But even as the thought came to him he realized that it was not Bendall who was in the forefront of his mind but Ivan Holt.
17
THE LADY WALKS AT NIGHT
IT HAD BEEN intended to make Hedley Latinam’s funeral a simple affair, but the newspaper publicity given to his death made that particular wish impossible of fulfilment. The route from the hotel to the church and the little cemetery behind it was thronged with spectators; in the cemetery, indeed, the cortege had difficulty in making its way to the graveside.
For Ruth Latinam it must have been a painful ordeal. It was inevitable that the main interest should centre upon her as the dead man’s sister. She bore it composedly enough, however; she looked pale but she did not give way to any elaborate grief.
Everybody from the Rohane hotel was present, including the staff. Crevicher, the barman, looked self-conscious when Tremaine unwittingly caught his eye, but Ena Geffard seemed to have recovered her composure. She gave the impression that she was enjoying her brief moment of borrowed notoriety; Tremaine was inclined to think that her parents had troubled days lying ahead of them.
He had purposely chosen to mingle with the crowd rather than attend as a member of the funeral procession. He did not want to draw the attention of the reporters. He had recognized one Fleet Street man with whom he had had dealings; he did not desire to embarrass Colinet by having his presence made the subject of prominent comment. Already one or two newspapers had mentioned him by name.
When the brief ceremony was over he made his way unobtrusively to the Rohane hotel. As he had expected, Colinet was already there, occupying his usual seat at the desk in the office.
‘Everything go off all right?’ the Chief Officer asked.
‘Apart from the crowds. There were no awkward moments from our point of view.’
‘Miss Latinam take it well?’
‘Yes,’ Tremaine said. ‘Yes, she took it well.’
‘H’m.’ It was a sound difficult of analysis. Colinet was silent for a moment or two and then he glanced up suddenly from under his brows. ‘Did you know that Mrs. Burres and Major Ayres were leaving the hotel?’ he asked.
Tremaine shook his head.
‘No, I didn’t know. But I’m not surprised. I imagine that now the funeral’s over—and if you don’t take a hand—all the guests will be leaving. In fact, I should think it quite likely that Miss Latinam will close the place down and try and get rid of it.’
‘I’m not talking in that sense,’ Colinet said. ‘This arrangement was made before Latinam was murdered. Do you recall hearing anything about it?’
‘Well, I don’t know about the major but I remember Mrs. Burres being mentioned. Bendall said one day on the beach that he’d heard that she was leaving and he asked Latinam to do what he could to make her change her mind.’
‘What did Latinam say to that?’
‘Oh, something about it not being up to him to tell his guests what to do. Something quite casual.’
‘I wonder?’ Colinet observed, and Tremaine gave him a shrewd glance.
‘You don’t think it’s quite as simple?’
‘I’ve heard,’ the Chief Officer said, ‘that Mrs. Burres and the major were leaving the hotel because they were under notice to go.’
‘Under notice? Latinam wanted to get rid of them?’
‘So my information suggests?’
‘But why? They’ve been here longer than any of the others. They were here when Latinam bought the hotel and I understood that it was part of his agreement at the time that they should stay on. What reason could he have had to give them notice?’
‘There,’ Colinet admitted, ‘the ground is less firm. I don’t know that the reason given to me is the correct one.’
‘May I ask,’ Tremaine said, ‘who told you of this?’
‘The best of all possible informants. Mrs. Burres herself. My impression,’ the big man added, ‘was that she was afraid I would find out anyway and wanted to make sure I found out from the right quarter.’
‘She spoke for the major as well?’
‘Yes. Does that surprise you?’
‘No. I’ve always linked them in my mind.’
The Chief Officer’s fingertips were drumming idly on the desk.
‘Murders take place for all kinds of strange motives,’ he said ruminatively. ‘I suppose it is possible that a middle-aged woman might develop a homicidal dislike for a man who was trying to force her out of the place she had come to regard as her home.’
Tremaine thought of Mrs. Burres, knitting steadily, her stolid form in its shapeless costume giving her the appearance of a stubborn rock that had refused to allow its contours to be rounded by the action of the weather and the sea. There was something implacable about her.
‘It’s rather a dreadful idea,’ he said slowly.
‘Murder is a dreadful thing,’ Colinet returned. ‘There’s no doubt,’ he added, ‘as to the dominant partner where those two are concerned. The major’s just clay.’
‘To opportunity then we can add a possible motive. Not a particularly obvious one, but who knows what goes on in a woman’s mind?’ Tremaine was looking troubled. ‘Did she offer you any explanation for Latinam’s attitude?’
‘Said that he was a bad man who was up to no good and that he was afraid they might find out too much. Maybe that was the case. They’d been snooping on Latinam and Latinam didn’t like it. Might even be that they were following him on the night he was murdered to see what he was up to. If he’d realized what they were doing anything could have happened.’
Colinet made it clear what was in his mind. Tremaine nodded. It fitted. It couldn’t be ignored. It had to be set alongside the other things like Ruth Latinam’s lying about going to her room, like Alan Creed talking furtively to Latinam and then pretending that he didn’t have any dealings with him, and like Gaston Le Mazon’s story about Bendall and Nicola Paston and the malevolence that had been in Hedley Latinam’s face that day on the cliffs near Mortelet.
He left the big man in the office and went out to the headland. When you were faced with such a tangle of problems you needed solitude and a place in which to think. Maybe, in the air and the sunshine, the solution would be easier to find.
He spent some time lying on the springy turf near the crumbling edge of the cliff, endeavouring to set his thoughts in order, and when he went back towards the hotel he saw that two deck-chairs had been placed together at one end of the terrace outside the lounge. He caught a glimpse of Ruth Latinam’s dark frock, acquired for her brother’s funeral. She did not notice him come soft-footed over the grass.
‘Please, Ivan,’ he heard her say. ‘Please don’t ask me again.’
‘It’s got to be settled, Ruth,’ came Ivan Holt’s urgent tones. ‘I’m not blaming you. I can understand how it happened.’
‘You don’t know the whole story,’ she told him desperately.
‘I’m not going to lose you now, Ruth. If necessary I’ll take things into my own hands.’
There was a sudden shrill note of terror in her voice.
‘No, you mustn’t! Ivan, you mustn’t—please!’
It was in that moment that Holt sensed that they were no longer alone. It was too late for concealment. Tremaine came on as if he was deep in thought, unaware of their presence. A moment later he looked up and gave what he hoped was a convincing start.
‘Oh, hullo,’ he said, feeling that he must sound rather too bright. ‘Enjoying the sun? I think you’re very wise. No good spending the time moping indoors. Can’t do any good, you know.’
‘No,’ Ivan Holt said, through tight lips. ‘No, it can’t.’
He made no move to continue the conversation, nor did Ruth Latinam. Regretfully Tremaine went into the building.
Chief Officer Colinet was still in the office and he had been joined by Inspector Marchant. Tremaine eyed the tall, slow-moving but capable inspector with suddenly awakened interest; he had begun to associate Marchant’s appe
arances with fresh items of information.
He was not disappointed.
‘Marchant’s been digging again,’ Colinet said. ‘It seems that he’s managed to dig up another witness.’
The inspector shrugged deprecatingly.
‘It was easy enough,’ he commented. ‘Now that they think Le Mazon is on his way out everybody in Moulin d’Or is anxious to put another nail in his coffin. At one time you could hardly get a word out of them; now it’s a job to stop them talking.’
‘Somebody else who saw him on the night of the murder?’ Tremaine asked, but the inspector shook his head.
‘No, this happened a day or two beforehand. Chap named Lenglois was taking a short cut home from the quarry where he’s working and saw Latinam and Le Mazon together near the old mill. According to Lenglois they were having an argument. He didn’t get too close—he wasn’t anxious for them to see him—but he says he was near enough to be certain that Latinam was threatening Le Mazon and shaking his fist at him. Lenglois isn’t prepared to swear definitely to this but he says he thinks he heard Latinam say something about Le Mazon’s keeping his mouth shut or it would be the worse for him.’
‘Maybe not much by itself,’ Colinet said, ‘but it goes with the rest. He had dealings with Latinam that won’t stand too close an investigation, they quarrelled, and he wasn’t where he says he was on the night of the murder.’
Tremaine looked at the inspector.
‘Where is he now?’
‘He’s been spending most of his time mooning around the old gun emplacements up near the beach. Hasn’t had much to do with anybody. We’ll know where to find him—when we’re ready.’
Colinet was on the point of leaving the hotel to go back to St. Julian Harbour, and Tremaine, too, took his departure. The atmosphere of the Rohane was still like that of a mausoleum although Hedley Latinam’s body was no longer in one of the upper rooms. There was little conversation between the guests and such as there was did not go beyond the stilted and the formal. An instinctive agreement seemed to have been reached to keep a silence on the subject of the murder.
He could not blame them. When there was no knowing what damage a chance word might do it was clearly a matter of mutual benefit to keep a guard on one’s tongue.
The net might be closing around Gaston Le Mazon, but there were other things that had yet to know the light of day; there was not one of the Rohane’s occupants who was not nursing a secret of some kind.
It was disturbing. It made him wonder how much that was unpleasant might be still awaiting the moment of discovery.
That evening Ruth Latinam was very much on his mind. Janet noticed his preoccupation.
‘Worried, Mordecai?’ she asked, and he nodded.
‘Yes. About Miss Latinam.’
‘Ruth?’ Janet sounded surprised. ‘I thought it might have been Nicola Paston.’
It occurred to Tremaine then that he had seen very little of Nicola Paston. She had been present at the funeral and at the hotel but she had been self-effacing.
‘Why Mrs. Paston?’
Janet shrugged.
‘She rather intrigues me, that’s all. I wonder why she’s been on the island all this time?’
‘Isn’t the answer obvious?’ Mark said. ‘She’s over here on holiday.’
‘Is she?’ Janet pursed her lips. ‘She seems to be in the wrong place for a stay of the length she’s been making. As a fair young widow she’s missing her opportunities. They won’t last for ever and a woman needs to be practical.’
Mark Belmore gave his wife an amused glance.
‘You’re the expert in that line of country, my dear. But what about young Bendall. Isn’t he the answer to the young lady’s long stay in the otherwise arid wastes of Moulin d’Or?’
For answer Janet looked at her visitor.
‘All right, Mordecai, is he?’
‘I’m interested in love’s young dream,’ he told her. ‘I admit it. But I don’t profess to be able to recognize it every time I see it, you know.’
His tone was casual but Janet’s words had started a new line of thought. Momentarily his attention had switched from Ruth Latinam to her fair-haired companion. He recalled Bendall’s words on the cliff, recalled his significant glance in Latinam’s direction.
‘Behold a fair woman! ’
Tremaine frowned. Was he missing something? Was there some further mystery in which Nicola Paston had been involved and which had so far escaped him?
After supper he announced that he would take his usual stroll before going to bed. Mark did not offer to accompany him. He knew now that this was one of the occasions when his visitor liked to deal with his thoughts in silence.
‘You know the ropes,’ he remarked. ‘If Janet and I have turned in when you get back, lock the door behind you.’
Once outside the bungalow Tremaine turned instinctively in the direction of the Rohane hotel. It was quite dark but he knew his way well enough by now.
He had almost reached the incongruous building on the headland with its two or three lighted windows when he saw a figure move away from it. Instead of continuing down the roadway it went towards the cliffs, taking the well-trodden path over the short turf.
There was something furtive about its movements; once clear of the hotel it stopped and waited, as if making sure that no one was following.
Tremaine did not think that he could be observed, for the roadway was in deep shadow at this point, but to make sure he went down upon one knee, crouching in the shelter of the low boundary wall. When it seemed that the figure had satisfied itself and was going on he struck across the rough ground in pursuit.
The way in which the coast sloped away from the headland on which the Rohane hotel was built favoured his purpose; he was able to keep the figure in view without exposing himself.
He saw that it was a woman. He thought that she was wearing a waterproof over a dress of some dark material. She was carrying something in her arms.
Nicola Paston had been occupying his mind so recently that his first impression was that it was she whom he was following, but when the hood of her waterproof fell back as she shifted the burden in her arms there was no glint of fair hair and he knew that it was Ruth Latinam.
As they moved away from the cliff towards the sand dunes it became less easy to keep her in sight and yet not allow her to suspect his presence, for she was evidently fearful and she stopped at intervals to look around her. Several times he was forced to drop hastily upon his face and lie motionless, trusting that she had not seen him.
Rising to his feet again after one such incident he realized that there was someone else approaching. He was aware that his behaviour must look suspicious and he crouched to the ground again until the newcomer should have passed.
It was a man. Peering cautiously towards the roadway he saw that it was Gaston Le Mazon. A brief gleam of moonlight escaping from the cloud barrier showed him the other’s face, set and menacing.
What was he doing at such a time and place? It was true that Inspector Marchant had described him as wandering morosely in the neighbourhood of the beach, but that had been during the hours of daylight. By now he should have been safely indoors, particularly in view of the suspicion he knew attached to him.
Had he given the police watchers the slip in order to embark upon some nefarious errand?
Fortunately the man did not appear to have seen him but continued on in the direction of the hotel. Tremaine hesitated. Le Mazon was by way of being the suspect-in-chief; would it not be wiser to go after him and see what he was about?
His hesitation was, however, only momentary. It was Ruth Latinam whom he had set out to follow; he would abide by his original plan. He was not to know until later just how fateful that decision was to be.
The girl had left the headland and was traversing the bay. At first he thought that his delay had caused him to lose her, but then he caught sight of her figure in the darkness ahead and hurried after her. No doubt s
he, too, had seen Le Mazon and had waited for him to go by.
They passed the kiosk where Latinam had once stood waiting and skirted the deserted beach. There was less cover here and he had to allow his quarry to increase the distance between them. She began to climb the rising ground on the far side of the bay and he toiled after her.
It was an area of overgrown fortifications. The weapons had long since been dismantled but the thick concrete had been allowed to remain, and the surface was broken by the mounds marking the gun emplacements, covered now with turf and looking like natural hillocks.
Trying to climb the rough path without noise he lost sight of her again. He waited, and, thinking he heard the faint whisper of voices somewhere near, he dropped to the ground.
At last he risked going on, doubtful now whether he would be able to catch sight of her, but she had not gone far and he saw her standing under the massive concrete lintel of the entrance to one of the emplacements.
She was no longer hugging the parcel against her body; she was holding it by some kind of handle in her left hand. Relieved, Tremaine edged around the grassy mound so that he could see her more clearly.
He caught the rustle of movement behind him but he was too late to do anything about it. Ruth Latinam’s motionless figure, the night sky, and the turf about him, rushed together in a remorseless flood of pain and darkness.
18
DEATH OFFERS A SOLUTION
THE NOISE WAS the swish of the sea and he was lying on a boat that was swaying gently on the water. But when he stretched out his hand to touch the gunwale his fingers closed upon grass and his aching brain tried desperately to find an explanation for the mystery.
Gradually the swaying died away. He opened his eyes to look up at a grassy bank and beyond the bank the stars. Surprised, he moved, and the ache he had been trying to trace swelled enormously and rapidly into a nauseating pain that was located in his head.
He swallowed and lay still. There was no mystery now. He had been following Ruth Latinam. He had thought that he had not been seen, but in this he had been mistaken. That was why he was now lying here upon the grass with a head that seemed to be alternately expanding and contracting.
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