by John Bude
“Looks as if they’re going to make a night of it, eh, Strang?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised, sir. Probably going to try their luck at the tables.”
“No—hang on!” exclaimed Meredith, puzzled. “They’re not going into the Casino. They’re heading for that car-park to the left of the main-entrance. Here, step lively, m’lad, else they’ll give us the slip.”
Quickening their pace the two officials were just in time to see their quarry clamber into the rear seat of an immensely dignified and old-fashioned Rolls Royce that was parked close to the pavement. Meredith turned excitedly to Strang.
“You parked our own car somewhere nearby, didn’t you?” Strang nodded. “O.K. Then nip along and get the engine started. I want you to re-park on the far side of the road just opposite. That’ll give us a chance to make a quick follow-up if this chap pulls away in a hurry. Get me?”
“Yes, sir. And then?”
“Sit tight in the driving-seat with the engine running.”
No sooner had Strang dashed off when Meredith, with a studiedly casual air, strolled slowly past the Rolls and took up his position under a nearby lamp-post. Pulling a newspaper from his pocket, he began ostensibly to scan it. As Meredith had anticipated the light from the lamp cast a reflected glow into the interior of the car and he was able to see quite clearly all that was taking place in the back-seat. It was just as he’d expected. From a voluminous spangled handbag the woman pulled out a cheque-book. Coincident with this her companion whipped out a fountain-pen and almost thrust it into her outstretched fingers. Then, as the woman was filling in the cheque, the man took out a fat wad of notes and began hurriedly to count them. A few seconds later the exchange was made and, after a brief conversation, the man opened the car-door and with a short bow helped the woman to alight. A final flourish of his hat, another little bow, a quick furtive glance around and the man jumped into the driving-seat, slammed shut the door and started up the engine.
At that moment Meredith saw the little black “sports” come to a standstill on the far side of the road. A few seconds later he’d ousted the Sergeant from the wheel and the chase was on.
III
It was an exciting, not to say hair-raising, experience swinging round the outer bends of that tortuous road, with only a six-inch kerb between comparative safety and certain destruction. There were times, in fact, when the Corniche de Littoral, skirting some rocky promontory, seemed to hang poised over the sea. Meredith thanked his lucky stars that the Rolls hadn’t followed one of the higher Corniche roads, for the fellow ahead handled the car with superb assurance and faultless judgment. More than once, hitting a straight and level stretch, the Rolls drew away. But always Meredith, tense and grim behind the wheel, was able to put on a spurt and bring the car once more into the rays of his headlamps.
“Hell’s bells, sir!” breathed Freddy, who throughout the drive had been frantically pressing his foot against the floor-boards. “He’s certainly cutting it out. Talk about the movies…”
“Do, if you want to,” snapped Meredith. “I’m busy.”
“Where d’you think he’s making for, sir?”
“Nice, by the look of it. Or maybe Beaulieu. We’re just coming to the outskirts of the place.” Meredith peered ahead and suddenly jerked out: “By heaven, yes—he’s slowing up. Looks as if he’s turning off here to the right.”
Jamming on his brakes Meredith succeeded in swinging the “sports” off the main-road into the long plane tree avenue where the Rolls had now come to a stop. Pulling up sharply, the inspector shut off the engine, switched off the headlights and rapped out:
“Come on, Strang—just an easy stroll. Light up a cigarette and talk like hell. Don’t take the slightest notice of the chap as we pass the car. But, for Pete’s sake, see if you can spot the name of the house.”
“Good enough, sir. I’m with you.”
At Freddy’s instigation a discussion was started on the virtues of the English Test Team then touring Australia. As they drew level with the car they noticed that the driver had got out and was now opening the gates of a fair-sized villa set back a little way from the road. Clearly defined on the stuccoed pillars of the entrance was its name—Villa Valdeblore. Twenty yards further on Meredith drew up and glanced back. The Rolls was already disappearing through the open gates.
Ten minutes later Meredith was at the Beaulieu police-station trying out his schoolboy French on a bewildered and suspicious Duty Sergeant, who stubbornly refused to be impressed by the Inspector’s official credentials. At the mention of Blampignon, however, the fellow’s attitude softened somewhat and he agreed that Meredith should make use of the station ’phone to ring up Nice H.Q.
Inside another ten minutes, after Blampignon had exchanged a few terse sentences with the Sergeant, Meredith had the fellow eating out of his hand. Luckily Meredith could understand French far better than he could speak it so that he was able to grasp at least the salient points of the Sergeant’s evidence.
Mais oui! The Villa Valdeblore—he knew it well. It was in the Avenue de la Palisse and was owned by a certain Colonel Malloy.
“A compatriot of yours, Inspector, and very much respected in the town. I think he bought the villa in 1946.”
As far as the Sergeant knew he lived there with his wife. Mais oui, save for the domestic staff, alone with his wife. Was there not a Dutchman or German in the household? The Sergeant smiled.
“Ah, you are thinking, perhaps, of his chauffeur, Nikolai Bourmin. He is a White Russian. All this I learn because as an alien he has to report to us here at regular intervals. No—I know little of him. He behave himself. He does not get drunk or steal or commit a murder. That is all I care. Yes—it is about six months now since he first came to Beaulieu. I trust you have not discovered something about him that I should have found out for myself. If he is up to no good, it would not look well if I failed to comprehend it, Inspector. But I cannot believe that a man like Colonel Malloy would be easily deceived. It would not be like him to employ a rogue. If you think this Nikolai Bourmin to be a rascal…” The sergeant shrugged and added hopefully. “Eh bien, then perhaps you are wrong, M’sieur. You agree it is possible?”
Meredith could have expounded at length on the fallibility of assumptions that were not founded on proven facts, but playing for safety he said simply and conclusively:
“Peut-être, mon ami.”
Strang gazed at his superior in blank admiration.
IV
On their more leisurely drive back along the Littoral road to Menton Meredith fell silent. Aware that he’d dropped into one of his “broody moods”, as Freddy called them, the Sergeant sensibly made no attempt to start up a conversation. As a matter of fact, Meredith was thinking fast and furious. He was analysing the evidence that had come his way during the course of that eventful evening.
So this fellow Bourmin was not the owner of the Rolls-Royce—he was merely chauffeur to this retired army bloke, Malloy. Now it was simple to explain away the fact that Bourmin only “worked” the Monte Carlo bars on a Thursday. It was, undoubtedly, his half-day off. It seemed equally certain that on these occasions his employer allowed him to make use of the car. This argued, of course, a pretty friendly and trustworthy relationship between the two men. But accepting this premise was it reasonable to assume that Malloy himself was tied up with the racket? Umph—difficult to say without having had the opportunity to make a personal assessment of the man’s character. The Beaulieu Sergeant spoke of him as being “highly respected in the town”, but that was just a general opinion. Somehow or other they must get a more definite line on Malloy’s past record and present behaviour.
For the moment it might be as well to make no move where the Russian was concerned. Strang could well take on the job of “tailing” the fellow on his Thursdays off in the hope that he might make contact with other members of the gang. As an alien
, faced with the necessity of reporting regularly at the police-station, there was little chance of Bourmin slipping through their fingers even if his suspicions were aroused. Somehow the chauffeur had to collect the spurious notes as they came off the illicit printing-press. It was Bourmin, in fact, who might well lead them to “Chalky’s” hide-out.
As for this Colonel Malloy, Meredith determined to get in touch with the Yard without delay. They, in turn, could make contact with the Records Department at the War Office and cable the relevant information concerning the fellow’s bona fides and past history in the Service. If he appeared to be a sound egg then it might be a sensible move to take Colonel Malloy into his confidence. After all, as Bourmin’s employer, he was excellently placed to keep watch on the chauffeur’s activities. On the other hand Meredith couldn’t dismiss the fact that Blampignon and his colleagues suspected the racket was being organized by an Englishman. And to pose as a retired Colonel of the British Army was just the sort of alias that would appeal to a criminal in a foreign country. There was something solid and reassuring, almost sacrosanct, about a retired Colonel; particularly when he was to be associated with a wife, a handsome villa, and a chauffeur-driven Rolls!
Chapter VII
Cards on the Table
I
The bridge party at the Villa Paloma that Friday evening had been, from Nesta Hedderwick’s point-of-view, a great success. At the end of the evening’s play, after a shaky start, she and Bill had taken about ten thousand francs off the Malloys. The Colonel and his wife, a brisk, talkative little woman with faded ginger hair, had accepted their defeat with the indifference and sangfroid of a couple to whom ten thousand francs was mere chicken-feed. They departed in an aura of vociferous good will and Armagnac brandy, leaving Nesta and Bill to enjoy a complacent post-mortem on the game.
Bill was in no hurry to go up to bed. Kitty and Tony had left directly after dinner for a flutter at the local casino, and since it was then long past midnight they’d probably show up at any minute. Dilys and Miss Pilligrew, placing a proper value on their sleep, had long since retired for the night. It wasn’t Kitty that Bill was hoping to see. He felt pretty sure that when she did return to the villa and realized he was still in the lounge she’d go straight up to bed. It was Shenton he wanted to buttonhole. He was raring to have a private, straight-from-the-shoulder talk with ex-Flying Officer Tony Shenton.
Bill, in fact, was just having “one for the stairs” when he heard the Vedette swish up the drive en route for the garage at the rear of the villa. Nesta glanced at her watch.
“Twenty to one! Damned inconsiderate, Bill. This Linden girl’s a puss. I suppose you realize she’s crazy about Tony?”
Bill said bleakly:
“I…I rather suspected it.”
“The child’s a fool, of course. She’s too infatuated to see it, but, if you ask me, he’s already beginning to tire of her. He always does. Tony’s women are here today and gone tomorrow. There’s been a constant procession of disillusioned females in and out of this house ever since the heartless wretch came to live here. One fine day it’s going to get him into trouble.”
“Trouble? How do you mean, Mrs. Hedderwick?”
“Well, one of these rejected females is going to hit back and hit back hard. If Tony doesn’t watch out some sweet wench is going to pop a pinch of arsenic in his—” The door opened and Tony stood there blinking owlishly in the bright light. Nesta’s expression changed instantly. She said with a fond smile: “Well, Tony darling, did you break the bank? Had a lovely time? Where’s Kitty?”
“Gone to bed.” He nodded casually to Bill. “Oh, hullo, Dillon. What about a cognac?”
“I’ve already got a drink, thanks.”
“Bang on. I’ll join you.”
Nesta eased her fourteen stone from the chair in which she’d been practically wedged and swayed, yawning, to her feet.
“Well, if you men are going to make a night of it, I’m off to catch up on my beauty sleep. Good-night, Bill. Don’t let him drink too much.” She held out her arms to Tony. “Goodnight, you wretch. Not too late up. You look tired.”
With a dutiful air Tony kissed her on both cheeks and thrust her with playful familiarity towards the door. Nesta, almost cooing with gratitude for these little attentions, retaliated by tweaking the young man’s ear. Tony winced.
“Hey! That hurt.”
“Serve you right,” bridled Nesta. “You’ve behaved abominably towards me of late. Ever since that Linden minx turned up you’ve ignored me completely. You’re a brute, Tony. He is a brute, isn’t he, Bill? A nasty, thoughtless, self-centred brute!”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake—” began Tony irritably.
But Nesta had already stumped out, slamming the door conclusively behind her.
II
Bill said in subdued and level tones:
“I’ve been waiting for this chance, Shenton. You and I are going to have a talk.”
“Are we? That’s news to me, old boy. What about?”
“This affair of yours with Kitty Linden.”
Tony, who’d been sprawling with his legs over the end of the settee, scrambled hurriedly to his feet. His pale face flushed blotchily. He shot out:
“What the heck’s that got to do with you?”
“Quite a lot. I want to know just what you intend to do about Kitty.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” sneered Tony, shakily setting down his half-empty glass of cognac. “Well, let’s get this straight, Dillon. I’m not having you or anybody else poking their noses into my private affairs.”
He moved a step closer to Bill, thrust out his jaw and menacingly clenched his fists. For an instant, thinking he was about to unleash a punch, Bill altered his stance and tensed himself, ready to defend himself if the fellow ran amok. He realized that if it did come to a show-down the odds were all in his favour. Although there was nothing to choose between them in the matter of height or build, after all his recent exercise in the mountains he was as fit as a fiddle. Shenton, on the other hand, was out of condition, flabby as a wet sponge. Bill said bluntly:
“You’d better give me a straight answer, Shenton.”
“You think so?” Tony laughed sarcastically. “I suppose Nesta hasn’t put you up to this by any chance? God knows she’s a green-eyed old witch. But if that’s the set-up you can call it a day. I’m not answerable to Nesta for my—”
“It’s nothing to do with Mrs. Hedderwick,” cut in Bill shortly.
“Then what the hell…? Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for her yourself? Damn it! You’ve only met her once.”
Bill said for the second time:
“I want to know what you intend to do about Kitty. I’ve a very good reason for asking.”
“Oh,” said Tony lightly, “what reason?”
“She happens to be my wife!”
He stared at Bill in blank astonishment. Then, reaching for his glass, he downed the remainder of his cognac in a single gulp and said with a sardonic chuckle:
“Are you crackers? Do you honestly expect me to swallow that one? Kitty your wife! Think again, old boy.”
“Well, you needn’t believe it if you don’t want to, but it happens to be true. Kitty’s had you on a string about this, Shenton. She guessed you’d get to hell out of her life if you knew she was married. So when you showed up in London about a couple of months back, she kept quiet about it and let you take her around until she’d angled an invitation to come down here. Smart of her, eh?”
“But what the—?”
“Hang on! I haven’t finished yet. Kitty thinks she’s in love with you. O.K.—if she is then there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve asked her to come back to me but she won’t. She’s quite determined about it. I don’t think there’s anything I can say or do that’ll shift her. But before I return home there’s one thing I can do…one thing
I’m damn well going to do.”
“Really—what’s that?”
“See that Kitty gets a square deal.”
“By me?” sneered Tony.
“By you!” exclaimed Bill savagely. “Kitty’s going to have a baby. Your child, Shenton, not mine. There’s no possible doubt about the kid’s paternity so you can’t wriggle out of that one. Now do you see what I’m driving at?”
“You mean…” stammered Tony, dumbfounded, “that I—?”
“You’ll marry Kitty at once. Get me? God knows it’s the last thing in the world I could wish for her—to be married to a bounder like you. But as she happens to be in love with you and anxious to marry you—”
“You’ll divorce her, eh?”
“Just that.”
“And if I refuse your very generous offer to take on a wife you’ve no further use for?”
Bill grabbed Tony by the wrist, jerked him forward, and raised his clenched fist.
“By God, I could knock you cold for that! Kitty’s everything to me. I’d take her back tomorrow, child or no child, if she’d have me. And the sooner you get that into your damned head the better. I’ve been in love with Kitty ever since I first met her. I still am. I always shall be. But for her sake I’m asking you to do the right and decent thing and marry her.”
“And if I don’t?” asked Tony mockingly. “What then, eh?”
“Then, by heaven, I won’t be answerable for the consequences! I’m warning you, Shenton. You may have played fast-and-loose with other women, but I’m damned if you will with Kitty. So if you’ve got any sense, you’ll watch your step. That’s all.”