‘Do you know where de Raun is?’
‘So far, we haven’t made any enquiries.’
‘What can you do to find him? Can the newspapers help?’
‘There are no newspapers for another two days.’
Mr. Cork got his number.
‘Hello. This is Montague Cork. Is that Mr. Smithson’s home? Yes, Smithson. May I speak to him? It’s Smithson speaking? Why, man, I didn’t recognize your voice. What’s the matter with you? Can you hear me? Speak louder. That’s better. Now listen carefully. It’s about the de Raun policy. I want you to pass the complete description of the jewels we got from Guydamour to Scotland Yard immediately. What are you giggling for? There’s nothing funny about it. Smithson, you’re drunk. I know it’s Christmas, but this is serious. It’s serious. Smithson…’
Mr. Cork irritably flashed the exchange.
‘What happened?’
‘He’s cut off.’
‘You see what we’re up against,’ said the Inspector blandly. ‘I told you that it’s Christmas Eve.’
For another ten minutes the two men talked earnestly together. Infected by the force of Mr. Cork’s personality, the tired policeman tackled his case with new vigour. A police message asking Anton de Raun, or anybody who had news of him, to make immediate contact was put out by the B.B.C. Scotland Yard were asked to contact Smithson, the Anchor’s Claims Manager at his home, and take him to the office, however tight he was, to collect the full description of the jewels. The Sûreté were wired for fullest particulars about Guydamour and his background.
***
So far, there were no significant clues as to the murderer. It was evident that he had got into Guydamour’s room by climbing up the ivy. He had battered his victim to death with a tyre lever which he had kept hidden in a roll of newspaper. Subsequently, it seemed that he had barricaded the door with the wardrobe while he searched the room for the jewels. He then left the empty case on the floor and got out the same way he had come in.
The murder, according to the police surgeon, was committed some time between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. Suspicion was not aroused until the chambermaid brought morning coffee just before nine o’clock. It was reported to the police by the Paradise shortly after.
Trelawny’s theory was that Guydamour had been followed from Paris. He said the job had the autograph of one of the gangs, or an individual out of one of the gangs, who had been terrorizing the South of France. He had already warned the police in Marseilles.
Mr. Cork was much more interested in two telephone calls, one incoming and one outgoing, which had been taken and made by Guydamour. The first was easily remembered by the operator at the hotel. Almost as soon as he arrived, she’d accepted a call from Paris.
Subsequently, Guydamour himself had made a personal call to London. The London call, an eleven-and-ninepenny one, was recorded on his unpaid bill. It had been traced to a West End hotel. The hotel was the one where Anton de Raun was staying up to the time of his marriage at the Registrar’s office to Fanny Fairfield.
As they talked, Aloysia stood about the office wringing his hands and mopping away the perspiration with his handkerchief. He had given up all hope of saving the Christmas business. The way events were shaping, he’d be lucky if he had any customers left at all for the colossal celebrations he had planned for New Year’s Eve.
‘I think that’s all we can do tonight, Inspector.’
‘I can’t tell you, sir, how grateful I am for your help.’
‘You forget, I have a very personal interest.’
‘I don’t think I should feel overanxious about the jewels if I were you, sir. I can’t believe that the thief can hold on to a hot packet like that for very long. The strings of rubies are said to be among the finest in the world, aren’t they?’
‘Guydamour described them as the most exquisite collection of Siamese gems ever assembled.’
‘Then the moment the thief tries to shift them, we’ve got him.’
‘I hope so.’
‘By the way, what’s the value?’
‘It’s been very difficult to make a figure. Alouette was said to have insured them for a million francs when francs were twenty to the golden sovereign. We were asked to give cover of £100,000. We agreed to £75,000.’
‘Where did Alouette get them?’
‘I thought you read the papers. The story goes that they were given to her, in the days when she was the toast of Maxims, by Izzy Loup, the South African millionaire. When she died in the South of France during the war, Goering tried to lay hands on them for his own collection. But nothing more was heard of Alouette’s Worms until the papers published the story that they were safe and that the complete parure was to be offered for auction in the London Sale Rooms. Subsequently, Anton de Raun, announcing his engagement to Fanny Fairfield, said that he’d purchased them by private treaty as a wedding present.’
‘I’d like to know where he got the money.’
‘So would I,’ said Mr. Cork enigmatically.
He looked at Aloysia.
‘You appreciate, I suppose, that I must have another bedroom for my wife. She mustn’t sleep in that room.’
‘But we are full, Mr. Cork. We are stuffed right up. I ’ave nothing, not even an attic.’
‘You’ve said that before. You’ll have to think again.’
M. Aloysia looked at Mr. Cork with the beady eyes of a stoated rabbit. The Inspector smiled.
‘The de Rauns haven’t turned up. Why not put Mr. and Mrs. Cork in the bridal suite?’
‘But suppose they arrive unexpected. What do I do? They ’ave reserved.’
‘So much the better,’ said Mr. Cork. ‘If Mr. de Raun arrives unexpectedly, I shall have an early opportunity for a private conversation with him.’
M. Aloysia, the best hotel manager in Europe, threw up his hands in total surrender.
***
The dance floor was crowded with sad-looking people in tinsel hats. Clouds of balloons floated down from the ceiling, and the diners who were left behind at their tables solemnly amused themselves blowing out paper tubes with feathers on the end and making shrill blasts with wooden whistles. The English, in their way, were having a Gala Night.
Mr. Cork threaded through the tables to the corner where Phoebe was waiting quietly behind a Cona of black coffee. He smiled at her as he sat down.
‘I suppose the news is bad,’ she said.
‘Not entirely. We’re moving into the bridal suite.’
‘Oh, why?’
‘De Raun hasn’t turned up, so Aloysia thought we’d like it. Aren’t you pleased?’
‘I’ve got something to tell you, Monty. You know that man who followed us when we came down from our room? He has been sitting by himself over there watching me all through dinner. He’s gone now. He went off as soon as you came back.’
‘Never mind him. I want something to eat.’
Phoebe was curious, but she was much too experienced a wife to pester him with questions. As they talked in a desultory way while he had his supper, she noticed that half the time he wasn’t listening.
‘Here comes Mr. Aloysia,’ she said, after a long silence.
‘I expect he’s going to show us to our suite.’
‘It is all prepared,’ said Aloysia with something of his old panache. ‘Your luggage has been moved and your suite is ready, Madame.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Aloysia.’
‘No. Mr. Cork, please. No bill. To-night you are the guest of the Paradise.’
Preening himself, bobbing his head to his favoured customers, the manager led them through the restaurant, along the avenue of Christmas trees, to the gilded lift. The suite was only half a floor up, but the entrée had to be arranged in style. Remembering him only a little while ago in the manager’s office, Mr. Cork couldn’t help admiring the manner in
which the born hôtelier was making the best of a bad job.
‘Your suite, Madame.’
M. Aloysia threw open the door which led into the lobby and the second door which opened up into the sitting-room. Out of the corner of her eye, Phoebe saw the tessellated bathroom, with its sunken rose-hued tub and ivory-capped taps. The sitting-room, with french windows opening on to a balcony overlooking the bay, was dressed with huge bowls of white and pink carnations and baskets of long-stemmed rose-buds in a froth of bows of white ribbon. Even Phoebe, accustomed to luxury, was impressed.
‘So this is how film stars live,’ she said.
M. Aloysia made a gallant bow.
‘It is a setting more befitting to a grande dame like yourself, Madame.’
With open palms, he backed his way out of the suite.
***
‘Well!’ said Phoebe contentedly.
But almost at once she gave a cry of surprise. Mr. Cork, who was peeping through the curtains towards the sea, looked over his shoulder with raised eyebrows. A little man in a crumpled suit, dusted with cigarette ash, had detached himself from the deep comfort of an armchair. He was the same man who had shadowed them into the restaurant and kept a watch on Mrs. Cork throughout her dinner.
‘Who the hell are you?’ growled Mr. Cork. ‘How did you get in?’
‘I bribed the luggage porter,’ said the man unconcernedly. ‘My name’s Chris Sparrow. I expect you’ve heard of me.’
‘Of course I haven’t heard of you.’
‘But I have,’ said Phoebe. ‘You write in one of the papers, don’t you?’
‘That’s me,’ said Chris Sparrow. ‘Do you mind if I pour myself a drink?’
He didn’t wait for an invitation. Mr. Cork made a rumble in his throat like an awakening volcano.
‘Damn your impudence,’ he exploded.
‘Granted,’ said Chris Sparrow.
‘My wife and I have noticed that you’ve been following us throughout this evening. You admit you’ve bribed your way in here. Before I have you thrown out, I want an explanation.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m here to give you. To be quite honest, Mr. Cork, I smell a good story.’
‘You’ve discovered my name?’
‘It’s in the hotel register. I also know you by reputation. To be quite frank…’
‘That’s courteous of you.’
‘I came here on the de Raun-Fanny Fairfield story. It’s a flop because they haven’t shown up. The other Press boys have cleared off. Suits me. It means I’ve got a beat on the stiff found in the hotel this morning.’
Mr. Cork glanced anxiously at his wife, but it was evident that she was uncomprehending.
‘Phoebe, dear,’ he said. ‘I’d like to continue this conversation with Mr. Sparrow in private. Would you mind going to the bedroom?’
Mrs. Cork smiled her acquiescence.
‘Don’t stay up too late,’ she said.
Her husband waited until she had closed the bedroom door behind her. Then he glared at Chris Sparrow.
‘You needn’t interpret that,’ he said, ‘as an invitation to extend this conversation. I am simply anxious to spare my wife the knowledge of the grisly information which you seem to have ferreted out of the hotel. Bribery again?’
Chris Sparrow grinned.
‘Maybe a little palm-greasing here and there.’
‘You still haven’t explained what you want with me.’
‘That’s easy. This morning, a murder. This evening, the biggest noise in the insurance world, that’s you, arrives from London. You immediately go to the room where the stiff was found. Later, you’re in conference with Trelawny. To-night, you take over de Raun’s suite.’
‘Well?’
‘It must be a big story to bring you here on Christmas Eve.’
‘So that’s your excuse for breaking-in to my private apartment. I suppose you expect me to give you a sensational interview.’
‘That’s the ticket.’
‘You must be mad.’
‘I’m not, you know.’
He poured himself another drink.
‘I hear you’re looking for Anton de Raun.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Contact of mine.’
‘You seem to have some unpleasant contacts.’
‘This one has the unpleasant habit of keeping the radio on all day. He heard the police message you put out for de Raun about a quarter of an hour ago on the B.B.C.’
‘Do you think you know where de Raun is?’
‘I have a theory.’
‘You lost him after the wedding.’
‘Granted. He pulled a fast one. I don’t know why. He meant to come here. Something must have changed his mind for him.’
‘Have you waited twenty-four hours to decide that? If you’re as smart a newspaperman as you act to be, I should have thought you’d have tested your theory long before this.’
‘I’ve told you why I haven’t. I’ve smelt a bigger story here. Besides, I rather like the Paradise.’
‘What’s this theory of yours?’
‘Not so fast, Mr. Cork. If I can put you on to de Raun’s track, what will you do to help me?’
They both lit cigarettes for themselves.
‘I must warn you of the dangers of withholding important information from the police, Mr. Sparrow. This is a serious business.’
‘So the story is as good as that?’
He blew the ash off the end of his cigarette as it dangled in his mouth. He studied Mr. Cork’s face with concentration. Then he chuckled: ‘How much are they insured for?’
***
Mr. Cork couldn’t sleep. He slewed round and round in his bed, listening to the muffled music of the sea, rising and falling, as the rollers curled over the beach outside his bedroom window. His brain was pumping as restlessly as the waves.
The office had given cover on these wretched jewels before they’d consulted him. Not that the office was to blame; on the face of it, they’d done a good stroke of business. As the Anchor’s own experts couldn’t examine the gems until they were actually in de Raun’s possession, they’d very properly knocked 25 per cent. off Guydamour’s estimated value, raised the premium to 1½ per cent., reinsured heavily and granted temporary cover only. But, temporarily, de Raun was covered. When Smithson had brought him the file and he realized that the company was committed to carrying the risk on these over-publicized jewels, he knew in his bones that even a few days was too long. He’d tried to contact Guydamour in Paris, but he’d already left for England. The brokers had attempted to get hold of de Raun, but de Raun was getting married. He’d followed them both to the Paradise, but it was already too late: Guydamour was murdered. Anton de Raun had gone Heaven-knows-where. The company was liable on the evidence of a dead man for the theft of valuables they’d never even seen.
It was an unholy alliance that he’d entered into with this newspaper fellow. But Sparrow had proved that he had a nose for information and, if he could get a line, any sort of a line, on de Raun’s whereabouts, he could have his story, and welcome. De Raun… de Raun… the very sea seemed to be hissing his name.
He must have dozed. When he stirred again, the luminous dial of his watch showed 3 a.m. He lay on his back, smoked a cigarette and longed for daylight. Unwilling to waken Phoebe, unable to contain himself any longer in bed, he fumbled for his dressing-gown and slippers. Tiptoeing through the darkness, he felt his way towards the door of the sitting-room. He turned the handle as quietly as he could. He did it so quietly that the man with a torch who was feeling the tumblers for the combination of a safe, hidden behind a picture in the wall, never noticed him.
Mr. Cork stood mouse-still until with deft gloved fingers the man swung open the door of the little safe and groped inside.
***
‘How did you know there was a safe there?’ said Mr. Cork. ‘I didn’t.’
Half-turning, the man plunged his hand into his pocket. Mr. Cork flicked on the lights. Dazzled by the sudden glare, the man crouched down with the cornered concentration of a rat in a drain.
‘From the gesture you made just now, I imagine that you’re armed,’ said Mr. Cork, ‘but it’s quite unnecessary to invite the attentions of the hangman by shooting at me. The window, by which you entered, is still open. There’s nothing to stop you leaving by the same route that you came in.’
‘This is a frame-up,’ muttered the man hoarsely. He used the American phrase with an affected American accent.
‘I rather think it is,’ said Mr. Cork, ‘but I’m not the framer. Would you like a drink? You’ve been working very hard.’
‘What’s the game, guv?’
In his surprise, he relapsed into Cockney.
‘I want you to tell me, if you will, what you were looking for in that safe, and who put you up to it?’
‘I ain’t touched nothing, guv. Honest, I haven’t.’
‘I know. The safe’s empty. Have a drink? Come on, you’ve got nothing to lose and you can do yourself a bit of good by talking to me.’
‘Are you going to turn me over?’
‘You haven’t stolen anything—that’s not your fault, but you haven’t—and I’ll forgive you personally for breaking into my apartment in the middle of the night. If the police pick you up, and they probably will, they’ll have very little to charge you with; that is, if you take the precaution to throw away that pistol.’
‘O.K., guv, you can ’ave it.’
He handed the pistol over like a guilty child. Mr. Cork placed it gingerly in his dressing-gown pocket. In return he gave the burglar a whisky and soda.
‘There was a murder in the hotel last night,’ he said casually.
‘Murder, did you say?’
‘Yes, murder.’
‘No wonder you copped me. I must get out.’
‘Don’t hurry. You may be able to help us.’
‘I know nothing about it. Across m’heart, I don’t.’
Crimson Snow Page 20
