Death in Room Five (A Chief Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  ‘Encore deux.’

  Two more drinks! Littlejohn’s fingers were hot and sticky and as he thrust them in his trousers pocket to get out the money to pay, he pulled the lining inside out.

  An Algerian hawking rugs and jewellery half paused to pester Littlejohn. Then he spotted Dorange, and beat it hell for leather.

  ‘It’s a bit difficult you know, cher collègue.’

  The Pernod was beginning to act. Dear colleague. They’d soon be buddies now!

  ‘Joliclerc says you’re going to see him this evening. I don’t want to interfere and tell you things in advance, but Joliclerc was in the maquis and that makes a difference. I was a prisoner of war all the time. You understand how it is?’

  Littlejohn didn’t understand at all, but he nodded. Sooner or later it would come out. Dorange untied his tie and let it hang loose. Next thing he’d be taking off his snakeskin shoes! All the same, thought Littlejohn a bit dimly through the fog of anis, all the same, he’s got all his chairs at home. I wouldn’t like him on my trail, especially at one of those police interrogations he’d read about in French thrillers. The passage à tabac, where the detective smoked and every now and then slapped the victim across the face.

  ‘Did you ever hear of the eight men of Menton? They held the St. Louis bridge against the Italians when they invaded us in June 1940 until Pétain threw up the sponge. I was one of them. I was a prisoner of war for the rest of the time.’

  Dorange made light of it and dismissed it with an airy wave of the hand. A pretty girl passed and the French detective paused to admire her.

  ‘With men like Joliclerc it was different. He and a lot more started the Resistance here and then when it came time to take the offensive, they cleared off into the hills behind. Did you fly to Nice? Well then, if you looked down as you passed over the hills, you’d see what I’m getting at. The enemy couldn’t have found them there if he’d searched till doomsday. They were drilling and getting ready for the day. Joliclerc was a Colonel, although you wouldn’t think it to see him now. A good man.’

  Cars of all descriptions tore past, their tyres hissing on the hot asphalt. A man led a dog to the fountain opposite and lifted it in his arms to get a drink, and a horse hitched to an open carriage neighed. It wore a white bonnet against the flies and gave Littlejohn a droll look.

  ‘Up there in hiding, always on the qui vive, with none of the distractions of the town and above all, nursing a hatred of the enemy…well…it gave them a peculiar outlook. It took some of them politically. They brooded on the sort of world they were going to make when they got back. Some turned communist. But above all, they were madly loyal to one another. Remember that in the Dawson affair…Joliclerc’s attitude towards it will seem clearer if you remember that.’

  L’affaire Dawson! They were back again on that. What had Dawson to do with the Resistance? Littlejohn said as much to Dorange.

  ‘Ah! I ought to let Joliclerc tell you. All I wished to say was that, if you have to investigate the Dawson affair for your own police, it might be difficult for you. I just wanted to tell you that you could count on me for any official help you might require.’

  ‘That’s very decent of you, Dorange. I’m very grateful.’ The bell of Nôtre Dame de Bon Secours, nearby, clanged.

  ‘It’s lunch time. They’re clearing out the visitors and penitents. What about going inside the café for a meal?’

  ‘Thanks, old chap. If I can ring up my wife at Juan and tell her not to expect me, I’ll be very glad.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ his wife said when he got her on the line at length. ‘No matter where we go, you always get a busman’s holiday, Tom. By the way, you went off without leaving me any money. I had to borrow some from the landlord. I’ve been doing a bit of shopping.’

  ‘Don’t forget we’ve only our allowance between us and starvation.’

  ‘Oh, that will be all right now. Scotland Yard have been on the line and want you to ring back.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Yes. You’ll get a business allowance of money now, so you needn’t worry!’

  When the Inspector got back to the table, Dorange was sitting before a large bottle of Château de Selles and the cloth was covered with hors d’oeuvres dishes. Prawns, crayfish, mussels, good black olives, egg mayonnaise…Dorange shovelled them on Littlejohn’s plate and then for himself, insisted on cardoons, which were served with anchovy and garlic sauce. The latter was kept on a plate-warmer and Dorange dipped his cardoons in the sauce and ate them like asparagus.

  Littlejohn resisted bouillabaisse and finally, in a hospitable gesture, the officer from Nice ordered roast beef, which called forth a small charcoal furnace and the grilling of barbecue steaks.

  All the time the Château de Selles flowed.

  ‘I may as well tell you what all this Dawson affair’s about, old chap…’

  That again!

  They had finished the barbecue, cheese, and some fougassettes from Grasse, made from a sort of heavy pastry flavoured with orange water. Dorange had insisted on the fougassettes. And now over the coffee and Calvados, l’affaire Dawson had cropped up again.

  ‘Don’t think we’re going to let the matter drop. Once Joliclerc gets his teeth into a thing, he sticks, believe me. But he wants to handle it privately. That’s why he told you at the hospital the file’s closed. It’s closed, or he wishes it to be closed, as far as you’re concerned.’

  ‘Whatever for? I shall have my report to make, and if I don’t get it officially, where do I stand?’

  ‘You get it unofficially, and that’s where I help you, old man. I’ve got the key that will unlock a lot of doors for you.’

  Littlejohn was smoking another of Dorange’s cheroots. The talk was entirely in French and lubricated by the Château de Selles and the Calvados, Littlejohn felt how proud the Depatys, who’d taught him, would be of his fluency if they’d only been there. He found himself using outlandish words and gesticulating to emphasise his points.

  ‘It’s this way…’

  Another Algerian selling bags and bracelets thrust in his head, looked hopefully at Littlejohn, and vanished hastily when he rolled his eyes to Dorange.

  ‘... Dawson was in the maquis.’

  So that was it! It was an international affair after all. Dawson was in the maquis, returned to the scene of his former triumphs with a charabanc party, and got bumped-off for his trouble.

  ‘You’d have expected he’d get a great welcome after all this time.’

  ‘Yes, if he’d been loyal, but something happened to make him unpopular. In fact, more than unpopular.’

  Littlejohn threw away his cigar and started to fill his pipe. Lunch time was over and people were making for the Croisette again. Bronzed skins, coloured bathing-suits and wraps. Money no object! Two little girls on their way to their first Communion held up the traffic. They looked solemnly excited and self-consciously aware of themselves, like little brides going to church. They were followed by a small procession of female relatives.

  Dawson. Yes, Dawson.

  ‘It all came out through the remark of the little man…Marriott…Vallouris, that’s what he said. Vallouris is the name of a village just outside Cannes. But it gave Joliclerc a clue. You see, some of the prominent leaders of the maquis concealed their identity behind the names of places. Vercors, Gap, Manosque. And Dawson was called Vallouris.’

  ‘But Dawson wasn’t a prominent leader, was he? They were all Frenchmen?’

  ‘At first. But as time went on, it became necessary for liaison to be established between the isolated troops of the maquis and the rest of the allies. Furthermore, arms were parachuted. As the more modern and complicated weapons—mainly from England, at first—arrived, there was need for someone to explain them and generally act as go-between. Dawson was dropped into the mountains behind here and joined with the maquis. There was a small landing-ground, too. He returned to England and came again, twice.’

  It was close inside and th
ey moved with their drinks under the awning again. Even then the air was shimmering with heat and the asphalt and the water of the harbour nearby seemed to vibrate with it.

  ‘When Marriott mentioned Vallouris, Joliclerc became suspicious right away. He said when he saw Dawson, that he was sure he’d seen him before. The wound in his shoulder…the old one, I mean, settled it.’

  ‘The old wound?’

  ‘Yes. When they first parachuted Dawson into the resistance area, some highly-strung recruit, or else one who didn’t know, mistook him for a German and took a shot at him. It went through the shoulder. Joliclerc recognised the old scar.’

  ‘But why was Dawson murdered, assuming he was Vallouris?’

  ‘He was taken into the confidence of the commanders. They shared their secrets with him and even took advice from him. Then…there was a girl. Many of the women fled with the men to the mountains. This one was a trained nurse, with whom Dawson seems to have fallen in love. She looked after him when he was wounded. He passed on to her certain information. It turned out she was in touch with the other side. Her lover, a Frenchman, had thrown his lot in with the collaborators. Twenty of our men on a mission were surprised and killed. This happened after Dawson had been flown out for the last time. The girl was interrogated and shot. She betrayed Dawson.’

  ‘And there was a price on Dawson’s head after that?’

  ‘Naturally. You and I cannot understand the burning hatred the maquis could bear. We were not confined with our broodings like they were. I was a prisoner, I admit, but that was a different thing.’

  Dorange shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘The relatives of those twenty men, to say nothing of their comrades, must have longed to lay hands on Dawson. Now, he has come back. Very foolish of him.’

  ‘Perhaps he hoped he wouldn’t be recognised after all this time, or that the passage of years had softened the thoughts of revenge.’

  ‘Someone must have recognised him and taken vengeance, although M. Joliclerc says he wouldn’t have known him except for the two clues, Vallouris and the old bullet wound.’

  In the harbour they were starting a yacht race. A maroon was fired and you could hear someone announcing through a microphone the details of the race and the direction of the course.

  ‘It will be properly investigated, of course. I can assure you of that, old man. Only, old Joliclerc is a bit touchy about these maquis murders. There have been one or two, you know. Old wrongs remembered. A few traitors put away. Only a few months ago, a man was found in the harbour there, with an anchor tied to his ankles. He’d been strangled. Same thing. An old traitor. He’d have been there still if one of the yachts hadn’t had propeller trouble and they sent down a diver who found himself face to face with the corpse…’

  ‘All the same, you can’t hush-up a thing like that over here, can you?’

  ‘No. But it will be an enormous job investigating it. You can’t expect Joliclerc to keep all the motor-coach party in Cannes until he’s found out who’s to blame. There were twelve hundred men in the maquis squad concerned, either directly or indirectly, and not one of them wouldn’t welcome the opportunity to see Dawson brought to book. Not that the whole lot would want to knife him. But it will be a big job.’

  ‘And the examining magistrate wants me and Dawson’s English friends out of the way whilst he carefully investigates the crime. In other words, he might have a hundred or more suspects to interrogate.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when he finds out the guilty party?’

  Dorange shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘There will be an arrest and a trial, of course, if the culprit is ever found.’

  ‘What sort of a sentence would he get?’

  The Frenchman’s eyes were fixed on the old cab horse standing opposite, still patiently waiting for the right type of fare to come along and want a jog-trot in an open carriage along the Croisette.

  ‘All…or most of the magistrates and judges were either in the Resistance or away with the Free French.’

  ‘H’m. And where do I come in? I obviously can’t butt-in and insist on following in the footsteps of the juge d’instruction, can I?’

  ‘No. But you will doubtless be asked to keep an eye on things. Your authorities will communicate with ours and we shall be instructed to give you every assistance. That’s why I’ve already offered to help, old man. You might not find everybody here so cooperative.’

  ‘I’m very grateful, Dorange.’

  They lapsed into silence again. The delightful lethargy which comes after a good meal followed by good brandy in the warm sunshine, was taking hold of both of them. They lolled in their chairs talking slowly with long pauses in between. Time seemed to stand still. An afternoon quietness had fallen on the place. Things seemed softened and a bit blurred. This little square mile surrounding the church of Nôtre Dame de Bon Secours was known by the locals as the ‘village’ of Cannes. The restaurants and cafés, the church, the old waterfront, the flower and vegetable markets, the town hall. And now, with the fashionable world basking on the nearby beaches or else out on the busy roads, the place seemed to have fallen asleep in the hot sun, just like many another village all over France.

  ‘The usual formalities have been gone through about the murder?’

  Dorange lit another cheroot.

  ‘Yes. The kitchen-hand who found him has made a statement. The scene of the crime has been photographed and a search is going on for the weapon which hasn’t been found. Then, as a matter of form, all the members of Dawson’s party will be interrogated. Joliclerc will be seeing to that now. He’ll have been at it all morning. He’s very thorough.’

  ‘Will the dossier be available?’

  ‘Certainly. As soon as your authorities communicate with ours, the Prefect at Nice will issue the necessary instructions. Here, of course, M. Joliclerc is in charge of the case and the police act under his supervision. He is the official of the department of public prosecution, the Parquet as we call it here.’

  ‘You’ll be around then until the case is closed?’

  ‘Yes. And at your service. I recommend that you start a private investigation of your own among Dawson’s companions on the tour.’

  ‘I was thinking that myself. It doesn’t follow that because he was knifed in France, one of the members of the trip didn’t do it.’

  ‘I see we think alike. Well…I must be getting back to Nice. We’ll meet again. If you need me in a hurry, ring up the area at Nice. I’ll come along.’

  They drove back to Juan-les-Pins along the busy Nice road. From Golfe-Juan the beaches were crowded. Half-naked sunbathers, physical culture classes, with instructors drilling young people and older women anxious to lose weight. Beach chairs and coloured sunshades, gaudy wraps and parasols. A whole wealth of colour and happiness. Two motorboats tugging waterskiers behind them, large cars dashing madly along, and smaller ones buzzing in and out of them like a lot of little mosquitoes. Everybody having fun except William Dawson who’d come to his old haunts for a holiday and had finished up in the morgue at Cannes.

  Mrs. Littlejohn met them in the garden of La Reserve.

  Littlejohn introduced his new friend. They were both smiling and feeling that life was good, in spite of Alderman Dawson.

  ‘You two seem to have been enjoying yourselves.’

  She said it in English and then in French for the benefit of Dorange.

  ‘After pleasure comes work,’ she added. ‘London have been on three times. They didn’t sound so pleased the third time. I told them you were already on the case. They want you to ring back at once when you get in…’

  ‘Could you wait, Dorange, and I’ll tell you what it’s all about?’

  He left them in the garden. Dorange was ordering some more Pernods.

  After ten minutes he returned.

  ‘It’s as I thought. Keep a watching brief and do what I can at this end. Scotland Yard have spoken to Paris and Paris have been in touch with Nice.
They say they’re sorry to interrupt my holiday but that I’m used to that sort of thing.’

  He turned to his wife.

  ‘They think of everything. They’ve even fixed-up for the necessary money. The Bank of England have been hastily consulted…’

  And then to Dorange.

  ‘…and I’m to use the utmost discretion. It’s to be treated with tact and handled with care. They don’t seem to know all there is to know about Alderman Dawson. They say he was a hero of the Resistance. He was decorated by the President and he’s written a book about his adventures in the maquis.’

  3 - The Examining Magistrate

  The Littlejohns had left London on the Wednesday, William Dawson had been stabbed on the following Monday evening, and now it looked as if the rest of the holiday was going to be spent finding out who did it. Tactfully, of course…Scotland Yard had insisted on that.

  Dorange had no sooner left than the telephone rang again. It was Marriott, the little man in the white cap.

  ‘…Me and my fellow guests here would be glad if you and your wife would come over to dinner this evenin’, if you can. It’ll give you a chance to get to know all of us who were on the trip with Alderman Dawson. Mister Joliclerc’s only just left. He’s been questionin’ the lot of us all day. He’s given us a ‘ell of a time, to put it mildly…’

  According to what Marriott said, Bagatelle wasn’t exactly an hotel. It was a holiday home run by some sort of an association in England, called the T.T.A…whatever that meant.

  ‘…It’s a villa. Easy to find. Bagatelle, Rue des Martyrs de la Resistance. You take the main road to Nice from Juan-les-Pins…’

  Marriott went into an intricate route map, pronouncing all the roads and streets in English fashion. He seemed to have somebody at his elbow prompting him.

  ‘You turn left at Avenue de l’Observatoire…what’s that? No; I mean you turn right…’

  Like an actor getting his lines from the man in the wings! Littlejohn was quite exhausted when he returned to his wife in the garden. The landlord, anxious to make them at home, had served tea in a pot with a sieve hanging by a wire from the spout.