Mazon you saw with Latinam.’
‘I didn’t say I saw him with Latinam,’ Tremaine objected. ‘It looked as though they might have been going to meet, that’s all.’
Janet was peering through the rear window, although by now they had left the burly, sullen-looking man far behind.
‘What do you suppose he’s doing out at this time, Mark?’
‘Probably up to no good,’ her husband returned dryly. ‘But he lives in Moulin d’Or, so I suppose we can’t complain if he wants to take a stroll before going to bed.’
The conversation stopped there, for they had reached the bungalow and Mark needed all his attention for the task of swinging the big car through the narrow entrance between the stone boundary walls.
In the morning Tremaine announced his intention of going over to see Ralph Exenley.
‘Ask him if he’d like to look in tonight,’ Janet said. ‘He hasn’t spent an evening with us for some time.’
When Tremaine arrived Exenley was standing on the wooden ladder leading to his water tank. He glanced down and waved a hand.
‘Shan’t be a moment or two. Just checking up on the level. Pump’s been a bit temperamental.’
In a few moments his thickset figure came agilely down the ladder, and Tremaine seated himself upon his usual upturned crate whilst Exenley busied himself with the motor that worked the pump.
‘Your friend Latinam’s making himself a reputation,’ he observed after a while, removing his head from the interior of the engine. ‘The news of the gay doings at the Rohane has been sweeping through the district.’
‘He says he’s going to do more entertaining in future.’
‘It’ll all be good for business. I’m not sure, though, that I want to see Moulin d’Or becoming too popular. I like it well enough as it is.’
‘I’ve a message for you from Janet,’ Tremaine said. ‘She wants to know if you’d like to come over this evening.’
‘I’ll be delighted,’ Exenley returned. ‘It’s some time since Janet and I had one of our arguments. When we get on to politics we have to be held apart. It’s a good job Mark’s there as a peacemaker!’ And then his face fell. ‘No, confound it, I can’t make it. I’d forgotten I’d fixed up an appointment for tonight.’
‘You couldn’t put it off?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Exenley said disappointedly. ‘It’s a matter of business. I’ve not been altogether satisfied with the prices I’ve been getting lately and I’ve arranged to thrash the whole thing out with the distributors. I had to cancel the meeting once before because I couldn’t get into St. Julian Harbour, and if I cry it off again they may get the idea that I’m not all that worried.’
‘Business must come first, of course.’
‘Make my apologies to Janet and tell her I hope she won’t hold it against me.’
‘She won’t do that. Look here, if you’ve an appointment in town tonight you won’t want me hanging around getting in your way.’
Tremaine rose to his feet. There was a hint of reluctance in his face. His glance went to the tall framework supporting the water tank.
‘What is it?’ Exenley asked.
Tremaine cleared his throat in an embarrassed fashion. He adjusted his pince-nez unnecessarily.
‘Well, the fact is,’ he said awkwardly, ‘I promised myself that the next time I came to see you I’d ask you whether I could climb up your ladder there and have a closer look at your water tank.’
Exenley, who had been wearing a rather doubtful expression, not sure what was coming, put his head back and laughed delightedly.
‘Is that all! My dear chap, go right ahead now!’
‘No, not at this moment,’ Tremaine said, his confidence returning. ‘You’re busy and I’d rather do it when I can examine it at my leisure and ask all kinds of questions.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you mention it before?’
‘I suppose it was because I felt it was a bit—well, childish. I thought you might tell me to be my age!’
‘It’s a change to meet someone who still believes in simple pleasures,’ Exenley replied. ‘Well, you’d better come along tomorrow morning. I’ll be fairly straight then and you can try your hand at whatever takes your fancy—exploring the water tank, picking in the greenhouses, stripping the leaves; the place will be yours!’
‘I’ll be over in the morning just after breakfast,’ Tremaine said, relieved.
He left Exenley stacking a pile of empty baskets. It was a pleasant world—that part of it, at least, which was centred upon Moulin d’Or. He had been allowing his unruly imagination to slip its reins again when he had begun to think otherwise.
He spent the afternoon in the garden of the bungalow with a book of love stories he had managed to extract from Janet’s bookshelf unobserved; he was in the mood for their pleasantly sentimental style.
After supper he decided to take a stroll before going to bed and set off in the direction of the beach. As he neared the end of the lane leading to the road skirting the dunes he heard the sound of voices, and in a moment or two he distinguished the sharp, repeated tapping of a stick. He peered through the gloom at the tall, spare figure, with the thickset, much shorter one at its side.
‘Good evening, Mrs. Burres. ’Evening, Major.’
Major Ayres turned abruptly, clearing his throat.
‘ ’Evening. Hrrm. Fine night for a stroll, eh, what?’
‘Delightful. There’s nothing better than a quiet walk in the cool of the evening. Helps one to think.’
‘It does if one wants to think,’ Mrs. Burres returned. He thought how odd she looked without her knitting, almost as though she was lacking some essential part of her apparel. ‘We don’t all come out for that particular purpose, do we, Major?’
‘Hrrm. No,’ Major Ayres said gruffly.
He leaned heavily on his stick, as though he was feeling tired; his tall figure did not have its usual upright air.
‘It’s strange to think in this peaceful place,’ Tremaine commented as they came out upon the beach road, ‘that there are big cities where it isn’t safe to wander alone after dark.’
‘Crime wave, eh?’ the major observed. ‘Things are in a bad way.’
‘We’re far away from all that here, of course. The sound of the sea instead of the sound of traffic; seagulls instead of barrow boys.’
Mrs. Burres gave a sudden, unexpected chuckle that held something of irony.
‘You’re almost lyrical about it. But don’t be too sure that you’re right.’
‘You don’t agree with me?’
‘Crime is where you find it,’ she said dryly, and he raised his eyebrows.
‘You sound very cryptic!’
‘I’m a cryptic person,’ she returned, again with that deep and rather odd chuckle. She took the major’s arm. ‘What about it, Major? Shall we go back?’
The major’s voice held a note of surprise but he did not oppose her suggestion.
‘Hrrm. Yes. Suppose we ought to be getting along.’
‘We’ll say good night, Mr Tremaine. I dare say you’ll be going in the other direction.’
Tremaine thought she was being rather obvious and he smiled ruefully in the darkness.
‘Yes, I’ll be strolling along by way of the dunes.’
He watched them until they were lost in the gloom stretching towards the Rohane hotel, and then he turned and went slowly down the road. They were a strangely assorted pair; he wondered what was the link that bound them, and surprised himself by the realization that he had taken it for granted that there was a link. Surely there was nothing odd about two people similar in age and staying at the same hotel accompanying each other on an after-supper stroll?
Occupied with his thoughts he almost collided with someone coming in the opposite direction. Ivan Holt had to step quickly aside.
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‘Sorry,’ Tremaine said apologetically.
‘You’re out late,’ Holt said.
It was obviously a question. Deliberately Tremaine evaded it.
‘You and I seem to make a habit of meeting each other at the extremities of the day!’ he countered lightly. ‘We must be kindred souls. Or perhaps we have kindred interests.’
It was difficult to see Holt’s face clearly and his voice gave nothing of his thoughts away.
‘Perhaps,’ he returned non-committally. ‘I suppose you’re on your way back now?’
Everybody seemed to be anxious to get him back indoors. Tremaine felt an urge to resist the general pressure.
‘No, not just yet. I’ve had a lazy day. I think I’ll wander about for a little while longer.’
‘I wouldn’t overdo it,’ Holt said. ‘The air’s beginning to grow chilly. It doesn’t do to stay about too long, you know, once the sun’s gone down.’
‘I’ll be careful. I’m enjoying my stay too much to want to spend any of it in bed.’
‘Very wise,’ Holt observed.
It was an innocent enough conversation. When Holt had gone on his way Tremaine asked himself why he had felt that the younger man hadn’t been altogether pleased at meeting him. It wasn’t as though they were on bad terms.
Without doubt the answer went back to the intimate scene at which he had been an eavesdropper on the night of the dance. It was Ruth Latinam who held the clue to Ivan Holt’s present behaviour.
His sentimental soul was in full flight, due no doubt to the literary diet in which he had been indulging during the day. He had not settled down with his favourite periodical, Romantic Stories, for so long that his reading during the afternoon had been like suddenly calling upon an empty stomach to cope with a rich meal.
He left the road, and, crossing the dunes, sat down in a little hollow facing the sea. The exercise of walking had naturally warmed him, but Holt had not exaggerated when he had said that the air was growing chilly; it was agreeably sheltered in the hollow. It was peaceful to sit facing the beach, listening to the gentle fall of the water upon the sand.
The grass deadened the footsteps of the people who were coming over the dunes, and it was not until they were almost level with him so that their voices were clear that he was aware of their presence.
‘There’s something going on. I’m certain of it. He’s bound to give himself away sooner or later.’
It was Geoffrey Bendall. He recognized the crisp, clipped tones, edged now with an unexpected grimness. It was that grim note which caused him to remain where he was instead of standing up to greet them.
‘Don’t take any risks, Geoff. I’m sure he’s beginning to suspect and sometimes he frightens me.’
Nicola Paston’s voice was softer, much lower than her companion’s and lacking his confident firmness.
Bendall laughed.
‘He won’t do anything. He won’t dare. He’s got too much to lose.’
Tremaine did not hear Nicola Paston’s reply, for by now they had gone well past him and he caught only a vague murmur of sound.
It was clear that they had not seen him. He scrambled up, brushing the sand from his clothes. As far as the Rohane hotel was concerned it seemed to be a regular night out.
But, after all, it was the biggest place in the neighbourhood and it was natural that other people should have experienced the desire to go for a stroll before retiring. And that Mrs. Burres and Major Ayres should have been together and that Nicola Paston and Geoffrey Bendall should have chosen each other’s company was no more than he might have expected.
The only odd man out had been Ivan Holt. If only he and Ruth Latinam had been walking hand in hand the sentimental picture would have been complete.
Already Tremaine had made up his mind that, rebuff or no, he would see what could be done in that direction. He took the road back to the bungalow, wondering whether he would encounter any more of the Rohane hotel’s inhabitants before the night was done.
He did not have long to wait. Just ahead of him, dark and shuttered now, was the wooden kiosk on the dunes. A figure detached itself from the shadows.
‘You’re early. She must mean a lot—’
The faintly sneering voice broke off. Tremaine stopped. For an instant he had a queer feeling that he was reliving a scene in which he had already played once before. The voice, the darkness, the short, squat figure in front of him—all these he had known on some previous occasion.
The figure moved nearer and he recognized Hedley Latinam.
‘Oh, it’s you, Mr. Latinam.’
The plump man’s face bore a strange expression that was almost a grimace.
‘Mistook you for someone else,’ he growled. Only slowly did the habitual smile come back to his features and the jovial note to his voice. ‘Hope I didn’t startle you. Might have given you heart failure!’
‘I wasn’t really surprised to see you,’ Tremaine told him. ‘As a matter of fact, I rather expected to.’
Latinam stared at him. His podgy fingers went to his collar.
‘You expected to! What do you mean?’
‘Nothing sinister! But ever since I’ve been out I’ve been coming across people from your hotel. You all seem to have decided to take the air at the same time!’
‘People from the hotel?’ Latinam echoed him, as though he didn’t quite know what to say and was making conversation whilst he collected his thoughts. ‘What people?’
‘The major and Mrs. Burres. One or two of the others.’
‘Ruth? My sister? Have you seen Ruth?’
There was a sudden sharpness in Latinam’s voice. Tremaine looked at him in surprise.
‘No, I haven’t seen Miss Latinam.’
The plump man seemed to realize then that he had made himself too obvious.
‘She hasn’t been too well today. I don’t want her to stay out in the night air. It isn’t good for her.’
‘I expect she’s safely indoors,’ Tremaine said. ‘She strikes me as being a sensible young woman who doesn’t take foolish risks.’
He said good night and left Latinam still standing by the kiosk. When he glanced back he could no longer see the plump man’s form, but whether it was because he had left the spot or because he had moved back into the shadows he could not be sure.
Despite the exercise he had taken it was not easy to get to sleep. Finally he climbed out of bed again and, going across to the open window, he leaned on the sill, staring out into the darkness.
His mind was still active. Why had Hedley Latinam been waiting by the kiosk? Had he been expecting to meet someone?
From somewhere in the distance he heard a faint, rhythmic sound. It was vaguely familiar, and he frowned, trying to place it.
Determinedly he drew back from the window. At this rate his brain would be going round in circles until the morning.
Over breakfast on the following day he told Janet and Mark of his arrangement to see Ralph Exenley.
‘It won’t be putting you out?’ he said anxiously.
‘Of course not,’ Janet told him. ‘I’m glad you and Ralph are getting on so well.’
When he reached the bungalow Exenley was just clearing away the remains of his meal. The task completed, they walked out into the garden towards the greenhouses. As they passed the timber framework supporting the water tank Tremaine gave it a long, reflective glance. Exenley saw it and smiled.
‘Of course, you want to go climbing the rigging! All right, aloft you go then. But don’t blame me if you don’t get much for your pains!’
Tremaine set his foot on the ladder and began to climb. It took his weight without a quiver, unlike the rickety ladder at the mill. He went up hand over hand, and, reaching the top, stared over into the tank.
The colour went out of his face. He pushed his pince-nez back into position falteringly, gripping the top of the ladder hard with his free hand.
He compelled himself at last to lean further over the tank i
n order that he might be quite certain, and what he saw convinced him that there was nothing he or anyone else could do.
He turned and looked down for Ralph Exenley but there was no sign of him and, shakily, he began to descend the ladder.
When he reached the ground he saw that Exenley had walked over to the boundary wall of the bungalow where it flanked the road and was talking to someone who stood on the other side of the wall.
He turned as he heard Tremaine approach and gestured to him to come nearer.
‘You know Miss Latinam, of course.’
The girl’s dark hair was tumbled about her pale, strained face, and her eyes were full of fear.
‘It’s my—brother,’ she said haltingly. ‘He hasn’t been back all night.’
‘I’ve just been saying,’ Exenley remarked reassuringly, ‘that I don’t think there’s any real need for alarm. He’ll show up again soon. You’re quite sure you haven’t made a mistake and that he isn’t at the hotel now?’ he added, turning back to her. ‘He wouldn’t have used a different room last night for any reason?’
She shook her head.
‘No, he wouldn’t have done that. His bed hasn’t been slept in,’ she went on, her voice trembling with her effort to restrain the hysteria. ‘He went out late and didn’t come back.’ She looked pleadingly, despairingly, at Tremaine. ‘You haven’t seen him, Mr. Tremaine? I know you sometimes go out early in the morning. Mr. and Mrs. Belmore told me I’d find you here.’
‘Yes,’ Tremaine told her gravely. ‘Yes, I have seen him.’
‘You have? Oh, thank God! Where? Where?’ she said quickly, the relief flooding her face.
Tremaine glanced briefly back towards the water tank on its tall, wooden framework, the horror of the thing he had seen mirrored in his eyes.
‘I’m afraid it’s bad news,’ he said slowly. ‘Very bad news. You must prepare yourself for a shock, Miss Latinam. Your brother is—dead.’
‘Dead?’ They saw the grey look creep into her face, the more dreadful to watch because of the relief it was superseding. ‘Dead? Oh no. No! ’
The last word broke horribly. Her body wilted, and if Exenley had not been quick to reach out to her she would have fallen in a faint against the wall.
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