by John Bude
Both Englishmen, who were unknown to each other and staying in different hotels, had bought their Black Market francs off the same man, and in both cases this man had struck up a conversation with them in one of the many cocktail bars in the town. He spoke English fluently but with a very strong foreign accent. Neither of the men believed him to be French. One suggested he was German; the other, Dutch. But their descriptions of the man tallied exactly—tall, stooping, iron-grey short-cropped hair, moon-like face, deep voice, urbane in manner and faultlessly dressed.
With this description jotted down in his notebook, Meredith rang Blampignon at Nice. Was this Dutchman or German known to the police? Had he, by any chance, ever been through their hands or, at any time, come under suspicion? Blampignon was desolate. There wasn’t, he claimed, a single big-time racketeer along the coast with whom he wasn’t familiar. It was a thumping big boast, of course, but it wasn’t, perhaps, far short of the truth. In Blampignon’s opinion this man was either a stooge, a hired nobody working for the Big Shots, or he’d only recently turned up on the Cote d’Azur from his own country.
“Good enough,” said Meredith. “You leave it to me. I’ll get over to Monte for the next day or two and drift around the likely bars. With a detailed description like this we ought to get on to the fellow. And with any luck—”
Blampignon broke in with a throaty chuckle:
“Ah précisément! How shall we say? The pilot-fish might lead us to the shark, eh?”
III
Twenty minutes later, after a brisk drive along the Moyenne Corniche, Meredith was back at the Hotel Louis where he’d arranged to meet Strang. As a change from hotel meals they often lunched out and they decided that morning to try their luck at Le Poisson D’Or, a nearby café that had been recommended by a fellow-guest at the Louis. It proved to be a casual, charming little place, with gaily-painted tables and chairs set out in a shady courtyard in the centre of which was an outsized aquarium stocked with goldfish. Meredith, who was beginning to find his way around the local menus, ordered a bottle of Château de Cremât and, later, over their bouillabaisse, brought the Sergeant up-to-date with the morning’s events.
“For the next day or two, m’lad, we’re going to hang around the more fashionable bars at Monte Carlo. Any objections?”
“No, sir, of course not,” said Freddy, glumly realizing that his assignation with Miss Westmacott had abruptly gone up the spout. “All in the day’s work, I guess.” He added tentatively: “Do we…er…get our evenings off?”
“We do not!” snapped Meredith.
“No, sir…quite, sir,” said Freddy hastily. “I only asked because—” He broke off and stared out across the sun-splashed courtyard as if he’d seen a ghost. “Well, of all the…!”
“What the devil’s wrong with you?” demanded Meredith irritably.
“Take a look there, sir—the table under that orange tree. Do you see who I see?”
Meredith took a cautious glance, hastily concealed his surprise, and admitted with a chuckle:
“O.K., Sergeant—you win! You said we’d bump into him again and, by one of those crazy coincidences that are always cropping up in this benighted existence, we have. What’s more he’s just spotted us. Leave the talking to me, m’lad. He’s coming over.”
“Well, well, well!” exclaimed Bill Dillon breezily. “I never expected to see you chaps again. I thought you were making for Paris.”
“We were…on business,” said Meredith glibly. “But now, due to an unexpected turn of events, our business has brought us down here.” He indicated an empty chair drawn up at the table. “Take a pew, Mr.—?”
“Dillon—Bill Dillon.” He looked at Meredith enquiringly. “Funny thing, but I can’t help feeling your face is familiar. It struck me that morning in Dunkirk. Are you the sort of chap who hits the headlines, by any chance?”
“Good heavens, no! Sales agent for an engineering firm—that’s me. Meredith’s the name. This is my assistant, Mr. Strang.”
“Engineering!” exclaimed Dillon. “I’m in the same sort of line myself. What’s your firm?”
“Er…Whitley-Pilbeams,” said Meredith, mentioning the first name that came into his head. “Maybe you know ’em?”
“I’ll say I do. Finest constructional engineers in the old country.”
“Thanks,” said Meredith drily. “And you…who do you—?”
Dillon broke in:
“Oh, since the War I’ve been working in the research department of the Hawland Aircraft Co. Not a bad job as jobs go. But not much chance of promotion. So I’ve just cut loose. Want to start up on my own when I get back. Garage or something. Don’t much care as long as I’m my own master.”
“And in the meantime you’re treating yourself to a slap up holiday down here, eh?”
“That’s about it,” nodded Dillon. “Couldn’t really afford it, of course. First time I’ve been abroad since I was demobbed in ’46.” He rose abruptly and thrust out a hand. “Glad to have met you chaps again. How long are you staying?”
“Well, that depends,” said Meredith vaguely, “…on business. A couple of weeks—perhaps more, perhaps less.”
“Maybe we’ll be able to get together for a pint some evening. I’m staying at the Bandol. If ever you’re at a loose end look me up.”
“O.K.,” nodded Meredith. “We will.”
“Well, cheerio.”
“Cheerio,” said Meredith.
“Cheerio,” said Strang, opening his mouth for the first time since Dillon had joined them.
IV
From Le Poisson D’Or Bill Dillon returned direct to the Bandol and went up to his room. There he lit his pipe and sat down at the table by the window to write a letter. For a whole week now he’d put off writing this letter, hoping he’d run into Kitty somewhere around the town. But although he’d kept a sharp look-out along the promenade and the more fashionable shopping streets so far he’d drawn a blank. On several occasions he’d even strolled up to the Villa Paloma and hung around in the vicinity on the offchance that Kitty would emerge. It would, he felt, have been better that way—a casual, unexpected meeting…alone. That’s why, even when he’d found out her address, he’d deliberately refrained from writing to her. But if it wasn’t to work out like that then he’d darn well have to storm the stronghold and be damned to the consequences.
After all it was Kitty who was chiefly responsible for this Mediterranean jaunt. Admittedly the mountainous country behind the town had something to do with it. He needed those mountains, but not as much as he needed Kitty. A casual conversation with a mutual friend in London had enabled him to pin-point her present whereabouts. It was a lucky chance that, when Kitty had decided to walk out of his life, she’d decided at the same time to walk into Nesta Hedderwick’s villa on the Riviera. Lucky because he knew Nesta Hedderwick; lucky because directly behind Menton reared the Alpes Maritimes. And since his future was inextricably bound up with Kitty and the presence of high mountains, he realized that in coming to Menton he’d very successfully brought off a right-and-left.
After a moment’s reflection, he took up his pen and wrote:
Dear Mrs. Hedderwick,
I don’t know if you remember me. I was one of the Airborne crowd stationed near Larkhill Manor who used to descend on you at week-ends during ’44. I shan’t forget in a hurry the grand time you gave us. Your hospitality was terrific and your patience inexhaustible! I expect you remember the crazy night when those Raff types showed up from Landsdown and we played an eight-aside rugger game with a cushion in your lounge-hall. At half-time you couldn’t see across the room for feathers!
I remember you telling me that you had a villa at Menton and that after the War you intended to give up Larkhill and live permanently on the Riviera. You kindly suggested that if ever I came that way I should look you up. Well, I’ve just taken the chance to slip d
own here for a short holiday. I’m staying at the Bandol. So if your offer still holds good perhaps you could give me a ring and let me know if and when it’s convenient for me to come along.
I look forward to seeing you again after all these years.
Yours sincerely,
Bill Dillon.
P.S.—I was the fair-haired, rather hefty three pipper who once had the misfortune to spill a glass of sherry down your dress.
V
The following morning, during breakfast on the sun-dappled terrace, Nesta announced:
“I’m having a young man along to dinner this evening. I want you all to be here. Such a nice boy. I met him at Larkhill during the War.” She jerked a glance at Miss Pilligrew who, indulging a little weakness of hers, was furtively nibbling a lump of sugar. “You must impress on cook to make a special effort. Understand, Pilly?”
“Yes, dear.”
“I suggest soupe au pistou followed by ratatouille.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Not that it matters to me, of course.” Nesta gave a hollow laugh. “I shall merely sit and watch other people enjoying the fruits of my hospitality. Mon Dieu! What a life. It is a life, isn’t it, Pilly?”
“Oh definitely, dear.”
“Then we might have, say…estocaficada. And for sweet—”
Miss Pilligrew suggested timorously:
“What about tourta de Blea, dear?”
“Don’t be stupid! You’re so unhelpful, Pilly. I had in mind robina fritters and—”
“Oh for crying aloud!” broke in Tony with a surly look. “Why all this fuss? Is it somebody we’re supposed to impress?”
“Don’t be hateful, Tony. Of course it isn’t. But he wrote such a charming letter and the least—”
“Do I know the fellow?”
“No, darling, I don’t think so. His name’s Mellon or Dillon or something of the kind.”
“Dillon!” exclaimed Kitty, suddenly flushing beneath her tan.
“Yes—Captain Bill Dillon.” Nesta sighed. “Such a handsome creature, with one of those nice bristly moustaches that—”
“Bill Dillon!” gasped Kitty. “But…but—”
“Don’t tell me you know him!” cried Nesta, a shadow of disappointment passing over her heavily handsome features.
“No, of course I don’t. But…but I once knew a Bill Dorman and it sort of struck a chord. You see how I mean, Mrs. Hedderwick? Dillon. Dorman. They’re something alike and…for the moment…” With a little titter, Kitty swung on Tony. “Got a cigarette, Tony? Oh, thanks. Well, if you’ll excuse me…I’ve got some letters to write. See you later, Tony.”
A brief silence followed Kitty’s hurried exit into the house. Nesta exchanged a meaning glance with everybody in turn and observed tartly:
“How very odd. She seemed quite upset. An unbalanced, neurotic type. She ought to see a psychiatrist. Don’t you agree, Tony?”
“No, I don’t!” said Tony shortly. “Kitty’s had a tough time, poor kid.” He gulped down the remainder of his coffee and got up abruptly. “Well, I’ll be seeing you…I’ve got a job to do on the Vedette. I’ll be out to lunch. Kitty and I are driving over to Monaco.”
And with a brisk nod he stalked off through the garden to the garage-yard.
Chapter V
Ominous Meeting
I
Caught up in the useless existence prescribed for her by her aunt, Dilys was bored. Her encounter the previous day with the young man at the exhibition had suddenly forced her to see with devastating clarity the emptiness of her life. For a few hours she’d been buoyed up by the thought of the meeting they’d arranged on the Casino terrace. Then, just before dinner, she’d received a ’phone-call to say that the meeting was off. The young man was terribly sorry but it rather looked as if they wouldn’t be able to get together at all for the next few days. It wasn’t his fault but circumstances made it impossible.
Just that. No real explanation for the let down. Nothing but a vague suggestion that he would ring again in the near future. Dilys’ high mood collapsed. She began to view the encounter at the galleries with a more calculating eye. Wasn’t there, after all, something rather fishy about this Mr. John Smith? Anyway she refused to believe that Smith was his real name. He’d obviously blurted out the first thing that came into his head. But why? Because he wanted to conceal his real identity. And why had he wanted to conceal his identity? Well, most people adopted an alias because they had something to hide—more often than not, something criminal.
Dilys shivered. Could she believe anything he’d told her? Was he really a clerk in a London office? And this friend he spoke of—was it really a man friend?
By the time Dilys arrived at the breakfast-table, after a broken, restless night, she was prepared to erase Mr. John Smith from her memory. If he did have the audacity to ring up again, then she’d inform him, politely but firmly, that she no longer wished to meet him.
With all these unhappy reflections in her mind, it wasn’t until she ran against Paul Latour on his belated way downstairs that Dilys remembered the picture.
“Oh hullo, Paul. You slipped out early yesterday. I wanted you to take me along to the exhibition and give me the benefits of your professional knowledge. As it was I had to go alone.”
“Not a very good show, I hear. Too recherché. You agree?”
“Well, I’m not really qualified to say. But I found it…interesting. There was one picture in particular called…now what on earth was it? Oh, I know—Le Filou.” Dilys watched closely for his reactions but Paul’s features remained more than usually impassive. “It had a very distinctive style, Paul.”
“Really? Who was the artist?”
“Well, quite frankly, I thought it was you.”
Paul looked at her in astonishment.
“Me? Me? Mon Dieu! I’d sooner cut my throat than exhibit my work in the company of such mediocre nitwits!”
“But it was so exactly like your painting, Paul. Uncannily like it.”
“But, ma petite, didn’t you buy a catalogue?”
“Yes, of course—but I thought perhaps you were showing the picture under an assumed name.”
“An assumed name? How do you mean? What name?”
“Oh Jacques somebody or other.”
“Jacques?”
“Yes—I remember now. Jacques Dufil.”
II
Bill Dillon stood before the wardrobe mirror in his hotel bedroom and took a final critical look at his appearance. Umph, not so bad. Lucky he’d had the good sense to pack his dinner-jacket even if it was a bit tight across the shoulders. No doubt that during these last two years he’d put on weight. No doubt either that all the violent and unaccustomed exercises of the last two days had developed his muscles.
Only that afternoon in an old bush shirt and khaki shorts, with a rucksack on his back, he’d been for his daily constitutional in the mountains. He’d driven up through Castillon and Sospey, parked the car near Col de Braus and struck out on foot to explore its rugged and precipitous environs. This was the third time he’d followed this particular route up from Menton for a scramble among the lower peaks of the nine thousand foot range. Up there the air had been clear as crystal, the sun scorching down from a cloudless sky, the heat reflected upward from the bare and shimmering rock. Certainly his complexion had suffered from the day’s expedition. No getting away from it—at the moment his wasn’t the sort of face that would look well at the dinner table. But Bill wasn’t troubled. That afternoon up in the mountains he’d found the answer to a vital problem, a tantalizing uncertainty that for two years or more had nattered at his peace-of-mind.
He wound a silk muffler round his neck, locked the door of his room and went down to his car. Now that his visit to the Villa Paloma was imminent Bill’s apprehension increased. All day, caught up in str
enuous activity, he’d been able to forget this fateful meeting with Kitty. Now, as he drove through the cooling streets, with the strong sweet perfume of the mimosa in his nostrils, he wondered what the devil the outcome would be. Somehow he must edge Kitty aside and speak to her alone. It wouldn’t be easy for, in her present mood, Kitty would probably do her damnedest to deny him this opportunity. He knew only too well how stubborn and wilful she could be. But the knowledge did nothing to ease the passionate longing that moved him when he thought of Kitty. No matter what had happened in the past, Bill knew that without her the future would be pretty well unbearable.
Yes, somehow during the course of the evening he must make a last desperate effort to win her back. An unreasonable hope, perhaps. But a man in love, thought Bill wryly, doesn’t base his hopes on reason.
III
“My dear, dear boy!” boomed Nesta, grasping Bill’s hands and shaking them frantically. “As if I wouldn’t have known you!” She stepped back and viewed him with unblushing curiosity. “You’ve certainly broadened out since those gay days at Larkhill. Don’t get enough exercise, of course. And where’s your moustache? You used to have a moustache. One of those bristly little army affairs. So virile.” Again the searching, slightly roguish contemplation. “You know, I always liked you, Bill. Not very subtle but no damn nonsense about you. Now come and meet the others. We’re a rag-and-bobtail collection but I think we’ll amuse you.”
She led him through into the lounge and announced breezily:
“Hi! Everybody. This is Bill!”
He saw Kitty at once, and his heart missed a beat. She was sitting on the arm of a settee, lovely and desirable as ever, with a cocktail glass in her hand and a small nervous smile playing about her lips. With the imperious gesture of a headmistress about to present a fourth-former to a visiting governor, Nesta beckoned her forward.
“And this is Kitty—Kitty Linden. She’s down here on a visit.” Adding with a baleful glance: “Just a short visit, eh, darling?”