Dorange paused for effect and the doctor said nothing.
‘I’m not saying that your being in bed with Georgette at the time Sammy’s murder was discovered in any way incriminates you, Dr. Molinard, but I advise you to be on the level with the police and tell the truth. Did you hear a motorbike on the night Dawson was stabbed? Answer me! The truth!’
Molinard licked his lips.
‘Yes. I heard it.’
‘And?’
‘I saw it. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?’
‘That’s better. Were you out on the pavement with Sammy?’
‘Yes. We saw the motorcycle with a sort of cart attached, without lights, coming away from the car park on the sea side of the casino. That’s all. Except that Sammy said, “I know that vehicle and what’s it doing here at this time of night?”’
‘You didn’t see who was mounted on the motorbike then?’
‘No. It was just on the edge of the range of the lights of the square and I couldn’t make out much. But I think Sammy knew. I think that’s why he was killed. He must have interfered.’
‘You mean blackmailed.’
‘Have it that way if you wish.’
Dorange stood before the tall doctor like a ruffled gamecock. ‘Why didn’t you tell us all this before? Why didn’t you call at the police station and help us?’
Molinard licked his dry lips again.
‘I didn’t wish to be involved. I have my position to think of. I can’t afford to be mixed up with police and murder. My patients…’
‘I’m very annoyed about this, doctor. You’ve caused my English colleague and me a lot of trouble and waste of time.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you ought to be. Good day.’
And with that, Dorange gathered up Littlejohn and they left the doctor to think it over.
On their way back to the car park, Littlejohn called at the town hall with Dorange. There was news about the banknotes found in Henri’s drawer at Bagatelle.
The local squad had been round the banks and luckily one of the offices had identified the numbers of the two notes.
They had been paid out to the cashier of the Palm Beach casino the day after Dawson died.
12 - The Man who asked for his Money Back
The cashier hadn’t arrived on duty at the casino when the two detectives got there. He worked half the night and his comings and goings were erratic during the day.
‘He’ll be here around six.’
‘Let’s just have a further word with Georgette then,’ said Littlejohn.
Sammy’s funeral was over and the motley crowd of mourners had dispersed. Even Sammy’s mother and her bodyguard of waterfront hoodlums had gone back to Marseilles. The police had advised her to get going and to keep her presence out of Cannes. She had sworn to return. Meanwhile, Georgette had opened Chez Sammy. It was already full. A real gala night to celebrate new management.
Georgette was at the counter doing the honours. She had put aside her weeds and was dressed in a sky-blue blouse, with slacks and shoes to match, and nothing else. Her breasts showed between the slit in the blouse which she hadn’t zipped-up, but nobody seemed to mind.
‘Come here,’ said Dorange unceremoniously, and Georgette followed like a lamb into the back room. She had evidently been doing a bit of private entertaining there, too. There was a bottle of cognac on the table and four glasses. Somebody’s health had been drunk.
‘The Chief Inspector has some questions to ask you, Georgette. Answer him quickly and see you tell the truth.’ Georgette rolled her eyes.
‘How could I do anything else for you, M. Dorange?’
‘No cheek, my girl.’
Littlejohn got to business before the other two got to blows.
‘We know that Sammy guessed who killed Dawson. Did he say anything to you about it, Georgette?’
‘No, sir. He was a secretive type. How do you know…?’
‘Let me ask the questions. The day after Dawson was stabbed outside here, were you in the bar all day?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was Sammy doing?’
‘He went out.’
‘What time was this?’
Outside in the café it was like a jubilee. Voices raised, health being drunk. They even toasted Sammy, spoke well of him, and asked that he might rest in peace as they downed their apéritifs.
‘What time? It was early. He used to stay in bed late in the mornings, but that day, he got up about nine, ate his breakfast, and went off before I got up.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Pardon…’
‘Was he pleased with himself, jovial…or thoughtful?’
‘Ah! He was very occupied, but in a good humour. He always was when he’d profitable business to attend to.’
‘And he didn’t say what it was. Did you ask him?’
‘No.’
‘What time did he leave here?’
‘About ten.’
‘Do you know what direction he took?’
‘Yes. He turned the corner and went along the edge of the shore towards the Nice road. He walked, too, which was most unusual.’
‘I thought you were in bed.’
She turned on Dorange.
‘I could get up to see which way he went, couldn’t I? I looked through the window.’
‘And when he returned?’
‘He was very pleased with himself. He had money.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I saw him put it in the box in the desk drawer. They aren’t there now.’
‘I’ll bet they’re not!’ said Dorange bitterly, and left it at that.
‘How much would there be about?’
‘I don’t know. Not very much. Perhaps ten one-thousand notes.’
‘Did he go out again?’
Georgette thought a bit. Dorange was quick to take her up.
‘You were in bed when we found you after Sammy’s murder. I’m not asking any questions about you personally or who was with you, but was Sammy out the night he died and for how long?’
‘He went out about seven and I never saw him again.’
‘Did he come back at all?’
‘I wasn’t in the bar.’
‘We know all about that, but who was serving drinks while Sammy was away?’
‘Odette. She’s left. She went when Sammy died. We didn’t get on.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t! Did Odette say anything about seeing Sammy after seven o’clock?’
‘Yes. She told M. Joliclerc he’d been away since seven. I’m surprised you didn’t know.’
‘No cheek, my girl. You’d better get off and see to your customers. Otherwise you’ll have no takings. They seem to be having drinks on the house.’
Georgette, swinging her hips, accompanied them to the door.
The cashier had arrived at the casino and they found him arranging his desk and setting out his racks of jetons. A small fair man with a little moustache smeared across his upper lip, and buck teeth. He looked half asleep.
The manager of the casino introduced Littlejohn; the cashier knew Dorange already and treated him with great respect. The casino detective was leaning against the desk; a tall, thin, cadaverous man, with a long nose and a poker face.
Dorange took the lead.
‘You’ve heard of the death of the little boy at Bagatelle?’ The cashier made noises of concern.
‘Shocking!’
‘Uhu,’ said the house-detective without moving a muscle.
‘He had in his possession two new thousand-franc notes which we find you drew from the bank on the day after Alderman Dawson died. You’ve heard of Alderman Dawson?’
‘Certainly. A shocking business.’
‘Uhu.’
‘Now I know this is going to be difficult, because you’ve so many people changing notes for chips and back again. But do you remember handing out any new notes to English people, say last Tuesday at any time?’
/> Littlejohn intervened.
‘It would probably be during the day. As far as we know, they didn’t come here at night.’
The cashier looked completely blank and shook his head.
‘We have so many…No…I couldn’t remember particularly. So many come and I’m too busy seeing I get the right money and pay out correctly.’
The casino detective made noises showing that he was thinking and getting ready to talk.
‘Uhu. Did you keep the admission card that was cancelled?’
The cashier still looked blank.
‘The card that was returned. The row between the man and the woman. She wouldn’t let him play and we gave him back his subscription.’
The cashier was desolated, but didn’t seem to remember anything about it. But the manager did.
‘Of course. It was referred to me. I agreed to refund the money. The English have so little to spare these days. It was the least we could do.’
Dorange was getting fed up.
‘We don’t want to know about your private sentiments. What’s all this about?’
The manager almost ran to his office and returned with a small card.
‘The card of admission to the gaming tables. Here it is.’
‘But how is this connected with banknotes given out by your cashier?’
The manager gesticulated and was voluble.
‘To enter the gaming-rooms one must have a membership ticket; weekly, monthly, or yearly. The Englishman who took out that ticket must have wished to gamble for a month. He seemed embarrassed when he found that the cost was two thousand francs. He was more embarrassed when his wife came to him and asked him what he had paid for it. They quarrelled and he then asked if we would take back the ticket and return his money. I agreed, of course. With the present currency allowance, it is difficult. But, I must say, his wife need not have made such a fool of him before everybody. She called his attention to what he could buy for her with what he had paid for the ticket, said he was a fool, and that as they were only in Cannes for a little over a week, it was like his stupidity to take a ticket for a month.’
The cashier had just remembered and showed an inclination to join in but the casino detective silenced him with a gesture from his long, cigarette-stained fingers.
‘While all this was going on, money was passing, so, of course, we didn’t return the actual notes the Englishman had paid; he received others.’
‘And those,’ said Dorange, ‘you had drawn from the bank that day?’
‘Yes.’
Littlejohn hardly heard what was going on. It was the name on the ticket which staggered him.
J. Sheldon.
He handed it over to Dorange.
‘We must interview Monsieur Sheldon again. This time at the police station…’
Littlejohn didn’t like the idea at all.
‘Will you give me another day to investigate further, Dorange, and, if I’m no nearer a solution, we can take and question Sheldon at your office then. I feel that any precipitate move now, might upset everything. After all, it’s not proof positive that Sheldon killed Henri. The notes might have been given out to someone else by the cashier here…’
‘No, sir,’ said the detective at the desk. ‘We have the sequence numbers of the notes. Those were the ones refunded to the Englishman, Sheldon. It was done in the afternoon, not, as is usual, in the evening, and the numbers you give tally with those at the top of the bundle we got from the bank. We also know the day, because it is the last of the shift on which M. Ducreaux…’
He indicated the buck-teethed cashier.
‘The last of the early shift. One week M. Ducreaux works afternoons; the next nights.’
Ducreaux nodded to show that, at least, this was clear to him.
‘Thank you.’
As the detectives left the place, Dorange looked worried. ‘I shall be happy to leave Sheldon to you, Littlejohn, but if he…’
‘If he bolts or shoots himself? I’ll be responsible.’
‘Very well, my friend.’
They shook hands and left each other. They were always shaking hands, as though it were the first or last time.
Littlejohn walked back to Bagatelle. The sun was setting and there was a chill in the air. People on the quiet beach between the casino and the main Nice road were gathering together their things and departing. It was the hour of the apéritif again. It suddenly struck Littlejohn that in the excitement and worry of the new revelation about the banknotes, he and Dorange had forgotten their usual evening Pernod.
Littlejohn let himself in through the fine wrought-iron gates of Bagatelle. The garden was at its best. The sight of the tropical trees and exotic flowers and the scent on the air…You wouldn’t have thought it was a centre of tragedy and confused passions. Here and there the frogs were starting their evening symphony, croaking and quacking in the pools of the villas and hotels.
As Littlejohn approached the front door, Marriott appeared round the corner from the side garden. He had shed more clothes and was now wearing a nautical-looking singlet with blue stripes on a white ground. White canvas trousers, white shoes, and the same white cap. Marriott was the type who felt undressed if his head was uncovered.
‘Evenin’, Inspector. Any news? No? Dawson’s funeral’s tomorrow.’
He was smoking a cigar.
‘I’ve lost me pipe somewhere and I’m reduced to smokin’ these things in the afternoon. Not bad…and cheap. You comin’ to the funeral?’
‘I don’t know yet, Mr. Marriott.’
‘Trouble here is, you don’t know what to wear. Hot as hell in the day and chilly in the evenin’s. I’se be gettin’ cold if I don’t get indoors and put some warmer things on. Then there’s the funeral. It’s awkward. None of us has mournin’ clothes and we’ve certainly not got the money to buy any. Why Marie Ann wanted Dawson buryin’ here for, I can’t think. It’s not right. A man like him ought to have a public funeral in his own town. I gather it’ll be expensive to get him ‘ome and I believe he has a friend or two buried in the cemetery here. So it isn’t as if…’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Eleven in the mornin’, it’ll be. The Mayor and Town Clerk of Bolchester are flyin’ over and should be here early. They’ll ‘ave to take us as they find us…in our holiday clothes at the funeral.’
Indoors, Mrs. Currie greeted Littlejohn with the news that Mrs. Beaumont was better and taking things quietly in her room.
‘She said she wants to see you when you arrive. Would you care to go up?’
Mrs. Beaumont was sitting in a chaise-longue. She looked better and most of her vigour had returned. She was surrounded by the offerings of her Turnpike friends: chocolates, grapes, candies, flowers. She might have been a permanent invalid. Largest of all, a huge bowl of red roses, presumably grown in Nice and bought wholesale. Mrs. Beaumont noticing Littlejohn’s admiring look at them, smiled and said they were a gift from Marriott.
Things were looking up! Marriott, only a few days ago, had been blackguarding Mrs. Beaumont for all he was worth.
‘I’m sorry I behaved so stupidly last time we met, Chief Inspector. I’ve had rather a lot to put up with since we arrived here, you’ll admit, and as a trustee, the responsibility has been very heavy.’
‘Was that all, Mrs. Beaumont? Now, I don’t wish to distress you, and I can wait with my questions, but I’m sorry to say, time is running out and if I don’t discover who’s at the bottom of these crimes, the French police will take a firmer hand. You know what that means.’
She nodded anxiously.
‘Indeed, I do. My dear late husband was once in a French prison arising out of a motoring accident. He was ultimately absolved from blame, but the few days he spent being questioned left their mark on him all his life. So much so, that when they invited him to become a J.P. in Bolchester, he felt he couldn’t face it and refused. I do indeed understand…’
She paused for breath.
‘First of al
l, then, Mrs. Beaumont, I understand Lovelace the late Alderman’s manager at the coal-yard, wrote to you here. He mentioned, I think, that the business was not paying, owing to Dawson’s way of life and the amount he drew from the company. Lovelace warned you not to put more money in.’
Mrs. Beaumont’s mouth opened and she looked annoyed. ‘Who told you that?’
‘It’s my business to find out these things, madam. I’ve been to Bolchester recently, you know. Please understand me; I am not asking questions unconnected with this case.’
‘Of course not. You’ve been very kind. Excuse my attitude. What do you wish to know, Inspector?’
‘What did you do when you got the letter?’
‘It was waiting here when we arrived, with the rest of the English mail. I opened it, read it, and then at once spoke to Alderman Dawson. He had recently given me a cheque in dividend. I asked him how he could pay a dividend if the company was almost bankrupt. I’m afraid he tried to bluff me and I got angry. I told him some home truths.’
‘What exactly did you say, Mrs. Beaumont? This is most important.’
‘I accused him of using the funds I had invested in his business for his own extravagant purposes. I am rather hot-tempered when roused, Inspector, and I’m afraid I said things which would better have been left unsaid…’
‘Such as?’
She paused, and then seemed to make up her mind.
‘I told him I’d see him punished for the way in which he’d spent the money of myself and his other creditors. It wasn’t so much loss to me as to poorer local people who looked like never getting their money back. My husband didn’t leave me very well-off, but somehow, I seem to have a flair for the stock-exchange and I’ve made quite a lot of money from investments.’
She smiled and nodded almost coyly at Littlejohn.
‘I fear I even went further than that. I accused him of throwing away money on good living he couldn’t afford and spending it on certain women he liked to impress and with whom his relations were talked about in Bolchester. That was too bad of me, because, after that, he confessed such a lot to me and how he was trying to put things right, that I forgave him.’
Suddenly she halted, put her face in her hands, and started to weep bitterly.
Death in Room Five (A Chief Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 17
