It all started very badly. When Littlejohn and Cromwell got out of the train at Francaster, a thunderstorm was raging. Although it was a May afternoon, the station was almost in total darkness and people moved like wraiths in the gloom. Now and then, a flash of vivid lightning lit up the whole place, revealing surprised travellers carrying bags and tennis racquets, and coloured posters which mocked them. Come to Blackpool in the Spring when the Weather’s Good. Brighton is Ideal in May.
Sadd dashed up to them. He wore a black plastic raincoat and looked as though he’d just been fished from the river.
“Superintendent Littlejohn? My name’s Sadd. I’ve been investigating the case at this end...”
Sadd! Another good start! Littlejohn and Cromwell shook him by the hand. In the other, he held a dripping umbrella.
“No luggage, sir?”
“No. We hope to get back by the midnight train.”
“Oh...”
Sadd didn’t quite know what to say. If the pair from London thought they were going to solve the death of Sammy Cheever in a few hours, they looked like being mistaken. They’d soon find out.
“Ever been to Francaster before? It’s not always like this, you know. Up to an hour ago we’d hot sunshine. It’ll be all the better for a storm. It’d got too sultry... There’s a car at the station exit.”
It rained all the way to the police station and stopped as they pulled-up. A pleasant square with a garden in the centre. All the daffodils and tulips had been beaten to the earth by the storm. The shops and offices round the square had their lights on. Across at Hampole’s shop, the owner put out his head to inspect the weather and nodded and grinned at Sadd like a Cheshire cat.
“A fellow called Sam Cheever, a broker and furniture dealer, went on his holidays nearly six weeks ago and never came back. They’ve just found his body in a pond in the South of France.”
Littlejohn smiled. A pond! The Etang de Vaccarès was a huge lagoon which spread for miles... But Sadd hadn’t stopped to enquire.
“… A bit of a dark horse. There’s no telling what will turn up before this case is finished, sir. Cheever was a one for the ladies. He’d even got one in France. This might turn out to be a crime of passion.”
And with that, the Chief Constable and Superintendent Ironside entered and completely eclipsed the modest Sadd.
The purpose of Littlejohn’s visit was simply a conference. Just that. All business entails conferences and journeys to and fro these days and the Chief Constable couldn’t rest until they’d had one. So, Littlejohn agreed. It was a waste of time and money and the two Scotland Yard men left Francaster again that evening.
There were one or two other items in the Sammy Cheever file, however, mainly provided by Cromwell after a visit to Mrs. Cheever.
“Go alone,” Littlejohn had told him, “and get to know all you can about Cheever and his French interests.” It was a bit difficult getting rid of Sadd, but in the end, Cromwell found himself at the shop, the bell over the door jangled, and he was in.
Mrs. Cheever bore her widowhood lightly. After all, she had suffered none of the agonies and ceremonial of bereavement. Samuel had walked out of the door one day, dressed in his blazer, and nothing more had been heard of him until the report of his death had arrived, along with his dentures, from France. The French police had already buried his body, or what was left of it. They supplied Mrs. Cheever with the name of the cemetery at Arles, but she didn’t show any inclination to go and mourn there. If the other six women of Francaster and the French trollop who had at various times in his life provided her husband with new experiences cared to go and weep for him at his tomb in Provence, that was their affair. Mrs. Cheever was too busy to bother. There were legal formalities in the offing whereby Mrs. Cheever would find herself financially independent, to say nothing of the cache of pound notes in the cavity behind the bricked-up boiler in the cellar.
“Good afternoon,” said Cromwell.
At first, Mrs. Cheever thought a clergyman had called to offer comfort and condolences, but when Cromwell had announced himself and his business, she showed more interest and bade him take a seat on the form which had once faced the bandstand in the park.
“Smoke?” said Cromwell, who had already noticed that her chubby fingers were stained with tobacco.
“I don’t mind if I do. I’m glad you’ve called and that London are sendin’ somebody out to square things up in France. The lawyers say somebody’ll ‘ave to go out there and get proper proof and certificates. I don’t know why, an’ it’s my opinion they’re jest doin’ it to line their own pockets at my eggspence. Now, with you goin’, it’ll save me quite a lot.”
“I’m sure we’ll be only too pleased to do all we can, Mrs. Cheever.”
“That’s nice of you. First kind word the p’leece have said to me since my late dear ’usband was took. The way they carried on, you’d think I’d been an’ pushed ‘im in the river myself.”
So, now it was a river! Never mind.
“Perhaps you could give me some more information in case we need it on the other side.”
“Ask me anythin’. I’ve ’eard those Frenchmen’s a terrible lot to satisfy. What was it you wanted?”
“I believe your late husband had friends over there. Do you know their address?”
“Come into the back room.”
The living quarters were almost as bad as the shop for hoarding dusty junk. Old pots and plates, second-hand books, brassware, and clothes on every available hook and receptacle. A silk hat on a marble-topped wash-stand and a large glass-fronted box of stuffed birds on the window-sill. The whole place chock-a-block with furniture of all kinds, and the only evidence of modest living there in a small island of linoleum-covered space containing a table full of dirty dishes, an armchair in which a huge black cat was fast asleep, and a dining-chair with the day’s paper on the seat. Mrs. Cheever swept the cat and the news away and bade Cromwell make himself comfortable.
The address of Mr. Cheever’s French friends was in a twopenny exercise-book which his widow drew, after a lot of rummaging, from a drawer in a bureau, on the top of which were piled a complete set of Calvin’s Institutes.
Monsieur Henri Valdeblore,
7, bis, Impasse Auguste-Friand,
Mantes,
S.-et-O. France.
Cromwell copied it out.
“I believe ‘e works on the railway, or somethin’. My ’usband always went there every year till the last war broke out. They was friends in the 1914-18 war and kep’ it up. I never went. Mr. Cheever used to say with not knowin’ French, I’d be like a duck out of water.”
Cromwell had heard about it all. The late Samuel had believed, no doubt, in keeping the women in his life apart from one another.
“Thanks. We’d better call there. Has your husband written to Mr. Valdeblore lately?”
“He wrote off jest before he left for the last time to say he’d be callin’ to say how-do on his way south.”
“And now, can you recollect anything particular in connection with your husband’s last trip to France? Did he prepare long for it, or was he particularly interested in any kind of goods or antiques he intended buying there?”
Mrs. Cheever stood in deep thought for a minute.
“He’d got a good market for signed French minachures. You know the kind of thing. If you don’t, I’ll show you.”
She started to rummage again in the bureau, puffing and blowing as she moved this object and that and talking over her shoulder in gasps.
“He brought some ’ome when we was there a year ago... And, in confidence, I’ll tell you, Mr. Cromwell, he made a good thing out of ’em. It seems some London dealer ‘as demands for them in the U.S.A. of America. Mr. Cheever never paid more than five-pound for any one of ’em. And, believe it or not, ’e parted with four of them for over twenty pounds apiece. He said ’e was off for more... ’ere we are...”
She placed on the table, beside the dirty pots, a small portrait in a square black frame.
“’e took that away with ’im. I suppose he wanted it with ’im as a sample or somethin’. His bag with ’is belongings came back from France yesterday and the police brought it here this mornin’. Cut me up ’avin’ to sort out his things.”
She squeezed a tear from her eyes and sniffed.
“I’m sure it must have done, Mrs. Cheever. A big ordeal, and no mistake.”
“That’s right.”
Cromwell was fascinated by the little picture. It was set in a circular rim of brass not more than four inches in diameter and the whole mounted in the square frame of dark walnut. A piece of thin ivory pressed close to the convex glass and the lot sealed up at the back by a sheet of old, fly-blown notepaper.
The portrait itself was that of a woman. She was far from beautiful. A long anaemic face, set in a cap of exquisite white lace and tied with ribbons under the chin to form a complete frame of frills, which gave her an ageless look. She might have been twenty; or again, she might have been forty. Little curls of chestnut hair escaped from beneath the cap on her forehead and cheeks, but were no guides to her years. A yellow cravat, tied in a double bow, hid her throat, and a Paisley shawl or bodice her shoulders.
The expression was placid, almost bovine. A narrow forehead, a prominent arched nose, thin lips, and a long chin. The eyes were large and blue, and gazed from beneath well-pencilled eyebrows on a world which seemed to produce little reaction in them. In fact, the artist might have hypnotised the sitter to make her keep still.
Cromwell found it difficult to analyse why the thing attracted him so much. It might have been the subject, or the skill of the painter himself, who, of what might have been uninspiring material, had created a picture which made the rest of the contents of Cheever’s seedy, sordid little home repulsive.
Cromwell turned it over in his fingers. The old faded paper which sealed the back was loose at one corner. He gently tugged it. It had been part of an old letter and perhaps a reminder to someone of what the picture was about. Just three lines of rusty ink on the yellow of the paper.
Clotilde de Montvallon.
Parti de Pont de Veyle,
Le 23 août, 1838.
That was all. She had left Pont de Veyle on the 23rd of August, 1838. Why?
Cromwell laid it back on the table and, as he did so, noticed the signature of the painter in the bottom left corner. J. Lepont, 1834.
“Not much to look at, was she?”
Mrs. Cheever’s husky voice broke Cromwell’s reverie. For a second he felt like telling her to shut up. Then, he was himself again.
“No, Mrs. Cheever. But it’s so well done that you don’t notice her defects, do you?”
“Funny, Mr. Cromwells, but I can’t for the life of me think wot you can see about it. I told Mr. Cheever that. He sold all the other minnichewers, but kept that. Said it was the best of the lot. ‘Why don’t you sell it, then, if it’s that valyuble?’ I sez. But he jest says ‘Ah,’ and shuts up like a clam. Took it out of its frame, cleaned it up, he did, and he wrote off to Cannes, where we bought it, tryin’ to find out more about it.”
“You got it in Cannes, did you? Might I ask, where?”
“Oh, jest a shop in a side-street. Not far from the prom. My ’usband and the old woman as kep’ the shop ’ad a lot of ’agglin’ and arguin’ before she’d part with it. I couldn’t find me way there again, if you was to offer me a ’undred pounds. I do recollect she’d a monkey there, a real wicked one, that was climbin’ over everythin’ all the time. I remember playin’ with it while Mr. Cheever an’ the old girl made a bargain. It bit a piece out of the end of my finger, the ole devil.”
Cromwell turned over the miniature again. He couldn’t bring himself to leave it in the sordid surroundings of Cheever’s back-room.
“Will you sell this, Mrs. Cheever?”
She automatically became the hard-bitten dealer again. Her face grew firm and her eyes greedy.
“Well, I do know me ’usband laid great store by it. It was the best of the lot he bought, you see, Mr. Cromwells. The dealer in London would give a lot for it, I do know. But seein’ as it’s you and you’re doin’ your best for me... Ten pounds.”
“Five,” said Cromwell.
Mrs. Cheever gathered it from the table and put it back in the bureau drawer.
“I might as well put it away, Mr. Cromwells. After all, it’s a souvenir of me late ’usband and very likely he wouldn’t want me to part with it. I couldn’t let it go at that. Mr. Cheever would turn in ‘is grave.”
Cromwell’s eyes were now stony as well.
“You said he paid five pounds for it.”
“Not this one, Mr. Cromwells. Not this one. I never knew how much ’e paid. It was all done in French, you see, and me sucking me injured finger on account of the monkey bitin’ me. But I know he gave more than that.”
Cromwell gathered up his bowler hat and put his big black shiny notebook back in his side pocket.
“Well, Mrs. Cheever, that’s all for the time being. We’ll do our best...”
“No offence about the minnychewer, I hope. But you do understand. He treasured it most of the lot. So much, that he didn’t part with it when he sold the rest. He even took it abroad with him on his last trip.”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Cheever. No offence. It’s too pricey for me, though. Well, good day to you, and thanks for the information. We’ll let you know.”
The bell jangled over his head as he opened the door, and above the noise of the bell, Mrs. Cheever’s husky call.
“Hey! Mr. Cromwells!”
She had the miniature in her hand again and thrust it at him.
“Here, give me five. You’re doin’ me a favour lookin’ into things for me. You can’t say I’m not grateful. It’s givin’ it away at that price.”
Cromwell didn’t argue. He took the picture, thrust it in his pocket, and counted out five notes.
“Thank you.”
Back at the police station, he found Littlejohn waiting for him. He continued to feel a strange exhilaration about the bargain he had made with Mrs. Cheever; not at the price he’d paid, but at the beauty of what he’d bought. It might be of importance to the case. After all, Cheever had been fascinated by it and, from what they had learned of Samuel, it hadn’t been for the work of art or the beauty of the sitter. There had been something else...
“I believe Cheever’s possessions came back to-day and you sent them back to his widow?”
“That’s right,” replied Sadd. “There didn’t seem to be anythin’ of much importance there. We examined them. He travelled light. Just odds and ends of clothes and such and a little framed picture. Guess it was an antique he’d bought. We let his wife have ’em.”
“Where were they found?”
Sadd nodded gravely.
“You may well ask. The French police are smart. I have to hand it to ’em. When they were told where his train tickets were for, they enquired all along the line. They found Cheever’s bag in the railway left-luggage office at Mâcon. If he hadn’t left them there, like as not, whoever killed him would have thrown them in the pond along with the body and we’d never have seen ’em again.”
“Did you ever find out what he wanted at Mâcon?”
“Hadn’t a clue. Nor had the French police. It’s apparently a peaceful little market town, famous for wine. I looked it up in the library. It seems they make china there, too. An old place where there’s bound to be antiques. That’s what Cheever was after, you know. Antiques, to sell again after buyin’ them on the cheap. He’d started a little racket in it, according to his missus.”
“I see. In the course of your enquiries about him, and his movements, did you come across a place called Pont de Veyle?”
Cromwell didn’t know why he asked it, but the name on the miniature and the place were still in his mind. Pont de Veyle... The place Clotilde de Montvallon left in 1838.
“Beg pardon. What was the place?”
“Pont de Veyle.”
“No. Never come across it. But I know who might know. Miss Hampole, who runs the travel agency here. I’ll ring her up if it’s important.”
“I’d be grateful...”
Sadd looked at Cromwell with a puzzled expression. These Scotland Yard men!
“Hello Miss Hampole... Yes, Sadd...”
They could hear her chuckling, heaven knows what about, at the other end of the line.
“Pont de Veyle... That’s it... What? I can’t hear you... Oh, spell it. Of course...”
Cromwell wrote it down and Sadd passed it on piecemeal. And then they waited.
“She says she’ll have to look it up in the French railway guide. Won’t be long.”
Miss Hampole was smart at the job. She was back in half a minute.
“She says... Oh, you’d better speak to her. It’s very complicated.”
He passed over the instrument and Cromwell received the reply. It seemed perfectly clear to him.
Pont de Veyle was three kilometres outside Mâcon, the first stop on the railway between Mâcon and Bourg-en-Bresse. In fact, almost a suburb of Mâcon itself.
Cromwell fingered the miniature in his jacket pocket. What had Sammy Cheever been at?
He told Littlejohn all about it on the way back to London.