Mischief in St. Tropez

by C. G Oster

  Chapter 16

  T he Hotel Carlone was a nice Victorian building, painted white with a wealthy display of windows. It was a little further along than the more extravagant hotels, such as where his friend, Prince Barenoli, was staying. Still, it was a respectable address.

  Dory had parked right in front and made her way to the reception. A man with neat hair and a carefully preserved suit stood behind the wooden desk. “Mademoiselle,” he said with a curt nod as she approached. His name was printed on a brass badge pinned to his lapel.

  There were some people milling in the lobby. “I wonder, Monsieur Legrand, if we could speak in private about a delicate matter.”

  The man’s eyebrows rose and so did his chin, so he was now looking down his nose at her. The disapproval wafted off him. Dory had no idea what he assumed that to mean, but it was something he was strictly disapproving off.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said indulgently, “I am a very busy man.”

  “Well, Baron Drecsay is not so busy these days and that is who I am here to speak about.”

  Further surprise pushed the man’s eyebrows even higher. Then he frowned. “This way,” he said, leading her toward a nondescript door, built to blend into the wood paneling behind the desk. It led to an office of good size. The furniture wasn’t the latest, but it was well cared for, and he bid her to sit down by his desk. “How can I help you, Mademoiselle… ”

  “Sparks,” she said. “I have been asked by Lady Pettifer, who is acting in the interest of Baron Drecsay’s extended family, to see that poor Baron Drecsay is being properly cared for.”

  “Oh, would this Lady, or possibly his extended family members, wish to settle the poor baron’s account with us?”

  “That is a question to put to his estate, I think.”

  “Well, some of his creditors have already been here, by order of the local magistrat, may I add.”

  This was news to Dory and she must have shown it on her face.

  “Some of his creditors came, claiming they had the right to his things in recompense for what he owed.”

  “They took his things?”

  “Not everything. They left disappointed, I’m sure. The baron had some trinkets, but nothing of any real value. I am certain no one has had their accounts paid in full.”

  “So what is left?” Dory asked, disappointment flaring in her.

  “Some toiletries. A rather nice silver comb. His clothes. Some books.”

  “No diaries or letters?”

  “No. You can see the things if you wish. They are in a box.”

  It hadn’t occurred to her that the baron’s room had been packed away, but of course it had. A hotel couldn’t afford to keep a room for a man who wasn’t there to pay for it—or for previous nights, it seemed.

  “Yes,” Dory said, still battling with her disappointment. She’d felt so assured that some important clue would come out of this. The manager disappeared and returned with a cardboard box. It seemed too small to be the remains of a man’s life.

  The manager had been correct though, in that there was little inside—nothing that told her anything.

  “No one has come for his belongings?” she asked after replacing the lid on his belongings. There really was nothing in there that would be of use.

  “Only people seeking something to gain. Obviously people looking for more, because some of his things still have value—his clothes for example. Best quality, but his creditors were not interested.”

  “What did they take?”

  “I did not see. Jewelry, perhaps.”

  “Was the baron a man who wore jewelry?”

  “Obviously, he wore a signet ring. He had a gorgeous Cartier watch. A distinguished diamond tie pin as well.” Dory got the feeling this man could describe the jewelry in detail. “But they were not here when he died.” It seemed the manager had checked, and probably before anyone else had accessed the room. Dory would bet her arm there was other jewelry in his room that this man wasn’t mentioning. The pieces he was describing would likely have been on the baron’s person at the time he’d died, which meant the police had them. Dory hadn’t noticed at the time and she chided herself. DI Ridley would probably have noticed, but she had been too shocked and distracted to observe such details.

  “You never observed anyone act aggressively toward the baron?” she asked.

  “No,” the man said lightly as if it would never occur to him.

  “I understand he was familiar with a local girl,” Dory finally said.

  The man stroked his chin absently. “Yes. Marie, I believe her name is. Chard.”

  “Did the police ask about her?”

  “No, they were interested in the English women he was associated with. There was obviously the Countess Tirau. Their association was well known.”

  “What other English women did he know?”

  “Sometimes he had women here. They came and went. He was a beautiful man. Usually, they didn’t introduce themselves. Mostly Marie. Beautiful man, beautiful woman.”

  “Was she a lady of the night?” Dory asked lightly.

  The man shrugged. “Who is to say?”

  “Do you know where I can find her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she wishes not to be found.”

  With that, Dory sensed that the manager’s interest and attention had run out, so she thanked him for his time, and wrote down the Beaulieu Villa number on a card and asked him to call if there was anything else he could think of.

  Dory left the building and walked into the sunshine again. For some reason, the hotel manager’s office had left her feeling a bit cold, which was unusual. She didn’t really want to return to Archie Wilshire’s house just yet. Kindness aside, she felt uniquely uncomfortable there, exasperated by Vivian’s presence. Because of that, she was in no rush to get back, so she walked along the promenade along the edge of the gloriously turquoise blue water. Never had she seen water so bright before. It looked like a jewel.

  On her walk, she recounted all the things she’d heard and knew. There were creditors who had come looking for his things. Marie Chard was undoubtedly his lover—the most consistent one, but not the only one. She could or could not be a prostitute according to Monsieur Legrand’s reaction to her question. But if he was seeing her on a regular basis, and his friends knew about her, it suggested there was a relationship there.

  It was unlikely Livinia knew about this woman. Dory couldn’t imagine that she wouldn’t care. Some men had mistresses as a given, but Dory couldn’t see Livinia being a person who would tolerate that. Thinking back on it now, Dory realized she hadn’t asked the manager if Drecsay’s relationship with Marie superseded the death of Countess Tirau. Perhaps it didn’t matter. If the countess disapproved of him seeing other women, it might be that he associated with one that would be below her regard.

  It was a question she could probably put to Terry, but she wasn’t sure if it mattered. Terry might know where to find this woman.

  Returning to her motorcar, she turned around and headed along the coast again, trying to put order to all the questions she had. The next thing to do was to find this Marie. If she was in a relationship with him, she might know why he was killed, because no one else seemed to have a clue. It could even be that this woman was responsible, but then again, could she have snuck into a party and killed him? If she dressed the part, perhaps she could. Had she discovered that her lover was waiting for a pretty, rich heiress in a secluded spot and become enraged enough to kill him?

  The butler would have kept an eye on anyone arriving at the party and he would have told the police if anyone unusual or uninvited had arrived. That would have informed their investigation into an entirely other direction, so Dory concluded there had been no unusual person attending the party. It meant she had to focus on the people who were at the party, which was almost everyone belonging to the British enclave on the coast.

  To her annoyance, when she arrived back at the party, her parking spot had been
taken by some new arrival while she had been gone and she had to find another quite far away. She was looking forward to returning here as much as she would a hole in the head, but she had a job to do.

  The party had left the tennis court behind to languish along the veranda, elegantly draped over the equally elegant furniture. Terry was leaning against the wall, standing with drink in hand. His eyes were a little slower and more glossy, and he groaned as she approached. With a bit of drink in his belly, he was more honest about his feelings, not that he had particularly been holding back before.

  Dory smiled tightly. “You mentioned that woman, Marie Chard. Do you know where I can find her?”

  “God, what would you want to find her for?”

  “Just to see what she has to say. She knew Baron Drecsay well. Perhaps he confided in her.”

  Terry performed an uncaring shrug. “I don’t. I don’t even know if she’s around anymore. It was a while ago since I met her. Not the kind of girl who sticks around, if you know what I mean.”

  Truthfully, Dory didn’t know what he meant, but she also didn’t want to reveal her ignorance over what seemed a judgemental throwaway comment.

  “Do you know where she was last?”

  “I assume they spent most of their time together at his hotel. I wasn’t privy to what they did in private. As for where she was when they weren’t together, I have no idea.”

  He took a deep sip of his drink.

  “Pretty, though,” he said after a while. “The coast attracts pretty girls like flies, and they all want something. Attracted by title or money. They’re all after something they don’t have themselves.”

  This was hardly relevant. What was he telling her? Just spreading some form of bitterness? “And what was Marie after?”

  “Perhaps she was hoping Drecsay would fall in love with her enough to marry her, give her some respectability. Who wouldn’t want to be a baroness? If all other things were equal, wouldn’t you?”

  “All the barons I’ve met are miserable people,” Dory said tartly. With the exception of perhaps Archie, and Lady Pettifer, of course, she hadn’t met an upper-class twit she’d like to know better.

  Terry found this inordinately amusing and he laughed. “Purport yourself uncorrupted by titles and wealth?” An edge of sarcasm laced his voice.

  “I don’t pretend to know myself enough to hazard a guess,” Dory said dismissively, having no interest in getting into a discussion about her character with this man. Having dealt with Vivian before, she had no interest in entering some kind of discourse for this man to prove his own prejudices.

  Chapter 17

  M arie Chard proved difficult to find. She wasn’t listed in the phone book, which wasn’t perhaps surprising, because it was an expensive service and few could afford it. Trying to call the gendarmerie also proved fruitless and an exercise in absurd frustration, resulting in Dory being told that they could not be used as a meeting service.

  With a groan, Dory hung up. She now had no idea how to find this woman. Terry had alluded that she could perhaps have left town, but then the hotel managed had clearly suggested she was a local girl, which meant she lived here somewhere.

  If she had been a foreigner, she could easily go to the relevant consulate, who kept track of where everyone could be reached. Who knew it would prove so hard to find a person.

  With a sigh, Dory rose from the small chair by the telephone table and walked back to the salon. “I’m afraid the gendarmerie were no help at all. I have no clue how to find this woman.”

  “Normally the right retailer could push you in the right direction, but I don’t think this woman visited the retailers who keep records.”

  “Perhaps Prince Barenoli will know. I will send him a note later.” Dory signed again. “We just don’t seem to be getting anywhere. I was hoping Marie Chard would shed some light on why this man died. If there was anyone he would confide in, surely it was her.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know anyone who would be aware of this girl.”

  Feeling her spirits flag further, Dory sighed. “You figure this would be the most basic skill involved with investigating.”

  “We never claimed to be skilled,” Lady Pettifer said, popping a candied almond in her mouth. “I wish I had bought some sherbets while we were in Nice.”

  “I will get some if I go there anytime soon, provided they haven’t run out.” Along with sugar, the supply of some luxury items were dwindling.

  “Well, if we want to know what a professional would do in this instance, perhaps we should ask a professional,” Lady Pettifer suggested.

  “I tried that, but the inspector won’t even speak to me.”

  “There is another one, though, who might be more willing to lend his ear and offer advice.”

  “Oh,” Dory said. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask DI Ridley for help. He may not be able to offer any direct assistance, but he could potentially tell her how to go about finding someone. “I will write to him.”

  A scrape sounded upstairs.

  “Someone’s risen,” Lady Pettifer said.

  Both Livinia and Vivian had returned early in the morning, being driven home by Richard. Livinia had put Dory out of her misery and urged her to drive home, saying they would find a way back without her. It had been a mercy and Dory had jumped at the chance. Now it was close to two in the afternoon and one of them was finally rising.

  By the sounds of the steps, Dory knew it was Vivian, who appeared with his shirt open, displaying his white undershirt. “I will change,” he said. “I’m just in dire need of something liquid.”

  “Good night, I take it,” Lady Pettifer said.

  “It did get a bit messy towards the end. Dory, here, didn’t last the distance.”

  “Much too sensible,” Lady Pettifer added.

  Again Dory felt the weight of Vivian’s judgment. Yesterday it had been for being there. Today his complaint was that she hadn’t been there. Could he be so kind as to make up his mind? It seemed like he wanted to complain more than anything else.

  “I will go write that letter,” Dory said and stood.

  “What letter?”

  None of your concern, Dory wanted to say.

  “We thought we’d ask that policeman back in England how we should proceed from here. We appear to need a little guidance.”

  Vivian was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps you shouldn’t proceed. It could be that the police are not making further inquiries because they shouldn’t.”

  “Or they are simply too busy and too uncaring that some foreigner has been dispatched. If he were a spy, it wasn’t as if they are going to publicly acknowledge it.” It seemed someone had been discussing the case with him, perhaps at the party last night.

  “I really don’t think that’s the case,” Lady Pettifer said.

  “Someone at the Tonbridge’s party killed him,” Dory said and a silence descended. “So either one of the members of the illustrious British enclave is a spy hunter, or there is another reason altogether for this murder.”

  “It does seem unlikely that anyone would choose to take care of a spy in such a setting.”

  With a nod, Dory left the spot where she stood by the door and retreated to her room, where she could write her letter. In a way, she felt nervous. She’d had no communications with DI Ridley in any form since he had left Wallisford Hall. It could be that he’d ignore her letter completely. At the time, she had been of assistance to him, but she wasn’t sure he would give her the time of day otherwise.

  Sitting down at her desk, she pulled out a crisp sheet of paper and tried to think of what to write. Perhaps she should explain the situation first. With some false starts, she finally put her pen to the paper and started writing down what had happened and the things she had found out. What she really wanted to understand was what to do next. She paused. Maybe he would just tell her to leave it to the French police to deal with, like Vivian had—like everyone else was. Dory didn’t know this man she was inve
stigating—she didn’t particularly like this man, but that was beside the point. Anyone deserved justice in such a situation. And there was a murderer here in this English society along the coast.

  For a moment, she wondered if Vivian resented her for her part in uncovering his mother’s deed. It was unlikely, but potentially possible that the woman would not have been found out if it hadn’t been for Dory.

  Still uncertain if she had written down the right things, or if she was even right in asking for guidance, she folded the letter and placed it in an envelope. She didn’t know the exact address, so she wrote DI Ridley, Metropolitan Police, London. Surely the police would know how to direct it to the correct place.

  Getting up from her seat, she returned downstairs to the salon with the letter in hand. To her relief, Vivian was no longer there. If Lady Pettifer noticed the tension between them, she didn’t remark on it.

  “Ah, have you written?”

  Dory held up the letter.

  “Excellent. Mr. Fernley,” Lady Pettifer called and her butler appeared after a few moments. She did have a bell for calling him, but she usually bypassed it and simply asked for him. He seemed to hear her wherever he was. “Could you run down to the airport near Cannes and see if you can get this on this evening’s flight.

  “Yes, madame,” he said and took the letter. Dory watched it leave the room and then as Mr. Fernley walked out to the car.

  “It should be with him in a couple of days,” Lady Pettifer said. “I wonder what he will tell us, but hopefully he will have some advice on how to find this woman. It must be a specialty of a policeman, determining how to find someone.”

  “I hope he writes back.”

  “Of course he’ll write back. Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I am sure he’s busy.”

  “It is in the nature of a policeman to assist.”

  Dory smiled. “Perhaps you are right.” She couldn’t help but wonder where he was and what he was doing. Was he solving some case somewhere? It could be that he wasn’t in London at all, in which case the letter could take much longer to reach him.