Crimson Snow

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Yes, you do. You and the murderer were both after the same loot. I want to know how you yourself got on to the fact that you might find Alouette’s Worms in a private safe in this sitting-room to-night? Who gave you the tip?’

  ‘Chap I met.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘South of France.’

  ‘You’re operating there, are you?’

  ‘Mostly. I got left there after the war.’

  ‘Deserter?’

  ‘You said you’d give me a break, guv.’

  ‘I said nothing of the sort. I said if you helped me it might do you a bit of good. Who was this chap?’

  ‘Dunno his name. He was a sailor off one of the English yachts at Cannes. Yacht called Vera, I think it was. The name was on his jersey.’

  ‘What precisely did he tell you?’

  ‘He told me that if I wanted to do a plumb easy job, this was it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Six weeks ago.’

  ‘You mean me to believe that an unknown sailor off an English yacht at Cannes told you that if you came to this specific apartment on the night of Christmas Eve, you’d find a safe behind that picture…’

  ‘That’s right. With the stuff inside.’

  ‘And you believed the story?’

  ‘It was in all the papers.’

  ‘Naturally you believe everything that you read in the papers.’

  ‘I swear I’m telling you the truth, guv. I don’t ’old with murder.’

  ‘I think you are telling the truth. I’m only astonished at your incredible stupidity. You opened that safe with a certain skill, but you fell for a conspiracy which wouldn’t trick a child.’

  ‘’Arf a mo, guv. Nobody can make a sucker o’ me.’

  ‘But they have. Now get out the way you came. If you’re making for France, I warn you that all the ports are watched. If the police pick you up, I’ll put in a word for you.’

  The burglar looked from Mr. Cork to the window and back again.

  ‘No, guv, I won’t do it. It’s a fair cop and I’ll take my chance with the police.’

  ‘You’ve got more sense than I gave you credit for.’

  ‘My name’s Harry. Don’t tell ’em about the pistol, will you?’

  Mr. Cork smiled.

  ‘Give yourself another drink,’ he said.

  ***

  Chris Sparrow, yawning and unshaven, arrived in Mr. Cork’s apartment looking more unkempt than ever.

  ‘This is a fine time to turn out on Christmas Day,’ he said. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘He’s a friend of mine named Harry. Harry, this is Mr. Sparrow.’

  The two shook hands.

  ‘You keep early hours, don’t you?’ growled Sparrow.

  ‘Harry works on a night shift,’ said Mr. Cork. ‘He’s helping me on this case. Do you want a cup of tea to wake you up?’

  ‘I could do with it.’

  ‘Don’t make too much noise. My wife is still in bed.’

  ‘Where we all ought to be. What have you dug me out for at this hour? I haven’t got any news yet.’

  ‘But I have, Sparrow. I think you can help us. Do you know the South of France?’

  ‘Ought to. I’ve written enough about it.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a big luxury yacht there, name of Vera?’

  ‘Might have. Who does it belong to?’

  ‘That’s what we must find out.’

  ‘Soon check that.’

  ‘At this time, on Christmas morning?’

  Chris Sparrow tapped his nose with his finger.

  ‘There’s one place that never shuts,’ he said, picking up the ’phone. ‘Get Central, London, 7440.’

  ‘What do you know about this fellow de Raun, Sparrow?’

  Chris Sparrow looked over the top of the mouthpiece.

  ‘Handsome playboy living on his wits. Good athlete, drives racing cars, rides the Cresta Run, always marries rich film stars, does a bit of yachting…’

  ‘Yachting?’

  ‘I see what you’re getting at. Hello, Press Association? Happy Christmas to you. This is Chris Sparrow. Can I talk to the news room? O.K… Howdye, pal… Be a good chap and look up Lloyd’s Register of Yachts for me. I want to know who owns a big girl called Vera. Yes, I’ll wait.’

  ***

  ‘You said you had a theory of your own about de Raun’s whereabouts?’ Mr. Cork went on.

  ‘Yep. I know where he’s garaged his car.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Not far from here.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s his car?’

  ‘You haven’t seen the car?’

  ‘That means he came as far as Exquay, although he didn’t come to the hotel.’

  ‘That’s the way of it… Hello, P.A… That sounds like it… Motor yacht of 100 tons… Southampton… Who’s the owner? Who?… That’s the ticket… Thanks, chum… I hope I can do the same for you some time… Happy Christmas.’

  ‘Well?’ said Mr. Cork.

  ‘Vera belongs to Vic Dimitri, the film producer. He was the best man at de Raun’s wedding.’

  ‘Can we get Dimitri on the ’phone?’

  ‘He won’t like it, but we can try.’

  They traced him to a number in Elstree. A sleepy voice answered the call. Yes, it was Vic Dimitri: who the hell was that?

  ‘Tell him the police want to contact de Raun. Can he help us?’

  Chris Sparrow echoed the question.

  ‘Sure, he’s honeymooning on my yacht.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  He cut off.

  ‘Ring the district officer of the Coastguards.’

  ‘He might have headed across the Channel.’

  ‘He might; but it’s been blowing hard, and with luck he’s had to hug the coast.’

  ‘How do you ring the Coastguards?’

  ‘I imagine you just ask for them like the police.’

  It worked. Another sleepy voice promised to check with the look-outs. Within a quarter of an hour, he called back. Vera had been sighted off Plymouth at dawn the day before yesterday. She’d also been logged by an amateur watcher off Falmouth. She hadn’t been sighted at Penzance. She was probably sheltering from the gale in one of the anchorages beyond Falmouth.

  ‘Try Cowrie Cove.’

  ***

  It was still half-light when Mr. Cork backed his silver Bentley out of the hotel lock-up. He’d left a message with the police telling Inspector Trelawny to follow him to Cowrie Cove as soon as possible. He’d assured Phoebe that he’d be back in time for Christmas presents after lunch. He was accompanied by one very bewildered burglar and one very jaded newspaper man.

  They were climbing into Dartmoor, circling Plymouth to avoid the ferry which, at the crack of daylight on Christmas Day, was hardly likely to be working. A rime of frost silvered the winding, unwelcoming road. Dank mists swirled in the hollows and blotted out the hills. Nothing moved except the buzzards swinging lazily from the fence posts to make way for the passing car. Chris Sparrow was fast asleep in the back seat. Harry sat stiffly at the side of Mr. Cork.

  ‘You know where we are, don’t you, Harry?’

  ‘No, guv.’

  ‘Then, in your professional capacity, I hope you never become better acquainted with it. This is Dartmoor.’

  ‘The Moor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are you taking me to?’

  ‘Don’t sound so anxious. You’re on the side of the law this morning. I’m giving you the chance to make things straight with the police. It may not be pleasant.’

  ‘I’ll take m’chance.’

  ‘We’ll make an honest man of you yet. Now listen. You’ve heard
from my conversation with Mr. Sparrow that we’re going to a cove in Cornwall where we hope to find the motor yacht Vera. Aboard it, you may recognize the seaman who gave you the information which tempted you to burgle the Paradise. If you do, give no indication of it until I give you the signal. Is that clear?’

  ‘O.K.’

  ‘Now I’ll take a chance. If you’ll put your hand in my overcoat pocket you’ll find your pistol. Put it in your own pocket. You won’t produce it unless a pistol is drawn on us. You won’t fire except in self-protection.’

  ‘Are you sure this is a straight job?’

  ‘It’s one of the dirtiest jobs I’ve ever had to deal with. But, for once, you’re on the clean end of it.’

  On empty roads, the Bentley silently swallowed the miles through Two Bridges, Tavistock and Callington to Falmouth. Mr. Cork, who ordinarily never drove faster than thirty miles an hour, cruised at sixty and hardly noticed it. In his moments of serenity, his caution was exasperating. But, when he had a case, he could be as rash as a hunter on the brush of his fox.

  Beyond the narrow, deserted streets of Falmouth, the car stretched herself on the coast road to Penzance.

  ‘Look out on the left for a signpost to Cowrie Cove. According to the map, we’re almost on it.’

  They nearly overran it. The signpost was half-effaced by the pummelling of wind and weather. It hung over a narrow lane choked with dead brambles and bracken. It was a cart-track, not a road at all. But Mr. Cork bulldozed into it and, bumping Chris Sparrow into wakefulness, pushed the car over the frozen, rutted ground through windswept pasture into a steep descent towards the sea.

  ‘Is this where we’re meant to be?’ asked Sparrow.

  ‘This is where the Coastguards told us to look.’

  ‘If de Raun’s here, he’s certainly picked a quiet hide-out. You’re not taking the car much farther, are you?’

  Chris Sparrow, completely imperturbable in the artificial air-conditioned surroundings of the Paradise, was as nervous as a lost child now that he faced the unknown perils of the open countryside.

  ‘We’ll park here,’ said Mr. Cork.

  An area of grass, close-nibbled by the rabbits, indicated where the tourists left their cars in the summer. Through a ragged, narrow gap in the cliffs, they glimpsed a slice of the white-crested sea. Mr. Cork ran the Bentley over the humpy turf until he found a spot where the car was hidden from the road. Then he stopped. He buttoned up his overcoat and, followed by Harry, he stretched his legs.

  The salty wind came up to meet them with an enquiring, penetrating lick. Harry, peak-faced, sunk his head in his coat-collar. Chris Sparrow remained obstinately in the car.

  ‘Are you coming?’ said Mr. Cork gruffly.

  Sparrow groaned.

  ‘How I hate fresh air,’ he said.

  But, reluctantly, he got out of the car.

  ‘Have we got far to walk?’

  ‘You can see the sea.’

  Together, the ill-assorted trio stumbled down the rocky lane, a trench walled in dry stone, to the shore. They passed a padlocked, iron-roofed hut advertising minerals and ice-cream. At the beginning of a stone groin running down to the beach, they saw a heap of rotting lobster-pots. Then they twisted through a dripping gutter in the grey stone cliffs on to the sandy beach.

  In summer, Cowrie Cove is a Cornish beauty spot. In December, it is as lonely and hostile as a desert island. The gulls screaming with the anguish of lost souls, and the painted oyster-catchers, piping in shrill alarm, underline the desolation. Chris Sparrow hung back with the air of one in the presence of his Maker.

  They stood there, like three castaways on the shore, gazing wide-eyed at the vision in the cove. A slim white motor yacht, with tapering bows and a tracery of fittings on her superstructure as delicate as a cobweb, was nodding like a graceful white ghost under the wall of the cliffs. Vera was painted in gold on her stern.

  Beyond the shelter of the cove, the wind whipped the waves into a white fury. Inside it, behind the protecting arm of a curved headland, the sea lapped in oily quiet. The yacht was riding serenely in the embrace of a natural harbour. Her companion-way, lying fore and aft, was down. A sleek motor-boat with engine turning was moored at the foot of it.

  Mr. Cork drew his two companions behind a seaweed-sticky boulder, where they were out of sight of the yacht.

  ‘As we may not be welcome,’ he said, ‘we’ll wait here until somebody comes ashore with the launch.’

  ***

  It wasn’t a long wait. A figure, wrapped in a duffle-coat, who was presumably one of the hands, came down the companion-way, and casting off, put the motor-boat in to the shore. As he tied up on a ring-bolt in the groin, Mr. Cork walked up to him.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I have urgent business with Mr. de Raun. No doubt you picked up the police message for him on the radio last night.’

  ‘Radio’s out of order,’ said the hand.

  ‘Indeed? Then that makes it all the more important that I should see Mr. de Raun immediately. Will you put us aboard?’

  ‘Are you the police?’

  ‘The police are on their way here. For my part, I have some urgent business to discuss with Mr. de Raun before they arrive.’

  ‘You’re not Press, are you?’

  ‘No, it’s a business matter.’

  ‘Do these other gentlemen want to go aboard too?’

  ‘They’re with me.’

  The seaman scratched his head.

  ‘We’re not supposed to do it without orders.’

  ‘I assure you that Mr. de Raun will want to see us. I’ve already spoken to Mr. Dimitri. This is a serious business.’

  The hand wavered.

  ‘Is it Mr. Dimitri’s orders?’

  ‘Mr. Dimitri told us Mr. de Raun was aboard.’

  ‘O.K., I’ll run you out. After all, Mr. Dimitri’s my proper boss and the sooner this damned Christmas cruise is over the better.’

  They got into the boat and the hand started the engine.

  ‘When did you start out?’

  ‘Two days ago, just as we were on the point of going home for Christmas. Got orders to sail down to Exquay to pick up this party.’

  ‘When did they join you?’

  ‘Two nights ago. We had to lay off the harbour for ’em. They came aboard about midnight: or, rather, she did. He turned up later. We were supposed to set course for Monte Carlo, but the weather turned nasty, the lady got seasick, so here we are. Nice place to spend Christmas Day, I don’t think.’

  Chris Sparrow shuddered.

  ‘If this is the way the film stars live, they can keep it.’

  As the seaman held the launch steady at the companion-way, Mr. Cork pressed a pound into his palm.

  ‘I’m obliged to you,’ he said.

  The seaman winked his thanks.

  ***

  A tall, athletic man in a thick, roll-necked sweater and corduroy trousers appeared out of the cabin as Mr. Cork came aboard.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he demanded.

  He had blue eyes, sandy hair and a lean, sun-tanned face. He was probably over forty but he looked thirty-five, and he hadn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him.

  ‘Mr. de Raun?’

  ‘That’s me. I hope you’re not Press?’

  ‘No, sir, this is a business matter.’

  ‘But I’m on my honeymoon. Can’t it wait?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘All right,’ said de Raun. ‘Come into the saloon.’

  As he held open the door for them under the covered sun-deck, he glanced suspiciously at Harry and Chris Sparrow, following in hangdog fashion in Mr. Cork’s wake. But he made no comment.

  ‘You’re sure you’re not Press men,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘That’s what we came aboard this boat to avoid.’r />
  ‘One of us is,’ said Mr. Cork. ‘Mr. Chris Sparrow, here.’

  ‘I expect you’ve heard of me,’ said Sparrow.

  ‘Indeed, I have,’ de Raun replied vaguely.

  ‘But Mr. Sparrow isn’t here to-day in his journalistic capacity.’

  ‘Thank Heaven for that. Fanny and I have had too much publicity, you know. After the wedding we both felt that we simply had to escape. So, as we both like yachting, we chartered this one of Vic Dimitri’s. We’ve had it before down in the South of France. Do you know Vic, Mr. Sparrow?’

  ‘Sure; nice feller.’

  ‘A very nice fellow. Do sit down, all of you. I’m sorry my wife isn’t about. I’m afraid she’s had a touch of seasickness.’

  ‘I don’t feel so good myself,’ said Sparrow.

  ‘Surely there’s not enough movement to make you sick now. By the way, how did you find out where I was?’

  ‘Dimitri told us.’

  ‘Dear old Vic, eh? But he didn’t know where we were sailing?’

  ‘We checked with the Coastguards.’

  ‘Indeed? Why so thorough?’

  ‘There was a police message out for you on the radio last night.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘If your radio hadn’t broken down, you’d have heard it.’

  ‘Yes, that was my fault. It’s one reason why we’re laying in here. The radio wasn’t working properly so I started tinkering about with it and got the wires crossed. But never mind that. What’s been happening in the great big world?’

  The man oozed charm. His ease of manner was somehow sickening. As he talked, he admired his long-fingered hands and played casually with his signet ring. A smile, which was almost a sneer, played perpetually over his features.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you,’ said Mr. Cork, ‘that the jewels you were to have given to your wife as a wedding present have been stolen.’

  ‘Stolen? Where? When?’

  ‘Did you have an arrangement with your jeweller to deliver them to the Paradise Hotel?’

  ‘Not necessarily at the Paradise. Guydamour simply arranged to contact me, either at Exquay or in London, when he arrived from Paris. We thought it just as well not to advertise his movements too widely.’

  ‘Guydamour took the precaution of registering at the Paradise under an assumed name.’