‘Of course, it hasn’t been proved that he cut them.’
‘If he didn’t, then it was Antoinette! We definitely saw somebody on horseback. If it wasn’t Antoinette then it was Legere acting on her instructions. He wasn’t up at the College, he told me so himself.’
‘No, but Julie was,’ Ruth said unexpectedly.
‘Say that again.’
‘Julie was at the College on Wednesday morning, wasn’t she?’
Holt looked at her in surprise. ‘Do you realise what you’re implying? That Antoinette might have an entirely clean pair of hands!’
Ruth shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s possible, isn’t it? Just because she seems to go in for love affairs with younger men, that doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s privy to all their secret activities. Whatever racket Vance or Legere might be mixed up in, Antoinette may know nothing about it. If there is a direct line linking Julie and Legere, and perhaps Ashley Milton as well, then maybe Antoinette is bypassed altogether.’
‘My word!’ Holt laughed. ‘You are being charitable all of a sudden.’
‘I’m simply trying to be objective and not too catty.’
‘Then I think you’re trying too hard. How do you explain Antoinette’s curious action in handing over the ring, along with that obviously faked letter?’
Ruth shook her head. ‘I can’t explain it – except that it reminds me of that party game where you all sit in a row and try to get rid of the hot potato before the music stops. That ring is obviously very significant and she certainly didn’t waste any time in passing it on.’
‘Milton didn’t keep the ring long, either.’
‘Milton? I thought it was Jimmy Wade who returned it to the police?’
‘It was, but he said—’
‘He said! Nothing will ever make me trust a man as smooth as Smiling Jimmy … My goodness!’ she added in a sarcastic tone, gripping her safety belt, ‘she holds the corners well, doesn’t she?’ Holt was going through the series of curves which embraced the flat mouth of the river Ouse as though it were a straight road. ‘That’s Newhaven in sight across there – start slowing down or we’ll overshoot the runway!’
Holt grinned and braked gently. As he coasted into the port of Newhaven they again went over the details of their plan of action.
As things turned out, there was no need for Ruth to hire a dinghy. They had agreed that she would take a rowing boat out to the vicinity of Milton’s yacht, lose an oar, and fall in the water whilst struggling to retrieve it. The Sunset was riding at anchor some way out in the harbour; at a convenient distance, moored to the quayside, stood a small cabin cruiser ideal for their purpose.
Casually, Ruth strolled over the plank on to the deck of the deserted cabin cruiser, pretended to trip over a coil of rope, and fell with a shriek and a loud splash into the freezing water … There, carefully losing all sense of direction, she struck out wildly for the Sunset and allowed herself to be rescued by willing deckhands who threw down a rope ladder and hauled her out of the water. It had involved a small risk, but Holt had calculated that no matter what sort of men the Sunset’s deckhands were, no seaman would refuse to help a woman struggling for her life in icy water near his ship.
Such an unexpected touch of drama on a dull November afternoon was enough to take the minds of all crew-members from their desultory work. All four men clustered round Ruth and shepherded her to a warm cabin below decks. Meanwhile Holt took a dinghy and rowed swiftly out to the Sunset’s side. He found a convenient rope and climbed aboard.
Down the starboard side of the upper deck he crept, until he was within earshot of Ruth’s raised voice, and there he learned what he needed to know – that all the crew had crowded into the cabin and was plying her with steaming tea, blankets, brandy, and excited conversation. For as long as she could hold their interest he had the boat to himself.
Keeping alert for the sound of her cabin door being opened, Holt began his task. He wasted no time on the trim, well-equipped upper decks, nor on the lavish fittings of bar and saloon below, but made straight for the cabins amidships.
By a stroke of good luck he found Milton’s private cabin almost immediately. A row of elegant tropical suits made by a French tailor had Milton’s name in them. Holt went through the pockets, but except for some Paris Metro ticket stubs he found nothing. Next he tackled the various cup-boards built into the bulkhead, but these also yielded no more than several articles of good quality clothing.
He was beginning to get anxious. Time had ticked away since Ruth had been hauled aboard – precious minutes in which he had been able to discover nothing. Despairingly he pulled at drawers in the small fitted table, but they were locked and he dared not force them open. The delicate balance between success and failure hung on his leaving absolutely no trace of his visit. He gave a last glance round the cabin, then nipped out into the passageway and silently closed the door behind him.
He was debating which cabin to tackle next when he was startled by a high-pitched buzzing. It came from a cabin further up the corridor, and he hid behind a bulkhead as footsteps clattered down an iron companion ladder from the deck overhead and approached down the gangway.
A seaman, muttering curses in French, lumbered past a few feet away. With a blow of his hand Holt could have felled him, but this was no moment for heroics.
The man entered the radio room, and a second or two later the buzzing ceased. The seaman’s voice came clearly through the half-open door, and it was at once obvious that a conversation by radio-telephone was taking place. The words exchanged were in French, but it went very fast and seemed to be mostly in slang so that Holt could make little sense of it. One thing emerged with undoubted clarity, however: a distinct sense of urgency and impending disaster! Two names were mentioned, which made Holt’s blood run faster – Christopher, and a French name which sounded like Dunant.
The seaman at the receiving end swore violently and slammed a metal object – possibly a microphone – into place. The radio was switched off and then came the sound of a pen or pencil scratching over paper and the noise of a sheet being ripped from a pad. Holt flattened himself into the shadows as the door burst open and the Frenchman hurried out.
When the footsteps clattering up the companion ladder ceased, Holt darted into the radio room.
What he saw nearly took his breath away …
He knew very little about radio technology, but it was apparent that the mass of radio equipment in the tiny cabin was first-rate and quite extensive. He had no time to gaze at the array of dials, plugs, knobs, and wires on the complicated set. His eyes swept over the table and he found what he was looking for – a scribbling-block near the microphone and a ball-point pen alongside. Holding the pad at an oblique angle to the light, he could scarcely restrain a grunt of satisfaction. The ball-point pen used by a man in a savage frame of mind had made a sharp tracing of the message he had scribbled down.
There was no time to decipher it. Holt tore the top sheet from the pad and, not wishing to risk damage to the impression by folding it, he slipped it under his shirt.
A quick inspection of the rest of the room confirmed that these were careful men, too thorough to leave information lying about for unwelcome visitors.
He left the door open behind him, as the seaman had done, and stole out to the upper deck just in time to see Ruth being escorted off the boat.
He waited whilst two of the men rowed her the short distance to the quayside, and watched her go into a café which announced by a sign outside that it housed a public telephone. She seemed in control of the situation, but Holt guessed that after the receipt of the urgent message the men had decided to hustle her off the Sunset as quickly as possible.
Was Christopher expected, he wondered? And who was Dunant? Holt was tempted to remain on board in the hope of finding out, but it was a faint hope and he had other problems to attend to. There was Ruth’s safety to think of, and the message on the paper under his shirt, and the rendezvous wi
th Vance at midnight.
He made his way to the stern, noted with relief that his dinghy was still moored alongside, and slid down the rope without making a sound.
For a long moment before taking the oars he sat completely still, straining for some indication of the whereabouts of the two remaining deckhands. Suddenly an agitated quarrel in French broke out; it came from the forward wheelhouse. There was nothing for it but to risk being seen and trust to luck that they were too involved in their argument to notice him as he pulled away.
It was the longest thirty yards Holt had ever rowed, but his luck was in and he reached the safety of the moored cabin-cruiser and was soon on the quayside.
Hearing the sound of a car, he turned, and was just in time to see Ruth climb into a taxi outside the café and disappear from sight with a grateful wave to her rescuers. The men made no attempt to have her followed, but made their way leisurely back to the Sunset.
Holt breathed a sigh of relief. She had carried out her dangerous and physically uncomfortable part of the scheme without exciting suspicion. As Inspector Hyde was fond of saying, Ruth was quite a girl!
Holt took the paper from under his shirt. Held in a certain light it was fairly legible, but unfortunately it did not make much sense to him because most of the words used were in a kind of French argot. ‘Tell Christopher … something … something … Dunant … something …’
What was needed, he decided, was someone who spoke fluent French, including the argot of the streets, not found in a dictionary of correct grammar … Who?… There was Henri Legere, of course, but he was scarcely a suitable choice … No, Hyde would soon find a source of translation; the best plan was to return to the hotel immediately.
But, on the other hand, there was someone else … someone whose salmon-pink bungalow lay on the direct route back to Eastbourne. Holt told himself, with a slight tingling of the blood, that he really had no alternative.
When he rang the door bell there was the sound of a window being opened round a corner of the bungalow.
‘Who is it?’ came Antoinette’s attractive voice. ‘I hope it’s someone nice.’
‘Why, does it make a difference?’ Holt countered.
‘It does indeed. I’m in my bath.’ She gave an embarrassed laugh and added, ‘Do I detect the friendly tones of Philip Holt, by any chance?’
‘You do, Miss Sheen.’
‘Ah, that is someone nice. I won’t be a moment.’
After a brief interval Antoinette opened the front door and it was at once apparent to Holt how she had managed to be so quick. She wore only a white thigh-length bathrobe and the water was still gleaming on her golden-brown skin. She did not open the door fully, for which Holt was thankful, bearing in mind her Peeping Tom Neighbour with the telescope. He edged past her, disturbingly aware of the fragrance of her body, and she led the way into the studio.
‘Please excuse the attire,’ she said. ‘I thought it bad manners to keep you waiting on a windy doorstep.’
The tall, graceful figure bent towards the fire to add more logs, the brief bathrobe proving hopelessly inadequate for the activity. Glancing up at him and making a vague effort to pull it more closely around her she added with a smile, ‘if it worries you, I’ll go and put some more clothes on.’
‘I think I’ll manage to survive.’
She remained where she was, kneeling by the fire and looking up at him, then she asked quietly, ‘You don’t trust me, do you, Philip?’
Holt said, ‘Let’s just say there are times when it pays to be cautious.’
Antoinette smiled and rose to her feet. ‘Like now?’ she said softly.
‘I’m afraid this is a business call, Antoinette. Perhaps one day I may make a social one.’
‘Is that a promise?’ She was moving closer to him. ‘When this Vance Scranton affair is cleared up perhaps …?’
‘There’s … nothing I should like more.’ He managed an unsteady smile.
‘I really think you mean that.’ She was devastatingly close. ‘For a man hell-bent on saying “No” you have a charming way of saying it …’
It was by no means certain what might have happened next; fortunately for Holt he was saved by the bell. The telephone rang.
Antoinette stiffened. ‘I suppose I’d better answer it.’ She crossed the room and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello … Ah, salut, Henri! Ça va?’
Holt realised with a sudden stab of irritation that it must be Henri Legere. He forced himself to listen with wooden indifference, taking professional note of Antoinette’s excellent accent and fluent French. The conversation seemed to be concerned with a theatre date at Bexhill that evening. Bexhill was a few miles the other side of Eastbourne.
When she hung up she pulled the bathrobe closer about her and headed for her bedroom door, calling over her shoulder, ‘I’d better get dressed. That was Henri Legere. I expect the gossips have told you he’s my current boyfriend. Not a very serious one,’ she added.
‘I had heard,’ said Holt dryly.
‘I believe you’ve met Henri. What did you think of him?’
‘I don’t really know enough about him to form an opinion,’ Holt replied noncommittally.
Antoinette laughed. ‘Neither do I. I expect that sounds odd, but he’s a bit of an iceberg. At least two-thirds of him are under water. I still don’t have a clue as to what makes him tick.’
Holt raised his eyebrows at this remark. It echoed in an uncanny fashion something that Ruth had said earlier that day. Was Antoinette in the clear? Did she really know nothing about the private lives of the young men whose physical charms appealed to her? Common-sense ruled this out as unlikely, yet it was an established fact that many a woman had lived with a man for years without realising she was married to a thief or murderer.
Holt drew the piece of paper from the Sunset out of his shirt, glad that Antoinette could not see him.
‘You speak excellent French,’ he called out to her. ‘Do you know the argot of the streets as well?’
‘I ought to,’ came a muffled reply. She was obviously pulling on a sweater. ‘I studied for three years at the Sorbonne.’
‘Did you, by Jove! Lucky girl! I can cope with correct French, but their slang has me beat. I heard an odd phrase at the cinema the other day.’ He glanced at the paper and, omitting the names Christopher and Dunant, read out the French words. ‘What the devil does that mean?’
She replied without hesitation. ‘Oh, that’s a racy way of saying that things are getting too hot for someone and that he or she will have to go underground for a while, till the pressure is off. What film was this?’
‘Oh, it’s running in London,’ Holt lied glibly. ‘I forget the title. It was a pretty exciting film.’
Antoinette came back into the studio dressed in a thick fisherman’s jersey and blue jeans. She made a deprecating gesture at herself. ‘My working clothes. I’m on a painting jag again. What do you think of my Rembrandt?’ She moved to the easel which was draped by a cloth.
‘What became of the Vermeer?’ Holt asked.
‘Oh, I got tired of it,’ she said carelessly.
‘What a pity, May I see it?’
‘No, I’m afraid not, I threw it away. The bread looked stale. This is the one I’m interested in now.’
She pulled the cloth from the canvas to reveal the half completed painting. It was a copy of one of Rembrandt’s portraits of his son Titus.
Holt studied it carefully, then said, ‘I should imagine it’s going to be terrific! Tell me: why do you go in for copying all the time? Why not try something of your own, something original?’
‘I will, one day. You have to walk before you can run. First I must learn how to draw, how to mix colour, how to lay it on. All students learn by copying, if they’re serious about art.’
‘I see … Meantime,’ he said jokingly, ‘you could make a pretty penny by passing off your work as original Old Masters and selling them to some unsuspecting Texan oil king. Did you know on
e of the Titus portraits fetched two and a quarter million dollars recently?’
‘Yes – and poor old Rembrandt got paid fifty gulden for it at the time. That’s justice for you!’
Holt nodded. ‘It’s a strange world, the world of art. There are some crazy prices about. I think it has something to do with status symbols.’
Antoinette favoured him with her most enchanting smile. ‘It’s funny you should say that. I remember Vance saying something very similar. He said what’s the use of being a Persian sheikh and owning half a dozen oil wells if you haven’t got an Old Master to hang on the walls of your desert palace? No Old Master – no status amongst your fellow sheikhs, apparently.’
Holt laughed and it was on the tip of his tongue to take her into his confidence and tell her that Vance was alive. But, with difficulty, he restrained the impulse, forcing himself to remember that from Delilah and Salome to the present day, women had used their beauty to dazzle men and befuddle their judgement at crucial moments. Was the betwitching Antoinette doing just that? Was she a superb actress, capable of pretending she did not know that Vance was alive, Graham Brown dead, and two people nearly killed when the hydraulic brake tubes of Holt’s Mustang were severed only a mile or two from her bungalow?
Without warning she said, ‘When are you going to come to the point, Philip?’
He was momentarily taken aback. She really was nobody’s fool. He pretended not to have followed her train of thought, whilst he gathered his wits.
‘The point of what?’
‘This visit. You said it wasn’t a social call. What’s on your mind?’
‘Oh – well … I wanted to ask you a few questions.’
‘Fire away, then!’
‘Do you know a man named Ashley Milton?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Is he a friend of yours?’
‘Not really. He’s very knowledgeable, cultured, and so on, he knows a great deal about music and painting – but as a man he’s an utter wash-out!’ She grinned. ‘You know me: I like a man to be a man – and if possible a hunk of a man!’
Dead to the World Page 14