by Sapper
“Read what I’ve said, Hugh. I’ll send it round by hand to his club.”
Dear Colonel,
We will both go as you suggest. Do you know that Burton was in Nice while Jimmy was at Cannes?
Your flat is being watched: we were both shadowed last night when we left you. Hugh caught his sportsman who admitted the fact. This looks to me to be strong confirmation of your theory that Jimmy was murdered.
Have you a line on a Madame Tomesco? She was with Burton last night, and according to Hugh she knocked even the habitués of the Golden Boot – which is financed by Burton – quite flat.
Yours sincerely,
Ronald Standish.
PS. The messenger will wait for an answer.
It came in five minutes, scribbled characteristically on the back of the note itself.
Good. Was he, now? That’s interesting.
I’m not surprised. But if it continues they will be! Of course he was murdered.
Afraid not. Will make enquiries.
H T
“How shall we go?” said Standish as they sat down to lunch.
“Since there are no papers or triptyques required for France, I suggest we go by car,” remarked Drummond. “It takes a little longer, I know, but once we’re there it gives us much more freedom. Shall we do Paris before or after Cannes?”
“After,” said Standish decidedly. “Let’s begin at the beginning if we can, and work forward.”
“And when shall we cross?”
“As soon as possible. What about the four-thirty service via Folkestone? The boat leaves at six-thirty. We can be alongside by a quarter to six.”
“On our heads,” said Drummond. “What’s the distance from Boulogne to Cannes?”
“Seven hundred miles odd.”
“We can do that tomorrow driving turn and turn about if we start early.”
“Right. All settled. And I for one, old boy, am taking a gun.”
“You stagger me,” grinned Drummond, as he inspected the Stilton. “Personally, I think a piece of this would be just as efficacious.”
CHAPTER 3
Midnight Interview
The lounge in the Metropole was full of middle-aged women knitting incomprehensible garments when they arrived there at ten o’clock the following night.
“What a galaxy!” muttered Drummond. “I wonder why Jimmy stopped here.”
“I shouldn’t think he was in much,” laughed Standish.
They were standing by the concierge’s desk registering. The management had been enchanted to give them rooms on the third floor facing the sea, and as they signed their names, the manager himself approached with the air of a high priest.
“You are staying long, gentlemen?” he enquired.
“Probably three or four days,” said Standish.
The manager sighed. Extras were his life, and these two Englishmen did not look of the type who made a small bottle of vin ordinaire last a week, like most of his visitors.
“I wonder if we could have a little private talk in your office,” continued Standish. “Perhaps you will join us in a bottle of wine, and we could have it sent in there.”
“But certainly,” cried the Frenchman. “Henri! La carte des vins. Messieurs; vous permettez? Une bouteille de dix neuf, et trois verres. Au bureau. Follow me, gentlemen.”
He led the way along a passage, and opening a frosted glass door, he gave a brief order to a girl who was immersed in a vast ledger. She left the room, and, having sat down at his desk, the manager waved Drummond and Standish to two chairs.
“Now, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
“You have recently had staying here, m’sieur,” said Standish, “an English officer called Latimer – Major Latimer.”
The Frenchman nodded.
“I had guessed, gentlemen, that that was your business. Only yesterday I was on the telephone to London about him.”
“You know, of course, that he is dead.”
“Dead!” The manager sat up with an amazed jerk. “Dead! Ce n’est pas possible. How did he die?”
“We can rely on your discretion, m’sieur?”
A superb gesture indicated that they could.
“Major Latimer was found dead in his cabin in the Dieppe–Newhaven boat on Wednesday night. And we are not quite sure what caused his death. On the face of it, it appears to have been natural, but he was a singularly healthy man. We know that he was in possession of certain information which he was bringing back to England, and we are very anxious to find out what that information was. Now, in view of what you said over the telephone to London we cannot help thinking that his abrupt departure from this hotel has some vital bearing on the case. What we, therefore, would like to find out is what Major Latimer’s movements were on Tuesday last, after he had renewed his room for another week. Because it seems clear that it must have been then, that whatever it was took place.”
The waiter paused in the act of pouring out the wine.
“Pardon, m’sieu. Vous dites mardi? M’sieur le majeur a accompagné Madame Pélain en auto. Ils sont sortis à onze heures.”
“Merci, Henri.”
He dismissed the man, and himself handed the wine to his guests.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, “I go – how do you say it – wool gathering. One must be of a discretion, naturellement, but since the poor fellow is dead one may be permitted to speak. As you will understand, most things in an hotel like this come to my ear sooner or later, and it would not be an exaggeration to say that the major and Madame Pélain saw much of each other during his stay here. He seemed to prefer her company to that of the other charming ladies whom you saw in the lounge as you passed through.”
His mouth twitched behind his moustache, and with one accord Drummond and Standish burst out laughing.
“Precisely, messieurs,” continued the manager, laughing himself. “In fact, though perhaps I should not say it, if Madame had not been here, I fear your poor friend would not have remained. It was reported to me by Henri that at dinner the first night he did nothing but call ceaselessly upon the good God to deliver him.”
“Do we understand,” said Standish, “that Madame Pélain is still in your hotel?”
“Mais oui, m’sieu. It is for that I say I go wool gathering. For it is she who can tell you far more than I. But almost certainly will she be at the casino now. It will be a great shock to her. I will swear that she has no idea that he is dead.”
He lit a cigarette and looked curiously at the two men.
“Is it permitted to ask, gentlemen, what it is that you think has happened? Is it that you fear he was the victim of foul play?”
“You have struck it, m’sieur,” said Drummond. “We think it more than possible that he was murdered.”
“Mon Dieu! c’est terrible.”
“But please keep that to yourself,” said Standish. “All that has appeared in the papers is that he died in his sleep on board the boat. Have you any idea when Madame is likely to return?”
The manager shrugged his shoulders.
“À minuit, peut-être. You would wish to talk to her tonight?”
“The sooner the better, Hugh, don’t you think?”
“Certainly. Unless she is too tired. Tell me, m’sieur, of what – er – type is Madame?”
“Très chic: très élégante.”
“Is there a Monsieur Pélain?
“I understand Monsieur Pélain resides in Paris,” said the manager diplomatically.
“And you think we can rely on anything she may tell us?”
Once again the manager shrugged his shoulders.
“If I knew enough about women, m’sieur, to be able to tell that concerning any member of their sex, I would be President of France. She h
as a sitting-room: if she consents to receive you – as I am sure she will – you must judge for yourselves. You are not, are you, from Scotland Yard?”
“No. We are just two friends of Major Latimer’s.”
“And what would you wish me to tell Madame? That he is dead?”
“No,” said Standish decidedly. “Just that we are two friends. And please impress upon her that if she is at all tired we would much prefer to wait till tomorrow morning.”
A telephone rang on the desk, and the manager picked up the receiver.
“Certainement, Madame. Tout de suite. Madame has returned,” he went on as be replaced the instrument. “She orders Evian. I will go to her at once and enquire if she will receive you.”
“A nice little man,” said Drummond as the door closed behind him. “Very helpful and obliging.”
“I wonder if we’ll get anything out of this woman,” remarked Standish thoughtfully. “I shall be interested to see her reaction when she hears that Jimmy is dead. Who’s going to do the talking – you or I?”
“You do it,” said Drummond. “You’re better at it than I am.”
The door opened and the manager returned.
“Madame will receive you, gentlemen. I have told her nothing save that you are two friends of Major Latimer. Will you come this way? Her rooms are on the same floor as yours.”
The lounge was deserted as they crossed it to go to the lift, and Drummond glanced at his watch. It was just half-past eleven, and he was beginning to wish that the interview had been postponed till the following morning. They had started from Boulogne at five o’clock, and though each of them had had an occasional doze while the other drove, he was feeling distinctly weary. At the same time he was conscious of a little tingle of excitement: would they find out anything worth while, or would they draw blank?
The manager knocked at the door, and a woman’s voice called “Entrez.”
Madame Pélain was standing by a table in the centre of the room, with the fingers of one hand lightly resting on it. She had not yet removed her cloak, which was open, revealing her evening frock underneath. Her hair was dark and beautifully coiffured: her nails were red though not outrageously so. Attractive, decided Drummond: more attractive than pretty. But, emphatically, a charming woman to look at.
As the manager introduced the two men she gave each of them a keen searching glance: then sinking gracefully into an easy chair she lit a cigarette.
“Do smoke,” she said. “Monsieur Lidet tells me that you are friends of Major Latimer.”
Her voice was musical: her English almost devoid of accent.
“That is our excuse, Madame,” said Standish, “for intruding on you at this hour.”
With a murmured apology the manager left the room, and she leaned forward in her chair.
“You have a message for me from him?” she asked.
“I fear, Madame,” answered Standish gravely, “that you must prepare yourself for a shock. Jimmy Latimer is dead.”
She sat staring at him speechlessly, her cigarette half-way to her lips. And it was obvious to both men that the news had come as a complete shock to her.
“Dead,” she stammered at length. “Mais c’est incroyable. How did he die, m’sieur?”
Briefly Standish told her and she listened in silence. And when he had finished she still did not speak: she sat in a sort of frozen immobility with her eyes on the carpet. At length she drew a deep breath.
“I wonder,” she whispered.
“Yes, Madame?” said Standish quietly.
“You think poor Jimmy was murdered?”
“I think nothing, Madame. But something must have happened on Tuesday to make him change his plans so suddenly, and since you were with him all that day we think you might know what that something was.”
For a space she stared at them without speaking.
“How am I to know that you are what you profess to be?” she said at length. “How can I be sure that you are Major Latimer’s friends?”
“I fear, Madame,” said Standish frankly, “that you can only take our word for it.”
Once again she studied them thoughtfully: then, rising, she began to pace up and down the room.
“I’ll trust you,” she said suddenly: “I will tell you all I know, though I fear it is not very much. On Tuesday Jimmy and I lunched Chez Paquay, a restaurant on the Corniche road between here and St Raphael. Our table was laid in a covered balcony with no window. Almost was it a room from which the window had been removed, with a red brick wall along the side that faced the sea. Another table was laid, but it was empty, and so we had the place to ourselves.
“Suddenly there came a gust of wind. The dust outside swirled in eddies: we gripped the tablecloth to save it blowing away, for it was fierce, that gust. And even as it died away two sheets of paper blew in and settled on the floor. Quite casually Jimmy bent down and picked them up. He glanced at them, and in an instant, m’sieurs, his face changed. To my amazement he crammed them in his pocket, and, even as he did so, we heard footsteps rushing down the stairs.
“‘Not a word,’ said Jimmy to me.
“The glass door was flung open, and a man dashed in.
“‘Pardon,’ he cried, ‘but have you seen two pieces of paper? They blew out of my bedroom window in the wind and fluttered in here.’
“Jimmy made a pretence of helping him to look.
“‘I’m afraid they must have fluttered out again,’ he said. ‘What sort of size were they?’
“‘The size of a piece of note-paper,’ answered the man, and he was staring hard at Jimmy. ‘And they did not flutter out again.’
“‘Then they must still be here,’ said Jimmy indifferently.
“He sat down and poured me out some more wine, whilst the man stood hovering by the other table in a state of the most obvious indecision. He was, of course, in a quandary. It was clear to me that the papers were important, otherwise Jimmy would not have acted as he had: it was clear also that the man was convinced that they had not blown away. But what was he to do? Twice he made a step forward as if to speak: twice he drew back. And then he made up his mind.
“‘As a mere matter of form, sir,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you would mind turning out your pockets? The papers are of the utmost importance, and–’
“‘What the devil do you mean, sir,’ remarked Jimmy, slowly getting up. ‘Your suggestion is the most monstrous piece of impertinence I have ever heard. Emphatically I will not turn out my pockets. Why, damn it, it’s tantamount to accusing me of having taken your two confounded pieces of paper! Get to hell out of it.’
“And then the lobster arrived, and Jimmy resumed his seat, the picture of righteous indignation, while the man, with one last vindictive look at both of us, left the room.
“‘Jimmy,’ I said, when we were once more alone, ‘that was very naughty of you. Why have you stolen the poor man’s papers?’
“He looked at me, and I had never seen him so serious.
“‘I’ve only had one fleeting glimpse at them,’ he said, ‘and I don’t propose to do more than that here. But that glimpse was enough to make me wish I could steal all his other papers as well.’
“And it was then, m’sieurs, he told me that he was in your Secret Service, and not, as I had thought, just an army officer en permission.”
“Just one moment, Madame,” said Standish. “This man – was he English?”
“No. He spoke it well, but with a strong accent.”
“I see. Please go on, Madame, you are interesting us profoundly.”
“We finished our lunch,” she continued, “but Jimmy was distrait. All the time I could see that he was itching to be gone so that he could examine the papers at his leisure. But he was far too clever to appear to be in a hurry.
; “‘When one comes,’ he said, ‘to a restaurant where the food is as famous as here, one takes one’s time. It is over little things like that, that mistakes are made. And mistakes in my trade are apt to be dangerous.’
“So we had our coffee and liqueurs, and it was while we were drinking them that the man again came in, this time with a woman of most striking appearance. They took the other table, so that I had ample opportunity to study her. She was tall, slender, and very made-up, with an expression of insolent arrogance. But her expression did not ring true. It was a pose, a mask. The woman was bourgeoise.
“They talked in French, but again that was not their native language. The man’s was better than his English: the woman’s very good. But they were neither of them French. I tried to listen, but could hear nothing of any interest. Just banalities on food and wine and the beauty of the coast.
“When our bill was brought, the man came over to our table. I saw Jimmy stiffen, but this time it was only to apologise for his apparent rudeness. He again stressed the importance of the papers as his excuse, and there the matter ended, except that as we got into the car escorted by the patron Jimmy enquired their name. It was Pilofsky.”
Madame Pélain paused and took a sip of Evian water. “On the way back,” she continued, “we examined the papers. The first was covered with writing in a foreign language which Jimmy told me was Russian. It was numbered three, and was evidently one of a series. I couldn’t read a word of it, and was more interested in the second which, at any rate, was intelligible. It was a map of England and Scotland in outline. Jimmy said it was what you would give to children to fill in the counties. On it were a large number of red dots: I should say thirty or forty. In some places they were closely grouped together: in others they were scattered. And against each dot was a number.
“These numbers varied considerably. The lowest I saw was 50, the highest 2,500. But you will understand, m’sieurs, that it was difficult to read in the jolting car. However, one thing I did notice. It was in your manufacturing districts that the dots were close together, whereas in the agricultural areas they were few and far between.