by John Bude
From the first floor they moved up to the second; from the second to the third and fourth; from the fourth to the extensive cellars that formed a kind of semi-basement to the building. En route Mam’selle Chounet was, for the second time, put through the hoop. But she, like Madame Grignot and every other occupant of the place, swore that she’d never seen anybody answering to “Chalky’s” description either in or near the Maison Turini. At the end of three hours’ solid and unremitting labour they were forced to admit that they’d got precisely nowhere!
Dropping into a nearby café for a hasty snack and a well-deserved apéritif they set out to extend their enquiries along the Quai de Bonaparte. Two hours later, depressed and wilting, they moved along to the Quai Laurenti. But always to be met with the same blank stares and emphatic headshakes; the same negative answers and infuriating irrelevances. For a chap who must have been passing constantly up and down the quayside on his way to and from L’Hirondelle, probably for weeks on end, “Chalky” Cobbett appeared to have taken on the miraculous attributes of the Invisible Man! In brief—nobody had seen him in the district, far less spoken to him or made his acquaintance. What was more, nobody had ever heard any gossip about the fellow.
It was this last factor that really puzzled Meredith. “Chalky” may have been a topline forger, but he was certainly no linguist. It would be utterly impossible for him to conceal the fact that he was English, or at any rate a foreigner. Moreover, “Chalky” was a pint-sized sort of chap—a little over five feet in his socks—with that dead white complexion which had originally earned him his nickname. And if an undersized, white-faced little rat of a foreigner could have been wandering about this district for weeks on end without causing comment then something was very definitely screwy. There seemed to be only one logical answer to the enigma. “Chalky” hadn’t been noticed along the waterfront for the very simple reason that he’d not been living near the harbour. In short, their investigations had been a damnable waste of time!
It was long after dusk before the three officials retraced their steps along the Quai Laurenti and headed for the parked car. Jaded, leg-weary, and disheartened, they spoke little as they jogged by the garishly-lit little shops and cafés that shouldered each other along the gently curving waterfront. Even for a Mediterranean night the air was exceptionally clear and balmy. Quite a number of people were strolling up and down the broad pavements or sitting over their drinks at the little marble-topped tables outside the cafés. Pausing a moment to light his pipe, Meredith temporarily dropped behind his companions, who, busy with their own reflections, plodded on towards the car.
The Inspector was just flicking out the spent match, when a small boy, chased by an irate, gesticulating woman, shot out of a nearby pâtisserie like a greyhound from a trap. In view of the lad’s violently masticating jaws, it was pretty obvious that the owner had caught him pilfering her stock-in-trade. His precipitate appearance on the pavement resulted in a head-on collision with a bent, wizened little man who was shuffling by the shop with his eyes seemingly fixed on the ground. The outcome of the impact, from Meredith’s point-of-view, was startling. In a flash of ill-temper the little fellow made a wild attempt to fetch the urchin a clout on the head.
“’Ere! Watch aht!—blast yer!”
In the circumstances this censure was admittedly justifiable but why the devil, wondered Meredith, had the old man lashed out in English? English, moreover, that had about it the unmistakable clipped and nasal twang of the Cockney? He swung round sharply and took a closer look at the elderly white-bearded figure. Then he suffered a shock. There was no mistaking the man’s features as, muttering under his breath, he started off again on his interrupted shuffle along the brightly-lit sidewalk. It was M’sieur Grignot—the half-witted husband of the concierge at the Maison Turini!
So Grignot could speak English, could he? Cockney English! And when the need arose his mind could work as quickly and clearly as the next man’s. What the deuce did it mean? That Grignot’s insanity was assumed? That the fellow, for all his mumbling and chuckling and head-nodding, was merely laying on an act?
And then, like a bolt from the blue, Meredith hit on the explanation for the old fellow’s behaviour; a startling theory that whipped him into a mood of ever-mounting excitement. Good God, yes! It all added up. The simulated craziness; the inarticulate babblings; the uncomprehending glances—what better alibi for a man who wished to conceal his identity? Frenchman by name but Englishman by birth, eh? Simple to hide the fact that he couldn’t speak or understand a word of French behind this façade of idiocy. And hadn’t Latour been in the habit of paying regular visits to M’sieur and Madame Grignot in their little glass-fronted cubby-hole? And wasn’t the Maison Turini within a stone’s throw of the harbour? Above all, wasn’t this M’sieur Grignot a pocket-sized little chip of a chap, who displayed, in moments of forgetfulness, an easy command of Cockney vituperation?
By heaven, yes! There was absolutely no doubt about it. The search for the elusive “Chalky” was at an end. He could be picked up now whenever they wished at the Maison Turini!
III
By ten-thirty that evening, after a dash over to Nice, concerted plans had been worked out for the arrest of the wanted men. The dead-line was fixed for ten-thirty the following morning. Blampignon was to pick up Bourmin at Beaulieu, and a ’phone-call had been put through to Colonel Malloy at the Villa Valdeblore asking him to make sure that the chauffeur would be on the premises at the appointed time. Meredith, Strang and Gibaud were to deal with Cobbett at the Maison Turini; and, immediately after his arrest, they were to go direct to the Villa Paloma to pull in Shenton.
Over the providential and unexpected discovery of “Chalky’s” whereabouts Blampignon was jubilant.
“You have no doubt about this, mon ami? There is no chance that we arrest an innocent man?”
Meredith shook his head emphatically.
“None whatever! The devil only knows why I didn’t rumble the trick before. Of course the beard and the olive-skinned complexion helped to pull the wool over my eyes. His assumed craziness did the rest. Clever, you’ll admit. Latour knew he could trust the old woman, and I imagine when he fixed for her to take up that concierge job at the Maison Turini, he kidded the owners of the place that she was actually married to this halfwit. All ‘Chalky’ had to do as a preliminary was to let his beard grow and darken that dead-white pan of his with some suitable stain. The idea of acting ga-ga, of course, was to overcome the lingo difficulty and prevent people from asking awkward questions. Ourselves included! Neat, eh? Naturally when we made enquiries this afternoon to find out if anybody had seen or heard anything of a five-foot, white-faced Englishman in the district we drew a blank. But I’ll wager every darn witness we questioned had seen Madame Grignot’s crazy ‘husband’ shuffling and muttering around the streets. If you ask me, ‘Chalky’ had hit on the all but perfect alibi. If it hadn’t been for that youngster…well, the chances are we’d still be groping. Bourmin, Shenton and now Cobbett. Three in the bag, eh? A pity we can’t lay our hands on Latour. Can’t bear to have loose ends lying around and Latour’s one of ’em. However…” Meredith lifted his shoulders, “this looks like the wind-up of my assignment down here. And I don’t mind telling you, my dear Blampignon, that I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. The entente cordiale, eh? I shall miss your sunny, Provençal smile back at the Yard!”
Chapter XVI
The Missing Playboy
I
“Chalky’s” arrest the following morning was effected without a hitch. The job was done so quietly and efficiently that nobody in or near the Maison Turini realized what was happening. “Chalky”, himself, caught on the wrong foot, made no serious attempt to deny his identity. A moment’s bluster, a few querulous protests and, recognizing the hopelessness of his position, he threw in the towel. Seated between Meredith and Strang in the back of the local police-car, he was whisked off through the
sunlit streets to the Commissariat, where he was to be placed under lock and key until Blampignon arrived to take him over to Nice. On the steps of the Maison Turini, Madame Grignot, with much wringing of hands, watched her erstwhile “husband” pass out of her life—presumably for ever. She’d been warned to hold herself in readiness for further cross-examination. Gibaud had made it clear that she might be charged for withholding information from the police and as an accessory both before and after the fact.
Once “Chalky” had been safely deposited in the lock-up, the three officials returned post-haste to the car and drove all out for the Villa Paloma. After all, they weren’t going to have that redoubtable old harridan, Madame Grignot, tipping the wink to Shenton. They’d been caught that way in the case of Latour.
Parking the car just short of the villa gates in the Avenue St. Michel, Meredith detailed Strang to take up his position in the garage-yard and ordered him to keep a close watch on the rear of the building. As the Inspector pointed out there was always the chance that Shenton might smell a rat and endeavour to make a bolt for it. The moment Strang had slipped in through the wicket-gate, Meredith turned to Gibaud.
“All set?” Gibaud nodded. “O.K. Let’s go.”
As on his previous visit, it was Lisette who answered the Inspector’s ring at the front door. But on enquiring if Mr. Shenton were in the girl threw him an evasive glance and said haltingly:
“I am sorry, M’sieur—but…but I think M’sieur Shenton is not here.”
Meredith rapped out anxiously:
“You mean he’s away—on a visit somewhere?”
“No—not exactly, M’sieur.”
“Just out and about somewhere, is that it?”
The girl’s embarrassment increased.
“Well, no, M’sieur. I think that he…” She broke off and concluded with a little rush: “Perhaps you would care to see Madame Hedderwick? It is better, perhaps, that she should explain.”
“Very well,” agreed Meredith, puzzled by the girl’s strangely hesitant manner. “Kindly tell her it’s Inspector Meredith, will you?”
Once the girl had ushered them into the Chinese room and retired, Gibaud observed:
“There’s something odd about this. Either the fellow’s here or he isn’t.”
“Quite. Can’t make out why the girl was hedging. Anyway, we’ll see what Mrs. Hedderwick has to say.”
Nesta Hedderwick, as it transpired, had plenty to say! She was in a state of considerable agitation. With her customary directness she came to the cause of her perturbation without delay. The outstanding points of her non-stop narrative were these—Shenton hadn’t come down to breakfast. Half an hour ago she’d gone up to his room and discovered that his bed hadn’t been slept in. His car was gone from the garage. She’d questioned the other members of her household but apparently nobody had set eyes on Shenton since dinner the previous evening. Madame Bonnet, the cook, however, was convinced that she’d heard him starting up the Vedette shortly after 9 p.m. So it was possible that he’d gone out for a drive and the car had broken down. But if so why hadn’t he telephoned to say that he’d be spending the night away from the villa? It was unlike him, declared Nesta, to leave her in suspense, knowing how anxious she’d be. It was strange that the police should have turned up, as she was just about to put through a call to the Commissariat.
“And now that you have turned up,” asked Nesta shortly, “what do you want with Mr. Shenton?”
“A private matter,” said Meredith vaguely. “We just want to ask him a few questions—that’s all.”
“Well, you can’t if he’s not here!” retorted Nesta acidly. Then with a sudden change of mood, she went on: “I can’t help wondering if he’s had an accident. It’s something I’ve always dreaded. But I suppose if there had been an accident—” Nesta, aware that the door had opened behind her, glanced over her shoulder and demanded tartly: “Well, Lisette, what is it?”
“Please, Madame, M’sieur Gibaud is wanted on the telephone. It is the Commissariat, M’sieur.”
Mrs. Hedderwick uttered a thin wail of alarm.
“There, what did I tell you? I knew I was right! I had a premonition. Something dreadful’s happened. I’m sure of it.”
During his colleague’s absence, Meredith did his utmost to reassure the distracted woman, but when, in a few moments, Gibaud returned, Meredith realized at once that something was definitely wrong.
“I’m afraid I’ve some rather disturbing news for you, Madame.”
Nesta shrank back in her chair with an inarticulate cry and gasped out:
“It’s Tony, isn’t it? There has been an accident. I knew it! I knew it! He’s…he’s not…?”
Gibaud shook his head.
“No, not exactly an accident, Madame. But a report has just come in that his Vedette was found abandoned this morning out on Cap Martin. The Desk Sergeant knew I was here so he rang me direct.”
“But Tony…?” enquired Nesta faintly. “Have they no news?”
Gibaud lifted his shoulders, hesitated a moment, and then announced quietly:
“A man’s béret was found on the rocks close to the sea, about a hundred yards from the point where the car had been parked. A black béret, Madame, decorated with a red pompom and silver badge of the English Air Force.”
With a shivery moan, Nesta buried her distorted face in her hands.
“Yes…yes…it’s Tony’s. There…there can’t be any mistake. Oh, what does it mean? What does it mean, Inspector?”
“That,” said Gibaud with a sympathetic headshake, “is something that we still have to find out. We have a car outside, so with your permission, Madame, I suggest we drive out to Cap Martin without delay.”
II
The manager of one of the hotels perched on the rocky escarpment overlooking the cape had sent in the information concerning the abandoned car. It had first been noticed by a member of the staff cycling out from Menton about six-thirty that morning. The manager hadn’t telephoned immediately, thinking that the owner of the car might have been taking an early-morning walk in the vicinity. But when, later, he himself had strolled down and found the car still there, he’d come to the conclusion that the matter should be reported without delay. A further factor lent urgency to his decision. The running-board opposite the driving-seat was spattered with blood!
There and then he got in touch with the local gendarme, who, after inspecting the Vedette for himself, rang the Commissariat at Menton. It was this gendarme who’d picked up the black béret on the edge of the rocks, opposite the spot where the car had been abandoned.
When Meredith, Gibaud and Strang arrived on the scene, they found the fellow on duty by the Vedette. After Gibaud had heard his report, the two Inspectors got down to a thorough examination of the car. There was no questioning the veracity of the manager’s evidence. Several small bloodstains were visible on the off-side running-board, and a closer inspection revealed further spots of blood on the actual bodywork just above the running-board. At a casual glance, due to the crimson paintwork, these stains had been practically invisible.
“Well,” demanded Gibaud, as they straightened up from their preliminary investigation, “what do you make of it?”
“Curious, to say the least of it. No bloodstains anywhere inside the car. Merely these scattered spots along the side opposite the driving-seat. If there’s been foul play of any sort…well, you see the implication?”
“You mean that if Shenton were attacked the assault must have taken place after he’d got out of the car?”
Meredith nodded.
“And the moment we assume that, we’re up against another peculiar factor.”
“And that?”
“The bloodstains are on the side opposite the driving-seat—that is to say on the right of the car. And since Shenton would obviously get out on the left, it suggests h
e must have walked completely round the car before he was attacked. Peculiar, eh? You’d have thought his assailant would have nobbled him as he was actually clambering out—that’s to say, when he had him at a disadvantage. A small point, I admit, but one worth remembering.”
“Quite,” agreed Gibaud. “And assuming Shenton’s been scuppered it’s reasonable to suppose that his assailant then carried his body across the rocks and dumped it in the sea. En route his béret fell off and—”
“Whoa! Whoa!” cut in Meredith sharply. “Not so fast, my dear fellow. Presuming this is the spot where the attack was carried out why aren’t there any bloodstains on the road? I know damn well there aren’t because I’ve been looking for ’em.”
“There is that,” admitted Gibaud with a crestfallen look. “Then what’s your explanation?”
“That if Shenton’s been murdered—and, for heaven’s sake, let’s keep that ‘if’ bang in front of our noses—then the job was done elsewhere. The murderer merely used the Vedette to convey the body to this particular spot. Probably, as you suggest, to dump the remains in the sea.”
“Well, it might explain away the hood,” agreed Gibaud.
“The hood?”
“Yes. It struck me at once. An open car with its hood raised and its side-windows fixed in place is a rarity in these parts. As far as I can recall, we haven’t had a drop of rain for a fortnight. There was certainly no rain last night. As a matter of fact, it was exceptionally warm and windless.”
Meredith nodded.
“I get your point. The hood was up and the screens in place because the murderer wanted to conceal the fact that there was a corpse in the back-seat. There may be something to it. Though I can’t help feeling that if he’d shoved the body in the well and covered it with a coat, all this palaver wouldn’t have been necessary. After all, his one thought must have been to get away from the scene of the crime as quickly as possible.”
Strang, who throughout this exchange had been listening with both ears wide open, put in deferentially:
