They all started and looked anxious. Now for it!
‘I can’t say…’
Relief.
‘And Henri. He either saw the knife being stolen, or else one of the bodies being moved. But he was foolish enough to ask for the price of his silence. This time, it was a scarf, but the same vehicle. The funeral procession in secret…the motor cart to La Californie, instead of Palm Beach. All the transportation done at the murderer’s convenience, you see. No alibi needed. A quick kill and the motorbike and its grisly sidecar, all waiting for the next move at the right time. Only, in the case of Henri, there was a slip.’
The men held their breath. Through the glass doors of the partition the women were looking anxiously and Mrs. Beaumont was making signs in the direction of the ormolu clock on the marble mantelpiece. Ten o’clock. The men were too spellbound to heed her.
‘The murderer gave Henri a little on account. It was in small change, as though the victim could only pay his blackmail by scraping his pockets. It was presumably the first instalment. More to follow when he’d been to the bank. Henri changed two large notes for Mr. Sheldon…or so Mr. Sheldon says…’
‘Damn it, man, don’t you believe me?’
Marriott looked hard at Sheldon.
‘Did you know the police were on this all the time and you didn’t say a word to us…your friends? I think you’ve been damn’ close, damn’ close an’ mean, Sheldon, holdin’ out on us.’
Currie was too impatient for the rest.
‘Shut up, Marriott. Go on, Littlejohn.’
‘The small notes paid by someone to Henri were supplied by a bank in Bolchester. One of them bore the bank stamp. That’s as far as we can go, yet. We shall pursue that further. Or rather, the French police will. As I said, I’ve finished.’
Humphries looked hard at the Chief Inspector.
‘It looks as if you’ve nearly finished the case, as it is. Why pack up when you’re so near the solution?’
‘I’m nowhere near. I’ve had to find out all this the hard way. None of you has helped me. You didn’t want to wash your own and other people’s dirty linen, did you? You’d rather stay here for good! Well, the French police take over tomorrow and start where I left off.’
‘You mean they’ll question the women as well…in the French fashion?’
‘Yes. You’ll all get it. Particularly, I’m sorry to say, Mrs. Beaumont. She’s elderly, and in pretty bad shape. But she knows a lot she won’t tell. I think she knows who committed the crime. Whether she saw one committed, or saw the knife being taken, or overheard something, I can’t say. My view is that she won’t betray a fellow Englishman or woman and leave them to the mercy of the French police and law. I can’t shake her. She says she’d rather die than betray a friend to a foreign policeman and have him or her guillotined.’
‘But, if she won’t tell…?’
Sheldon’s eyes were popping and he was sweating heavily.
‘There’s no question of that. The French police have their own ways. They’ll break her down. They’re not gentle, you know, with stubborn or stupid witnesses. She’ll tell and I’m glad I won’t be there to see the state she’s in when she talks.’
‘She’s in bad shape, as you said. You ought to protect her, Littlejohn. She might kill herself. Does she know what she’ll have to face?’
‘Yes. That’s the real reason why she ran away. I’ve talked with her. She’ll have to be watched, you know. She mustn’t be allowed to do anything desperate to save the life of whoever committed these crimes.’
‘And yet, you’re giving up…”
‘She won’t tell me anything. I’m no further use. Let those who can and will drag out the truth, do it.’
‘I think you’re damn’ callous about it, Littlejohn.’
Sheldon was redder than ever.
Littlejohn shrugged his shoulders.
‘There’ll be a French policeman under her window all night to see she doesn’t try to get away. As for the rest, the arrangements are in your hands, gentlemen. Someone ought to keep an eye on her to see she doesn’t do anything desperate before she tells what she knows.’
‘I’ll speak to my wife. We’ll see to it.’
Currie nodded his head sagely.
‘We’ll see to it,’ echoed Marriott.
Littlejohn rose.
‘Shall we join the ladies? It’s getting time for me to go. I’d like to say good night.’
On the way Littlejohn turned to Humphries.
‘By the way, who sent for me, in the first place? You came to ask my help. Who told you to come?’
‘Dawson, of course. He could hardly speak, but he seemed to remember you were somewhere around. He hated the French police. Marriott tried to persuade him to leave it and see how he went on, but Dawson insisted, so we came. A lot of good it’s done.’
Littlejohn decided that he was no longer very popular at Bagatelle.
16 - Melodrama after Dark
LITTLEJOHN looked at his watch as he left Bagatelle. Ten forty-five.
He had said good bye to all the Turnpike trippers and promised to see them again later, in his unofficial capacity.
‘I’m dreading tomorrow. Not many of us will sleep soundly tonight, I can assure you.’
Marie Ann Blair’s sentiments were echoed by the rest.
‘If you’ve an easy conscience, nothing can happen to you.’ Marriott said it unctuously and got no reply, for they were in no mood for believing him.
‘Shall we phone for a taxi?’
‘No thanks, Sheldon. I’ll walk to the cab rank. A breath of fresh air will do me good.’
But instead, Littlejohn walked fifty yards in the direction of Palm Beach, then turned in his steps, entered the garden of Bagatelle, found the shelter of a large palm tree, and hid behind it.
The man on duty in the grounds was busy talking to the cross-eyed maid at the kitchen door. Littlejohn could hear the buzz of their voices and see the glow of the police-officer’s cigarette.
The night was clear and cool. From where he stood, Littlejohn could see the lights of Cannes and the illuminated signs of hotels and restaurants in the town. Across the bay, the Hôtel du Masque de Fer on the island of Ste. Marguerite was lit up. Noises of traffic, distant music, and frogs croaking in chorus. The curtains of the dining-room of Bagatelle had been drawn back and Littlejohn could see the guests still talking in groups in the lounge, just as he had left them. Nobody seemed in the mood for bridge or even staying up long. The threat of the morrow seemed heavy upon them.
Fonsine had ceased her dalliance with the detective at the kitchen door, and was now clearing away the remains of the feast from the table in the dining-room. Littlejohn saw Marriott enter, take away the brandy bottle, which had been half-empty when he left, and join the others again.
Fonsine finished her job and put out the lights. Littlejohn waited.
Lights began to go up on the first and second floors. The early birds were retiring. The Sheldons and the Curries. Then Mrs. Beaumont. The shutters had all been drawn and the Inspector could follow operations by watching the slits illuminate. But first he saw the party slowly disintegrate down in the lounge below. Humphries and Marie Ann Blair left the room, the front door opened, and they strolled to the gate. They were smoking cigarettes.
From his post Littlejohn could hear the murmur of their voices.
‘What about a stroll down to the beach?’
‘I’ve got a headache. I only want a breath of air before I turn in.’
Their voices died down to almost a whisper. Humphries was talking earnestly, raising his voice a little now and then.
‘…He said you didn’t come mainly on account of Dawson, but because I was in the party.’
Humphries was cashing in on what Littlejohn had told him earlier in the evening. Marie Ann Blair laughed softly and provocatively. Humphries, apparently rattled, paused, and then with a quick gesture seized his companion, dragged her to him, and kissed her full on the
mouth. There was a brief struggle and then she grew limp and flung her arms round him. They returned to the villa, pausing at every third step to kiss again.
One problem of Bagatelle apparently solved! thought Littlejohn.
They must have retired at once, for Marie Ann Blair’s bedroom light went on immediately afterwards.
Gauld and Marriott were still talking in the lounge. Marriott seemed to be laying down the law, gesticulating and thumping his clenched fist in the palm of his other hand. Gauld was half-seas over and looked more cordial and sociable than ever before. Then he, too, left the room, followed by Marriott, who put out the lights.
The staff retired to the rooms in the basement soon afterwards. By half-past twelve all was quiet at Bagatelle. The French detective was still smoking under the eucalyptus tree near the kitchen, now and then strolling round to stretch his legs.
The clocks in the town struck one and the bell on St. Honorat could be heard dimly announcing the offices of the night. Cannes below was just wakening up. Drunken shouts, distant music, the steady throb of traffic…
Alf Fowles appeared at last, unsteady, whistling to himself under his breath. He reeled up the path, round the side to the kitchen door, which he opened with a key they must have lent him. He entered noisily, the last of the Turnpike revellers.
Littlejohn crossed and tapped the man on watch on the shoulder. He almost jumped out of his skin.
‘I’m going inside. Keep a careful eye on things…’
‘Yes, sir.’
The Chief Inspector softly mounted the iron staircase to the first floor. The door at the top had been left unlocked and he passed through, finding himself between the bathroom and Mrs. Beaumont’s room.
From where he stood, the landing ran straight to a window on the front, with a balcony overlooking the town. The plaster figure of the naked lady holding an electric lamp made to look like a flaming torch, stood in an alcove near the window which had shutters, now closed, and a frame of heavy curtains in addition. The place was in darkness. Slits of light under three of the room-doors. One vanished as Littlejohn looked at it, leaving Marriott’s and Mrs. Beaumont’s still on. Then Mrs. Beaumont’s was extinguished.
Littlejohn tiptoed along until he reached the window and there, in the darkness, he made out the shelf of the alcove which held the nymph, and sat down at her feet.
Finally Marriott’s light went out.
In the course of his career, Littlejohn had kept many vigils, but never one like this. Sitting outside the bedrooms of Bagatelle, waiting for something to turn up. If anything did! The seat at the feet of the naked woman was hard and cold and Littlejohn gently slid to the ground and sat on the thick carpet.
His thoughts wandered between Bolchester and Bagatelle. The extremes of the situation were comic. Bolchester and Cannes; Dorange and Haddock; Dawson, a model of alder-manic respectability, and Sammy, a twister and crook.
The ormolu clock on the mantelpiece downstairs was working overtime, striking the quarters. It sounded a lot louder in the stillness. A burst of chimes announced half-past two.
Upstairs someone had started to snore. It came from a far distance, like Fowles in his attic. It probably was Fowles, sleeping off his debauch.
Littlejohn had got his eyes used to the darkness. Now, he could see the lady with the torch like a ghostly figure above him, and the pattern of the corridor and the doors, with the bathroom at the end and the faint hiss of water, as though somebody hadn’t properly turned off a tap.
He must have dozed off, for the next time he heard the jingling clock below was half-past three. Someone was moving in one of the rooms. Then the faint crack of a door gently opening. Littlejohn tensed himself. A figure materialized in the dim light of the landing, slowly and silently travelling in the direction of Mrs. Beaumont’s room. Then it turned left, another door opened, and silence.
Littlejohn relaxed with a sigh in which there was a faint trace of a chuckle. He might easily have pounced and spoiled everything. As it was, by the light of the French window which gave on the outer stairs, he had made out Humphries, his shoes in his hand, tiptoeing back to his own quarters from. Marie Ann’s room! He thought of the reaction of the Turnpike trustees and what a lot they’d probably make of the sordid little interlude, if they knew. Probably even more than the affaire Dawson.
Then it started.
At first, Littlejohn was only instinctively aware that somebody was moving not far away. Then a pencil of light appeared under Marriott’s door, which gently opened, revealing the occupant clad in pyjamas and dressing-gown, carrying a small torch. He looked to right and left and listened for a second or two. The clock below jingled another quarter.
Littlejohn strained his eyes to see what Marriott was doing. In one hand the torch; in the other something small, certainly not a knife, or even a scarf. His behaviour was comic. A slow motion, tiptoeing gait, silent and grotesque, across to Mrs. Beaumont’s room. At the door he halted and then, with infinite patience, slowly turned the knob. It was locked. Marriott put his ear to the panel and listened. Then he drew back, paused, and came to a decision.
Littlejohn only just held himself back in time, for Marriott turned quickly, ran across to Sheldon’s door, and knocked on it.
‘Sheldon…Sheldon. Get up. Something’s happened to Mrs. Bewmont. Sheldon…Do you hear?’
Lights came on in the Sheldons’ room and Sheldon appeared in the doorway, his fringe of hair dishevelled, his face bewildered and puffed with sleep.
‘Mrs. Bewmont…I’m sure somethin’s happened. I thought I heard footsteps. Thought I’d better keep watch behind my door. You remember what Littlejohn said about her havin’ vital information. But don’t let’s stay gassin’ here. Break in the door.’
As they crossed the landing, Humphries appeared, and then Mrs. Sheldon. On the upper floor they could hear the sounds of feet and voices. Lights going on everywhere.
The three men flung themselves at the door, which gave way at the second attempt, and the whole party rushed in the room.
Littlejohn hurried silently along the deserted landing to Humphries’ room and looked around. The suit Humphries had been wearing was in the wardrobe on a hanger. Littlejohn searched it swiftly, withdrew something from the side pocket, and examined it briefly. It was a pair of long-nosed pliers.
‘What has happened?’ he said, appearing at the door of Mrs. Beaumont’s room.
Sheldon and Marriott had Mrs. Beaumont held by the arms between them, making her walk about the floor. They were too busy to ask Littlejohn why he was there.
‘She’s taken an overdose of sleepin’ tablets by the looks of things. If I hadn’t ‘appened to be awake and come across, she’d ‘ave been a gonner by mornin’. As it is…They’re gettin’ a doctor.’
Below, in the hall, Mrs. Sheldon was telephoning for a doctor with the help of the new cook, and Mrs. Currie, who had hurried down, was making black coffee.
‘‘Urry up and get that doctor, quick.’
Littlejohn looked round the room. It was all as tidy as Mrs. Beaumont usually kept it. Her clothes neatly laid out, the fruit and candies on the table, flowers on the window-sill. On the bedside table, the small Vichy bottle she usually drank on retiring. Empty. Littlejohn opened the window and whistled for the French detective in the garden.
‘See that nobody leaves,’ he said when the man arrived.
He looked round again and mentally called the roll of the Turnpike party. Mrs. Currie and Mrs. Sheldon, below; Sheldon and Marriott. Humphries now on the landing telling Gauld and Currie what was going on. And Alf Fowles still snoring like mad upstairs. As he counted them, the two Hannon sisters arrived. They’d got themselves properly dressed and even powdered before making a public appearance!
Everybody busy and present, except…
‘Where’s Marie Ann Blair?’
They all seemed to pause in what they were doing.
The key of the connecting door between Mrs. Beaumont’s room and Miss
Blair’s was sticking out on Mrs. Beaumont’s side. Littlejohn quickly turned it, put it in his pocket, and entered the room.
The shutters were closed and the room was dimly lit by the light from the door. Stretched quietly, too quietly, in bed was Marie Ann Blair! She, too, had had an overdose of sleeping-tablets! At the side of the bed, a wine-glass with a few dregs in it. Mrs. Beaumont had taken a similar drink, except it was Vichy water. Littlejohn tasted the lees just as he had done Mrs. Beaumont’s. Here it was a mere glass. In the case of Mrs. Beaumont, it had been a whole small bottle of Vichy water.
So, it started all over again. Marie Ann was hoisted from bed, paraded round the room, her face and neck slapped with cold wet cloths.
‘Where’s that coffee?’
‘Is anybody hurryin’ up the doctor?’
The doorbell rang, the panic stricken, stupefied girl with the squint was letting in the doctor. It was Dr. Molinard! He gave Littlejohn a strange look as he entered the bedroom of Mrs. Beaumont.
Littlejohn strolled here and there with his hands behind his back. All around him, the crowd, giving coffee, chattering, some of the women half hysterical.
‘God! I wish we were home. Never again!’
Elizabeth Hannon was giving way.
Miss Blair was coming round, but Mrs. Beaumont was still unconscious. Molinard was very skilled. At his job, he looked a different man; keen, precise, tireless.
‘She’ll be all right. Only just in time, though. What has happened? Have the Cannes police been informed?’
‘I’ll see to it…’ Littlejohn sent Gauld down to telephone to Dorange in Nice, which he did, again with the cook’s help.
Littlejohn was listening to Marie Ann Blair, talking distractedly to Mrs. Currie.
‘It was Mrs. Beaumont. She came in through the connecting-door with a glass of wine. “You won’t sleep to-night if you don’t take something. Try this.” It was bitter, but I thought it was some special stuff. “I’m taking some, too,” she said.’
Then she started to sob hysterically.
‘As she left the room, she turned and said, “I’ve caused this trouble and I’m going to put an end to it all.” I’d drunk the wine by then, and I was falling asleep. She came across to me and looked at me with a terrible look. She always hated me. She was in love with Mr. Humphries. At her age! How could I help it if he loved me? She did all she could to come between us and when she found she couldn’t, she tried to kill me.’
Death in Room Five (A Chief Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 23
