Murder Abroad (3 page)

“Sporting,” agreed Bobby. “If she sticks to it. Do you think she will?”

“Well, she pays cash,” said Olive simply.

“Good enough,” agreed Bobby. “Sort of a threefold mission—the diamonds, the murderer, the truth. All right, I'll take it on if she can wangle that month's leave she talks about.”

Lady Markham proved even better than her word. Evidently it is not for nothing that one has attended school with the future wife of a Home Secretary. The leave granted Bobby was not for a month merely. It was for six weeks. The more simple-minded among Bobby's colleagues understood that it had been granted because he had not fully recovered from the effects of a slight concussion received in a recent case during the course of which he had been knocked out by a former amateur boxing champion. His other colleagues—a large majority—looked down their noses and muttered to each other about favouritism. Another sergeant was appointed to the squad formerly in Bobby's charge and Bobby wondered uneasily whether that portended promotion when he returned or banishment to one of the outer suburbs. Or whether there was anything in that vague hope Lady Markham seemed to have held out of her ability to wangle him a job as private secretary to a county chief constable.

All three possibilities were present in his mind as a few days later he sat sipping his after-dinner coffee outside the Hotel de la Belle Alliance, de la Victoire, et des États Unis, in the village of Citry-sur-l'eau in the ‘Massif Central' of France, a little to the south of Clermont. Upon his thoughts a voice broke suddenly, startling him, for he had not heard anyone approach. It was a tall, thin man who was speaking, a man with a thin, eager face and eyes that burned but yet that had a trick of veiling themselves behind heavy, slightly swollen lids. His hands were thin and eager, too, almost transparent, and gesticulating easily. He had been standing when he spoke first but now he seated himself at an adjacent table, and Bobby noticed how quick and silent were his movements, how efficient those thin delicate-looking hands of his. If he walked as silently as he seated himself, no wonder, Bobby thought, that he had not heard anyone approach. He said now:

“Monsieur is an artist? Monsieur then will understand that we of Citry-sur-l'eau are a little proud of our view.”

“With reason,” Bobby agreed amiably, for there was nothing he desired more than to establish friendly, chatty relations with the local inhabitants.

Indeed the view was magnificent. In front, to the west, where the sun was sinking in a riot of glorious colouring, lay a wide and lovely valley, one of those rich vales by whose soft beauty Nature has seemed to wish to throw into greater relief the bare, tormented splendour of so much of the Auvergne. Through the valley, past the village, ran a small stream, probably the ‘eau' from which the village took its name, on its way to join one of those rivers that, fed by the snows and rains of the Massif Central, issue from it to water the wide land of France. North, in the far distance, the great round summit of the Puy de Dôme hung in the evening air as though it floated in the clouds, detached from any earthly base. East and south hill rose behind hill in a series of never-ending rocky ramparts, rock heaved upon rock, here a solitary pillar starting up like a finger thrusting at the sky, there a great bare wall like that of some enormous castle, then again a gigantic crag balancing in apparent insecurity almost as if at any moment it might topple over in dreadful ruin, everywhere such a medley of crag and gorge, of ravine and rock, as though it were here the Titans had started to build their tower wherefrom to storm the heavens and these were the relics of their defeat. Over the whole scene hung a red glow from the setting sun, so that now it seemed all things were seen through a haze of blood. Magnificent indeed, Bobby thought, and yet with about it something of the ominous, of the sinister, as though here lurked dark forces of nature man had not yet conquered, perhaps would never conquer.

“Magnificent,” Bobby said, this time aloud. “A little terrifying, too. One would say here Nature had been at war and might one day begin again.”

“Not war, but birth,” smiled the other. “Yet perhaps they are the same. Here in the Auvergne we have traces of the pangs of Nature before she gave birth to her child, the earth. Here where we sit, here first the interior fires began to cool and solid land to form itself from fire and steam. Perhaps some day all that will re-commence. Who knows? Quiet without, but fire within. Like the society man has made for himself. All so calm above, so different below—but one must not talk politics. In the meantime, Monsieur, you look with the eye of the artist and see beauty, I with the eye of the scientist and see the story of the earth's formation.”

“I'm afraid I'm not much of a scientist,” Bobby admitted. “How did you know I was an artist? I've always flattered myself I had not the air.”

“Monsieur,” said the other, “all the village knows.” He got to his feet and bowed. He said: “Permit me to introduce myself. Eudes. Schoolmaster in this village of Citry-sur-l'eau. Jacques Pierre Eudes.”

Bobby in his turn rose and bowed.

“Owen,” he said. “An artist, yes, but, alas, it would be truer to say—trying to become one.”

“Monsieur,” said Eudes gravely, “those who try to be, already are.”

It was an echo of a famous saying of Pascal's, but Bobby did not recognize it. He said in return and with equal gravity:

“Monsieur, I perceive you are a philosopher.”

Eudes was plainly gratified by the remark, and those eager, yet half-hidden eyes of his opened into a smile of appreciation. He went on talking about the village. Bobby was content to listen. He had a feeling that he was being discreetly pumped, but he answered fully all the questions delicately dropped at intervals, even though he was careful to give in reality very little information. Simply an artist, impressed by the austere beauty of the country and anxious to do some sketching, was the impression he wished to leave of himself. Later on, it would be his turn to ask questions. For the present, it would be best to show no more than the casual and natural interest of the newcomer. He did make a smiling remark about the interest his arrival seemed to have caused in a village, where surely tourists, artists, too, for that matter, came frequently enough. But Eudes began at once to talk of something else. Bobby remembered that his welcome at the little inn with the long name had been cordial even beyond the usual cordiality of a welcoming landlord and yet had been touched with a certain quality of reserve and hesitation, as though this welcome had in it some unusual element of doubt. Perhaps it was simply that the villagers had been uneasy lest the tragedy of Miss Polthwaite's death might keep visitors away and he was welcome as a proof to the contrary and yet was feared as possibly bringing fresh trouble. When presently another reference was made to his supposed status as artist, he laughed and said:

“I wonder how that was known so quickly. Disappointing when I always try so hard not to look like one.”

“You have not indeed the air,” agreed Eudes, and gave Bobby so quick a look from those sharp, restless eyes behind the heavy lids that Bobby wondered uncomfortably if Eudes entertained any suspicions. A bad beginning if that were so. Eudes went on: “But the true artists never do. If nowadays there is someone with sandals and no hat, with a velvet jacket and a tie like a hand-towel; well, then all the world shrugs its shoulders and knows what to think. Monsieur Shields, for example—” 

Eudes paused for a moment. Bobby guessed he was watching to see if the name were recognized and connected with the Polthwaite tragedy of which as yet no mention had been made. Bobby gave no sign and Eudes continued: “A lion of a man, Monsieur Shields. A figure of a Goliath. One would say probably a boxer of the first rank, renowned. My faith, how the farmers would jump at him for the harvest field in days when all the young men go off to the towns and farmers are glad of any old crock to help in the harvesting. And dressed always like a real bourgeois. Yet an artist of the first rank, famous indeed, one understands. One can believe it, for his work is superb. At the first glance it can be told what it represents, almost like a photograph in colours.”

“But what made you think I was an artist?” Bobby insisted. “I'm not famous by any means, and you haven't seen any of my work, though I hope you will let me show you some presently.”

“That indeed will be a privilege I shall value,” declared Eudes, “and for the rest, Monsieur, you must make allowances. These are troubled times. Spies. Refugees. Agitators. Conspirators. The police smell a plot everywhere. Before the ink was dry in the hotel register, our good Nicholas David was there, making his inquiries.”

“Who is he?” asked Bobby.

Eudes answered that David was the ‘garde-champêtre'. Bobby knew the word but had only a vague idea of its significance. Eudes explained that a ‘garde-champêtre' was an officer of the judicial police stationed in rural districts. He seemed indeed to be a kind of village watchman, acting chiefly on the instructions of the mayor, used also for making all necessary public announcements, available as well, apparently, for private individuals who wished to make anything known, a sale, the loss of a purse, the arrival of a circus or anything similar. Bobby decided that Nicholas David might be worth cultivating. Presumably he would know the details of the Polthwaite tragedy and it might be possible to get him to talk. Eudes said frowningly and abruptly:

“A tool of our government of bankers and capitalists.”

The phrase seemed to have slipped through the self-control Bobby felt Eudes habitually exercised. He had been cautious before when referring to politics but this time there had been an edge to his voice. Evidently anxious to cover up the words and tone he had used, Eudes went on talking about trivial matters. Bobby began to watch him more closely. A nervous, excitable man, Bobby thought, secretive as well. One of those perhaps who hide their thoughts behind a screen of words. Bobby remembered, too, how quietly, almost secretly, Eudes had come up. Was it possible, Bobby wondered, that behind Eudes's apparent frankness, his readiness to talk, the occasional questions he dropped with so casual an air, there was something more than the natural curiosity and interest it was only natural should be felt towards a stranger in this quiet and somewhat remote village where most likely any such appearance furnished matter for a week's gossip?

Eudes's flow of chatter slackened a little, and Bobby noticed a tall, unusually good-looking lad, black hair, black eyes, dark strongly-marked features with a nose like a great thrusting beak, coming striding up to the door of the hotel. He carried his head a little thrust forward, too, as if to emphasize the dominance latent in that great curved nose, and he had about him an angry and frowning air. He gave them a quick look as he passed, exchanged a half-hostile, half-hesitating salute with Eudes and passed on. A girl came to the door of the hotel as if she had been waiting for him. Bobby had not seen her before and wondered if she were one of the staff. She was dressed simply and wore no hat. Without being strikingly handsome, she had pleasant, well-formed, somewhat large features, with eyes of clear grey below a broad, smooth forehead. Her hair caught Bobby's attention. It was twined in thick masses about her head and was of a rich dark brown that had somehow a reddish tinge to it, so that a stray beam of the setting sun caught in it lay there as if at home. But then Bobby saw that when she spoke to the new-comer, who had quickened his step on seeing her, they both looked at him, and that the young man's expression grew even more dark and angry than before. The girl laid a hand upon his arm and drew him within. They vanished from sight so, and Bobby said carelessly to his companion:

“Two good-looking youngsters. Who are they?”

“The girl is Mademoiselle Simone. Lucille Simone. She has come recently to live with her aunt, Madame Jules Simone. Madame keeps the little shop there.” Eudes pointed down the street. “The young man is Charles Camion, the son of the proprietor of the hotel.”

The name, Bobby remembered, of the suspected murderer of the unfortunate Miss Polthwaite!

“Oh, indeed,” he said indifferently.

He had seen Monsieur and Madame Camion on his arrival, a smiling, comfortable, pudgy pair, like two well-fed, friendly spaniels. Difficult to believe they could have produced this haughty-looking off-spring with his eyes of an eagle and his step of a leopard.

“He hasn't too amiable an air,” Bobby added after a pause. “Doesn't he like the hotel or is it just guests he disapproves of?”

“Ah, no, it is probably something else that has displeased him,” Eudes answered. “He is perhaps too easily displeased but then he is young. He will change all that presently.”

He shrugged his shoulders and got up to go, saying something as he did so about preparing lessons. Bobby asked if he might accompany him part of the way and Eudes expressed his pleasure at the suggestion and added a compliment about the quality of Bobby's French. He wished, he said, he could speak English, but not a word did he know of that admirable language, the language of Shakespeare and George Eliot, a collocation of names that slightly staggered Bobby who had not known before how much George Eliot was still admired and remembered in France. They walked together, the schoolmaster with a word to everyone they met, and a little outside the village passed a field where men were still at work, late as it was. Eudes stopped and pointed to one of the workers whom Bobby had already remarked for his different dress and from the fact that even a glance showed he was having some difficulty in keeping up with the others.

“Our curé,” Eudes said, making no effort this time to disguise the contempt and dislike in his voice. “Monsieur, the Curé Georges Granges. He has here a fat living, with his regular salary from the bishop, his fees for the masses fools pay him to say, the christenings, the marriages and the rest of all that flummery. It is well known, too, that he has his little investments, his income in addition. And yet he hires himself out to work in the harvest field where any pair of hands is welcome. A scandal, though the Church takes no notice. Ashamed of it, they admit over there at the diocese headquarters, but they do nothing. Even they understand that a miser who would shave an egg for what he could get from it, does their precious Church little credit.”