Death on the Riviera

by John Bude

  When eventually Meredith left the villa, he set off through the town like a man in a daze. For although Mrs. Hedderwick’s surprising evidence had finally disposed of one important question, it had resurrected a score of equally vital problems that he’d already endeavoured to solve without a glimmer of success. Now, like a hen scratching over the same well-worn patch of earth, Meredith began for the umpteenth time to analyse the evidence in hand.

  Ignoring the fact that it was well past his customary dinner hour, the Inspector lit his pipe and, with long easy strides, set off on a protracted walk along the sea-front. And it was then that he was visited by one of those revealing flashes of deduction that spring, not from any inspirational source, but from a clearly realized and logical appreciation of the facts. And, as was so often the case, the moment he grasped the full significance of this infinitesimal scrap of evidence all the other mysteries surrounding the case were abruptly clarified. Now the sequence of events that must have occurred on Thursday night became obvious. He realized with an inaudible whoop of triumph that, apart from following up a few conclusive lines of enquiry, the problem of Shenton’s disappearance was virtually solved! By midday tomorrow he should be in a position to put in a full and final report to his good friend Blampignon.

  His immediate concern, however, was to get in touch with Gibaud and see that the official machinery for the apprehension of the murderer was immediately set in motion. With any luck the criminal was still at large “somewhere in France”. And since a detailed description of the wanted man could be broadcast to every policeman and gendarme in the country there was reasonable hope that within the next twenty-four hours an arrest would follow!

  III

  It was precisely twelve o’clock the following day when Blampignon, Gibaud, Strang and Meredith gathered for their last conference in the local Inspector’s office. Although Meredith had been forced to reveal to Gibaud the identity of the murderer, he’d deliberately kept Blampignon in the dark concerning the ultimate phase of his investigations. Blampignon, as a matter of fact, had been out all night on a burglary case at Fréjus and had driven over direct from Fréjus to Menton. He was, therefore, unaware that a general call had already been sent out for the arrest of the wanted man. In fact he’d no inkling of the real significance of Meredith’s urgent request for this meeting. Even Gibaud was still ignorant of the details that had finally led Meredith to a solution of the puzzle.

  “Eh bien,” demanded Blampignon once the little group was comfortably settled about Gibaud’s imposing desk, “what is the reason you call me over here? You say, mon ami, it is necessary we should talk together at once. You have made, perhaps, some progress in your investigations?”

  Meredith exchanged a twinkling glance with Gibaud and said with a malicious little smile:

  “Well, it all depends on what you call progress, my dear fellow. I’ve solved the mystery surrounding Shenton’s disappearance, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Qu’est-ce-que vous dites?” thundered Blampignon, springing to his feet and staring at Meredith dumbfounded. “You know what happen to Shenton? You know where he is?”

  “I do,” nodded Meredith.

  “Then, mon Dieu!” pleaded Blampignon, almost tearful in his impatience, “why do you not tell me? Where is he—this M’sieur Shenton? Where can we discover him?”

  Meredith smiled.

  “He’s not far away.”

  “Not far away?” gasped Blampignon. “Then where? Where?”

  Underlining the effect of his sensational announcement with deliberate under-emphasis, Meredith said:

  “Stretched out stiff and cold on the mortuary slab only a stone’s throw from this window!”

  “Shenton!” cried Blampignon incredulously. “So the body you find at the foot of the crag was not that of Dillon? But how can this be, mon vieux? How did you come to make the identification?”

  “An almost invisible scar on the inner side of his left forearm,” explained Meredith. “It was Mrs. Hedderwick who finally settled the point. She recalled the scar at once. She actually remembered the occasion when Shenton had cut his arm on a sliver of broken glass.”

  “You mean it happened recently?” asked Gibaud.

  “Recently?” Meredith laughed. “According to Mrs. Hedderwick’s calculations it must have happened when Shenton was just seven years old. He shoved his arm through a cucumber-frame.”

  “But…but how should she know this?” asked Blampignon, dropping again into his chair. “I did not think that Madame Hedderwick—”

  “Neither did I,” cut in Meredith incisively. “I was under the impression that they’d only known each other for the last three or four years. Well, that’s just one of the many illusions under which I’ve been suffering. Mrs. Hedderwick knew all about the accident for the very simple reason that she was there at the time.”

  “But how?…why?” demanded Gibaud.

  “Tony Shenton happens to be her son.”

  “Her son!” gasped Blampignon.

  “By her first marriage. Obvious now, isn’t it, why she was so concerned about his sudden disappearance? A very natural maternal solicitude for the welfare of an only child, eh? When she married Hedderwick, Tony was about eighteen and since he and his step-father hated each other on sight, Tony kept out of his way. Well, to cut a long story short, Shenton got into trouble with the police. You may recall that, thinking his face familiar, I got in touch with the Yard to see if they knew anything about his past record. You recollect their reply. A six months’ sentence in 1939 for theft. Charged under the name of Anthony Shenton, though this was suspected to be an alias.”

  “And it was?” asked Gibaud.

  “Yes—about the one decent thing the lad ever did, I imagine. His mother’s name by her first marriage was Fenman-Smith. An easy name to remember. So when he was pulled in, he gave his name as Shenton—a moniker that he’s stuck to ever since.”

  “But look here, sir,” put in Freddy. “Didn’t Miss Westmacott realize that Shenton was her aunt’s son by her first marriage?”

  “Not a bit of it. Mrs. Hedderwick led her to believe that the boy had been killed in the War. He and the girl had never met, so when he turned up at the villa as Tony Shenton…you follow?”

  Blampignon burst out explosively:

  “Yes, yes…this is all very interesting, mon ami. But it is really of little account. What I demand to know is—”

  “Who murdered Shenton, eh? Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “You mean it was Dillon?”

  “Of course,” nodded Meredith. “Who else?”

  “And the motive?” put in Gibaud.

  “An exceptionally strong one as you probably realize. Dillon was desperately in love with his wife. Shenton not only came between them and whisked the girl down here to his mother’s villa, but got the poor kid into trouble. I mean, of course, this baby that’s on the way. Dillon realized that Kitty was infatuated with Shenton, that he was the father of the child. Much as he loathed Shenton, even then, I reckon, Dillon would have done nothing really violent. His one thought was for his wife. If Shenton was prepared to marry Kitty then Dillon was prepared to agree to a divorce. The whole point was that Shenton refused to marry the girl. And that, so to speak, put the lid on it. From that moment onward Dillon settled down with malice, aforethought, to plan what might well have been the perfect murder. And if you ask me he all but succeeded in pulling it off.”

  “But what first made you suspect that Dillon was the wanted man?” asked Blampignon eagerly. “How did you arrive at the modus operandi of the murder? What made you first to think, mon ami, that the body below the Col de Braus might not be that of Dillon?”

  “Whoa! Whoa! One at a time, my dear chap,” chuckled Meredith. “Suppose I deal with your last question first. Let me put it this way. If Dillon had been short and dark there would have been no
question as to the identity of the body, even if the features were completely unrecognizable. The point is Dillon and Shenton were remarkably alike in their general physical appearance. Both broad, well-built fellows with fair hair and blue eyes. And with facial recognition impossible, there naturally entered in some element of doubt. Don’t forget, until Hamel put in his report, there was only one witness who actually saw Dillon go over that precipice—namely his wife. And it struck me at once that the couple might have collaborated in Shenton’s murder—the girl, of course, having suffered a sudden change of heart after Shenton’s refusal to marry her. And that, more or less, explains how I first came to suspect that it might be Shenton’s body at the foot of the crag.” Meredith paused for a moment to draw frantically at his expiring pipe; then went on: “Now for your first question. Why did I place Dillon at the top of my suspect list? Answer—A—because he had a thumping good motive for the murder. B—because he was the last person to see Shenton alive.”

  “But how do you know that?”

  “This somewhat unexpected and secretive meeting on Thursday night at the Bar St. Raphael,” pointed out Meredith. “You see, from the moment Shenton walked out of the place he wasn’t seen again until we discovered his corpse under the Col de Braus. Though at the time, of course, we didn’t realize it was his body.”

  “But wait a minute!” sang out Gibaud. “What about M’sieur Picard? He saw him sitting in the parked Vedette later that evening on the corner of the Avenue St. Michel.”

  “But did he?” asked Meredith bluntly. “Admittedly he claimed there was somebody sitting in the car, but he didn’t actually identify that ‘somebody’ as Shenton. In fact, my dear chap, Picard wasn’t even certain that the car was occupied.”

  “Eh bien,” put in Blampignon, “do you have the answer to this little question yourself?”

  “I have it now,” said Meredith promptly. “As a matter of fact, Picard wasn’t deceived. The car was occupied and the man sitting inside it was Shenton.”

  “And it was Shenton, of course, who drove down through Monti about 2 a.m. on Friday morning,” observed Gibaud.

  Meredith winked and said with tantalizing vagueness:

  “Was it? I wonder…”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, man!” cried Gibaud. “You might—”

  “No, no,” broke in Blampignon. “Let him tell his story in his own way. Let him amuse himself at our expense, mon cher Gibaud. All in good time, no doubt, he will satisfy our curiosity. Allow him to enjoy his little hour of triumph, even if, in my heart, I could choke the life out of him!”

  Meredith grinned amiably.

  “O.K. O.K. I’ll cut the cackle and come to the goose. The modus operandi, eh, gentlemen? That’s what’s got you guessing. Just as it had me guessing until I stumbled on the clue that suddenly clarified the whole mystery. But being an obstinate fellow with a perverse sense of humour, I’m going to leave this tit-bit to last. I’m going to start my reconstruction of the crime with Bill Dillon walking into the Bar St. Raphael about twenty to ten on Thursday night…”

  Chapter XXIII

  Case Closed

  I

  “Why had he gone there? By chance or by appointment? Well, it’s pretty obvious he didn’t show up there by chance. I felt certain that he’d gone to meet Shenton for a final showdown about the girl. Either Shenton promised to do the right thing by Kitty or else…you get the set-up?” Meredith turned to Blampignon. “Last night I dropped into the Bar St. Raphael and had a word with the proprietor myself. Gibaud here kindly came along as interpreter. The result was we picked up a very significant clue. Hivert, the proprietor, noticed that when Shenton left the bar with Dillon about ten-thirty he was scarcely able to drag one foot after the other. Dillon, in fact, had to more or less haul the poor devil out to the car. Admittedly Shenton had knocked back a few brandies, but as Hivert pointed out he’d often seen Shenton drink twice as much without really being affected. In Hivert’s opinion he had the look of a man, not under the influence of drink, but drugs!”

  “Drugs!” exclaimed Blampignon, suddenly stabbing a finger at Meredith. “You say drugs? Then is it not possible, mon ami…?”

  Meredith laughed.

  “Just as I anticipated. You reacted to that observation exactly as we did. Shenton was drugged. And it was Dillon who’d slipped what was evidently a pretty potent dose of morphia into his brandy.”

  “Morphia?” demanded Blampignon. “But how do you know that? Is it that M’sieur Hivert actually see—?”

  Meredith shook his head.

  “No, it wasn’t as simple as that. Hivert hadn’t spotted anything suspicious in Dillon’s actions. But the moment Gibaud and I suspected Shenton had been drugged, we arranged for an autopsy to be performed on the body in the mortuary. We had the doctor’s report about an hour ago. He’d been on the job all night. It was the result of the P.M. that proved our hunch was correct and that the drug employed was morphia.”

  “Eh bien!” said Blampignon with a gesture of impatience. “Please to go on.”

  “Well, once Dillon had got the fellow into the car—Shenton’s car, remember—he drove all out to the corner of the Avenue St. Michel. By that time, I imagine, Shenton had passed out completely. Dillon then returned on foot to the villa and joined Miss Westmacott and his wife in the lounge.”

  “Time,” put in Gibaud helpfully, “ten-forty.”

  “Precisely,” nodded Meredith. “Giving him roughly ten minutes to get from the Bar St. Raphael to the villa. Which, in Gibaud’s opinion, is just about what we should expect. After a chat and a drink, Dillon, as we know from the girls’ evidence, went up to bed. And shortly after the young women also retired for the night. It was then just after eleven o’clock. And that’s more or less all the definite information we have concerning Dillon’s movements on the night of Thursday-Friday. The rest, I admit, must be in the nature of surmise, though based, of course, on a series of reasonable suppositions. But this, at any rate, is my reconstruction of the events that must have followed on Dillon’s retirement to his room.” Meredith paused a moment to relight his pipe, cleared his throat, and went on with undiminished energy: “Waiting until all was quiet in the villa, Dillon sneaked downstairs, let himself out of the house and returned to the parked Vedette. From the Avenue St. Michel he drove direct to the foot of the Col de Braus.”

  “To the place where you discover the body, eh?” asked Blampignon.

  “Exactly. To the point where that mule-track joined the road down to Escarene. The Sergeant and I noticed that the track, at any rate as far as we followed it, was quite wide enough to accommodate a car. As I see it, Dillon backed the car along the track until he reached a spot directly below the rock-face.”

  “Shenton still in a drugged sleep, eh?” put in Gibaud, who was hearing for the first time this particular part of Meredith’s reconstruction.

  The Inspector nodded.

  “Well, what followed must have been a pretty grim and ghastly business. Dillon, I imagine, dragged Shenton from the car, stripped off his clothes and redressed him in the bush-shirt and shorts etc., which he’d brought along for this specific purpose. A set of clothes, mark you, that was an exact replica of those he wore himself the following morning. Nor did he forget to strap a rucksack on the poor devil’s back—the rucksack, of course, that contained the scarlet Thermos-flask. This done, he deliberately battered the fellow to death, executing the gruesome job in such a way that Shenton’s features should be unrecognizable!”

  “Mon Dieu!” murmured Blampignon with a shudder.

  “Not exactly a bed-time story, eh? But I’m pretty certain that’s what happened. A moment ago I suggested Dillon must have backed the car along the mule-track. This isn’t just guesswork. I was thinking of those bloodstains on the bodywork and running-board of the Vedette. On the side opposite the steering-wheel, remember. That’s to say on the right of the
car since the Vedette naturally had a left-hand drive. Well, there’s no doubt now how those bloodstains came to be there. When Dillon got to work with that blunt instrument the body must have been lying on the ground right beside the car. And that,” said Meredith, pausing a moment to mop his brow, “more or less covers the first part of my reconstruction. Any questions, gentlemen?”

  “Just one,” put in Gibaud promptly.

  “And that?”

  “What do you say to an apéritif and a bit of a breather before you ring in the second half of your report?”

  Meredith swung round on Strang and grinned broadly.

  “To employ one of the Sergeant’s favourite colloquialisms—bang on, m’lad!”

  II

  “And now, gentlemen,” went on Meredith, considerably refreshed by the ten-minute interval, “we come to the brilliant idea that formed the real basis of Dillon’s alibi. But before I deal with that we’d better consider the rest of Dillon’s movements on that fateful night.” He turned to Gibaud. “You asked me a moment ago if the man seen at the wheel of the Vedette as it shot through Monti was Shenton. Of course it wasn’t. It was Dillon. The fellow was obviously driving down hell-for-leather off the Col de Braus in the direction of Cap Martin. Time—about two ack emma on Friday morning. At Cap Martin, as we know, he abandoned the Vedette, planted the dead man’s black béret out on the rocks as a red-herring, and hoofed it back to the villa. At a rough estimate I should say he arrived there about four a.m.”