Death on the Riviera

by John Bude

  Gibaud smiled.

  “You’d better take a grip on yourself. You’re going to get a high-voltage shock.”

  “Oh for crying aloud, man! Don’t keep me dangling.”

  “Well, believe it or not, it’s that wealthy countrywoman of yours.”

  “By heaven!” gasped Meredith. “Mrs. Hedderwick! Now what in the name of thunder…?”

  IV

  Thanking Gibaud for his help, Meredith parted from him at the steps of the Commissariat, and for the second time that day headed for the Villa Paloma. A dozen questions were queueing up in his mind demanding attention. If it was L’Hirondelle that they’d seen moored under the rocks at Cap Martin (and Meredith felt sure it was), had it made the trip with Mrs. Hedderwick’s permission? And who exactly had been aboard her? In the flurry of their attempt to detain the launch, Meredith had only caught a fleeting glimpse of the figure so frantically casting off. In the rays of his torch the man’s features had been indistinguishable. One thing was certain. There must have been at least two men aboard the craft, for even as the fellow in the stern was loosing the painter the engine had been started up amidships. O.K. Accept a maximum of two. The question remained—who? Latour? Bourmin? But could the latter have got over from Beaulieu? Latour then?

  Meredith clicked his fingers. Heavens, yes! Hadn’t Miss Westmacott mentioned his mysterious, nocturnal sallies from the villa? And did Latour on these occasions make for the Hirondelle? Reason—he was tied up, not only with the counterfeiting gang, but with the cigarette racket. Perhaps Blampignon was wrong. Perhaps the same gang was responsible for both forms of criminal activity. Well, he knew what his next move must be. He’d get Mrs. Hedderwick’s permission to examine the launch in the hope of picking up a clue that would transmute his assumption into a proven fact.

  Ten minutes later he was sitting opposite the widow in the Chinese room. Although somewhat surprised to see him back again so soon at the villa, Nesta answered his questions both promptly and frankly. The facts that emerged were these:—

  1. Apart from herself, two other members of the household had the keys to L’Hirondelle’s engine-casing and cabins—Shenton and Latour.

  2. Both had permission to use the launch when they wished, though if L’Hirondelle had been used at night Mrs. Hedderwick knew nothing about it. She certainly had no idea it was out on Saturday night.

  3. Mrs. Hedderwick had a few guests in on Saturday night and the party hadn’t broken up until after 1 a.m. Shenton was present throughout. But Latour left the villa shortly after dinner.

  So much for that, thought Meredith, as he strolled down the Avenue St. Michel on his way back to the harbour. Three people had keys of the launch—two had an alibi for Saturday night. So, ipso facto, everything pointed to Latour. And the man with him was either Bourmin or A. N. Other, who so far hadn’t come under suspicion.

  But the question remained—what the deuce was Latour doing out at Cap Martin? Landing contraband? But no contraband had been dumped near the mooring-place, and the full cargo of illicit cigarettes had been found on the smugglers’ launch before they’d had time to split up the consignment among the smaller craft. Was there a woman in the case? Was the other member of the crew a female?

  Still pondering over these tantalizing problems Meredith arrived back at the steps of the Commissariat de Police. Luckily Gibaud was still in the building and more than ready to accompany Meredith back to the harbour. On their way down through the cavernous alleys of the Old Town, Meredith brought his French colleague up-to-date with the progress of his enquiry.

  “And what exactly do you want me for?” asked Gibaud, when Meredith had concluded his report.

  “Well, it struck me that somebody may have seen the Hirondelle being boarded on Saturday night. Always a few loafers hanging around the quayside. We might be able to pick up a description of the crew who took her out of harbour. I reckon she left somewhere between ten and midnight. In the meantime I’m going to take a snoop round the launch herself. The old girl’s loaned me the keys and given me full permission to do as I please. I reckon her readiness to help places Mrs. Hedderwick beyond suspicion.”

  Turning into the Quai Monleon, Meredith swung right to continue on his way along the harbour-arm, leaving Gibaud to start his enquiries among the many bars and cafés along the waterfront. A couple of minutes later Meredith was aboard L’Hirondelle and his investigations were under way. The Inspector was no nautical man. He’d only a layman’s knowledge of things maritime, but even he was able to appreciate the trim and graceful lines, the excellent finish and surprising roominess of the launch. Unlocking the door to the main cabin amidships, Meredith quickly began to examine the various bunks and lockers on the look-out for anything that might suggest some secret or concealed compartment. Gradually, with his customary efficiency and caution, he combed through every nook and cranny of the boat, until he was satisfied that every cubic foot of space had been accounted for. In the cockpit aft he sounded and took a dip of the twin petrol-tanks. In a gloomy recess off the for’ard cabin, discovering a fair-sized tank, he lifted the galvanized lid and flashed his torch inside it. But again there was nothing to rouse his suspicions. The tank, as one might have expected, was filled, not with packets of Chesterfields or Lucky Strike, but drinking water! He even thrust an arm down the bell-mouthed ventilators that projected through the cabin roof. But all to no avail. At the end of an hour’s meticulous, high-pressure search, he was forced to admit that there was absolutely nothing suspicious about the launch’s design or lay-out.

  He stumbled, in fact, on only one small clue. Under a bunk in the for’ard cabin he unearthed a half-filled crate of empty wine bottles labelled Nuits St. George. And thinking back to Saturday night Meredith recalled that the empty bottle they’d noticed on the rocks at Cap Martin had borne the same label. Nothing startling, of course, but at least it helped to corroborate his belief that the launch lying up under the umbrella pines was the Hirondelle.

  Relocking the cabin and engine-casing, he was just clambering up on to the quayside when he saw Gibaud coming at a brisk pace along the harbour-arm. Guessing from the Inspector’s hasty approach that he’d got something to tell him, Meredith hurried forward to meet his colleague.

  “Well,” he demanded eagerly, “any luck?”

  Gibaud nodded.

  “The devil’s own if you ask me! Latour was seen by two witnesses boarding the Hirondelle about ten-thirty on Saturday night. I picked up the information from a couple of longshoremen in one of the waterfront bistros. No doubt about it. They’ve often seen and spoken to the fellow. As a matter of fact, they seemed to know quite a bit about him.”

  “You mean this isn’t the first time they’ve spotted Latour boarding the launch?”

  “Far from it. Apparently these nocturnal trips in the Hirondelle have been going on for about two months—at least once or twice a week.”

  “The deuce they have!” exclaimed Meredith as they set off in step back along the wide stone pier towards the town. “Have your witnesses any idea why Latour chooses to put out of harbour after dark?”

  Gibaud chuckled with cynical amusement.

  “Well, I can tell you what he told them and leave you to judge whether he was telling the truth or not. Wasn’t it Hitler who said ‘the bigger the lie the greater the chance of it being believed’? Latour obviously works on the same principle.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Guess what he told these fellows! That he was painting a series of pictures depicting the various coast towns at night—street illuminations and all that as seen from off-shore.”

  “And knowing as we do now that he couldn’t paint a damn picture…” Meredith whistled. “No question that he was up to some sort of skullduggery. Tell me—last Saturday night—was Latour the only person seen boarding the launch?”

  “No. He had a companion. According to my witnesses the
same companion who always accompanied him on these shifty expeditions. An elderly, white-bearded man, in a long black cloak and wide-brimmed black sombrero.”

  “Good heavens,” grunted Meredith. “Sounds like the villain in an old-fashioned cloak-and-dagger drama!”

  “To you—yes,” agreed Gibaud with a smile. “But down here on the Midi we’re accustomed to this kind of sartorial eccentricity. Personally I don’t consider there’s anything really odd about the old fellow’s get-up.”

  “And his identity?” asked Meredith eagerly.

  “There, I’m afraid, we’ve run up against a blank wall. The longshoremen haven’t the faintest idea who he is. They’ve never been able to see his features under the shadow of his outsized hat. On the few occasions when Latour’s stopped to exchange a word with them, his companion’s always hurried on without speaking.”

  “Puzzling,” commented Meredith.

  “Not to a Frenchman!” retorted Gibaud with a twinkling glance. “You can guess what the locals have to say about it.”

  “Cherchez la femme, eh?”

  “Precisely. The white beard, the long cloak, the sombrero—in their opinion the perfect disguise beneath which to conceal the…er…shall we say? tell-tale idiosyncrasies of the female form. And personally,” added Gibaud as they crossed once more into the Quai Monleon, “I think they’ve hit on a very possible explanation!”

  Chapter XIII

  Clue on Cap Martin

  I

  During the next twenty-four hours, after the week-end spurt, Meredith’s investigations dropped, so to speak, into bottom gear. No further developments. No further information. No word of the missing Latour, for whose apprehension a general call had gone out to all police-stations in the district. Yet Meredith was far from idle. A further exhaustible interview with Mrs. Hedderwick had enabled him to draw up a series of fairly comprehensive case-histories of the various members of her household. All the womenfolk and this fellow they were always bumping into, Bill Dillon, seemed, on the face of it, to be utterly beyond suspicion.

  But in the case of Tony Shenton, Meredith hesitated to make up his mind. He had no real reason for this hesitation, just a hunch that the fellow, whom he’d cross-questioned on his first visit to the villa, was a bad egg. There was something shifty and slick about him; a decided whiff of the playboy that immediately put the Inspector on his guard. He had the curious impression that the young man’s face was familiar. But if so—why? Meredith smiled to himself. Well, whenever a C.I.D. bloke claimed to recognize a face it was usually because the chap in question had a criminal record. A cynical admission, perhaps, but that was how it ticked.

  Was it worth, he wondered, following up this hunch and air-mailing a photo of Shenton to the Records Department at the Yard? Time and again he’d known these long shots in the dark to find their billet. What was it his old mentor “Tubby” Hart used to say? “The conscientious detective leaves no stone unturned and no avenue unexplored in the interests of his investigation.”

  Meredith argued thus:—Latour had been living at the villa under false pretences. Now he was suspected of having a tie-up with a forgery gang and, having been tipped the wink concerning the recent activities of the police, he’d scapa-ed in a hurry. A young man living in the same villa has a face that seems familiar to a member of the C.I.D. And if that didn’t add up to something pretty significant then pigs had wings!

  By midday that Tuesday morning, a photo of Shenton, together with the Inspector’s covering remarks, was on its way to the Yard. The matter was marked—Urgent.

  II

  For Acting-Sergeant Strang that particular Tuesday marked a blissful and memorable hiatus between two slices of high-pressure activity. Meredith, engrossed in a routine check-up of the evidence now to hand, was more than tolerably disposed to let his subordinate off the official leash. Much as he appreciated the lad’s keenness and efficiency there were times when his high-spirited chatter and unbounded zeal were a trifle distracting. Perhaps, too, a certain deep-bedded sentimental streak in the Inspector’s make-up was partly responsible for his decision to let Freddy have a day off-duty. A day that Freddy was determined to devote entirely to Dilys Westmacott. Provided, of course, that she was prepared to co-operate.

  After their prearranged meeting on the terrace of the Menton Casino their resuscitated friendship got away to a flying start. And with Dilys’ co-operation assured, they agreed to meet directly after lunch and take a walk out to Cap Martin.

  The cloudless weather was still holding. The air had a sparkle in it like a dry and tingling wine. The blue waters of the Mediterranean, shading to exquisite purples and greens close inshore, lapped at that sun-drenched coastline as gently as a kitten at a saucer of milk. Beneath the umbrella pines the shadows lay cool and heavy, with here and there a band of brilliant light scored across the undulating road along the edge of the cape. Clear of the pines the couple deserted the road and began to clamber out over the rocks to where the tip of the headland plunged like a dagger into the sea. A few fishermen were perched like large black gulls here and there along the water’s edge. Chancing to notice them, Dilys enquired anxiously:

  “Are you keen on fishing, Freddy?”

  “Me? Good lord, no!” retorted Freddy scornfully. “I’m all for an active life. Can’t see the point of sitting on a large damp rock, baiting a hook with a large damp worm in the forlorn hope of catching a small damp fish. Besides, I haven’t got the right temperament—far too impatient. Daresay you’ve noticed it.”

  “Wouldn’t ‘impetuous’ be a better word?” smiled Dilys. “But I’m glad you’re no angler. Tony’s mad about it.”

  “Tony?”

  “Tony Shenton—you met him yesterday when you were asking all those questions up at the villa.”

  “Oh, I get you—the big blond chap who runs that crimson Vedette. Honestly, Dilys, I can’t say I liked the cut of his jib.” Then suddenly recollecting the scene he’d witnessed in the garage-yard, he added unthinkingly: “Of course he’s a fisherman. I remember now. He had a rod and creel with him at the time.”

  Dilys dumped herself down on the nearest rock and stared at him in bewilderment.

  “What on earth are you talking about? I’d no idea you’d met Tony before yesterday. Am I allowed to ask where you met him, or is that another of your wretched professional secrets?”

  “Oh good lord, no!” protested Freddy breezily. “It’s all quite simple and above-board. You see, I happened to be—” He gaped like a gaffed pike, swallowed hard and looked at Dilys with an expression of anguished dismay. “Oh heck! I’ve properly put my foot in it this time. Don’t quite know what to say. It’s damned awkward. You see, I shouldn’t actually have been there…I mean, eavesdropping like that…quite definitely a bad show. But the point is…”

  And courageously taking the bull by the horns, Freddy blurted out a full confession of his early morning patrol in the Avenue St. Michel. And realizing that he’d been there, not by chance, but in the hope of seeing something of her, Dilys was naturally flattered and delighted. Profoundly relieved to find that she wasn’t going to tear a strip off him, Freddy regaled her with the full story of what had transpired outside the garage.

  “You mean that all Tony had got in that basket was an ordinary lump of rock?” asked Dilys incredulously.

  “Just that. Curious, eh? The poor mutt must be ga-ga or something. Does he often nip out during the early hours for a spot of fishing?”

  “Oh, about once or twice a week. It’s always puzzled me. Fishing and Tony don’t seem to go together.”

  “How long has he been interested in this odious form of sport?” asked Freddy, idly picking up a small pebble to throw at an empty wine bottle that was stuck up precariously on a nearby rock.

  “Oh, it’s quite a recent fad of his.”

  Freddy groped round for a second suitably-sized missile.

/>   “How do you mean by recent?”

  “Well, it must have been about a couple of months ago when he started—” Dilys broke off and glanced at Freddy suspiciously. “Look here, you wretch, are these questions the outcome of natural curiosity or are they part of a very subtle cross-examination?” She sighed. “You’re a bit of a trial, Freddy. Can’t you ever forget that you’re a policeman?”

  “Sorry,” grinned Freddy. “Force of habit, I’m afraid.” He picked up a third pebble and this time, more by luck than judgement, hit the wine bottle square amidships. He uttered a whoop of triumph. “Got it! Third go. Not so duff, eh?”

  “But terribly thoughtless,” pointed out Dilys practically. “Now there’ll be hundreds of nasty jagged bits of—” She broke off and stared at him in alarm: “Freddy! What is it? What’s the matter?”

  He was standing there transfixed, his eyes glued to a spot a few yards ahead of him across the intervening jumble of grey, water-smooth boulders. With an effort he withdrew his gaze from the object that had so unexpectedly riveted his attention and said with a reassuring smile:

  “Oh…er…nothing really. Just an odd little idea that came into my head. Nothing to do with you, I assure you. Just something that started up a pretty startling train of thought.”

  “The great detective at work!” exclaimed Dilys teasingly. “I shall have to get used to these moments of inspired revelation, Freddy. At present I find them rather shattering.” She raised her hands to be helped up from the rock. “Now what about concentrating on me for a change.”

  With an amiable chuckle, Freddy grasped her hands and hauled her to her feet.

  “I’m a whale of a chap for doing anything that comes easily! As a matter of fact…” he glanced around cautiously, “if it wasn’t for these wide open spaces…”

  He made a hurried attempt to snatch a kiss but, losing his balance, slipped sideways and sprawled in undignified embarrassment at his enamorata’s feet. A bungled performance, to say the least of it, but one that Freddy more than redeemed by a masterly and highly successful repeat performance under the screening branches of the umbrella pines. Thereafter he saved shoe leather. For as they returned, tired but happy, along the sun-baked promenade, Freddy walked on air.