by John Bude
Death on the Riviera
John Bude
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Originally published in 1952 by Macdonald & Co.
Copyright © 2016 by the Estate of John Bude
Published by Poisoned Pen Press in association with the British Library
First E-book Edition 2016
ISBN: 9781464205705 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
Death on the Riviera
Copyright
Contents
Introduction
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XIV
More from this Author
Contact Us
Introduction
Death on the Riviera combines a lively police hunt for a gang engaged on a currency racket with a neatly contrived murder mystery. John Bude teams his good-natured but determined series detective, Inspector Meredith of the C.I.D., with an eager young sidekick, Acting-Sergeant Freddy Strang, and sends them off to the South of France to work on a joint operation with the local police. The French investigators believe that the gang is being run by an Englishman, and evidence suggests that the counterfeit thousand franc notes now flooding the Riviera are the work of a skilled English engraver, “Chalky” Cobbett.
The book opens with a casual encounter between the detectives and a fellow Englishman, Bill Dillon, who is also heading for the Riviera. Soon their paths cross again. Bill is heading for the Villa Paloma in Menton, a lovely town on the Mediterranean, close to the Franco-Italian border. The owner of the villa is Nesta Hedderwick, a wealthy widow who divides her time between Britain and France, and who has acquired an assortment of house guests. They include her niece, Dilys, the mysterious Tony Shenton, his girlfriend Kitty Linden, and an artist called Paul Latour. Before long, it becomes evident that more than one of the occupants of the Villa Paloma has something to hide, and Bill’s arrival there proves to be the catalyst for murder.
Death on the Riviera was first published in 1952, at a point when John Bude was at the height of his powers. He had been publishing crime novels for almost two decades, at a rate of slightly more than one book a year, and the assurance with which he blends the plot-lines in this book reflects his experience and confidence as a writer. The characters are well-defined, the atmosphere of life on the Riviera is nicely evoked, and the device employed by the killer to fool the police pleasingly ingenious. Above all, Bude focuses on telling a good story, and he keeps the action flowing from start to finish.
Setting mattered to Bude, and he began his career with mysteries located in attractive parts of England such as Cornwall, the Lake District, the Sussex Downs, and Cheltenham. After the Second World War, at a time of rationing and austerity, he recognized that readers hungered for a touch of the exotic, and Death on the Riviera was the result. But who exactly was John Bude?
Until recently, little had been written about this once-popular author. He merited an entry in the first edition of Twentieth Century Crime and Mystery Writers, published in 1980, but this was dropped from subsequent editions, as if to signal that his time had passed. Happily, publication of his first three detective stories in the British Library’s series of Crime Classics has resulted in excellent sales, and rekindled interest in the author as well as his work. Thanks to information kindly supplied to me by his daughter, Jennifer, it is possible to fill in some gaps in public knowledge of this under-estimated writer.
John Bude was a pen-name for Ernest Carpenter Elmore (1901-57), who turned to writing crime fiction after starting out under his own name with books such as the improbably titled The Steel Grubs (1928). His early mysteries were published by Skeffington, a small firm which catered mainly for the libraries; as a result, first editions are now very hard to find, and command high prices when they do come on to the market. After a brief spell with another library-oriented publisher, Hale, he moved to Cassell, and then to Macdonald, indicating that he was climbing the ladder in terms of sales potential. He did not manage to gain election to the prestigious Detection Club, which was presided over by Dorothy L. Sayers, and highly selective (and sometimes idiosyncratic) in its recruitment policy, but he was sufficiently well-regarded by his peers to be invited by John Creasey to become one of the founder members of the Crime Writers’ Association in 1953. On one occasion he told Jennifer that he reckoned he earned “sixpence a word”, and his earnings were sufficient to enable him to write full-time.
He had acquired a taste for travelling around Europe as a young man, and in later life he seized every available opportunity to take his wife, Betty, and Jennifer with him to the Continent, and in particular to France, a country he loved. Betty would drive them all the way to the Riviera (Bude himself never learned to drive) and their favourite destination—this will come as no surprise to readers of this novel—was Menton. On other occasions they stayed at Le Touquet (hence his A Telegram from Le Touquet, published in 1956), or in Paris; he was particularly fond of Montmartre, and enjoyed going to the opera and ballet.
Jennifer remembers her father making notes, and collecting local literature, as they travelled around. A sociable man, who enjoyed chatting with the people he met on his travels—even the most casual conversation may provide a spark of inspiration for a novelist—he was equally content to sit in cafes and watch the world go by, while letting his imagination roam. When he returned home, he would write every morning, and spend his afternoons getting exercise—typically, gardening, walking, or playing tennis. After an early supper, he would resume his writing until 9 p.m., when he listened to the news. He wrote his stories in hand before typing them, using four fingers and a thumb. Industrious as he was, he would take a day off if the weather was good, and go to the beach or indulge in a little tourism. Once he had delivered a novel to his publishers, he would take a holiday before starting a new book. There was every chance that the holiday itself would plant fresh ideas in his fertile mind—and result in a book such as Death on the Riviera.
Martin Edwards
www.martinedwardsbooks.com
Chapter I
Assignment on the Midi
I
Bill Dillon turned up the collar of his tweed overcoat and thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. Five a.m. of a frosty morning in late February, he thought, was a devil of a time to be dumped off a boat on to a confoundedly draughty quayside. There were about a dozen other cars lined up in the cust
oms-yard awaiting the attention of the little group of officials, who were now sorting through their papers under a naked light-bulb near the passport office. The night-ferry, from whose maw the train had already been disgorged in the direction of Paris, loomed up, gently swaying, against the starlit sky. A few strings of street lamps and a score or so of lighted windows were all that was visible of the shattered and martyred town beyond the oil-dark waters of the harbour.
Bill lit a cigarette and began to pace up and down, his footsteps echoing on the pavé, his thoughts on the rove. He was thinking back to that night, nearly ten years ago, when he’d last set eyes on Dunkirk; so many splintered impressions that stabbed out in his memory like gun-flashes. The red, roaring inferno that was the town; the spangled web of tracer shells slung over the sea and beaches; the orange blossoming of bombs; the noise; the heat; the indifference to danger that stemmed from an exhaustion that had almost deadened fear. In the maelstrom of defeat he’d no longer been an individual. Just a worn, obedient cog in a relentless machine—Lance-Corporal Dillon of the 6th Southshires—one of the dust-specks that added up to the miracle of Dunkirk.
There was a shuffle of feet at his side, a discreet cough.
“Anything to declare, M’sieur?”
Bill came out of his reverie with a jerk.
“No—nothing.”
The sleepy-eyed official stuck his head through the car door and flashed his torch around the interior. Then he opened the rear door of the saloon, flicked back the clasps of Bill’s unlocked suitcase and dabbled around with an expert hand. He moved round and tried the handle of the boot.
“Please, M’sieur.”
Bill pulled out a bunch of keys and unlocked the boot. It contained the usual paraphernalia—a couple of pairs of shoes that wouldn’t go in his case; a rucksack; an old military gas-cape; a half-gallon can of oil; dusters; cleaning-rags; and foot-pump. The douanier eyed the collection, nodded, and carefully closed the lid. It was all very polite and very perfunctory.
“Merci, M’sieur.”
“O.K.?” asked Bill.
The Frenchman beamed broadly.
“Oui, oui, M’sieur—O.K.! O.K.!” He flicked a hand towards the invisible hinterland of France. “En avant, M’sieur! Et bon voyage.”
“Thanks,” said Bill.
Inwardly he heaved a sigh of relief. It was not that he had anything to declare, but there was one object aboard the car that might have caused comment. And once interest had been aroused an explanation might have been demanded. And at that ungodly hour of the morning Bill felt disinclined to discuss technicalities with a man whose knowledge of English was obviously limited, and who, in any case, would fail to grasp the finer details of his exposition.
II
Once off the quayside Bill realized that the small hours of a bitter February morning was not the ideal time to weave one’s way out of Dunkirk. Presumably there had been roads between the rubble heaps and undoubtedly, before the holocaust, they’d led somewhere. But now there was nothing but a maze of treacherous, pot-holed tracks meandering aimlessly between a network of railway-lines and flattened buildings.
After a bit, utterly flummoxed, Bill braked up and studied his map. The first sizeable place on his route was Cassel. But how the devil was he to break out of this shambles on to the appropriate road? So far he hadn’t noticed a single sign-post. He remembered that road all right. The long hellish strip of pavé down which the disintegrated but undaunted B.E.F. had jerked its way towards salvation. Sitting in his pre-war but still serviceable Stanmobile Ten something of the desperate hopelessness of that nightmare returned to haunt him. The scars of memory never really healed, he thought.
There was a screech of brakes and a small black “sports” slithered to a stop beside him. A head thrust itself out from beneath the hood.
“Pardon, M’sieur…à Cassel?”
Bill, no linguist himself, was swift to recognize a fellow sufferer. He chuckled:
“Don’t ask me! I’m heading for the same road. Not a damned signpost anywhere.”
“English, eh? Got a map?”
“Sure,” said Bill.
“Same here. Let’s take a look at the darn thing in our headlamps.”
Bill glanced at the man who joined him on the road—tall, athletic, aquiline features, something decisive in speech and movement that marked him down as a man of action. A reliable fellow in a tight corner, he thought. His companion, hatless, in belted raincoat, a muffler slung round his neck, was far younger though equally well-built. He seemed to treat the elder man with the respect that was due from a subordinate to a superior.
Barely had they gone into a huddle, however, when an early workman in a shabby overcoat and the ubiquitous blue beret, evidently intrigued by the set-up, jumped from his bicycle and crossed over to them.
“Est ce que je vous aide, Messieurs?”
Bill explained in halting French that they were anxious to get on to the road to Cassel.
“Ah! That is simple, M’sieur. Follow me. I will ride ahead. You keep me always in your headlights.”
Ten minutes later the good-hearted fellow, who had been pedalling like a madman, slowed down and indicated with a violent wave of his arm the route they were to take. Bill leaned out and yelled his thanks, glancing back to see if the second car was following. A few hundred yards farther up the road it drew abreast and for a brief time the two cars ran level.
“O.K.?” shouted Bill.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Where are you making for?”
“Paris!” came the answering yell. “And you?”
“Rheims first stop. After that down the Rhone valley to the Cote d’Azur.”
“Well, I hope it keeps fine for you. Good hunting.”
“Thanks. And the same to you.”
With a lifting drone the little black “sports” suddenly drew ahead and a few seconds later vanished behind an enormous camion that was lumbering with infuriating complacency down the very centre of the highway.
III
Detective-Inspector Meredith of the C.I.D. turned to his companion and observed sardonically:
“For Pete’s sake relax, m’lad. I’m not going to hit anything.”
“It’s this right-of the-road rule, sir. Can’t get used to it.”
“You will…after another eight hundred miles.”
“By the way, sir—what was the idea of telling that bloke we were heading for Paris?”
“Professional discretion, Strang. We’re over here on a job, remember. No point in advertising our destination.”
“But damn it all, sir, he’s also making for the Riviera. We’ll probably run against him. Look a bit fishy, won’t it?”
Meredith laughed.
“There’s about fifty miles of that gilded coastline, Strang. Devil of a coincidence if we did meet again. In any case I doubt if he’d recognize us.”
“Decent sort of bloke, sir. Useful in a Rugger scrum, eh? I wager I’d recognize him in a Derby Day crowd.”
“You’d be out on your ear if you couldn’t,” retorted Meredith bluntly. “Don’t forget, you’ve been trained to observe. I may be wrong but I’ve an idea that you’ve more than an average eye for faces. That’s why the A.C. let you off the leash.”
“Thanks, sir. But I wish the deuce you’d—”
Meredith broke in:
“You’re wondering what it’s all about, eh? O.K., Sergeant. I reckon it’s time that I put you wise.” Meredith took one hand from the driving-wheel, yanked a wallet from the inside pocket of his sports jacket and slapped it down on Strang’s knee. “There’s a photo in the first flap. Take it out and have a good look at it.” His curiosity aroused, Strang did as he was told and studied the print closely. He recognized it at once as an official photograph from the Rogues’ Gallery at the Yard—the regulation two profil
es and a full-face. “Know who it is?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, that uninspiring phiz belongs to a little runt of a chap called Tommy Cobbett—‘Chalky’ Cobbett to his friends, on account of his dead white complexion. One of the world’s great artists, Strang.”
“He’s a painter, sir?”
“Not exactly. He’s an engraver, m’lad—an engraver of notes.”
“You mean he’s a forger?”
“I do. And one of the finest we’ve ever come against. He was pulled in just before the War after flooding the West End with spurious fivers. He got a six year stretch and came out about four years back. For a time he hung around his old haunts in the East End and, with our usual professional optimism, we thought he’d gone straight. Then eighteen months ago he vanished.” Meredith clicked his fingers. “Phut! Like that. Well, we knew darn well that ‘Chalky’ hadn’t gone into purdah for nothing. We felt absolutely certain that somewhere or other he was ‘working’ again. But the point was where and for whom?”
“And now you’ve got the answer, eh, sir?”
“Six weeks back we had information from the police at Nice that a top-line currency racket was being worked along the Riviera towns. You know the set-up? English visitors anxious to exceed their hundred quid travel allowance. Obliging Wide Boys equally anxious to help ’em out. Normal rate of exchange about 980 francs to the pound. Black Market rate, say, 780. Profit to the Wide Boys about 200 francs for every pound changed. Easy money, Strang, even if you don’t consider the profits spectacular.”
“But ‘Chalky’ Cobbett,” asked Strang still groping, “where does he come in? I don’t get it.”
Meredith chuckled.
“O.K. I’m coming to him. But there are a few other details I want you to cotton on to first. These currency blokes accept cheques on London banks, see? They’re forced to because, as you know, you can only take five quid’s worth of English notes out of the country. The Wide Boys have a grape-vine method of getting these cheques smuggled over to London and cashed as quickly as possible. So much for that. But the French police recently spotted a further complication in this racket. A flood of counterfeit thousand franc notes was appearing along the Riviera, and they soon traced some of these notes to our benighted countrymen who’d been diddling the Exchequer by their purchase of Black Market francs. In brief, the currency racketeers had been paying out their 780 francs to the pound in dud notes. Result, 980 francs to the pound profit, less overheads and, presumably, a rake-off for ‘Chalky’ Cobbett.”