Death Speaks Softly (24 page)

The girl looked surprised. 'I'm afraid I don't know your husband, madam.'

A large man, who had been sitting in the foyer most of the morning, detached himself from his chair and came across, ostensibly to flick through the rack of postcards farther down the desk.

'He is blond, and tall—' Cecile faltered.

'Perhaps this gentleman can help you.'

'If I can, ma'am.' Detective-Constable Rowley was uneasy. He'd caught only a snatch of the stilted conversation, but hadn't liked what he heard.

Taking pity on Cecile's lack of English, the receptionist explained, 'This lady wonders if anyone saw her husband go out, and if so, at what time.'

'Go out?' Rowley's startled exclamation surprised both his hearers. 'He can't have done. I've been here all morning.'

'You know my husband, monsieur?'

Rowley back-pedalled. 'I heard your description, ma'am. Tall, fair gentleman, you said. No one like that has gone out this morning.'

Cecile said with a touch of impatience, 'Monsieur, there is no question that my husband went out. I require only to know when.'

Since no one seemed able to help her, she walked through the swing doors and stood on the pavement looking up and down the street. Suppose he'd gone farther than he realized, and become lost. Would he be able to ask directions, or understand any he was given? Would he even remember the name of the hotel? But surely if he said 'by the river—' even
'pres de la riviere
—' an English person should understand. But suppose, instead, he'd been taken ill somewhere?

Rushed off to hospital?
Oh, Gaston, reviens,
je t'imp
lore!’

John Rowley had shut himself inside the telephone booth in the foyer. 'Guv, I swear he couldn't have got past me.'

Ledbetter pursed his lips. 'There's been no sign of Warwick?'

'Not a whisker. Anyway, if Picard
had
gone out, Bob would have seen him.'

'Not if he was tailing Madame to the hairdresser's. Well, never mind, John, it's not a matter of life and death. We're only trying to stop the Professor annoying them. If we slipped up, we'll just apologize and put it down to human error.'

'Not
my
human error,' Rowley repeated stubbornly. 'I'd stake my life on it. He never went through those doors.'

'OK, John, no sweat. But let me know when he gets back.'

Rowley had put the phone down before he realized the DI had had the last word in more than one way. Swearing softly, he too went out on to the street. There was no sign of Bob Jeffries; he'd have followed Madame again.

On an impulse, Rowley went back inside and took the lift to the third floor. As he'd guessed, the door to Room 313 was on the latch. He stepped inside and looked quickly round, not sure how long he'd got before the woman came back. Two suitcases were on the luggage stand, a row of bottles and jars on the dressing-table. The rest of the room was neat and impersonal. A breath of expensive scent reached him on the draught of his movement.

Feeling foolish, he opened the wardrobe door, briefly scanning the few dresses that hung there. Then he pushed open the bathroom door and looked inside. It, too, was clean and empty. What had he expected? Did he really think she might have overlooked her husband's presence? Yet he was so sure Picard hadn't appeared in the lobby. Well, he'd been proved wrong, damn it. He resented the slur on his professionalism, even though the Governor hadn't seemed too worried.

There was nothing here for him. After a cautious look up and down the corridor, he slid out of the door, leaving it as he'd found it, and went back to his post in the lobby, guarding the now empty stable.

At Divisional Headquarters in Shillingham, Chief Inspector Webb sat glumly at his desk, contemplating the mound of paperwork which had built up in his absence.

'Can't have it all ways, Dave!' Crombie remarked, grinning. 'You said you wanted some excitement, and you got it, but the papers haven't just melted away.'

Webb grunted, thinking back to the day the case started, and his frustration at seeing Hannah with Frobisher. At least, thank God, that last emotion hadn't been waiting here to reclaim him. Last night—but if he started thinking of that, the paperwork would never get done. The phone on his desk rang, and, glad of the distraction, he lifted it. 'DCI Webb.'

'Hello, Dave, Chris here. Just ringing to say your lad's been in to report on Warwick. He's fine, apparently, all smiles and not a worry in sight. But he's convinced he's going to be a bridegroom.'

'You call that fine? He must be off his rocker.'

'Oh, come on, let that bee out of your bonnet. The case is
over,
for Pete's sake. She must just have been playing him along.'

'Why should she do that?'

'Who knows? Perhaps for leaving her all those years ago. He'll get a nasty shock, but he's not the first one, and he won't be the last, so why get our knickers in a twist? Anyway, we're keeping an eye on the Picards—or trying to. The husband seems to have given us the slip.'

'What?'
Webb came to his feet, and Crombie looked up from his papers.

'Gone walkabout in the sunshine. So what? Warwick's not been near him.'

'How do you know?'

'We've a bloke planted in the hall.'

'Then why the hell didn't he see Picard?'

'Hold on, now, Dave. I don't kn
ow. It was a slip-up, though he
won't admit it. Good cop, too, John Rowley.'

'If he didn't see Picard,' Webb said evenly, controlling his temper, 'he might have missed Warwick, as well.'

'My God, Dave, you're really neurotic about that man! I
told
you—'

'Humour me. Send someone round
now,
to the university and to Warwick's house. Find out where he is and how long he's been there, and ring me back.'

'Yes, sir.'

Webb consciously eased his grip on the receiver. 'Sorry, Chris, but I have bad vibes about this guy.' 'OK, OK, I'll send two cars to check on him.' 'And you'll ring me back?' 'I'll ring you back.'

Webb sat down slowly and looked at his watch. It was two o'clock. Across the room, Crombie, deciding questions would be unwise, returned to his work.

It was important, Bernard felt, to review the position in detail, check there was nothing he'd overlooked. Though he longed to phone Cecile, he must contain himself. Gaston's death would be a shock to her. Still, father and daughter could have a double funeral, which would be preferable to drawing out the agony. He accepted there would be agony, for the remaining children, at least. But it would all be seen to decorously and with due ceremony. As to his divorce, these things could be put through quickly now and he didn't foresee any hold-ups. So in—what?—three months?— they'd be free to marry. After thirty years, he could wait another three months.

In the meantime, he must plan what to tell her, and at what stage. Thinking of Gaston, the snakes moved restlessly, but they no longer distressed him. He had the means of their destruction at hand. Love conquers all, he thought fatuously, even serpents. Poor, poor Brouge! How different his life might have been, had Jeanne Colliere come back into it. Perhaps he should add an addendum to his
Life.
He'd not realized, when he wrote the book, the full significance of the snakes and the reptilian brain.

A police car drew up at the gate, and he frowned, annoyed at the interruption. Were they still looking for Beryl? Perhaps they'd come to dig up the garden. She was probably at Marjorie's, but he wasn't obliged to tell them that. If they wanted to search for a hidden grave, they were welcome. He opened the door, staring woodenly at the two young men on the step. Not Simon Marshbanks, this time. Ye gods, the house was becoming police-ridden.

'Sorry to trouble you, sir,' said the spokesman, producing his card. 'Could you tell us what your movements have been today?'

'I could, certainly, but why should I?'

The young man flushed. 'Routine inquiries, sir.'

'Don't treat me like an idiot, Officer. Constable Marshbanks has already been round. However, since it interests you, I've been home all day. I
was
hoping to work uninterrupted.'

'Would it be all right if we stepped inside for a moment?' 'You have a search warrant?'

'No, sir, nothing like that. Just a quick look round, if it's all right. It won't take a minute.'

Bernard sighed heavily. 'Very well, come in.'

He stood in the hall while the two officers went swiftly over the house, opening doors and cupboards and looking under beds, by the sound of it. Did they think he'd hidden her indoors? Only as they met again in the hall, exchanging a quick shake of the head, did he realize it was not Beryl who interested them.

'Do you know Mr Gaston Picard, sir?'

The unexpectedness of the question shook him, but his habitual mask gave no hint of his alarm. 'I met him last week, when he arrived in this country.'

'Have you seen him since, sir?'

'I have not. I heard he was confined to his room.' He paused, added with finely judged amusement, 'Why, have you lost him?'

'And you haven't left the house at all today?'

'No, Constable, I have not. Do you want it in writing?'

'Sorry to have troubled you, sir,' the young man said stolidly, and they both took their leave. Bernard stood looking after them, smiling to himself as a casual hand patted the bonnet of the car as they passed it in the drive. The engine had had time to cool down, and in any case the strong sun pouring down on it would account for any residual warmth. Still, why should they think he knew anything about Gaston?

Then he remembered. He'd spoken to Simon that morning of his impending marriage. That had been less than wise. He really must be more careful about confiding in people, especially the gentlemen, either actually or metaphorically, in blue.

For the third time that afternoon, Cecile returned to the hotel to find no news of Gaston. She was hot and sticky, as much from her growing panic as the heat of the day and her incessant searching. On this occasion she paused long enough to bathe her blistered feet and change her blouse.

Then, reining her stampeding thoughts, she tried to be objective. Was there anything she'd missed? Anything which, with hindsight, could seem significant?

She had left Gaston at five past eleven, in time for her eleven-fifteen appointment. She conjured him up in her mind, sitting in that chair, the cushion of which still bore the imprint of his body. Impulsively she moved to it, laying her hand in the indentation. Oh God, where was he? Why hadn't he left a note, telling her where to find him? She felt wretchedly alone, not knowing how officialdom operated here. She could try the hospitals, but how to discover which and where they were?

Suppose—her breath almost choked her—suppose, suddenly becoming faint as he walked by the river, he had stumbled and fallen into the water, and no one had seen him?

She put her hands to her burning cheeks. She shouldn't have left him! Yet he'd been all right all those other times, when she'd had to meet Bernard. He'd never gone out before.
Why
had she been so stupid as to put the idea in his head? If only there were someone—

Suddenly she thought of the schoolteacher, and ran to the phone. Beside it lay Hannah's letter of condolence, with the printed phone number she had dialled—was it really only last evening? But this time the ringing went unanswered. Mademoiselle would be at her school, and Cecile hadn't that number.

She found she was whimpering to herself, and consciously tightened her control. Mr Webb? But he was back in Shillingham, and in any case he did not speak French. . Which left Bernard, who did, and though she was reluctant in the extreme to contact him, at least he could advise her who to approach.

'Bernard?' As always, she gave the word its French pronunciation.
'C'est moi, Cecile.'
Quickly, she recounted her worries, that Gaston had become lost, or confused, or ill. Worse than that, the fear that stalked her with hooked claws, she refused to acknowledge. She finished her rapid account and waited, breathless, for his response. It didn't come.

'Bernard?' Her voice rose hysterically.
'Au nom de Dieu, aide-moi,
je te supplie!'

'Mon ange,'
he said, and his voice seemed to throb along the line.

'Tell me what to do!' she implored him. 'How many

hospitals are there? How can I contact them?' 'Sweetheart, stop worrying. All will be well.' 'How
many—' 'Cecile, je t'adore.'