Crimson Snow

by Martin Edwards

  He had reported the discovery of the murder at 9.30. By cocktail time the same evening, the police had carried away the carpet and the other contents of the bedroom they needed, and Mrs. Macpherson, bless her, was organizing the refurnishing of the room. He hadn’t got rid of the Inspector, who was busy interviewing various members of the hotel staff in the little office behind the reception desk. But Gaston was keeping an eye on things there.

  The manager stood serenely under the crystal chandelier near the desk, with hands clasped on his breast, bowing fatly to his patrons as they drifted through on their way to dress for dinner or stopped to admire the seasonal decorations which dripped from every gilded alcove and twinkled in an avenue of Christmas trees arranged along the entire length of the Grand Foyer. People came to the Paradise Hotel to see life. It was M. Aloysia’s business to make sure that they saw only what they wanted to.

  His triumph was indeed complete when at the very moment he saw the grim figure of Mr. Cork arriving through the revolving doors of the main entrance, a tiny page-boy, in powder-blue uniform, brought him a message on a silver salver. It was from the hall porter. Mrs. Macpherson reported that Room 143 was ready for occupation again.

  Several people looked up at Mr. Cork as he strolled across the hall to the desk. His face, with its heavy features and deep lines, was unmistakable. But, characteristically, Mr. Cork himself was quite unaware that he was a celebrity. He was only vaguely conscious of the fact that his criminal cases had made him a public figure.

  As he waited for his wife, he lit a Passing Cloud and examined his chin critically in one of the rose-tinted mirrors in the hall. He’d have to shave again when he dressed for dinner. If he didn’t, Phoebe was certain to complain about it. It was odd that, as he entered his sixties and the hair on his head was getting thinner, his wretched beard was sprouting more strongly than ever.

  ‘Welcome to the Paradise, Mr. Cork.’

  ‘Hello, Aloysia. Noël joyeuses to you; that’s the French for it, isn’t it?’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Where’s Madame?’

  ‘She’ll be here in a minute. She’s giving Christmas presents of warm woollen socks to some of your linkmen outside. Amazing woman, my wife. Collects friends everywhere. By the way, I’m sorry I couldn’t give you longer warning. We only decided to come down here at the last moment.’

  ‘Such a pity. A week, even a few days, could have made so much difference. The room we ’ave for you, it is not what we could wish for you and Madame.’

  M. Aloysia gave a disappointed shrug.

  ‘Never you mind, Aloysia. It was good of you to fit us in at all. I’m not surprised you’re so full. I hear you’ve got celebrities. My wife’s eating her head off to see Fanny Fairfield.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have a disappointment for ’er.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The bridal suite is booked but, so far, Mr. and Mrs. de Raun ’ave not arrived. We are still expecting them. Mr. de Raun’s secretary phoned us only yesterday morning to confirm that they were coming. But, so far, we ’ave had no further word. Ah, Mrs. Cork!’

  Mrs. Cork appeared in a mink coat, with a pink face and an armful of packages. She was as plump and smiling as a feminine Santa Claus. And, as M. Aloysia relieved her of her parcels, she bubbled gaily.

  ‘Has this dreadful husband of mine told you what he’s done? At the very last minute, Mr. Aloysia, when I’d got everything organized for a family Christmas at the farm, he suddenly decided he was coming to the Paradise instead. So here we are. Have the film stars arrived? I do so want to see them.’

  ‘Aloysia has just told me that they haven’t turned up.’

  ‘No Fanny Fairfield. Oh, I am disappointed.’

  ‘We are expecting them hourly, Mrs. Cork. The bridal suite is reserved.’

  ‘The bridal suite! That sounds terribly romantic. What do you think’s happened to them?’

  ‘No use asking me,’ grumbled Mr. Cork.

  ‘I know,’ said Phoebe. ‘I expect the poor dears are trying to hide away from all the publicity.’

  ‘If they had wanted to avoid publicity, Phoebe, they wouldn’t have booked a suite in the Paradise and advertised the fact in every newspaper in the country.’

  ‘The trouble with you, Monty, is that you’re getting a crusty old man. You’ve forgotten what it means to be a young person in love.’

  ‘You seem to be in a sentimental haze about this wedding, you and every other woman. May I remind you, Phoebe, that these “two young people” have both been married several times before; this is Anton de Raun’s fourth honeymoon and Fanny Fairfield’s third.’

  ‘No, dear, it’s only her second.’

  ‘Well, whatever the score is, she’s hardly a blushing young bride. And it’s a lot of nonsense to suggest that these two, who’ve spent most of their lives making baboons of themselves in the public prints, are now sheltering shyly in a love-nest under the stars. Come on, we’re keeping Aloysia waiting.’

  M. Aloysia had listened to the conversation with an urbane and self-effacing smile. Privately, he was heartily in agreement with Mr. Cork. Anton de Raun was a playboy who was said to have made three fortunes, married three and lost all six. Now he was starting on Fanny Fairfield’s bank balance. Still, it was good for business.

  He personally escorted his distinguished guests to Room 143, protesting his apologies all the way for the inadequacy of the accommodation. He could only hope that Mrs. Macpherson had had time to fix the flowers.

  He needn’t have worried. When he bowed in Mr. and Mrs. Cork, every stick of furniture had been changed. There was a new carpet, a luscious bowl of flowers on the dressing-table and a basket of fresh fruit on the table between the twin beds. Gaston had sent up the champagne, all ready on the ice, for Mr. Cork, and there was a present of perfume for Mrs. Cork waiting for her on the bed.

  ‘But this is charming,’ said Phoebe. ‘And you’ve given us one of the nice rooms with a view of the sea. It’s lovely, isn’t it, Monty?’

  Mr. Cork gave one of his grim smiles.

  ‘I see you remembered the champagne, too, Aloysia.’

  The manager bowed in delighted satisfaction. When he closed the door behind his new guests, he looked at the number and smiled with the contentment of a milk-fed cat.

  ***

  Mr. Cork was bathed and shaved. As Phoebe knotted the bow-tie of his dinner jacket for him, she said:

  ‘Why did you want to come here? It’s not business, is it, Monty? Not at Christmas?’

  ‘Don’t ask leading questions.’

  ‘Then it is business. Another of your hunches?’

  ‘Only a hunch, Phoebe. If I’m wrong, we can still have a good time.’

  ‘Then I hope you’re wrong.’

  ‘There’s somebody at the door. You answer it, dear. I’m going to open the champagne.’

  Phoebe went to the door and collected a floppy parcel wrapped in crackling brown paper from one of the little pages.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear.’

  ‘Then open it and see.’

  ‘Great heavens. It’s a pair of pyjamas. I’m sure they’re not yours, Monty. You’ve never left your pyjamas behind when you’ve been here, have you?’

  ‘After thirty years, Phoebe, you ought to know that I don’t wear pyjamas like that.’

  ‘How do I know what you get up to when you’re off by yourself? They are rather sweet, aren’t they? I love the frogging across the front.’

  ‘They must have been sent up here in error. Give the valet a ring.’

  Phoebe pressed the bell. But she went on admiring the pyjamas.

  ‘It’s French silk, I think. Oh yes, here’s the man’s name on the collar. That makes it very easy. What a funny name it is: André Guydamour. That’s obviously French, isn’t it?’
>
  Mr. Cork was raising the champagne cork out of the bottle with the pressure of his thumb. He looked across at Phoebe with sudden interest as the cork popped out and hit the ceiling.

  ‘What name was that?’ he said sharply.

  The champagne foamed out of the neck of the bottle over his hand.

  ‘Look what you’re doing, Monty.’

  ‘Never mind that. What was the name?’

  ‘Guydamour.’

  ‘Give me those pyjamas.’

  He returned the champagne bottle to its bucket of ice and, settling his half-glasses on his big nose, he examined the name carefully. When the valet answered the call, he went to the door himself.

  ‘Did you send in these pyjamas?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where did they come from?’

  The man looked puzzled. His eyes flickered to the number on the door.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir, I thought the other gentleman was still here.’

  ‘What other gentleman?’

  ‘The guest who was in your room last night, sir. He asked me to get these pyjamas washed and return them when I came on duty this evening. He must have moved his room. I’m sorry to have troubled you, sir. I’ll take them away immediately.’

  ‘You haven’t troubled me and you needn’t take the pyjamas away. I’ll hand them in myself at the desk downstairs.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  The man hesitated as if he wanted the pyjamas back, but the authority in Mr. Cork’s voice made him think better of it. After all, it hardly mattered who turned them in downstairs.

  ‘You are a funny old boy,’ said Phoebe. ‘What’s biting you?’

  Mr. Cork poured out a glass of champagne for both of them.

  ‘When you were reading all about Fanny Fairfield, did you notice any reference to the fact that her new husband was giving her as a wedding present a valuable parure of rubies and diamonds?’

  ‘But of course. Alouette’s Worm.’

  ‘Exactly, a collection of jewels which were supposed to have belonged, at one time, to the French singer, Alouette.’

  ‘Have we insured them, Monty?’ she said with unusual seriousness.

  ‘We’ve granted temporary cover and we’ve laid off the risk with half a dozen other companies. It’s a big sum, Phoebe. Seventy-five thousand pounds.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with the pyjamas?’

  ‘André Guydamour is the Paris jeweller who has made the sale to de Raun. He’s somewhere in the hotel. Anton de Raun is expected here with his new wife. It’s evident that Guydamour has come over from France to deliver the collection.’

  ‘That sounds quite natural. Why are you worried, dear?’

  ‘Too much publicity, Phoebe. Every popular newspaper has been gossiping, day after day, about these jewels. De Raun has told everybody that he’s giving them to his wife as a wedding present. Furthermore, he’s announced to all and sundry that he’s spending his honeymoon here.’

  ‘But he hasn’t turned up.’

  ‘No, but the jeweller has. They’re inviting a robbery, Phoebe.’

  ‘So that’s why we’re spending Christmas at the Paradise.’

  ***

  As he and Phoebe walked past the reception desk, Mr. Cork pushed the pyjamas, in their brown paper, across the counter to the clerk.

  ‘My compliments to Mr. Aloysia,’ he said. ‘Tell him that I should like to meet the gentleman to whom these pyjamas belong.’

  ‘But certainly, sir,’ said the clerk.

  After years of experience of the eccentricities of hotel guests, he knew better than to register surprise.

  ‘Have you noticed that strange man who’s following us?’ whispered Phoebe.

  Mr. Cork nodded.

  ‘I wonder who he is?’

  ‘I haven’t an idea. Let’s think about dinner.’

  Hermann, the head waiter, raced half the length of the crowded dining-room to be there to welcome Mr. and Mrs. Cork.

  ‘Everything is arranged,’ he insisted. ‘Monsieur Aloysia’s personal orders. We have a special table for you and a dinner which is a poem.’

  To emphasize his conviction, he pressed thumb and index-finger together and waved them in the air.

  ‘Smoked salmon and a little caviare. Sole en broche with bay leaves and just a hint of onion. Roast partridge with a bottle of Mouton Rothschild…’

  But before they had reached their table, the reception clerk, pale-faced, touched Mr. Cork on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but Inspector Trelawny would like to see you immediately in the manager’s office.’

  ‘Tell the Inspector I’ll join him shortly.’

  He saw Phoebe to the table. They exchanged a message with their eyebrows. Otherwise neither of them made any comment.

  ‘Start your dinner, dear, and I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

  The maître d’hôtel looked on with baffled resignation. It was such an exquisite dinner that he had arranged for them.

  Inspector Trelawny rose from the manager’s desk to greet him. The telltale pyjamas lay crumpled on the blotting-pad. M. Aloysia, all serenity gone, fluttered with agitation at the inspector’s side.

  ‘Well, Aloysia, what’s all this about?’ said Mr. Cork severely.

  ‘Perhaps I can explain,’ said the inspector.

  M. Aloysia shrugged his shoulders miserably.

  ‘Will you have a seat? My name’s Trelawny, of the County Constabulary.’

  ‘My name’s Cork.’

  ‘The introduction on your side is quite unnecessary, sir. It’s a very great privilege meeting you.’

  The Inspector waited respectfully until Mr. Cork sat down.

  ‘I hope you’ll forgive my bothering you just as you’re starting dinner, but I’m engaged in making investigations into a rather serious business.’

  ‘Robbery?’ asked Mr. Cork.

  The Inspector looked at him sharply.

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘Call it an inspired guess.’

  ‘Your guess is the correct one. But that’s not all. It’s murder, too. A particularly brutal murder.’

  Mr. Cork took a cigarette from his heavy gold case. The Inspector got up from the desk to light it for him.

  ‘These pyjamas, Mr. Cork?’

  ‘They were delivered to my room in error by the valet.’

  ‘Not in error. The night valet, who washed them, was under the impression that the room was still occupied by the same guest who was there yesterday.’

  ‘So I gathered.’

  ‘I have to tell you that he was the man who was murdered and robbed in the hotel last night.’

  ‘In my room?’

  ‘It was the only room I ’ad available, Mr. Cork. It was the only way I could fit you in.’

  ‘Never mind that now, Aloysia. All I have to say to you is that Mrs. Cork must never know about it.’

  ‘But of course, of course. I would do anything not to alarm Madame.’

  ‘May I go on?’ said the Inspector coldly.

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘When you handed in these pyjamas to the reception desk, you said that you wanted to talk to their owner. Naturally, I’m interested. He registered at the hotel, when he arrived yesterday morning, under the name of Franklyn. We now know, from his passport and various other papers, his real name.’

  ‘André Guydamour,’

  ‘Precisely. The name on the tag in the collar of these pyjamas. What can you tell us about him? We need help badly, Mr. Cork.’

  ‘He was a Paris jeweller and clockmaker.’

  ‘We’ve checked that with the Sûreté.’

  ‘My own interest in him is simply that my company have had dealings with his firm in connection with an i
mportant insurance cover. Guydamour supplied us with the valuation and description of a collection of jewels we are underwriting. Because I was dissatisfied with certain aspects of the risk, I telephoned his firm in Paris early this morning. I learnt that Guydamour had travelled to England. I had reason to believe that I might find him here.’

  ‘And the reason?’

  ‘His purpose in coming to this country was to deliver the jewels in which we are interested to my company’s client, Anton de Raun.’

  ‘De Raun? You mean Fanny Fairfield’s new husband?’

  ‘Since you read the popular papers, you can also guess the nature of the jewels.’

  ‘You mean Alouette’s Worms?’

  ‘You obviously do read the papers.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said the Inspector, burying his head in his hands.

  ‘I should have thought the Sûreté could have told you all you want to know about the jewels.’

  ‘That’s the trouble, the whole trouble,’ said the Inspector wildly. ‘We can’t get any information out of anybody. It’s Christmas, Mr. Cork. The whole of our investigation is foxed and bewildered because everybody is thinking of Christmas.’

  ‘You’ve got the ports watched, I hope?’

  ‘We’re supposed to have warned every port of exit,’ said the Inspector bitterly, ‘but even our own people are human. After all, all Aloysia here can think about is his Christmas business. The murderer has nearly twenty-four hours’ start on us. If he’s got Alouette’s Worms—and he probably has because we’ve found a large, empty jewel case—he could be half-way across Europe by this time.’

  ‘So you’ve found the case. What’s it like?’

  ‘It’s a large two-decker affair in the shape of a heart.’

  ‘Large enough to hold a complete collection: necklace, earrings, bracelet, tiara, and so on?’

  ‘Yes, it’s big enough for that. By the way, have you got a picture?’

  ‘We’ve got a full description. I understand that there’s also a painting in existence of Alouette wearing the jewels in their original mounting, in the Theâtre Élysées in Paris.’

  ‘I’ll get it copied.’

  ‘It might help. May I use the ’phone?’ He went on talking with his hand over the mouthpiece.