The bartender placed a double brandy in front of him. He was probably the best bartender I’d ever encountered.
‘Where did they take him?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.’ He took a swig of his snifter.
‘Where’s Fogg?’
‘He ran into my room when I opened the door. I have now placed him in your suite with his blanket.’
Poor Foggy, he’d always hated anything dead. As soon as I saw his reaction I knew the woman had been killed.
We both drank more brandy, which was excellent actually and almost made up for the appalling contretemps.
‘Could we go home, sir?’ Greggs asked in a heartfelt tone.
I sighed in sympathy. Just as I was coming round to the idea of enjoying the comforts of foreign parts it had all erupted into chaos.
I glanced across at Persi, or rather her back – she was still in close conversation with Swift, who was listening intently with a crease between dark brows.
A loud whistle suddenly interrupted. It came from the direction of the entrance and was immediately followed by the pounding of boots. A group of gendarmes raced into the courtyard with revolvers drawn, gesticulating and generally making a racket.
‘Arret. Arret. Mains a l’air.’
They surrounded Swift, Persi and the corpse. The khaki-uniformed men ran through doorways and archways. It wouldn’t be long before they found us behind the jungle surrounding the bar.
‘Greggs, go and find Jamal. I think he’s hiding behind the reception desk.’
‘Pssst. Hello, effendis. I am not there, I am here.’ A voice came from among the greenery. ‘I have heard all. I go with old chap and uncover the fate of the bath-draw boy. Come.’ Two hands parted a potted palm and Jamal appeared, waved and sank below the foliage again.
A couple of gendarmes were running in our direction.
‘Hurry up, Greggs,’ I urged.
He drained his brandy, crouched down and entered the greenery. I saw them both emerge from the far side and dash into a shadowy doorway as two Frenchmen skidded to a halt in front of me.
‘Mains a l’air,’ they shouted.
‘Go away, I’m English,’ I told them.
That didn’t seem to impress them. ‘Arms to ze sky,’ one said.
‘No.’
They could have shot me and I think one of them actively contemplated it, but probably realised it would lead to all sorts of complications.
‘Tell me, how are you?’ the taller one shouted in mangled English, he wore sergeant’s stripes, sewn onto a spotless khaki uniform. The shorter one was scruffy and unkempt and stared at my brandy. The bartender poured him a liberal glass. He didn’t move, but his fingers twitched.
‘I’m Major Lennox, how are you?’ I replied.
‘I am not to tell you,’ the sergeant continued shouting. ‘How shot ze lady?’
I looked at the comatose Harry Bing, face down on the counter, and decided discretion was the better part of valour.
The sergeant prodded Bing, who grunted then slid off his barstool to lay spread-eagle on the floor. ‘Do not move.’ He pointed his pistol at Bing, who began to snore in reply.
I laughed.
‘It iz not funny,’ the sergeant snapped. ‘Allez,’ he ordered his scruffy colleague as he grabbed Bing under one arm.
The short gendarme was still staring at the brandy on the bar and suddenly snatched it, knocked it back in one flash of movement, wiped his lips on his sleeve and took Bing’s other arm without drawing a breath. I was quite impressed, actually.
‘Vite.’ They both dragged Bing over to where their comrades were interrogating Swift and Persi by the fountain. Josephine Belvoir lay staring at the stars, largely ignored.
The two Frenchmen dropped Bing’s arms and he came to rest at the edge of the huddle. He started to sing, ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go…’
As crime scenes go, it lacked gravitas.
‘Vous! Arret!’ Another gendarme emerged from the other side of the bar. He waved his revolver at me and I was marched to the fountain where Swift and Persi were arguing with the sergeant.
I was about to join in when a couple of ladies were escorted over.
‘Greetings.’
‘Oh, hello! I’m Genevieve Hamilton.’ The younger lady regarded me with a bright smile. She was tall and slim and had chestnut hair in a fashionable cut. She turned to gaze at the corpse, where the scruffy gendarme was now kneeling and reverentially holding Josephine’s cold hand. It would seem, even in death, she hadn’t lost her allure.
‘I’m Major Lennox,’ I said but the chestnut haired lady wasn’t paying much attention, then suddenly she turned toward me.
‘I saw it all! Isn’t it exciting?’ Her dark brown eyes glowed and she clapped her hands together. She wore a modern dress in yellow, with a long string of pearls around her neck in the flapper style.
‘Erm… What?’
‘She is dead, isn’t she? It’s not play-acting.’
‘No, I mean, yes. Erm, what I mean is…’ I stopped because I was babbling; a bad habit when around pretty girls. I was also a bit nonplussed by her enthusiasm for murder.
‘Genevieve!’ the older one admonished, aiming piercing grey eyes at me. ‘You must not talk to strange men.’
‘I’m not strange,’ I protested.
The steel-haired lady gave a haughty sniff. Dressed in pale puce, she looked every inch the ‘Grande Dame’ and her thin face was without a hint of humour.
A man’s voice caused us to turn around.
‘Do not prod me, dumbkopf.’ A German, wearing a white bowtie and tuxedo, was being frogmarched toward us. ‘Do you not know who I am? I am the film star, Dick Dreadnaught and I vill not tolerate your behaviour,’ he shouted, for all the good it did him, a revolver was instantly stuck under his nose.
‘Oh, Auntie M!’ The young lady, Genevieve, pointed. ‘It’s Dick Dreadnaught! I would simply adore to have his autograph. I say, Mr Dreadnaught?’
He didn’t deign to turn his profile in our direction. A handsome man with classic German colouring – fair hair, blue eyes, square jaw and block-head. He stalked off toward Persi, Swift and the sergeant and joined in the harangue.
The American director, Vincent, had been winkled out and was being herded toward the general throng. A lady of comfortable proportions with greying brown hair and a red flowery dress walked quickly to keep up with him. There were two more gendarmes at their heels.
‘Don’t answer any question until the lawyer gets here,’ Vincent told the lady.
‘I will not, dearest. I will not,’ she replied in a softer American accent. I assumed her to be Mrs Vincent.
Things were getting colourful in the courtyard and I folded my arms to watch the show. There was a lot of shouting and gesticulating; the sergeant had been at the centre of it all but a tall man in an officer’s uniform now arrived to take command. Vincent immediately began berating him.
Swift made his escape and came to join me. ‘Absolute bunch of rank amateurs. The murder scene is completely contaminated.’
‘Oh, come off it, Swift. She was shot, the only relevance is the gun.’
‘Humph.’ He wasn’t convinced. ‘Where is it?’
‘In my belt.’
‘You’ll have to hand it over. It’s evidence.’
‘Tell me what Persi wanted to discuss with you first?’
He frowned. ‘She told me she had handled the gun. Her prints will be on it.’
‘I know.’
‘Not just the gun.’
‘What?’
‘The magazine, too.’
‘What?’ I repeated. ‘But how?’ I was quite aware I’d passed her the pistol, but I hadn’t given her the magazine.
‘No time.’ He glanced over his s
houlder. ‘You’d better give it to me, we must hand it over.’
‘No.’
‘It’s evidence, Lennox, and Persi insists we pass it to the police.’
I regarded his hawkish features, wondering why he was so insistent. The gendarmes were throwing glances at us.
‘But I could wipe it clean first,’ I hissed.
‘No, she specifically told me not to,’ he replied sotto voce. ‘We shouldn’t interfere in a crime scene, and…’ he was cut off by a shout from behind.
‘He’s got it,’ Vincent pointed a stubby finger in my direction.
The babble of voices stopped in an instant and all attention turned to me.
The tall gendarme with an air of authority, immaculate uniform and discrete gold braid, marched over and thrust out his gloved palm.
‘Give it to me,’ he ordered in lightly accented English.
I hesitated. French revolvers swivelled in my direction so I slowly pulled out the pistol from behind my back and surrendered it.
He popped the magazine. ‘I am Colonel Fontaine, where is the ammunition from this weapon?’ He demanded in a clipped tone.
I stand at six feet three and he was almost my height. He wore a kepi over sandy hair above sandy brows. His lean face was darkly tanned and creased by deep lines. He was probably about the same age as me, around thirty, with a hard expression in pale blue eyes – I’d say he’d seen a lot of life.
I turned the bullets over in my pocket with my fingers, rubbing them, smearing any prints that may have been left on them, then handed them over.
‘You did not wear gloves?’ He frowned as he placed a cleanly laundered handkerchief around the bullets and passed it to the sergeant who had come to his side. ‘Tell me your names.’
Neither of us spoke, we were weighing up the Colonel, considering how far to co-operate – well I was anyway.
‘Names?’ he repeated.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Jonathan Swift.’
He raised his brows but didn’t comment.
‘And you?’ he demanded.
‘Major Heathcliff Lennox.’
‘A British detective and an army Major…’ Fontaine regarded us appraisingly.
‘Royal Air Force, actually,’ I corrected him.
The chatter had sprung back up as the group around the fountain watched. They had edged toward us and away from the body, for which I could hardly blame them.
‘Quiet.’ The Colonel turned to address us all. ‘You will have your fingerprints taken and you will make statements.’ He rattled off something in French to his sergeant before returning his attention to me and Swift. ‘I will be watching you very carefully, gentlemen.’
The gendarmes started to shout orders at the staff, who had gone into hiding on the appearance of the French, but now emerged from various bolt-holes around the courtyard.
‘Ladies and gentlemens.’ Hamid approached, hands clasped together, to resume his role as Maitre’d. ‘Please to follow me to the dining room.’ He bowed and led the way in his handsome butler togs and red fez.
Bing had come round and he wobbled to his feet.
’Vite!’ A flank of gendarmes formed to herd us all past the bar and the bartender wiping glasses on a tea towel.
We were escorted to a room reminiscent of a grand banqueting hall. Mahogany walls, polished to a deep dark hue, glowed in flickering candle light. Richly coloured rugs covered the tiled floor and potted palms were clustered in corners. The table was laid with a crisp white table-cloth, napkins, cutlery and sparkling crystal glasses. Candelabras shone from the low ceiling, reflecting sheens of silver and gilt from the condiments and silver whatnots lining the centre – it all gleamed and glittered with comforting familiarity. A quartet of musicians arrived and set up in earshot. They tuned their instruments and started playing a melody by Mozart. It was as surreal as it was unexpected.
Hamid was still at our head. ‘Please to be seated, most honoured guests of Hotel Al Shami.’ He bowed and pulled out a chair for the steely English aunt, who settled herself regally. The rest of us followed in a bit of a daze.
As we were unfolding napkins, another group of staff appeared and drew aside the heavy damask curtains to reveal a range of delicately framed French windows. We fell silent to stare at the lamplit garden where a faint breeze caused flowers and trees to softly stir on slender stems. The scent of jasmine and roses drifted into the room and a bird sang out in the fragrant darkness. One of the ladies gasped in delight because it really was quite exquisite.
Colonel Fontaine arrived to rap out more orders. ‘You will be called for questions. Your fingerprints will be taken shortly. During this time, you may eat.’ He gave a stiff nod of the head and exited between two of his men who had positioned themselves to guard the entrance.
I was quietly impressed.
I had grabbed a seat next to Persi and took her hand to give it a squeeze. She forced a weak smile.
‘Persi,’ I began as delicately as I could. ‘The woman, Josephine Belvoir, she was… erm… she was your rival in love, wasn’t she?’
‘Some time ago, yes.’ She nodded, then suddenly shifted in her seat to face me. ‘Heathcliff, are you asking me if I had a hand in killing her?’
‘No, no, nothing like that.’ I lowered my voice as attention swivelled our way. ‘I just thought it may have been a bit awkward for you.’
‘Awkward in which way?’ She whispered quite sharply. ‘Her death or her attempts to have Charles locked up?’
My efforts at reassurance weren’t going well. ‘Um…I erm, just meant when you arrived and found her here.’
‘I knew she would be here!’ she hissed.
‘Oh. Well, wasn’t there a bit of an atmosphere?’ I imagined the two women had been at daggers drawn.
‘I am perfectly capable of being polite, Heathcliff. Even to that scheming vixen.’ She turned away to talk to Swift who’d been listening, along with everyone else in the room.
I refrained from reminding her not to call me Heathcliff.
Hamid returned to clap his hands, causing a distraction. Waiters filed in, carrying silver trays of decanters and dusty wine bottles. I chose the red and took a deep draught. It was French and a very good vintage.
The sergeant returned with two more men. One held notepaper, the other an ink pad.
Vincent instantly objected. He jabbed his finger in the direction of the French. ‘Where’s the lawyer? You can’t do nothin’ unless our lawyer says so.’
He was ignored.
‘Make your names at ze top and underneath you place your digits,’ the sergeant instructed in an officious tone.
Pages were handed around and everyone started writing. I pulled out my Montblanc pen to scrawl my name but it was leaking. I ended with blue-stained fingers which were then smeared with black fingerprint ink. A waiter came and handed each of us a hot, damp towel to wipe off the mess. Finally the gendarmes gathered up the papers and cleared off, which was a relief as I hadn’t been able to touch my wine during the entire process.
‘Well, Swift,’ I said, ‘as far as investigations go, the French gendarmerie knock your bobbies into a cocked hat.’
He frowned at me then shouted at the drunken actor sitting opposite. ‘Bing.’
Bing was propped up on an elbow, woozy but conscious.
‘What ho, old man.’ He raised a glass.
‘Explain what happened, will you?’ Swift asked.
Bing laughed, knocked his wine back, then let out a strangled groan. ‘I shot Josephine. I can’t believe it. She’s gone.’ His voice broke over the last words and he dragged his crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and blew into it loudly.
Genevieve Hamilton was sitting one side of him and her Aunt was seated on the other, they both shifted away.
‘Pull yourself together, young man,’ the Aun
t told him.
‘Leave him be, the poor boy.’ The American lady, who I’d assumed to be Mrs Vincent, tried to reach a plump hand over to him around Genevieve. ‘Harry, my dear, we know you didn’t do it on purpose.’ She spoke with a soft southern accent. ‘We will have our lawyer look after you. You will be exonerated.’
‘Unless he did it on purpose,’ I remarked.
I received frowns all round for that one.
The aunt rapped a spoon on the table. ‘This is really too confusing. Will you please introduce yourselves?’
‘Yeah, the lady’s right, you need to know who I am. Dino Vincent.’ The director had placed himself at the head of the table. ‘I’m in charge here. We’re making a movie. It’s big business now. Lotsa money involved.’
His wife laid a hand on his arm and he suddenly remembered his manners. ‘And this is Mammie – Mrs Vincent.’ He forced his features into a smile resembling a smirk.
‘Hello, my dears.’ Mammie Vincent smiled kindly, her round face creased with wrinkles. ‘Do please call me Mammie, everyone does.’ She turned to the Aunt. ‘And I do hope we will be friends.’
The Aunt’s expression remained basilisk. ‘I am Lady Margaret Maitland. It suffices to call me Lady Maitland.’ She turned to her young companion. ‘And this is my niece, Genevieve Hamilton. We are travelling home from India and exploring ancient historical cities on our way.’
Harry Bing hiccuped.
Persi had calmed down and smiled over to Genevieve who was probably only marginally younger than her twenty-eight years. ‘Persephone Carruthers,’ she said. ‘But, please call me Persi. I’m sorry I haven’t had time to say hello. You arrived yesterday, didn’t you?’
Yes, we did,’ Genevieve replied, with a bright smile. ‘But it was quite late and we were terribly tired so we didn’t speak to a soul. Today has been,’ she paused and giggled, ‘really rather exciting!’
‘Exciting?’ Persi’s brows raised a notch. ‘That’s not quite…’ she stuttered to a stop. ‘Anyway, if you’re exploring historical sites, I can show you some of the local digs.’
‘Persi is an archaeologist,’ I said, reaching for her hand again.
Death in Damascus: A 1920s Murder Mystery with Heathcliff Lennox Page 4
