Death on the Riviera

by John Bude

  The Colonel, himself, merged into this background like a chameleon. Tall, gaunt, white-haired, with a short bristly moustache on his long upper lip; a profile like a hawk, and steel-blue eyes that looked out on the world with an air of tolerant good humour—Meredith recognized the type at once. Bigoted and conventional, perhaps, but the sort of fellow one could depend on in adversity and honest as the day was long. Having shown his credentials, Meredith explained the reason for his presence in the South of France and outlined the circumstances that had brought about his visit to the Villa Valdeblore. Colonel Malloy listened without comment until Meredith had concluded his explanation. Then he snapped out with a choleric expression:

  “So that damned fellow Bourmin’s a Bad Hat, eh? Can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve never really trusted him. It was my wife’s idea that we should engage him. She liked his manner. But women are more easily taken in by that sort of thing than we are, eh? Now what exactly d’you want me to do, Inspector? Dismiss him? Hand him over to the local police?”

  “Good heavens—no! That’s the last thing we want. You see, sir, we uphold that Bourmin’s only a small cog in a big wheel. We’re hoping that now we’ve taken you into our confidence you’ll be able to keep an eye on the chap. For example, if you notice anything suspicious in his actions—”

  “I’m to get in touch with you, eh? Well, that makes sense. I’m in a sound strategic position to keep him under observation.”

  “So we can count you in, sir?”

  “Up to the hilt.”

  “Good enough,” said Meredith, delighted with the Colonel’s readiness to help. “Now tell me, sir—does Bourmin live on the premises?”

  “Yes—he’s got a couple of rooms over the garage. He has his meals with the rest of the staff in the kitchen.”

  “I see. We noticed the car was just leaving as we turned up.”

  “Quite. My wife attends the English church here. Bourmin always drives her to the service and waits outside the church to drive her back. If it hadn’t been for a touch of lumbago, I’d have been there myself.”

  “What time do you expect them back, sir?”

  “Oh, not for another hour and a half at least.”

  “Do you think we could take a look at these rooms. Quite understand if you object.”

  “My dear fellow, why not? Bourmin’s probably locked the door but I’ve a duplicate key. I’ll take you over at once. Unless, of course, you’d rather—”

  “No. I’d like you to come along too, Colonel. But if we can investigate the place without being seen by the domestic staff so much the better. Whatever happens we don’t want to put Bourmin on his guard.”

  A few minutes later the three men were climbing the exterior staircase that led up to the chauffeur’s snug little flatlet above the garage. Once in the small but comfortably furnished living-room, Meredith explained:

  “We’re anxious to find out just where and how Bourmin picks up the counterfeit notes as they come off the press. Does he collect the stuff in bulk and store it away until he’s unloaded it on his…er…clients? Or does he deal with it in penny packets, so to speak? By the way, Colonel, you allow the fellow to use the car on his half-day off, eh?”

  “Yes, confound it! How did you find that out? A concession of my wife’s. Can’t say I agree with all this spoon-feeding but a good chauffeur’s hard to come by these days. It’s one of my wife’s little whims to keep the fellow ‘sweet’. You want me to put a stop to these jaunts—is that it, Inspector?”

  “Far from it, sir. I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t stop them. The Sergeant here has been detailed to tail the chap on these Thursday trips. We’re hoping he’ll eventually lead us to the nerve-centre of the racket. Now what about a quick comb through of the fellow’s effects.”

  “To see if he’s got any of these notes tucked away under the mattress, eh?”

  “That’s roughly the idea, sir. If he hasn’t then he must be making regular contacts somewhere with another member of the gang. O.K., Sergeant, let’s get cracking. The usual routine search. You know the procedure.”

  Together the two officials made a deft and comprehensive search of the chauffeur’s two rooms. Luckily Bourmin’s personal possessions were meagre to a degree and many of the built-in drawers and cupboards were empty. At the end of twenty minutes Meredith was pretty well satisfied that every possible hiding-place had been thoroughly frisked. He turned to the Colonel.

  “Umph—much as I anticipated. No sign of any notes, no documentary evidence, nothing in fact to connect him in any way with the racket. Of course there’s always the chance that—”

  “Here, hang on a second, sir!” broke in Strang excitedly. “I believe I’ve hit on something. Take a dekko at this.” The Sergeant held out a crumpled, half-torn envelope. “I found it jammed in the window-frame here. It was folded up into a kind of wedge. I suppose the window rattled or something.”

  Meredith took the tattered envelope and peered inside it.

  “But the darn thing’s empty, Sergeant!”

  “I know, sir. But have a squint at what’s on the back of it. Looks like a map of some sort.”

  Quickly Meredith reversed the envelope and examined the sketch.

  “Ump—a street plan by the look of it. Unfortunately the corner’s been torn off and half the sketch seems to be missing.” Meredith smoothed out the crumpled scrap of paper and placed it on the table. “Let’s take a more detailed look at it. You too, Colonel, if you will. You know more about the local topography than we do. Maybe you’ll recognize the spot.”

  For a few moments the three men pored in silence over the crude and mutilated drawing. It encompassed what appeared to be three roads enclosing a small triangle. Opposite the apex of the triangle was inscribed a cross, against which was written C.C. 6a. Pencilled lightly between the lines that represented the widest of the three roads—the one, in fact, that formed the base of the triangle—were the letters ARTE, then a space, followed by the letters QL.

  “Well, sir, what do you make of it?” asked Meredith, who’d already whipped out his notebook and made a copy of the plan. “Puzzling, eh?”

  The Colonel nodded.

  “Pity we can’t lay our hands on the missing piece. This semi-circular tear cuts right across the middle of the lettering. And the letters at the base obviously indicate the names of the—” Malloy broke off and added excitedly: “Here, wait a minute! I believe I’ve hit on a clue.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “Yes—this QL. Notice the space after the Q? Well, I’ve a shrewd idea that this Q stands for Quai. You follow? Quai something-or-other. And if I’m right…well, you see the implication?”

  “We’ll locate the spot somewhere near a harbour.”

  “That’s how it strikes me. May be wrong, of course. But it’s worth following up. Mind you, there are a good many harbours along this stretch of coastline, but I’ve no doubt the local police—”

  “Exactly. I’ll get in touch with them at once.”

  “And this cross—what do you make of that, sir?” asked Strang.

  Meredith winked.

  “I’ve my own ideas about that, but at the moment, Sergeant, I’m just not talking.” The Inspector glanced at his watch. “We’ve still got a bit of time in hand, but I reckon there’s nothing more to be gained by hanging about here.” He turned to Strang. “Refold that envelope, m’lad, and jam it back in the window-frame just as you found it. Ready, Colonel? Can’t say how much I appreciate your co-operation. But mum’s the word, of course. Better if you don’t even mention our visit to Mrs. Malloy. You agree, sir?”

  “Emphatically!” The colonel’s steel-blue eyes twinkled merrily. “Maybe you’re familiar with the old French saying, Inspector.”

  “What saying, sir?”

  “A woman’s chief weapon is her tongue and she never lets it rust! Apt, eh? Devil
ish apt!”

  Chapter IX

  The Maison Turini

  I

  At six o’clock, punctual to the minute, Inspector Blampignon’s car drew up outside the Commissariat de Police in Menton. Meredith and Strang had already been there some minutes chatting with the Duty Sergeant. Blampignon greeted them boisterously.

  “Ah, this is a great pleasure, mes amis! It is good that we should all work arm in arm, as you say. Much may happen tonight. Much may not happen. But in our profession it is necessary always to be an optimist.” He pivoted on the Duty Sergeant. “A room where we can be alone, perhaps?”

  The Sergeant pushed open a door that led out of the main office.

  “Voila, M’sieur L’Inspecteur!”

  Once the door was closed, Blampignon swung round on Meredith and announced with a melodramatic flourish:

  “M’sieur—we have it!”

  Meredith looked blank.

  “Have what?”

  “The information you wished for…about the little sketch on the envelope. The moment you had rung me off, I collected all the necessary maps. I say to my staff ‘Find this place or I cut your throats!’ Mon vieux—ten minutes before I leave Nice, they find what we look for. Those young men have good sense, eh?”

  “You’re telling me!” exclaimed Meredith elatedly. “Well, my dear fellow, what’s the answer?”

  With a flamboyant gesture Blampignon whipped a large-scale map from his pocket and slapped it down on the little table in the centre of the room.

  “See here—a street map of Menton.” He snatched a pencil from another pocket and stabbed it down on the map. “Here, see…the harbour. And here, a road running beside the harbour. You note its name, Inspector?”

  “Quai Bonaparte,” read Meredith.

  “Exactement! To the left of the little triangle, you remember…the letters ARTE. Now we have it! To the right QL. Please to read again.”

  “Quai Laurenti.”

  Blampignon shrugged.

  “It is simple, eh? All we need to do now is to walk down to the harbour and find out, précisément, what this cross, marked C.C. 6a, is meant to indicate. You have an idea already, perhaps?”

  “Just a hunch,” nodded Meredith.

  “A hunch—what is that?” asked Blampignon, puzzled; then with sudden inspiration: “Ah! I have it. A box in which you keep rabbits. But why should this cross represent a—”

  Meredith broke in with a laugh.

  “Hold hard, my dear chap, or we’re going to get in a tangle. A hunch is a…is a…” Meredith glanced despairingly at Strang. “Good lord, Sergeant, how the devil would you describe a hunch?”

  “An intuitive guess, sir,” said Freddy promptly.

  “An intuitive—?” began Blampignon, more puzzled than ever.

  “O.K. We’ll let it pass,” cut in Meredith hastily. “But if my theory’s correct then I’ve a pretty shrewd idea that X marks the spot.”

  “The spot?” demanded Blampignon, still hopelessly at sea.

  Meredith nodded.

  “The spot where ‘Chalky’ Cobbett has his hide-out. The spot where he and his little playmates print off their dud notes.”

  Blampignon whistled.

  “Eh bien, I admit it is possible.”

  “Well, if C.C. doesn’t stand for ‘Chalky’ Cobbett,” contested Meredith, “then I’m losing my grip. The 6a is probably the number of the house or flat.”

  “Quite, M’sieur. And this evening before we turn our minds to this other little business, it would be as well for us to take a walk down to the quayside. Always it is like this. For days no progress, then…zut!…Everything happen at once.” Blampignon refolded the map and thrust it back in his pocket. “Maintenant, à nos moutons, mes amis…to tell you what I propose about the little expedition we make tonight. It occur to me that…”

  II

  It was nearing dusk when the three officials, having parked the car just beyond the market, found themselves sauntering along the Quai de Bonaparte. To Meredith, who’d greatly enjoyed this unique and colourful episode in his long professional career, it was a sobering and nostalgic moment. Within the next half-hour, it was more than possible that his investigations would be at an end. With “Chalky” Cobbett under arrest and the illicit press out of action, the whole counterfeit-cum-currency racket would, ipso facto, die a natural death. And it wouldn’t be easy, he realized, to take leave of this sunlit, sparkling coast with its terraced vineyards and olive groves, its palms and oleanders, its fantastic cacti, its mimosa-scented streets and impossibly blue seas. He thought of the Old Kent Road on a wet February night and shuddered.

  But there it was. Duty was duty. He’d come south to pick up “Chalky” Cobbett and, once he was pulled in, he’d be forced to write Finis to the case, pack up his traps and clear off back to England, Home and Beauty.

  It was, therefore, with mixed feelings that Meredith heard Blampignon’s announcement:

  “That triangular grove of palm trees a little way ahead—that is the place we look for. We turn off here at the left. This is not a good district. It is very poor and very…” Blampignon delicately held his nose. “You have noticed it, mon ami?”

  Meredith most certainly had! A potpourri of garlic, sewerage and dank rottenness that rose like a miasma from the airless alleyways that zig-zagged in mounting terraces from the waterfront. An atmosphere of poverty and depression hung over the district. Even the little group of palms, beneath which were a few uncomfortable, iron-slatted seats, had the moulting bedraggled look of worn-out feather-dusters.

  They had no difficulty in pin-pointing the building that Bourmin had marked with a cross in his little map. It was evidently a kind of tenement-house, and possibly due to wartime neglect the property was sadly in need of repair. Scabs of plaster were peeling away from its sickly green walls and its lop-sided shutters and skimpy iron balconies were rotting and rusting for want of paint. The whole façade was festooned with lines of gaily-coloured undergarments, slung between the balconies like tattered flags. It looked as if a puff of wind would bring the whole place crashing to the ground.

  “Maison Turini,” read Strang from the chipped stone plaque let into the wall. “Heavens above, sir! What a rabbit warren. I reckon we’ll need a ferret to flush ‘Chalky’ out of this lot.”

  Blampignon pointed out:

  “Remember we have what is no doubt the number of the apartment in which you hope to find your friend. Number 6a was it not? Alors! We make an enquiry.”

  In response to the Inspector’s jerk on the rusty bell-push, an aged crone, with a black shawl over her head, her feet encased in carpet slippers, flip-flapped out of a glass-fronted cubby-hole just inside the entrance. She hadn’t been alone in the little room. Seated at a table over a bottle of cheap red wine was a wizened, white-bearded little fellow with a face the colour of a walnut. He was chuckling and mumbling to himself with all the unselfconscious naivety of a child in the throes of some imaginary adventure.

  “Pardon, Madame—you are the concierge here?” asked Blampignon.

  “Yes, M’sieur.” Then catching the Inspector’s sidelong glance she added in explanation: “Hélas, M’sieur, my husband is no longer able to carry out his duties. He is just a little…” She tapped her forehead significantly. “You understand? Eh bien, what is it you wish, M’sieur?”

  With the natural politeness of his race, Blampignon explained the reason for his visit and, with the greatest discretion, began to cross-question the old woman. At first she seemed reluctant to talk, but soon—obviously flattered by the charm of the Inspector’s approach—her answers grew more and more voluble. As she spoke a kind of patois Meredith was unable to grasp even the gist of her remarks. But to judge by the ever-broadening smile that spread over Blampignon’s honest, sun-kissed countenance, he was getting the information he was after, plus a full me
asure of irrelevant gossip! As the old woman’s evidence continued, Blampignon’s smile gave way to a grin; the grin to a chuckle; and the chuckle to a slowly-mounting roar of laughter that shook his portly frame from head to foot.

  “Good heavens, man!” exclaimed Meredith, bewildered by his confrère’s reaction. “What the devil’s the matter? What’s the joke?”

  “We are the joke, mon ami,” gasped Blampignon, the tears trickling down his cheeks. “Perhaps I should be in a bad humour because we have come on—how do you say?—the chase of the wild goose? But sometimes it is better to laugh than to curse.”

  “You mean we’re too late?” shot out Meredith. “Chalky’s given us the slip, eh?”

  “He was never here, mon ami.”

  “Never here!”

  Blampignon dabbed his eyes and, still chuckling, shook his head.

  “C.C. eh? We think, naturellement, that it stand for ‘Chalky’ Cobbett. But this is where we go wrong. I have enquired of Madame who live in apartment number 6a.”

  “Well?”

  “A young woman, M’sieur, by the name of Celeste Chounet. I ask Madame when and how this young lady came to be here. She tell me some two months ago a middle-aged foreigner engage the rooms for her. I ask her to describe this man.” Blampignon shrugged. “Eh bien, it is Bourmin without a doubt. She says he come here once or twice a week to visit his little friend upstairs.” The inspector winked. “I think perhaps I should have a few words with this Mam’selle Chounet myself, eh? Madame here has been most explicit but always it is wise to check up on such a statement. You will wait here, perhaps?”

  “O.K.,” chuckled Meredith. “But business before pleasure, remember!”

  After Blampignon had ascertained the whereabouts of the girl’s apartment and plodded away up the narrow spiral stairway, the concierge returned to her cubby-hole. Meredith and Strang began to pace idly up and down the dingy corridor, discussing in low tones the unexpected outcome of this little expedition. Whatever his superior’s reactions may have been to this setback, Freddy was elated. Despite the snub that he’d received early that morning outside the Villa Paloma, he still felt that given time and opportunity he could win Miss Westmacott over to a more co-operative frame-of-mind. And with “Chalky” still at large there could as yet be no question of their return to London.