Death on the Riviera E-Book

John Bude

• Herausgeber: Reading Essentials
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Counterfeit currency is circulating on the French Riviera and it's suspected that an Englishman is behind the crime, so DI Meredith is sent along with acting-Sergeant Strang to trace the whereabouts of Chalky Corbett. It isn't long before their interest settles on the Villa Poloma, home of an eccentric expatriate Englishwoman, Nesta Hedderwick and her band of bohemian house guests as a simple task of apprehending a forger turns into a murder investigation.

Leseprobe

Death on the Riviera

by John Bude

First published in 1952

This edition published by Reading Essentials

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

[email protected]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Death on the Riviera

by

Contents

Chapter

Page

I.

Assignment on the Midi

5

II.

The Villa Paloma

13

III.

The Girl in the Gallery

22

IV.

Second Encounter

31

V.

Ominous Meeting

41

VI.

Meredith in Monte Carlo

52

VII.

Cards on the Table

63

VIII.

Colonel Malloy

72

IX.

The Maison Turini

85

X.

Picture Puzzle

95

XI.

Evidence in the Attic

105

XII.

L’Hirondelle

116

XIII.

Clue on Cap Martin

130

XIV.

Notes in Circulation

142

XV.

The Shuffling Cockney

154

XVI.

The Missing Playboy

162

XVII.

Fatal Plunge

173

XVIII.

The Parked Vedette

183

XIX.

Whose Body?

192

XX.

The Bar St. Raphael

204

XXI.

The Rucksack Riddle

213

XXII.

Motive for Murder

222

XXIII.

Case Closed

232

XIV.

Au Revoir

240

Chapter IAssignment on the Midi

I

Bill Dillon turned up the collar of his tweed overcoat and thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. Five a.m. of a frosty morning in late February, he thought, was a devil of a time to be dumped off a boat on to a confoundedly draughty quayside. There were about a dozen other cars lined up in the customs-yard awaiting the attention of the little group of officials, who were now sorting through their papers under a naked light-bulb near the passport office. The night-ferry, from whose maw the train had already been disgorged in the direction of Paris, loomed up, gently swaying, against the starlit sky. A few strings of street lamps and a score or so of lighted windows were all that was visible of the shattered and martyred town beyond the oil-dark waters of the harbour.

Bill lit a cigarette and began to pace up and down, his footsteps echoing on the pavé, his thoughts on the rove. He was thinking back to that night, nearly ten years ago, when he’d last set eyes on Dunkirk; so many splintered impressions that stabbed out in his memory like gun-flashes. The red, roaring inferno that was the town; the spangled web of tracer shells slung over the sea and beaches; the orange blossoming of bombs; the noise; the heat; the indifference to danger that stemmed from an exhaustion that had almost deadened fear. In the maelstrom of defeat he’d no longer been an individual. Just a worn, obedient cog in a relentless machine—Lance-Corporal Dillon of the 6th Southshires—one of the dust-specks that added up to the miracle of Dunkirk.

There was a shuffle of feet at his side, a discreet cough.

“Anything to declare, M’sieur?”

Bill came out of his reverie with a jerk.

“No—nothing.”

The sleepy-eyed official stuck his head through the car door and flashed his torch around the interior. Then he opened the rear door of the saloon, flicked back the clasps of Bill’s unlocked suitcase and dabbled around with an expert hand. He moved round and tried the handle of the boot.

“Please, M’sieur.”

Bill pulled out a bunch of keys and unlocked the boot. It contained the usual paraphernalia—a couple of pairs of shoes that wouldn’t go in his case; a rucksack; an old military gas-cape; a half-gallon can of oil; dusters; cleaning-rags; and foot-pump. The douanier eyed the collection, nodded, and carefully closed the lid. It was all very polite and very perfunctory.

“Merci, M’sieur.”

“O.K.?” asked Bill.

The Frenchman beamed broadly.

“Oui, oui, M’sieur—O.K.! O.K.!” He flicked a hand towards the invisible hinterland of France. “En avant, M’sieur! Et bon voyage.”

“Thanks,” said Bill.

Inwardly he heaved a sigh of relief. It was not that he had anything to declare, but there was one object aboard the car that might have caused comment. And once interest had been aroused an explanation might have been demanded. And at that ungodly hour of the morning Bill felt disinclined to discuss technicalities with a man whose knowledge of English was obviously limited, and who, in any case, would fail to grasp the finer details of his exposition.

II

Once off the quayside Bill realized that the small hours of a bitter February morning was not the ideal time to weave one’s way out of Dunkirk. Presumably there had been roads between the rubble heaps and undoubtedly, before the holocaust, they’d led somewhere. But now there was nothing but a maze of treacherous, pot-holed tracks meandering aimlessly between a network of railway-lines and flattened buildings.

After a bit, utterly flummoxed, Bill braked up and studied his map. The first sizeable place on his route was Cassel. But how the devil was he to break out of this shambles on to the appropriate road? So far he hadn’t noticed a single sign-post. He remembered that road all right. The long hellish strip of pavé down which the disintegrated but undaunted B.E.F. had jerked its way towards salvation. Sitting in his pre-war but still serviceable Stanmobile Ten something of the desperate hopelessness of that nightmare returned to haunt him. The scars of memory never really healed, he thought.

There was a screech of brakes and a small black “sports” slithered to a stop beside him. A head thrust itself out from beneath the hood.

“Pardon, M’sieur... à Cassel?”

Bill, no linguist himself, was swift to recognize a fellow sufferer. He chuckled:

“Don’t ask me! I’m heading for the same road. Not a damned signpost anywhere.”

“English, eh? Got a map?”

“Sure,” said Bill.

“Same here. Let’s take a look at the darn thing in our headlamps.”

Bill glanced at the man who joined him on the road—tall, athletic, aquiline features, something decisive in speech and movement that marked him down as a man of action. A reliable fellow in a tight corner, he thought. His companion, hatless, in belted raincoat, a muffler slung round his neck, was far younger though equally well-built. He seemed to treat the elder man with the respect that was due from a subordinate to a superior.

Barely had they gone into a huddle, however, when an early workman in a shabby overcoat and the ubiquitous blue beret, evidently intrigued by the set-up, jumped from his bicycle and crossed over to them.

“Est ce que je vous aide, Messieurs?”

Bill explained in halting French that they were anxious to get on to the road to Cassel.

“Ah! That is simple, M’sieur. Follow me. I will ride ahead. You keep me always in your headlights.”

Ten minutes later the good-hearted fellow, who had been pedalling like a madman, slowed down and indicated with a violent wave of his arm the route they were to take. Bill leaned out and yelled his thanks, glancing back to see if the second car was following. A few hundred yards farther up the road it drew abreast and for a brief time the two cars ran level.

“O.K.?” shouted Bill.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Where are you making for?”

“Paris!” came the answering yell. “And you?”

“Rheims first stop. After that down the Rhone valley to the Cote d’Azur.”

“Well, I hope it keeps fine for you. Good hunting.”

“Thanks. And the same to you.”

With a lifting drone the little black “sports” suddenly drew ahead and a few seconds later vanished behind an enormous camion that was lumbering with infuriating complacency down the very centre of the highway.

III

Detective-Inspector Meredith of the C.I.D. turned to his companion and observed sardonically:

“For Pete’s sake relax, m’lad. I’m not going to hit anything.”

“It’s this right-of the-road rule, sir. Can’t get used to it.”

“You will... after another eight hundred miles.”

“By the way, sir—what was the idea of telling that bloke we were heading for Paris?”

“Professional discretion, Strang. We’re over here on a job, remember. No point in advertising our destination.”

“But damn it all, sir, he’s also making for the Riviera. We’ll probably run against him. Look a bit fishy, won’t it?”

Meredith laughed.

“There’s about fifty miles of that gilded coastline, Strang. Devil of a coincidence if we did meet again. In any case I doubt if he’d recognize us.”

“Decent sort of bloke, sir. Useful in a Rugger scrum, eh? I wager I’d recognize him in a Derby Day crowd.”

“You’d be out on your ear if you couldn’t,” retorted Meredith bluntly. “Don’t forget, you’ve been trained to observe. I may be wrong but I’ve an idea that you’ve more than an average eye for faces. That’s why the A.C. let you off the leash.”

“Thanks, sir. But I wish the deuce you’d—”

Meredith broke in:

“You’re wondering what it’s all about, eh? O.K., Sergeant. I reckon it’s time that I put you wise.” Meredith took one hand from the driving-wheel, yanked a wallet from the inside pocket of his sports jacket and slapped it down on Strang’s knee. “There’s a photo in the first flap. Take it out and have a good look at it.” His curiosity aroused, Strang did as he was told and studied the print closely. He recognized it at once as an official photograph from the Rogues’ Gallery at the Yard—the regulation two profiles and a full-face. “Know who it is?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, that uninspiring phiz belongs to a little runt of a chap called Tommy Cobbett—‘Chalky’ Cobbett to his friends, on account of his dead white complexion. One of the world’s great artists, Strang.”

“He’s a painter, sir?”

“Not exactly. He’s an engraver, m’lad—an engraver of notes.”

“You mean he’s a forger?”

“I do. And one of the finest we’ve ever come against. He was pulled in just before the War after flooding the West End with spurious fivers. He got a six year stretch and came out about four years back. For a time he hung around his old haunts in the East End and, with our usual professional optimism, we thought he’d gone straight. Then eighteen months ago he vanished.” Meredith clicked his fingers. “Phut! Like that. Well, we knew darn well that ‘Chalky’ hadn’t gone into purdah for nothing. We felt absolutely certain that somewhere or other he was ‘working’ again. But the point was where and for whom?”

“And now you’ve got the answer, eh, sir?”

“Six weeks back we had information from the police at Nice that a top-line currency racket was being worked along the Riviera towns. You know the set-up? English visitors anxious to exceed their hundred quid travel allowance. Obliging Wide Boys equally anxious to help ’em out. Normal rate of exchange about 980 francs to the pound. Black Market rate, say, 780. Profit to the Wide Boys about 200 francs for every pound changed. Easy money, Strang, even if you don’t consider the profits spectacular.”

“But ‘Chalky’ Cobbett,” asked Strang still groping, “where does he come in? I don’t get it.”

Meredith chuckled.

“O.K. I’m coming to him. But there are a few other details I want you to cotton on to first. These currency blokes accept cheques on London banks, see? They’re forced to because, as you know, you can only take five quid’s worth of English notes out of the country. The Wide Boys have a grape-vine method of getting these cheques smuggled over to London and cashed as quickly as possible. So much for that. But the French police recently spotted a further complication in this racket. A flood of counterfeit thousand franc notes was appearing along the Riviera, and they soon traced some of these notes to our benighted countrymen who’d been diddling the Exchequer by their purchase of Black Market francs. In brief, the currency racketeers had been paying out their 780 francs to the pound in dud notes. Result, 980 francs to the pound profit, less overheads and, presumably, a rake-off for ‘Chalky’ Cobbett.”

“But how the heck did the French cops know that ‘Chalky’ was responsible for the faked notes, sir?”

“They didn’t. Nor did we at the start. As a matter of routine we got our forgery experts on to one of the specimen notes. And the experts recognized ‘Chalky’s’ touch at once—microscopic details of craftsmanship that had turned up in all his previous work. That’s why we’re heading south on this cold and frosty morning, m’lad. We’re going to snoop around and keep our eyes skinned and our ears wide open until we get a line on ‘Chalky’s’ hide-out. We’re over here at the request of the French police. So take a good look at that photo and keep on looking at it. I want you to get the details of ‘Chalky’s’ dial fixed firmly in your mind, Strang. It’s easier for me. I’ve seen ‘Chalky’ several times. Matter of fact I was responsible for pulling him in in ’39.”

Acting-Sergeant Freddy Strang carefully replaced the photo in his superior’s wallet. So this was the mysterious assignment that had miraculously whipped him out of the London murk and was now speeding him south to the warmth and glitter of the Mediterranean. Damned decent of the Inspector to pick on him as his assistant. There wasn’t another bloke in the C.I.D. he’d rather be working for. He said earnestly:

“I’ll do my best not to let you down, sir.”

“Sure of it, Sergeant. But I haven’t quite filled in all the gaps. ‘Chalky’s’ not our only concern. The French dicks have a very shrewd suspicion that the currency racket is being worked by an English gang or, at least, under English supervision. Point is these men may be known to us at the Yard. That’s the second reason why we’ve been called in to help.”

Freddy whistled.

“Quite a lot on our plate, eh, sir?”

Meredith nodded.

“Enough to keep you out of mischief anyway, young fellow. What’s your particular weakness—wine, women or song?”

“Song, sir. It’s the only vice I can run to on my present pay. Like to hear my rendering of ‘Night and Day’, sir? It was a smash-hit at the last Police Concert.”

“God forbid!” breathed Meredith fervently.

Chapter IIThe Villa Paloma

I

Nesta Hedderwick, in a faded pink kimono, was sprawling in a wicker chaise-longue on the terrace of the Villa Paloma, sipping a tomato-juice. Behind her the walls of the villa, also a faded pink, were patterned with the fronded shadows of three enormous palm trees that rose from the exuberant vegetation of the steeply sloping garden. The sparkling air was sweet with the perfume of heliotrope and mimosa; the sky cloudless; the sea, glimpsed above the red roofs of the town below, an unbelievable sheet of blue.

But all this lavish beauty left Nesta unimpressed. It was too familiar, too unvarying. Her slightly bulbous eyes were fixed with unmitigated loathing on her glass of tomato-juice. She shuddered to think how many gallons of the vile stuff she’d decanted into her interior in the interests of her figure. But for the nagging accusations of her weighing-machine life might have been perfect. She’d money; one of the loveliest villas in Menton; a large and catholic collection of friends; splendid health; a sense of humour; and a virile capacity for enjoyment. Her husband, a successful but dyspeptic stockbroker, had died between the Wars of ptomaine poisoning. For the last twelve years Nesta had spent her time between Larkhill Manor in Gloucestershire and her villa in Menton. During these years of her widowhood she’d steadily and unhappily put on weight. She’d tried everything—from vibro-massage to eurhythmics; from skipping to Swedish drill; from Turkish baths to the most ghoulish forms of diet. With her faith unimpaired she’d lumbered excitedly from one cure to another. It was useless. As inexorably as a minute-hand the pointer of her bathroom scales crept round the dial. The moment was fast approaching—and Nesta was now quite prepared to admit it—when, abandoning all hope, she’d let Nature take the bit between her teeth. From then on, her figure could go to hell!

However, she was still vain enough to experience a stab of envy as her niece, Dilys, came through the french-windows to join her at the breakfast-table. For Dilys’ slim, straight, brown-limbed figure was perfectly offset by the expensive simplicity of her frock. Nesta flipped a welcoming hand.

“Morning, darling. Sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you, auntie. I’m afraid I’m disgustingly late down.”

“And you’re not the only one!” snorted Nesta with a scowl. Then as Dilys began to sugar her grape-fruit she leaned forward and added confidentially: “You know, darling, she’ll have to go! She will really. She’s been with me far too long. She takes advantage of me. Don’t you agree?”

Dilys sighed. Her aunt’s companion, Miss Pilligrew, was an old bone of contention—a stringy rather pathetic little bone for whom Dilys felt profoundly sorry. In her opinion anybody who could have weathered the storm of her aunt’s temperament for fifteen years was eligible for a gold medal. She said soothingly:

“Oh poor little Pilly—she does her best. I think she’s rather a pet. You’d be absolutely lost without her.”

“Personally,” retorted Nesta, “I think she drinks!” Adding, with a sudden vicious turn of her head, “Ah! Here you are at last. I’ve just been telling Dilys that you drink. Do you, Pilly?”

Miss Bertha Pilligrew granted her employer a wavering smile and sidled like a startled crab into her wicker-chair. She tittered with sycophant amusement:

“Ah, you will have your little joke, won’t you, dear?” Adding brightly: “What a heavenly morning. It’s very sinful of me to be down so late.”

“It’s very rude of you,” corrected Nesta. “I wanted the Tatler. I particularly wanted the Tatler. And was Pilly at hand to fetch me the Tatler? You know damn well she wasn’t! She was sleeping off the after effects of her overnight binge!” Miss Pilligrew’s leathery hatchet face crinkled with delight at this malicious teasing. She tittered louder. Nesta went on: “Where’s Tony? Has anybody seen Tony this morning?”

“I believe I heard him drive off in his car,” ventured Dilys.

“Really! How long ago?”

“About half-past six according to my watch. I think the noise of the engine must have—”

Nesta broke in impatiently:

“Was Kitty with him?”

“She was not!” said a silky voice behind her. “Kitty on this occasion wasn’t asked to go.” A dark-eyed, raven-haired young woman with a provocative figure and considerable grace of movement strolled out on to the terrace. She was dressed in well-cut slacks, overtight silk jumper and scarlet wedge-heeled shoes. “ ’Morning, Mrs. Hedderwick. ’Morning, everybody. Am I late?”

“Abominably!” exclaimed Nesta. “Your own stupid fault if the coffee’s cold.” She snapped on her lighter and lit a cigarette which she’d already jabbed into a shagreen holder... “Pilly, go and fetch my Tatler. You’ve had quite enough breakfast.”

“But... but, Nesta dear—”

“Don’t argue. You eat too much.”

“Yes, dear,” murmured Miss Pilligrew, nobly bolting down her last mouthful of croissant and rising obediently. “I suppose you don’t happen to know just where—?”

“No, I don’t. It turned up with yesterday’s mail. It’s somewhere in the house. Don’t be so darn helpless.”

“No, dear.”

The moment Miss Pilligrew had fluttered off, Nesta turned to Kitty.

“What’s come over Tony? Odd, to say the least of it. Why this sudden passion for early rising?”

“Ask me another, Mrs. Hedderwick. It’s the third time this week he’s sneaked off before breakfast in the car.”

“Umph! Secretive. I don’t like it. Tony’s a brute. He never tells me anything these days. You’re a bad influence on him, Kitty.”

Dilys smiled to herself. Poor Aunt Nesta. Tony Shenton was one of the many improvident young men upon whom, since her husband’s death, she’d lavished her maternal solicitude. One of her “dear boys” as she collectively called them. Six months ago Tony had turned up from heaven knew where for a long week-end and stayed on ever since. With his slick charm and overwhelming bounce, Dilys detested him. He seemed to have usurped the place in her aunt’s affections that should rightly have been hers. Since her parents had been tragically killed in an air-raid during the War, Aunt Nesta had become her legal guardian. Now that Dilys had left her finishing-school in Switzerland the Villa Paloma was, in effect, her home.

The strange thing was that nobody knew why Tony had been invited in the first place. When Dilys asked her aunt where she’d first met him, she shut up like a clam. But she made no effort to conceal her adoration for Tony. Dilys, still at the mercy of a conventional upbringing, considered their relationship unhealthy. She was shocked by their easy familiarity, their shameless, if playful caresses, their bantering endearments. Tony was twenty-eight. Her aunt at least thirty years his senior. On top of this, the contemptuous, casual way in which Tony accepted her aunt’s unflagging generosity infuriated Dilys. Anybody would think by the way he treated Nesta that she was honoured in having him about the house; that in escorting her to the casino or an occasional ballet or theatre he was conferring a favour on her. Granted her aunt was blunt to the point of rudeness, difficult and unpredictable, but at heart she was kind and generous, and Dilys hated to see anybody taking advantage of her.

Three weeks ago Kitty Linden had turned up at the villa, evidently at Tony’s invitation. Whether he’d first conferred with his hostess about this visit Dilys couldn’t be sure. But one thing was certain—Aunt Nesta was riled. And not without reason; for, from the word “Go”, Tony had made no bones about his attitude to Kitty. As far as Dilys could make out he and Kitty had met during the War, when he was a Flying Officer and she a Corporal in the W.R.A.F. Apparently they’d met several times in the interim and kept up a desultory correspondence. Tony had told her the night before Kitty’s arrival:

“She’s had a tough time of late, poor kid. That’s why I thought the change would do her good. Nothing like a spot of dolce far niente when one’s nerves are shot to hell. Lovely girl. Believe me, she’s got what it takes. Used to be on the stage.”

During these last three weeks Dilys had developed a lively admiration for her aunt. It was absolutely wonderful the way she stifled her real feelings and treated Kitty like any other member of the villa circle. Gloriously direct, as she always was, but never by so much as a word or glance hinting at the jealousy that must have consumed her.

As for Kitty... well, a girl of her age and experience ought to have known better. The way she hurled herself at Tony was positively indecent. Dilys thought her a fool. If she ever fell in love she wouldn’t behave like a lovelorn sixth-former with a hopeless pash on the music master!

II

It was at this stage in Dilys’ reflections that Tony’s crimson Vedette (a birthday present from Nesta) droned to a standstill in the garage-yard directly behind the villa. There stepped out of it a broad-shouldered, fair-haired young man, dressed in a pale blue singlet and butcher-blue shorts. At a casual glance, Tony Shenton had the appearance of one of those clean-living, clean-limbed young Englishmen who decorate the pages of women’s magazines or preen themselves in muscular poses in advertisements for men’s underwear. A more prolonged scrutiny would have given the lie to this illusion. Whatever Tony’s constitution might have been at twenty-one, it was now very definitely on the down-grade. Good-living, hard drinking, late nights and lack of exercise had scribbled their signatures on his sun-tanned limbs and torso. His features, in repose, now clearly displayed the ravages of his dissipation. Yet Tony unquestionably had a way with him. When he exerted himself he could be both knowledgeable and amusing. His technique with wealthy, middle-aged women was a revelation. With Nesta Hedderwick it was faultless. No matter that his charm was synthetic, where Nesta was concerned it had rewarded him with a thumping big dividend.

By the time he’d garaged the car and strolled round on to the terrace Kitty was alone at the breakfast-table. On seeing him she glanced up and flashed him a little smile.

“Oh hullo, darling. Had a nice run?”

“Bang on, thanks.”

“Had your breakfast?”

“No—I’m famished.” He cast a predatory glance over the table. “Good lord! Two rolls, one small pat of butter and a small dish of marmalade. Just because Nesta’s on a diet there’s no reason why the rest of us should starve. What’s the coffee like?”

“Lukewarm, darling.”

“O.K. We’ll look into this.” He crossed to a bell-push by the french-windows, then crossed over and dropped with a sigh of exasperation into Nesta’s chaise-longue. Patting the arm of the chair he added in a furry voice: “You don’t look particularly matey on the other side of the table, sweetheart. Coming over?”

“I’m not so sure that I am,” said Kitty slowly.

Tony jerked himself upright and stared at her in surprise.

“Hullo. What’s biting you? Somebody been poisoning your sweet mind against me?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then what the devil’s wrong?”

“Tony?”

“Well?”

“Where did you sneak off to this morning? I think you might be honest with me. After all I—”

Lisette, the parlour-maid, appeared in the french-windows. Tony swung round with a whoop of satisfaction.

“Look here, Lisette, be an angel and make me a fresh pot of coffee, will you? This stuff’s undrinkable. And what about a couple of fried eggs and some thin crisp toast? You know how I like it. Can do, chérie?”

“But of course, M’sieur.”

“Splendid!”

The moment the girl had withdrawn, Kitty observed:

“Really, Tony, anybody would think you owned the place by the way you order the staff around. I wonder Nesta puts up with it.”

Tony chuckled.

“Miraculous, isn’t it? All done by kindness. But don’t let’s drag Nesta into this. You were just tearing a strip off me. You may as well finish the process.”

“It’s these early morning car drives—what’s the big idea, darling?”

“Fishing,” said Tony tersely.

“I don’t believe it!”

“O.K. then—don’t.”

“You’re sure... you’re quite sure it isn’t another woman?”

“Good God! Before breakfast? Don’t be crazy.”

“Then why didn’t you ask me to string along with you?”

“Because I never suspected you’d be interested in fishing. Women are usually bored stiff with this kind of thing.”

“Quite. But I’m not that sort of woman. So the next time you sneak out all bright and early, darling, you’ll take me with you. Promise?”

“Sorry, angel. Nothing doing.”

“But, Tony—”

“Oh for crying aloud!” exclaimed Tony with a sudden flash of annoyance. “Don’t let’s natter about it. When a bloke goes fishing he likes to concentrate. And how the hell do you expect me to concentrate when you’re around? Shall we leave it at that and keep the party sweet?”

“Oh very well, if that’s the line you’re going to take,” said Kitty in surly tones. “I’m sorry if I’m such a millstone round your neck. I didn’t realize...”

“Oh forget it! You’re not. Now why not be sensible and give me a kiss?”

“I might,” said Kitty, melting a little.

“There’s no ‘might’ about it,” concluded Tony forcefully. “You will!”

Chapter IIIThe Girl in the Gallery

I

The remaining guest at the Villa Paloma hadn’t come down to breakfast because when Nesta had an artist living in the house she expected him to behave like one. Paul Latour certainly did his best to live up to the fin de siècle Bohemianism on which Nesta had erected her romantic ideas of the genre. He started off with one great advantage—with his tall, slightly stooping figure; his unruly dark hair and shaggy beard; his lean and hungry features—he looked the part. For the rest he took care to lay on a careful and wholly convincing act. He dressed sloppily in ginger corduroys, loose blue blouse, spotted neckerchief and sandals. He rose late, went to bed at dawn, made love to the maids, dropped ash on the carpets, poured scorn on the heads of the Philistines and corroded the reputation of his fellow artists with the acid of his vituperation.

It was Nesta Hedderwick’s old friends Colonel and Mrs. Malloy who’d first introduced Paul into the villa circle. The Malloys lived a little farther along the coast at Beaulieu and came over once a week to play bridge—a game at which Nesta displayed more enthusiasm than skill. The Colonel had struck up a conversation with Paul in a café at Nice and, sensing that they’d many interests in common, invited him back to his house for dinner. Learning that Paul was more or less broke to the wide he hastily handed him on to Nesta, knowing only too well Nesta’s predilection for romantic young men with more charm than money. As Malloy anticipated Nesta gobbled him up hook, line and sinker. She converted one of the attic rooms at the villa into a self-contained studio, gave him a small but adequate allowance and bored her more influential friends with garbled explanations of his peculiar genius. She hoped they’d buy his pictures. One or two did and furtively hid these masterpieces in the cellar.

For six months now Paul had been sitting pretty at the Villa Paloma. He was, so to speak, the second oldest inhabitant. Not quite so firmly established, perhaps, as Tony Shenton, but doing very nicely for himself. If he played his cards sensibly there was absolutely no reason why he shouldn’t settle down indefinitely at the villa. Or at least until such times as he should find himself financially independent, with a villa of his own.

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!