by John Bude
II
He was lounging that particular morning on the unmade divan-bed in a corner of the studio, viewing with distaste a large and impressive canvas set up on an easel in the centre of the room. For the last twenty minutes he’d been struggling to make up his mind just what the picture represented. Nesta’s demands to see his latest masterpiece had been growing more and more urgent and he couldn’t put her off any longer. And when Nesta looked at a picture the first thing she wanted to know was what it was about. In her opinion all the best pictures should tell a story, or, at least, bear a clear and appropriate label.
But, mon Dieu! A cod’s head capping the naked torso of a woman, balanced on two cactus leaves and garnished with a motif of lemons and spaghetti…Paul shrugged hopelessly.
Then, coming to a sudden decision, he sprang up, snatched his beret from a wall-hook, slunk down the back-stairs, and slipped out into the road through a gate let into the garden wall. Five minutes later, about half-way down the Avenue de Verdun, he swung left into the Rue Partouneaux. Presently he climbed the steps between the narrow, twisting alleyways of the Old Town and ducked under a massive archway into a little courtyard shaded by a looped and trailing vine. Without knocking, he pushed open a rickety green door and ascended an equally rickety staircase that gave directly into the room above.
At first, after the glare outside, he could see little. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he was aware of a troll-like figure squatting on an upturned box before a crudely constructed easel. On seeing Paul the midget creature sprang up and uttered a startled cry.
“M’sieur Latour!”
Paul smiled maliciously.
“You didn’t expect to see me, eh, Jacques?”
“No, M’sieur. The picture is not ready for you. I told you next week. Before then it is impossible, You must understand I am not a machine—”
Paul cut in brusquely:
“Eh bien! You fool, there’s no need to whine. I haven’t come for the picture.”
“No, M’sieur?”
“No, my friend. I’m here because I want to talk to you.”
“You’re not satisfied with my work—is that it, M’sieur?” The little fellow thumped his misshapen chest and burst out angrily: “There are limits to what even I can endure, M’sieur. You do not understand. The value of what I give to you—”
“Give to me!” Paul laughed sardonically. “Tell me, Jacques, how much did I pay you for your last incomparable chef-doeuvre?”
“Two thousand francs, M’sieur.”
“Exactly. Two thousand francs for a monstrosity of a canvas that isn’t worth two sous. And who the devil would buy your stuff if I didn’t? Answer me that.”
The hunchback shrugged despairingly.
“Hélas, M’sieur…it is not easy these days to—”
“Quite. So if you want to retain my patronage no more monstrosities. Understand, idiot? No more of this abstract, surrealist nonsense. From now on I want pictures that a child could understand. No more cod’s heads and spaghetti.”
“No, M’sieur.”
Paul gestured towards the canvas set precariously on the home-made easel.
“The new picture…what are you working on now?”
“It is a landscape, M’sieur.” He stepped aside obsequiously. “You like it, perhaps?” He gesticulated. “The composition, M’sieur?”
Paul studied the half-finished painting with a critical eye.
“It’s an improvement. I can recognize some cypress trees, a church and a stone wall.”
“It is ‘Le Monastère de l’Annonciade’, M’sieur.”
“Good. I know where I am with a picture like this. But this other…this horror…what does it mean? What am I to tell people when they ask me what it’s about? Can you tell me that, you bone-head?”
The hunchback considered the point for a moment, scratched his dark greasy hair and spat deftly through the open window into the courtyard below. Then abruptly his swarthy, hook-nosed features cracked into a grin.
“That is simple, M’sieur. Call it Le Cauchemar, the nightmare. For that is how it will doubtless appear to the ignorant and the stupid. Shall we say, perhaps, to your friends, M’sieur? But to those of us who see beyond, who have the vision…” Jacques Dufil shook his head sadly. “You will call for your new picture next week?”
“Next week,” nodded Paul.
The hunchback raised three fingers in the air and gazed at Paul enquiringly. Paul scowled, shook his head and with an insulting gesture jerked two fingers in the little fellow’s face.
With a fatalism born of much adversity, Jacques Dufil lifted his tortured shoulders and threw wide his hands. The obsequious smile was back on his twisted features, but as he thought of this nincompoop’s ignorant remarks about his beautiful pictures there was black hatred in his heart!
III
Since Paul had gone to see the hunchback, Dilys got no answer when she knocked on the door of his studio. She’d planned a visit that morning to L’Exposition de Peinture Méditerranéene and, thinking his professional criticism might prove instructive, she wanted Paul to escort her. Dilys knew very little about painting, but being at heart a serious-minded young woman she was determined to seize every opportunity to widen her knowledge. Just because her aunt insisted on keeping her in idleness there was no reason why she shouldn’t attempt to improve her mind.
The galleries, which looked out over the trim and exotic public gardens, were not particularly crowded. A few holidaymakers were trailing around with that sanctimonious look that is usually reserved for churches, museums and places of historic interest. An official was sitting on a Louis Quinze chair, viewing their progress round the place with the lynx-eyed apprehension of a private detective presiding over a valuable collection of wedding-presents. Dilys couldn’t imagine why, because most of the canvases couldn’t have been filched from the building without the aid of a hand-cart.
She bought a catalogue and, with typical conscientiousness, began to study the pictures in their proper numerical order. A few names were familiar to her—Matisse, Bonnard, Dufy and Utrillo, for example. These were the star performers, and before their work she stood earnestly and solemnly impressed. But what was she to make of the lesser lights? Was she to display amusement, scorn, horror or delight? It was all very difficult and she wished Paul could have been there to guide her safely through this aesthetic maze. In particular she would have valued his comments on a vast and vivid canvas labelled Fiesta, whereon a bevy of magenta-faced gargoyles were drinking and dancing in a grove of monstrous emerald cabbages against a savage purple sky. Arriving opposite this picture, she was suddenly aware of a tall, square-shouldered young man staring blankly at it over her left shoulder. And it was he who put into words, with admirable and virile brevity, her own instinctive reactions to the work.
“My God!”
Just that—clearly and vigorously articulated in what is usually referred to as “educated English”. She swung round, delighted.
“Oh I’m so glad you agree with me! I’m always terrified of making up my mind about a picture in case it’s by somebody I ought to like. I’m dreadfully ignorant of all this sort of thing.”
“Same here. Mind you, I wouldn’t have let fly like that if I’d known you were English.”
“Oh, that’s all right. Are you an artist?”
The young man flushed.
“Good lord, no! Do I look like one?”
Dilys eyed the broad-shouldered, tweed-jacketed, flannel-bagged six feet of manhood.
“Well, not exactly. But these days it’s so difficult to tell. I know a dress-designer who looks like a professional boxer. Are you down here on holiday?”
“Er…more or less. Are you?”
“No. I live here with my aunt.”
“Live here? Heavens! Some people have all the luck. Wo
nderful spot, this. I just can’t believe it’s real.”
“A lot of it isn’t. Just paste and cardboard and tinsel, like most of my aunt’s insufferable friends. Actually I find it rather boring. It gets that way after a time.” Dilys accepted a proffered cigarette with a nod of thanks and went on with the devastating curiosity of an uninhibited and charming young woman of nineteen. “If you’re not an artist what is your job in life? I hope you’ve got one.”
“Oh yes. I’m a…er…I work in a sort of office.”
“You mean you’re a sort of clerk?”
“Well, yes…sort of,” he said lamely.
Conscious of the inanity of this cross-talk they looked at each other and laughed.
“In London?” persisted Dilys.
“Er…yes. In London.”
“Pardon, Madame! Pardon, M’sieur!” They swung round to face the agitated attendant. “Je regrette, mais il est defense de fumer ici.”
“Oh, sorry old boy,” said the young man cheerfully, stubbing out his cigarette against his heel. “Bad show, eh? Un mal spectacle. Comprenez-vous?” He turned to Dilys. “He says he’s sorry but we mustn’t smoke in here. I learnt that bit off railway carriages.” Then aware of his inexcusable assumption he slapped his thigh and added apologetically: “But good heavens! I was forgetting you lived here. You must speak French like a native.”
“Just about,” smiled Dilys. “An aborigine. Adequate, shall we say? but not idiomatic. Now what about taking a look at the rest of the pictures?”
“Yes—rather. Far more fun now I’ve met you.”
They wandered on round the gallery, chattering like magpies, occasionally recalling where they were and pausing a moment to study one of the pictures. Within ten minutes they’d learnt quite a lot about each other. They agreed that it might be a sound idea to meet on the Casino terrace the next morning for an apéritif.
“Can’t be absolutely sure about it,” said the young man regretfully. “You see, I’m not exactly a free agent. I’m sort of stooging around here with another bloke. But you bet I’ll make it if I can.”
“Well, if you can’t,” pointed out Dilys after a moment’s swift reflection, “you could telephone.”
“Whacko! We simply can’t afford to lose sight of each other after this morning. It’s been—” He broke off and added anxiously: “I say—what’s up? Anything wrong?”
“This painting—it’s by a friend of mine,” said Dilys, adding hastily: “Well, not exactly a friend. He’s rather unbearable really. My aunt has very decently fitted him up with a studio at the villa.”
The young man noted the number-disc on the frame and flicked over the pages of his catalogue.
“Yes, here we are. Le Filou…what the devil’s a ‘filou’?”
“A pickpocket, I think. Does it give the artist’s name?”
“Yes…Jacques Dufil.”
“Jacques Dufil!” echoed Dilys in amazement. “But it must be a mistake. It’s so exactly like Paul’s work. It’s quite uncanny. They must have got the names mixed in the catalogue or something.”
“I shouldn’t let it worry you.”
“I won’t!” declared Dilys, glancing at her watch. “I’ve only got one worry on my mind at the moment. If I don’t leave at once I’m going to be dreadfully late for lunch.”
“Can I…er…see you home?”
Dilys hesitated.
“No—I think it would be more discreet if you didn’t. So if you don’t mind I think we’d better say ‘Good-bye’ here.” Adding with a friendly smile: “Until tomorrow, I hope.”
“Sure thing…until tomorrow.” He thrust out a strong, sizeable hand and gripped hers so enthusiastically that she winced. “Slice of luck that I ducked in here to have a squint at these painter johnnies, Miss…By the way, what is your name?”
“Dilys Westmacott. And yours?”
The young man gulped.
“Mine? Oh, I’m…I’m plain John Smith. Pretty duff, I admit, but it’s the best I can do for you.”
Dilys threw him a suspicious glance.
“It sounds horribly like an alias. You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”
“Heaven forbid!”
“Well…good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Miss Westmacott.”
As he watched her pass through the swing-doors into the brilliant sunshine, the young man experienced a pang of remorse. He hated having to deceive a charming girl like that, but what else could he do in the circumstances? What had Meredith been drumming into his head ever since they’d arrived in this playboys’ paradise?
“No matter where you go or what you do, remember, m’lad, you’re always on duty.”
Exactly! And Acting-Sergeant Freddy Strang wasn’t the sort of fellow to slip up on his instructions. No matter what happened he had to preserve his incognito!
Chapter IV
Second Encounter
I
That morning Inspector Meredith had driven over to police-headquarters at Nice for a pow-wow with his opposite number, Inspector Blampignon. They’d already met a couple of times since Meredith and Strang had settled in about a week earlier at their unpretentious hotel in Menton. Despite differences of language and temperament, the two men were already firm friends. Luckily Blampignon had a fair command of English and Meredith a smattering of schoolboy French. In consequence, after a certain initial embarrassment, they were soon able to chatter away pretty fluently.
Inspector Blampignon took life as it came, and accepted what did turn up with tremendous gusto. With his dark, humorous eyes, rotund figure, and easy rumbling laugh, he was a true Provençal. But behind that tolerant, comfortable personality was a quick intelligence and an astute practical mind. When the need arose Blampignon’s plump and rather loose-limbed body could jerk, with surprising agility, into swift and decisive action.
As Meredith greeted him that morning in the cool, half-shuttered office on the second storey of the massive building, he sensed at once that Blampignon was worried. In a few moments the cause of this worry bobbed to the surface of their conversation. During the last few days information had come in about the resurgence of a well-tried racket that Blampignon and his colleagues had thought to be conclusively scotched. For a time it had proved to be one of the most profitable rackets along the Riviera. The details, as the Inspector pointed out, were simple. American cigarettes, which could be bought in Algiers and other North African ports for as little as sixpence a packet, were smuggled in fast motor-launches across the Mediterranean to suitable lonely spots along the coast-line and then sold on the Cote d’Azur at four shillings a packet. The profits on a single trip could run as high as ten million francs—about ten thousand pounds!
“Hélas!” sighed Blampignon. “So far all we find out is that the contraband is being put ashore somewhere between here and the Italian frontier.”
“You mean these Yank cigarettes are being marketed only along this end of the coast?”
Blampignon nodded.
“It is like these counterfeit notes, mon vieux. They also are only making their appearance in the more easterly towns along the Midi. For that reason, of course, I settle you at Menton.”
“I suppose there’s no chance that the two rackets are being worked by the same gang?” asked Meredith.
“No—I think not. The currency racket demands a fixed headquarters on land—a place where they can set up their printing machine. But in this other game…” Blampignon threw wide his hands. “It is—how do you say?—fluid. And it does not do to join up something that is fluid with something that is fixed. You agree, M’sieur?” The inspector moved to his desk, opened a drawer and slapped a small wad of notes into Meredith’s hand. “You see, mon ami, we have added to our little collection. Most of these notes we pick up in Monte Carlo. We have warned the…the…” Blampignon clicked his fingers irritably. “Les b
outiquiers to be on the watch for such thousand franc notes.”
“The shopkeepers, eh?” Meredith examined the notes minutely and nodded his admiration. “Beautiful work—we’ve got to admit it. Except for the two microscopic deviations spotted by your lab wallahs at Lyons, the darn things might be genuine.”
Blampignon chuckled and with a flamboyant gesture whipped a sheet of paper from his desk.
“Now here is the list of shopkeepers who hand over these notes to us. We question them one by one and in all cases it appears that they were passed over by English customers. But in two cases we have much luck. The shopkeeper sees in time the little errors we have warned him to watch out for. You follow, mon ami? He realize, immédiatement, that the note is fake. So he say to his customer ‘Please to let me have your name and address, for the police desire to find out how these fake notes come to you.’ Then I think to myself, this is a…a…une besogne for Meredith. He shall question these Englishmen, perhaps. That is why I ring you this morning and ask you to come over. It is possible you can do this?”
“My dear Blampignon,” laughed Meredith, “it’s what I’m here for. Let me have those addresses. I’ll get over to Monte at once.”
II
By midday Meredith had succeeded in interviewing the two Englishmen who, in all innocence, had tried to pass the spurious notes. At first both men had been disinclined to talk. After all, the purchase of francs on the Black Bourse was technically a criminal offence and they weren’t at all sure how far Meredith was prepared to go. But a few broad hints soon reassured them. The French police were anxious to arrest the gang who were putting about the counterfeit notes. As Meredith pointed out with a withering look, they weren’t concerned with a bunch of damfool, unpatriotic Englishmen who, in any case, had been very neatly diddled. Thereafter he got his information and at once Meredith realized that he’d picked up his first real clue.
