Gently French (16 page)

I parked the Bugatti in the hotel forecourt, where it sat simmering like a contented cat. The time was between tea and dinner and the Barge-House had an unpeopled air. Dutt was in the lounge, reading an evening paper. Through the open french windows he had a view of the lawn. At the bottom of the lawn, decorating a sun-bed, lounged Mimi, Madame Deslauriers.

I nodded to Dutt and took a seat by him.

‘The lady looks lonely down there.’

Dutt gave me a slow grin. ‘Not so lonely, sir. She’s been having a teatime chat with Bavents.’

‘How many does that make?’

‘It makes three. She had him up in her room again this afternoon. He was in there for nearly an hour, but he didn’t come out looking very chuffed.’

‘Was he happier at teatime?’

‘Not so as you’d notice, sir. But with all that hair it’s hard to tell. My hunch is the lady wants him to do something which he isn’t very keen on.’

‘I’d have thought she could talk him into anything.’

‘Yes, sir, you get that impression. And as a matter of fact I got round to wondering just how well they do know each other.’

I leered. ‘You did, did you?’

Dutt had the grace to turn pink. ‘Not like that, sir! What I mean is whether they’d met before she came here.’

A shrewd point. ‘What was your conclusion?’

‘Well, sir, I don’t know about a conclusion. But I did give the University a tinkle to find out Bavents’ home address.’

‘And that was?’

‘Chelsea, sir. Vought Street, Chelsea. His father keeps The Peacock pub. That’s a few blocks away from Upper Cheyne Row, but not outside the lady’s district.’

‘Well, well,’ I said. ‘So they could have met.’

Dutt looked pleased. ‘It’s on the cards, sir. If you ask me the lady has a taste for pubs, so she could have spent an evening in The Peacock.’

‘And now she wants him to do something he doesn’t fancy.’ I gazed down the lawn at the recumbent Mimi. She was draped elegantly in the evening sunlight, gazing at nothing through tinselly-framed sun-glasses. ‘Has Bavents used the phone?’

‘Not to my knowledge, sir. I’ve been keeping an eye on the phone.’

‘Has he been out?’

‘Don’t think so, sir. Not since yesterday afternoon.’

I hesitated. ‘He was out then?’

‘Yes, sir. If you remember, I couldn’t check his statement. I’d say he went out after they finished serving coffee, and it was after you came back when he returned.’

It was indeed. I did quick arithmetic. It must have taken me an hour to find Mimi’s launch. In half that time Bavents could have driven to the chalet, hidden his Mini and forced the window. And Friday evening too he had been at liberty . . . while there were plenty of chef’s knives in the kitchen! Dutt was eyeing me thoughtfully.

‘Does that fit in, sir?’

I nodded and briefly brought him up to date. Dutt listened stolidly. I sketched Hanson’s theory without bothering to throw in comment. Dutt wrinkled his nose.

‘I like Bavents better, sir. Those rough boys are all for keeping it simple.’

‘Where is Bavents now?’

‘He’s in the kitchen. Do you want me to fetch him out for you?’

I shook my head; first things first. I rose and went down the lawn. Mimi received me with a melting smile and was gracious enough to remove her sun-glasses.

‘You are back, my friend! Was the day tiresome?’

I took the Bugatti’s key from my pocket. It was a custom-made, gold-plated key, attached to an enamel badge by a snake-chain. Not to be mistaken. I let it dangle. Mimi’s green eyes fixed on it covetously.

‘Ha! You have brought me Freddy’s car.’

I gave the badge a flip. ‘I’ve brought it from town.’

‘But for me, huh?’

‘Perhaps. At the moment it is just part of Freddy’s estate.’

She sat up on the bed. ‘But he has left it to me! You will find it is so in his will.’

‘I haven’t seen his will.’

‘But yes, it is true! You have only to ring up Freddy’s solicitors.’

I flipped the badge again. ‘Of course, if you have seen it . . .’

‘It is the same. I shall have the car.’

‘But if I could have your word for it?’

Her eyes narrowed; she stared at the key, then back at me.

‘You are mean, Monsieur. You know quite well that the car will be mine. But it doesn’t matter, I will wait. Only I shall not think you are very generous.’

I moved my shoulders. ‘That’s too bad. Especially since I bring unpleasant news.’

‘Unpleasant news? How?’

I dropped the key in my pocket. ‘I think we had better talk about that in private.’

I
GAVE DUTT
the pleasure of escorting her to the office and myself went in search of Frayling. I found him in the dining-room, decanting spirit into the chef’s stove from a Winchester bottle. It was near the door of the kitchen; I drew him further off.

‘Did Bavents have permission to go out yesterday?’

Frayling’s tentative smile became anxious. ‘It was all right, wasn’t it? He didn’t get into any trouble?’

‘Please answer the question.’

‘Well – yes, I suppose so. He told me he had to attend a Student Union meeting. Apparently the meeting had been called unexpectedly and was to do with his being sent down.’

‘Have you a private phone, other than in the office?’

‘There’s one in my flat upstairs.’

He took me there. I rang the University; I was handed around between secretaries. Eventually I contacted the Student Union liaison officer, who informed me there had been no meeting for three weeks. I asked him if Bavents’ rustication was an item on their agenda, and he informed me that that was unlikely. The matter had been discussed at a previous meeting, when no motion had been put before the committee.

Frayling was concerned. ‘I just don’t understand it. He must have some personal problem he wants to keep quiet.’

I threw him a look. ‘Don’t mention this conversation to him. And don’t let him out again without telling me.’

‘But look – what has he done?’

‘Just do as I say.’

I left him gazing after me with wretched eyes. Outside, across the road, was parked an electrician’s van with two of Hanson’s men yawning inside it. I went to it and slid back the door.

‘Do either of you two know the waiter, Bavents?’

They didn’t, so I gave them a
portrait parlé
: which in Bavents’ case wasn’t difficult.

‘If he leaves, detain him. I want him for questioning.’

They looked uncertain. ‘Will there be a charge, sir . . . ?’

‘I want him stopped. Understood?’

Apparently it was. I slammed the door.

I had brought back copies of the Bilney photographs and I took them with me into the office. Mimi had appropriated the swivel chair and sat smoking, her sandalled feet on the desk. She was wearing her hot pants, along with a sleeveless top in a black, clinging jersey material; she looked politely bored, and didn’t bother to glance up as I entered the room. I adjusted the curtains; Dutt, in his corner, sat quietly sharpening a pencil. I perched on a corner of the desk, remote from the sandals, and laid down the photographs with their backs uppermost.

‘Have you been in a blue Viva car lately, Madame?’

Mimi considered it. She flicked ash. ‘Do you think I have, Monsieur?’

‘I don’t know for certain. But later I shall need your fingerprint sample.’

‘Aha. Then you have such a car.’

‘We have both the car and the driver.’

Mimi sat still, appraising her toes. Not a twitch of emotion on her magnificent face.

‘Perhaps you should ask him if I have been in his car. After all, I know nothing of the makes and colours. The cars today are so much the same. It is only the men that one remembers.’

‘Unfortunately, this driver is answering no questions.’

‘No?’ The corners of her mouth dimpled. ‘Possibly he is nervous, being questioned by policemen. I believe it happens with many people.’

‘I am sure he isn’t nervous.’

‘Then it may be stubborn? In some subtle way you have hurt his feelings?’

‘This man doesn’t have feelings, Madame Deslauriers. I have pictures of him here. Would you care to see them?’

Her eyes flickered to mine. She could sense a trap, but there was now no way for her to avoid it; and doubtless she felt confident she could control herself and subdue any sign of recognition. She reached for the top photograph and turned it over.

Her cry had the thrill of mortal agony.

Her legs jerked from the desk: she sprang up, gasping, and stood with her face turned to the wall. She hugged herself, her breasts, her stomach, fighting to hold her hysteria in check. The sense of violence was awesome. She should have fainted; instead, there was this brief, epileptic-like struggle; then the frantic breathing began to subside, and her arms sank shakily to her sides. She pulled round to face me again, her cheeks flushed, her eyes smouldering.

‘You . . .
pig
!’

I reached for the photograph, but she lunged forward and seized it with eager greed. She gazed at it angrily, triumphantly. Then she threw it in my face.

‘That was cheap, you pig – cheap! How dare you show me such a picture?’

I returned the photograph to the pile. ‘I certainly agree it should not have been necessary.’

‘You take advantage. That is how my husband died. It is what they did to poor Freddy. You say “Aha, aha, this will break her down. This is just the thing for little Mimi”.’

‘You are over-reacting, Madame.’

‘Pig!’

‘You were less disturbed when the victim was Freddy.’

‘Did I see such photographs of what happened there? Were they pushed under my nose in this fashion?’

‘Freddy was your lover.’

‘Ha, ha, lover! In the end we were just friends.’

‘You had no grief for him. Surely this emotion is excessive for a mere stranger?’

‘It is not for a stranger. It is for shock. It is for that horror you make me see. It is unfair, a low trick. I am angry: I despise you.’

I shook my head. ‘Too uncharacteristic.’

‘Ha?’

‘Madame Deslauriers has more poise.’

‘Beast and pig!’

‘I think Madame Deslauriers could have seen that picture without turning a hair.’

‘Am I a butcher then? An executioner?’

‘You are a person of coolness and resource.’

‘Ha-ha, flattery will not do either.’

‘Nor will any further denial that you know that man.’

She snatched her head and glared at the pile of photographs. Her colour had slowly been returning to normal. Her breathing was well in check again and her hands trailing loose. Now she let her eyes die, too, the lids relaxing and hooding. The passionate set of her lips began to soften, to curve.

‘You are a bastard, Monsieur. Which you know very well.’

‘Perhaps you will take your seat again.’

‘But understand that I hate you.’

She sat however, and replaced her immaculate feet on the desk. Then she took cigarettes from her pants-pocket, lit one and blew caressing smoke.

‘Of course, I do know that man. I knew him when you showed me the picture this morning. But I did not choose to acknowledge that. Which you will admit is my privilege.’

‘Why didn’t you choose to acknowledge it?’

She cocked a shoulder. ‘Let us say you were interrupting my breakfast. Also I did not know him well. I didn’t wish to answer questions.’

‘You know his name?’

‘Why not? Bilney.’

‘How did you come to make his acquaintance?’

‘One evening I was in the Hammersmith Feathers with Freddy and Wicken and we were joined by this man. We went on to other pubs. He came with us. I think he was hoping for some business with Freddy. There were plenty of hangers-on like that. Doing a job for Freddy was a safe thing.’

‘Did Freddy employ him?’

‘You must ask Wicken. It was he who introduced him to Freddy.’

‘But after that you would see him around again?’

‘Oh no. I saw him just that once. He was not my style, you understand. He was a dull-witted, uncouth boy. If you ask me I do not think Freddy would have used him. Freddy was a man who required intelligence.’

‘But he was a friend of Wicken’s. And Wicken you did see.’

‘Wickey, yes. Not Wickey’s friends.’

‘So you could have got in touch with Bilney through Wicken.’

‘I suppose I could. But why should I?’

‘Say a personal interest.’

She laughed derisively. ‘I tell you already he is not my style. I like some subtlety with my beef. Even among policemen one can find it.’

‘Then what about Bilney?’

‘What about him?’

‘Didn’t Bilney take a personal interest in you?’

She gestured with the cigarette. ‘He was lecherous, of course. But it goes no further with that sort of animal.’

‘He didn’t try to see you?’

‘I think you are joking.’

‘Didn’t follow you around? Angle for attention?’

‘Not that one. Never.’

‘Yet we find him in Haughton. Staying next door. Sending you a message.’

She breathed out a long miasma of smoke. ‘Does that make sense to you, my friend? That I would play footsy with such a dumb ox, when there were as good or better right on my doorstep?’