A Knife For Harry Dodd

by George Bellairs

  The Inspector from Nice didn’t look like a detective at all. He was on the small side, thin and wiry, with a keen hatchet face and dark eyes which reminded you of black shoe buttons. His skin was baked mahogany colour and deeply furrowed, although he must have been on the right side of fifty. He wore a pearl-grey suit of material which looked like nylon, a red tie, and brown snakeskin shoes with holes punched in the uppers which made them almost sandals. There was a red carnation in his buttonhole, as though he’d picked it up from one of the stalls of the Nice flower-market and stuck it in out of light-heartedness. He shook Littlejohn’s hand warmly. His fingers were sinewy and like small vices.

  ‘Delighted to meet you.’

  They might have been getting ready for a wedding or a first communion instead of presiding over the dead body of Alderman Dawson of Bolchester!

  The other two Englishmen stood silently near the door. Marriott coughed behind his hand.

  ‘What’s it all about, Inspector?’

  It pulled Littlejohn up with a jerk. The atmosphere of the hospital, combining as it did religion, healing and death, coming on top of the holiday feeling and hot sun of the Riviera, had got to his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Marriott.’

  He introduced his two companions and explained how he came to be there.

  ‘The Alderman wouldn’t have anything to do with the French police. Have you told him that?’

  Marriott was holding up Dawson’s end even in death. He said it in a cocky, defiant voice, as though by shouting and gesture he could translate the Alderman’s sentiments into good French.

  The examining magistrate bowed Marriott and Humphries into two of the fragile-looking chairs of the room. Then he took Littlejohn and introduced him to the surgeon who was still scribbling notes at the bedside. A busy little man with a fair complexion and pale blue eyes. A ragged moustache crossed his upper lip and he wore old-fashioned pince-nez clipped on his nose and held for safety by a chain which hooked round his ear.

  ‘Doctor Murols, the resident surgeon here. He has been attending to Mr. Dawson since he was admitted.’

  Murols was a little fusspot. He seemed reluctant to part from his fountain pen and official forms. As he wrote he made little grunting noises and kept sitting back to survey his handwriting as though anxious that it should be legible. He told Littlejohn as they shook hands that he had once been to England as a student and had spent a year at St. Barnabew’s Hospital, which left the Chief Inspector wondering whether it was St. Bartholomew’s or St. Barnabas’! In any case, it didn’t seem to have done Dr. Murols much good. Littlejohn found himself thinking he’d rather trust himself to his wife than to Murols in an emergency.

  ‘He died of internal bleeding. The knife had passed between the ribs and punctured the lung. We could not stop the haemorrhage. I called in Dr. Matthieu, but he was of no avail.’

  Matthieu. Littlejohn had heard of him. One of the best surgeons on the Coast. Dawson had, therefore, had the best attention. And he had died, nevertheless, refusing to have any truck with the French police.

  ‘Did he make any statement, doctor?’

  Murols looked at Joliclerc to see if it was all right for him to answer Littlejohn’s question.

  ‘No,’ he said after the magistrate had nodded assent. ‘Shortly after he was brought here, he lost consciousness. His friend, the one over there, was with him. He spoke to him.’

  Littlejohn turned to Marriott and translated what Murols had said.

  ‘That’s right. The Alderman told me then to get you.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘He was ramblin’ a bit. He said somethin’ in what might have been French…Wait a minute. I put it down to the best of my ability…’

  Marriott fumbled in his pocket and brought out a soiled envelope.

  ‘Val O’Ree,’ he read. ‘Val O’Ree, it sounded like. That’s all I got. It might have been a man’s name. It sounds like one. That’s all. He was gaspin’ when he asked for you. He wanted a word with you. Then he started to ramble and the doctor sent us out. We came for you right away. Seems it wasn’t much use. I don’t know what they’ll say in Bolchester when the news reaches them. To die abroad and from foul play. I don’t know…’

  Marriott shook his head gravely as though anticipating serious diplomatic repercussions.

  ‘How did it happen? I forgot to ask in the rush.’

  The doctor and the police officials were busy with their forms and Littlejohn took the opportunity.

  ‘We’re stayin’ at an hotel just off the prom. here, called Bagatelle. Reminds you of the old game we used to play, doesn’t it? But here it means somethin’ else, I gather. However, after dinner last night, the Alderman said he was goin’ out for a breath of air. I said I’d go with him, but he said straight he’d rather go on his own. He was here in the war, you know, and might have wanted to look up a few of his old friends. So, I didn’t press it. I went to bed soon after.’ Marriott had protruding eyes and these eloquently searched Littlejohn’s own as though he wondered if his tale were being believed.

  ‘We was got up about three in the mornin’. The Alderman had been picked up outside the Palm Beach casino, at the end of the promenade. At first they thought he was dead drunk, but when they touched him, they found him covered with blood. He’d been stabbed in the back and left…’

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘One of the kitchen staff from the Casino. The Alderman was lyin’ in a quiet part and it seems the man who found him was just havin’ a stroll and a cigarette. He brought help and they got the police and an ambulance. Then they sent for us, because the Alderman’s travel tickets and his passport were in his pocket.’

  ‘Had he been robbed?’

  ‘No. Not a thing missin’. Watch, wallet, passport, gold cigarette-case, all untouched.’

  ‘He was unconscious when you got here?’

  ‘He’d just come-to, but was in a very bad way. He spoke to me and Humphries and it was then he asked for you.’

  ‘Well?’

  The examining magistrate called across the room. He had been listening to Mr. Marriott’s spate of English, which he understood but dimly, and was getting impatient.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Littlejohn. ‘Mr. Marriott was just telling me how the body was discovered.’

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ said Joliclerc. ‘But then we haven’t begun the investigation yet. All the party who came with the dead man will, naturally, remain here until the inquiry is over.’

  Littlejohn translated to Marriott, who was very put-out. ‘It might go on for months. I’ve my business to see to.’

  M. Joliclerc was speaking again.

  ‘Did the deceased say anything to his friends before he died?’

  Littlejohn told him what Marriott had said about Val O’Ree.

  The examining magistrate paused. He mouthed the expression.

  ‘Val O’Ree…Vallouris…That’s it. Vallouris. That’s the name of a village just outside Cannes.’

  Then, suddenly, M. Joliclerc grew excited. He spoke sharply to the doctor, who thereupon removed the sheet from the dead body.

  It gave Littlejohn quite a shock in more ways than one. Here was none of the portly Aldermen of fiction, but a lean, long-faced figure, the death-mask of which showed a high intelligent forehead, a thin almost ascetic face, and features of taste and refinement. Littlejohn had been mistaken. He’d imagined Alderman Dawson to be the usual pompous stage clown.

  ‘‘Ere. What are you doin’ ? Have you no respect for the dead?’

  Mr. Marriott was outraged, for the doctor had pulled the body of the dead man into a sitting posture and was examining the back in the region of the left shoulder.

  ‘Yes, M. le juge, it is here. A bullet wound of long-standing. It is as you thought.’ Beneath the old cicatrix the doctor was indicating, Littlejohn could see the fatal wound still bound-up.

  Littlejohn couldn’t follow what was going on. With the new turn of
events and Mr. Marriott’s strange information, the whole atmosphere of the room had suddenly changed from cordiality to chilly reserve. Even the gendarme, who had hitherto stood mute and deferential, began to mumble things under his moustache.

  ‘Chief Inspector. A word with you, if you please.’

  M. Joliclerc had lost none of his politeness, but the smile had gone from his face. He took Littlejohn to the window.

  ‘The case is as good as closed. It will be quite impossible to solve it, either you or I. Things have happened in France over late years which are different from those in your country. We are only just establishing law and order again after years of war and confusion. This is such a case. Circumstances will make it quite impossible for us to finish it satisfactorily. I shall therefore recommend it remain unsolved. Your friends will be free to go their way as soon as certain formalities have been gone through. Two days at most. That is all.’

  Littlejohn was first dumbfounded, then annoyed. Whatever Alderman Dawson had done, he was an Englishman and he had sent for Littlejohn on his deathbed. Dawson had been murdered, stabbed in the back, and here was the case already going in the unsolved files. He couldn’t believe his own ears.

  ‘Do you mean that, sir?’

  M. Joliclerc raised his thick black eyebrows.

  ‘Certainly, I mean it.’

  He smiled again, ingratiatingly this time.

  ‘I know how you feel, Inspector. He is a fellow countryman and at Scotland Yard…well…the British bulldog does not let go until the murderer is brought to justice. But this is not Scotland Yard, Inspector. This is France, recovering from her wounds of a long unhappy war and occupation.’

  ‘All the same, sir…’

  ‘All the same…’

  The examining magistrate issued sharp orders and his retinue and the doctor started to gather together their things for leaving. One by one they left the room and then M. Joliclerc bowed out Humphries and Marriott. Finally, only he and Littlejohn were left and then he turned to the Chief Inspector.

  ‘Tomorrow, I will arrange for the body to be handed over to the dead man’s friends. They may take it home or inter it here, as they wish.’

  ‘I still don’t understand, sir. I’m afraid I can’t let it rest there. I shall have to get in touch with my consulate and report to Scotland Yard. It doesn’t seem fair that after…’

  The magistrate threw up his hands.

  ‘Fair, fair. Is it fair that a man on whose treachery rest the lives of a score or more good Frenchmen during the Resistance should escape his dues? But there. I cannot explain it all now. My address is Solitude, Avenue Charles de Gaulle. I shall be very pleased to see you there for an apéritif at six this evening, if you will do me the honour. We can then talk about what you call fair play.’

  The sister led them to the head of the stairs, where the nun who seemed to be in charge of the route down the staircase took them in hand and descended with them, to turn them over to the custodian in the glass box below. Then the doorkeeper let them out. In the wide hall, an old woman in black was sitting with a young consumptive-looking man who wore yellow gloves. Someone else rang the outer doorbell and Littlejohn saw two old men about to begin the passing-on ceremony he and his companions had earlier been through. The hoses were still spraying the grass, and on a tree near the gate a blackbird was singing.