Death on the Riviera (2 page)

Chapter II

The 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 III

The 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!

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. Wonderful 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.”