Macdonald Hastings
Macdonald Hastings’ brief career as a crime writer formed only one element of a life packed with incident. Douglas Edward Macdonald Hastings (1909–82) was the son of a journalist whose early death left his family short of money; Hastings left school, and worked briefly as a clerk at Scotland Yard before joining the publicity department of Lyons, the caterers. During his time there, he earned extra money through freelance journalism, and in 1939 he was hired by Picture Post. Having made his name as a reporter during the Second World War, he became editor of the legendary Strand Magazine until its last issue appeared in 1950.
Undaunted by the Strand’s closure, he became ‘Special Investigator’ for the Eagle, a popular boys’ comic, and established a separate reputation as a broadcaster. His first detective novel, Cork on the Water, appeared in 1951, and introduced the eponymous insurance investigator. Cork had a real life model, according to T.J. Binyon’s study of the genre, Murder Will Out, a managing director of Cornhill Insurance called Claude Wilson. Cork appeared in just five novels, but they were successful enough to earn Hastings election to the Detection Club. This short story first appeared in Lilliput magazine, to which Hastings contributed frequently. It was presented as a Christmas competition, readers were invited to guess the nature of Mr. Cork’s secret, and the lucky winners each received a prize of £150.
***
‘He answered all the questions which the Press reporters put to him in the de Raun case except one…’
Monsieur Aloysia, a plump but well-made man in black jacket and striped trousers, came out of the gilded lift on the first floor of the Paradise Hotel, followed by two electricians in blue overalls. As he stepped into the passage, he gravely pointed out that one of the illuminated coloured lights on the Christmas trees flanking the lift-gates wasn’t functioning. But he didn’t stop. He walked on, turning right and left from one anonymous corridor to another, until he reached a room numbered 143. He pulled out a master key and turned the lock. The door wouldn’t open. Keeping his hand on the key, he placed his shoulder to it and gave it a gentle shove. The door moved, but slightly.
‘Shall we break it down, sir?’ said one of the electricians.
M. Aloysia looked at the young man in mild rebuke.
‘When you ’ave been in the ’otel business as long as I ’ave, Perkins, you will learn that an ’otelier’s first regard is the comfort of ’is guests.’
He spoke in a well-fed whisper. But although he looked solemn, there was a mischievous gurgle in his voice. The way he spoke made the two electricians grin.
‘Then what are we going to do, sir?’ said Perkins. ‘It’s obvious he’s blocked the door.’
‘We’ll try next door. You’re an agile young fellow. You can slip through the window and climb along the ledge.’
Outside the adjoining bedroom, M. Aloysia knocked. Only when he was sure that the occupant was out did he use his key. The electrician, anxious to make a good showing in front of the manager, opened the window. He looked down at the semi-tropical gardens for which the Paradise, ‘a West End hotel in the West Country,’ is so justly famous. Then he threw his leg over the sill. He found a footing on an ornamental stone ledge running along the outside of the building. Clutching at the smelly foliage of the ivy which clothed the wall, he felt his way gingerly across the gap.
M. Aloysia occupied himself tightening a dripping tap in the wash-basin and looking under the bed to see that the maids were doing their job properly. The other electrician stood gangling at the door.
Perkins wasn’t gone long. When he swung himself back into the room, the colour had drained out of his cheeks, and he licked his dry mouth with his tongue.
‘What’s the matter?’
There was no change in the casual tone of the manager’s voice.
‘He’s still living, sir,’ gasped the electrician, ‘but he’s bashed about something awful.’
‘Thank you, Perkins.’
For answer, the electrician fell flat on his face in a faint.
***
‘He’ll come round in a minute,’ said the manager to the other man. ‘You come with me.’
Returning to Room 143, he held back the latch and put the full weight of his square frame into the door. The electrician helped. The panelling creaked under the pressure. Then, with a tearing of woodwork, the obstruction fell clear. The surviving electrician pressed forward to climb through the mess. But when he saw the inside of the room, he faltered. The manager patted him sympathetically on the shoulder.
‘You wait ’ere,’ he said.
He manoeuvred his way over the wreckage of the wardrobe into the bedroom. Then M. Aloysia himself gave an exclamation of horror.
‘Get the door free quick,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘If the news of this leaks out, it’ll ruin the Christmas business.’
***
Pushing his way through the disordered furniture, he grabbed a towel from the rail of the wash-basin and wrapped it hastily round the battered head of the man on the floor. Whatever the electrician thought, he was a corpse, and a very messy one. M. Aloysia looked ruefully at the spreading stain of blood on the new carpet.
‘You and Perkins,’ he ordered, ‘will go straight ’ome. You will talk to nobody in the ’otel about this. Understand? Nobody. Maybe, in due course, the coroner will need you to give evidence. All right. You will tell ’im what you have seen. Now get cracking. Use the staff lift.’
The bemused electrician collected his mate and the two of them left. M. Aloysia shut himself inside the bedroom. Then he picked up the telephone.
‘’Allo, Miss. This is Mr. Aloysia. ’Ow are you, my dear? Splendid. Now be a good girl and put me through to Mr. Gaston in the reception. Gaston, is that you? Comment ça va? ’Ave you got rid of the Press people yet? So. You’ve told them we know nothing. Good. No, we’ve ’ad no news from Mr. de Raun at all. Listen, Gaston. We’ve got a bit of trouble ’ere in Room 143. Ring through to the police, ask them to use the staff entrance as usual, and get out the gentleman’s dossier. Bill outstanding, I suppose? Pity. No, Gaston, ’e’ll never pay it now.’
As soon as Gaston cut off, M. Aloysia tapped the receiver again.
‘Put me through to the ’Ousekeeper… Ah, Mrs. Macpherson, ’ow are you and ’ow is your maid? You’ve sent ’er ’ome? Excellent. Yes, Mrs. Macpherson, it wasn’t ’er imagination. It’s a great nuisance and we shall ’ave to do all we can to keep the news from our other customers. The police will be ’ere soon. When they’ve gone, I shall ’ave to trouble you for a clean carpet from the stores.’
He glanced accusingly at the corpse.
‘I’m sure I can leave it to you, Mrs. Macpherson,’ he went on evenly. ‘Of course, of course. Goodbye.’
He put down the receiver thoughtfully. Almost at once, the bell rang again.
‘Yes, Aloysia ’ere,’ he said wearily. ‘Who wants ’im?’
As he heard the name, his voice changed.
‘Mr. Montague Cork? Put ’im through at once, Miss. ’Ow are you, Mr. Cork? This is indeed a pleasure. And ’ow is Madame? But of course… The Paradise is at your complete disposal.’
Yet, as he listened to the august voice of the most celebrated insurance man in the world, his pink face wrinkled with anxiety. It was the pride of the Paradise that, on many occasions, Mr. and Mrs. Montague Cork had been its guests. Mr. Cork was at once one of the most respected and wealthy men in the City of London and, as the General Manager and Managing Director of the Anchor Insurance Co., he was a national figure. It was said of him that he had exposed more cases of insurance fraud than Scotland Yard. His big nose and watery eyes, dewlapped like an old bloodhound, was as familiar in the popular papers as the faces of the film stars. And, unlike the film stars, Mr. Cork always paid his bill in full.
M. Aloysia was in a quandary.
‘If only you ’ad called me a week ago,’ he said hopelessly, ‘I could ’ave given you and Mrs. Cork the loveliest suite in the ’otel, with private sitting-room and a terrace overlooking the sea. Marvellous! But now we ’ave nothing, not even for you, Mr. Cork. It’s Christmas. We are booked full up like an egg. Yes, we would do anything for you and Madame. But it is Christmas Eve…’
In his desperation, he looked to the corpse for inspiration.
***
‘But wait… I ’ave an idea, Mr. Cork. What time would you and Madame be arriving from London? But that is perfect. I ’ave a guest who is leaving us unexpected. The room is not what I could wish for you, but… thank you, Mr. Cork. We shall be delighted to welcome you again at the Paradise.’
He replaced the receiver. In spite of the studied calm of his manner, M. Aloysia was a worried man. Only twenty-four hours ago he was congratulating himself on the prospect of the best Christmas business for years. The hotel was booked right up and, to crown it all, Anton de Raun and his new bride, Fanny Fairfield the film star, had booked the bridal suite at the Paradise for their honeymoon. They should have arrived after the wedding yesterday; but, so far they hadn’t turned up. They’d disappeared without a word and left him to wrangle with the droves of reporters and Press photographers who crowded the cocktail bar and carried on as if the hotel had lost the happy couple in the wash.
***
And, after that, there was this. This was much worse. If it were only one of the familiar suicide cases, he could have dealt with it quite simply; but this was obviously murder. If as much as a whisper got round the hotel, he knew from experience that he’d lose half his bookings. It would call for all his skill to get the police out of the way, and the room cleaned up, before Mr. and Mrs. Cork arrived from London. But, from every point of view, the effort was worth it. And for him, Aloysia, the best hotel manager in Europe, nothing was impossible. It was Christmas Eve. Even the police were human. A bottle of whisky would work wonders. The story was bound to come out in the end but, by the grace of Heaven, there were no newspapers for another two days.
He was much too disgusted with the corpse for dislocating the business of the hotel to be more than mildly interested in what had happened. That was the affair of the police. Judging by the disorder in the room, the motive was robbery. Presumably, the murderer had climbed up the ivy from the gardens and entered, and made his exit through the open window whose curtains still flapped furiously in the sea breeze. The victim had been battered to death and the weapon, which had been thrown down on the floor, looked like a heavy iron bar; it was wrapped in a rolled newspaper. The only other object which attracted his attention was a large and elaborate leather jewel case, made in the shape of a heart. It lay on the floor, open and empty, showing the milky white silk of the lining spotted with the blood of the dead man.
There was a knock at the door. M. Aloysia opened it just enough to see who was there.
‘Good morning, sir. I understand you’ve got a spot of trouble. I’m Detective-Sergeant O’Flaherty. The coroner’s clerk will be here shortly.’
***
For M. Aloysia, it had been a day of triumphant deception. The police had co-operated magnificently. He’d smuggled them in—the Inspector, the photographer, the doctor, the fingerprint expert, and the rest—without a breath of suspicion that anything was amiss. And he’d got the corpse out of the hotel by concealing it in an ottoman carried by undertakers’ men wearing green baize aprons.
He had reported the discovery of the murder at 9.30. By cocktail time the same evening, the police had carried away the carpet and the other contents of the bedroom they needed, and Mrs. Macpherson, bless her, was organizing the refurnishing of the room. He hadn’t got rid of the Inspector, who was busy interviewing various members of the hotel staff in the little office behind the reception desk. But Gaston was keeping an eye on things there.
The manager stood serenely under the crystal chandelier near the desk, with hands clasped on his breast, bowing fatly to his patrons as they drifted through on their way to dress for dinner or stopped to admire the seasonal decorations which dripped from every gilded alcove and twinkled in an avenue of Christmas trees arranged along the entire length of the Grand Foyer. People came to the Paradise Hotel to see life. It was M. Aloysia’s business to make sure that they saw only what they wanted to.
His triumph was indeed complete when at the very moment he saw the grim figure of Mr. Cork arriving through the revolving doors of the main entrance, a tiny page-boy, in powder-blue uniform, brought him a message on a silver salver. It was from the hall porter. Mrs. Macpherson reported that Room 143 was ready for occupation again.
Several people looked up at Mr. Cork as he strolled across the hall to the desk. His face, with its heavy features and deep lines, was unmistakable. But, characteristically, Mr. Cork himself was quite unaware that he was a celebrity. He was only vaguely conscious of the fact that his criminal cases had made him a public figure.
As he waited for his wife, he lit a Passing Cloud and examined his chin critically in one of the rose-tinted mirrors in the hall. He’d have to shave again when he dressed for dinner. If he didn’t, Phoebe was certain to complain about it. It was odd that, as he entered his sixties and the hair on his head was getting thinner, his wretched beard was sprouting more strongly than ever.
‘Welcome to the Paradise, Mr. Cork.’
‘Hello, Aloysia. Noël joyeuses to you; that’s the French for it, isn’t it?’
They shook hands.
‘Where’s Madame?’
‘She’ll be here in a minute. She’s giving Christmas presents of warm woollen socks to some of your linkmen outside. Amazing woman, my wife. Collects friends everywhere. By the way, I’m sorry I couldn’t give you longer warning. We only decided to come down here at the last moment.’
‘Such a pity. A week, even a few days, could have made so much difference. The room we ’ave for you, it is not what we could wish for you and Madame.’
M. Aloysia gave a disappointed shrug.
‘Never you mind, Aloysia. It was good of you to fit us in at all. I’m not surprised you’re so full. I hear you’ve got celebrities. My wife’s eating her head off to see Fanny Fairfield.’
‘I’m afraid I have a disappointment for ’er.’
‘Oh?’
‘The bridal suite is booked but, so far, Mr. and Mrs. de Raun ’ave not arrived. We are still expecting them. Mr. de Raun’s secretary phoned us only yesterday morning to confirm that they were coming. But, so far, we ’ave had no further word. Ah, Mrs. Cork!’
Mrs. Cork appeared in a mink coat, with a pink face and an armful of packages. She was as plump and smiling as a feminine Santa Claus. And, as M. Aloysia relieved her of her parcels, she bubbled gaily.
‘Has this dreadful husband of mine told you what he’s done? At the very last minute, Mr. Aloysia, when I’d got everything organized for a family Christmas at the farm, he suddenly decided he was coming to the Paradise instead. So here we are. Have the film stars arrived? I do so want to see them.’
‘Aloysia has just told me that they haven’t turned up.’
‘No Fanny Fairfield. Oh, I am disappointed.’
‘We are expecting them hourly, Mrs. Cork. The bridal suite is reserved.’
‘The bridal suite! That sounds terribly romantic. What do you think’s happened to them?’
‘No use asking me,’ grumbled Mr. Cork.
‘I know,’ said Phoebe. ‘I expect the poor dears are trying to hide away from all the publicity.’
‘If they had wanted to avoid publicity, Phoebe, they wouldn’t have booked a suite in the Paradise and advertised the fact in every newspaper in the country.’
‘The trouble with you, Monty, is that you’re getting a crusty old man. You’ve forgotten what it means to be a young person in love.’
‘You seem to be in a sentimental haze about this wedding, you and every other woman. May I remind you, Phoebe, that these “two young people” have both been married several times before; this is Anton de Raun’s fourth honeymoon and Fanny Fairfield’s third.’
‘No, dear, it’s only her second.’
‘Well, whatever the score is, she’s hardly a blushing young bride. And it’s a lot of nonsense to suggest that these two, who’ve spent most of their lives making baboons of themselves in the public prints, are now sheltering shyly in a love-nest under the stars. Come on, we’re keeping Aloysia waiting.’
M. Aloysia had listened to the conversation with an urbane and self-effacing smile. Privately, he was heartily in agreement with Mr. Cork. Anton de Raun was a playboy who was said to have made three fortunes, married three and lost all six. Now he was starting on Fanny Fairfield’s bank balance. Still, it was good for business.
He personally escorted his distinguished guests to Room 143, protesting his apologies all the way for the inadequacy of the accommodation. He could only hope that Mrs. Macpherson had had time to fix the flowers.
He needn’t have worried. When he bowed in Mr. and Mrs. Cork, every stick of furniture had been changed. There was a new carpet, a luscious bowl of flowers on the dressing-table and a basket of fresh fruit on the table between the twin beds. Gaston had sent up the champagne, all ready on the ice, for Mr. Cork, and there was a present of perfume for Mrs. Cork waiting for her on the bed.
‘But this is charming,’ said Phoebe. ‘And you’ve given us one of the nice rooms with a view of the sea. It’s lovely, isn’t it, Monty?’
Mr. Cork gave one of his grim smiles.
‘I see you remembered the champagne, too, Aloysia.’
The manager bowed in delighted satisfaction. When he closed the door behind his new guests, he looked at the number and smiled with the contentment of a milk-fed cat.
***
Mr. Cork was bathed and shaved. As Phoebe knotted the bow-tie of his dinner jacket for him, she said:
‘Why did you want to come here? It’s not business, is it, Monty? Not at Christmas?’
‘Don’t ask leading questions.’
‘Then it is business. Another of your hunches?’
‘Only a hunch, Phoebe. If I’m wrong, we can still have a good time.’
‘Then I hope you’re wrong.’
‘There’s somebody at the door. You answer it, dear. I’m going to open the champagne.’
Phoebe went to the door and collected a floppy parcel wrapped in crackling brown paper from one of the little pages.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know, dear.’
‘Then open it and see.’
‘Great heavens. It’s a pair of pyjamas. I’m sure they’re not yours, Monty. You’ve never left your pyjamas behind when you’ve been here, have you?’
‘After thirty years, Phoebe, you ought to know that I don’t wear pyjamas like that.’
‘How do I know what you get up to when you’re off by yourself? They are rather sweet, aren’t they? I love the frogging across the front.’
‘They must have been sent up here in error. Give the valet a ring.’
Phoebe pressed the bell. But she went on admiring the pyjamas.
‘It’s French silk, I think. Oh yes, here’s the man’s name on the collar. That makes it very easy. What a funny name it is: André Guydamour. That’s obviously French, isn’t it?’
Mr. Cork was raising the champagne cork out of the bottle with the pressure of his thumb. He looked across at Phoebe with sudden interest as the cork popped out and hit the ceiling.
‘What name was that?’ he said sharply.
The champagne foamed out of the neck of the bottle over his hand.
‘Look what you’re doing, Monty.’
‘Never mind that. What was the name?’
‘Guydamour.’
‘Give me those pyjamas.’
He returned the champagne bottle to its bucket of ice and, settling his half-glasses on his big nose, he examined the name carefully. When the valet answered the call, he went to the door himself.
‘Did you send in these pyjamas?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where did they come from?’
The man looked puzzled. His eyes flickered to the number on the door.
‘I beg your pardon, sir, I thought the other gentleman was still here.’
‘What other gentleman?’
‘The guest who was in your room last night, sir. He asked me to get these pyjamas washed and return them when I came on duty this evening. He must have moved his room. I’m sorry to have troubled you, sir. I’ll take them away immediately.’
‘You haven’t troubled me and you needn’t take the pyjamas away. I’ll hand them in myself at the desk downstairs.’
‘Very well, sir.’
The man hesitated as if he wanted the pyjamas back, but the authority in Mr. Cork’s voice made him think better of it. After all, it hardly mattered who turned them in downstairs.
‘You are a funny old boy,’ said Phoebe. ‘What’s biting you?’
Mr. Cork poured out a glass of champagne for both of them.
‘When you were reading all about Fanny Fairfield, did you notice any reference to the fact that her new husband was giving her as a wedding present a valuable parure of rubies and diamonds?’
‘But of course. Alouette’s Worm.’
‘Exactly, a collection of jewels which were supposed to have belonged, at one time, to the French singer, Alouette.’
‘Have we insured them, Monty?’ she said with unusual seriousness.
‘We’ve granted temporary cover and we’ve laid off the risk with half a dozen other companies. It’s a big sum, Phoebe. Seventy-five thousand pounds.’
‘What’s that got to do with the pyjamas?’
‘André Guydamour is the Paris jeweller who has made the sale to de Raun. He’s somewhere in the hotel. Anton de Raun is expected here with his new wife. It’s evident that Guydamour has come over from France to deliver the collection.’
‘That sounds quite natural. Why are you worried, dear?’
‘Too much publicity, Phoebe. Every popular newspaper has been gossiping, day after day, about these jewels. De Raun has told everybody that he’s giving them to his wife as a wedding present. Furthermore, he’s announced to all and sundry that he’s spending his honeymoon here.’
‘But he hasn’t turned up.’
‘No, but the jeweller has. They’re inviting a robbery, Phoebe.’
‘So that’s why we’re spending Christmas at the Paradise.’
***
As he and Phoebe walked past the reception desk, Mr. Cork pushed the pyjamas, in their brown paper, across the counter to the clerk.
‘My compliments to Mr. Aloysia,’ he said. ‘Tell him that I should like to meet the gentleman to whom these pyjamas belong.’
‘But certainly, sir,’ said the clerk.
After years of experience of the eccentricities of hotel guests, he knew better than to register surprise.
‘Have you noticed that strange man who’s following us?’ whispered Phoebe.
Mr. Cork nodded.
‘I wonder who he is?’
‘I haven’t an idea. Let’s think about dinner.’
Hermann, the head waiter, raced half the length of the crowded dining-room to be there to welcome Mr. and Mrs. Cork.
‘Everything is arranged,’ he insisted. ‘Monsieur Aloysia’s personal orders. We have a special table for you and a dinner which is a poem.’
To emphasize his conviction, he pressed thumb and index-finger together and waved them in the air.
‘Smoked salmon and a little caviare. Sole en broche with bay leaves and just a hint of onion. Roast partridge with a bottle of Mouton Rothschild…’
But before they had reached their table, the reception clerk, pale-faced, touched Mr. Cork on the shoulder.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but Inspector Trelawny would like to see you immediately in the manager’s office.’
‘Tell the Inspector I’ll join him shortly.’
He saw Phoebe to the table. They exchanged a message with their eyebrows. Otherwise neither of them made any comment.
‘Start your dinner, dear, and I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
The maître d’hôtel looked on with baffled resignation. It was such an exquisite dinner that he had arranged for them.
Inspector Trelawny rose from the manager’s desk to greet him. The telltale pyjamas lay crumpled on the blotting-pad. M. Aloysia, all serenity gone, fluttered with agitation at the inspector’s side.
‘Well, Aloysia, what’s all this about?’ said Mr. Cork severely.
‘Perhaps I can explain,’ said the inspector.
M. Aloysia shrugged his shoulders miserably.
‘Will you have a seat? My name’s Trelawny, of the County Constabulary.’
‘My name’s Cork.’
‘The introduction on your side is quite unnecessary, sir. It’s a very great privilege meeting you.’
The Inspector waited respectfully until Mr. Cork sat down.
‘I hope you’ll forgive my bothering you just as you’re starting dinner, but I’m engaged in making investigations into a rather serious business.’
‘Robbery?’ asked Mr. Cork.
The Inspector looked at him sharply.
‘You knew?’
‘Call it an inspired guess.’
‘Your guess is the correct one. But that’s not all. It’s murder, too. A particularly brutal murder.’
Mr. Cork took a cigarette from his heavy gold case. The Inspector got up from the desk to light it for him.
‘These pyjamas, Mr. Cork?’
‘They were delivered to my room in error by the valet.’
‘Not in error. The night valet, who washed them, was under the impression that the room was still occupied by the same guest who was there yesterday.’
‘So I gathered.’
‘I have to tell you that he was the man who was murdered and robbed in the hotel last night.’
‘In my room?’
‘It was the only room I ’ad available, Mr. Cork. It was the only way I could fit you in.’
‘Never mind that now, Aloysia. All I have to say to you is that Mrs. Cork must never know about it.’
‘But of course, of course. I would do anything not to alarm Madame.’
‘May I go on?’ said the Inspector coldly.
‘Certainly.’
‘When you handed in these pyjamas to the reception desk, you said that you wanted to talk to their owner. Naturally, I’m interested. He registered at the hotel, when he arrived yesterday morning, under the name of Franklyn. We now know, from his passport and various other papers, his real name.’
‘André Guydamour,’
‘Precisely. The name on the tag in the collar of these pyjamas. What can you tell us about him? We need help badly, Mr. Cork.’
‘He was a Paris jeweller and clockmaker.’
‘We’ve checked that with the Sûreté.’
‘My own interest in him is simply that my company have had dealings with his firm in connection with an important insurance cover. Guydamour supplied us with the valuation and description of a collection of jewels we are underwriting. Because I was dissatisfied with certain aspects of the risk, I telephoned his firm in Paris early this morning. I learnt that Guydamour had travelled to England. I had reason to believe that I might find him here.’
‘And the reason?’
‘His purpose in coming to this country was to deliver the jewels in which we are interested to my company’s client, Anton de Raun.’
‘De Raun? You mean Fanny Fairfield’s new husband?’
‘Since you read the popular papers, you can also guess the nature of the jewels.’
‘You mean Alouette’s Worms?’
‘You obviously do read the papers.’
‘Oh God,’ said the Inspector, burying his head in his hands.
‘I should have thought the Sûreté could have told you all you want to know about the jewels.’
‘That’s the trouble, the whole trouble,’ said the Inspector wildly. ‘We can’t get any information out of anybody. It’s Christmas, Mr. Cork. The whole of our investigation is foxed and bewildered because everybody is thinking of Christmas.’
‘You’ve got the ports watched, I hope?’
‘We’re supposed to have warned every port of exit,’ said the Inspector bitterly, ‘but even our own people are human. After all, all Aloysia here can think about is his Christmas business. The murderer has nearly twenty-four hours’ start on us. If he’s got Alouette’s Worms—and he probably has because we’ve found a large, empty jewel case—he could be half-way across Europe by this time.’
‘So you’ve found the case. What’s it like?’
‘It’s a large two-decker affair in the shape of a heart.’
‘Large enough to hold a complete collection: necklace, earrings, bracelet, tiara, and so on?’
‘Yes, it’s big enough for that. By the way, have you got a picture?’
‘We’ve got a full description. I understand that there’s also a painting in existence of Alouette wearing the jewels in their original mounting, in the Theâtre Élysées in Paris.’
‘I’ll get it copied.’
‘It might help. May I use the ’phone?’ He went on talking with his hand over the mouthpiece.
‘Do you know where de Raun is?’
‘So far, we haven’t made any enquiries.’
‘What can you do to find him? Can the newspapers help?’
‘There are no newspapers for another two days.’
Mr. Cork got his number.
‘Hello. This is Montague Cork. Is that Mr. Smithson’s home? Yes, Smithson. May I speak to him? It’s Smithson speaking? Why, man, I didn’t recognize your voice. What’s the matter with you? Can you hear me? Speak louder. That’s better. Now listen carefully. It’s about the de Raun policy. I want you to pass the complete description of the jewels we got from Guydamour to Scotland Yard immediately. What are you giggling for? There’s nothing funny about it. Smithson, you’re drunk. I know it’s Christmas, but this is serious. It’s serious. Smithson…’
Mr. Cork irritably flashed the exchange.
‘What happened?’
‘He’s cut off.’
‘You see what we’re up against,’ said the Inspector blandly. ‘I told you that it’s Christmas Eve.’
For another ten minutes the two men talked earnestly together. Infected by the force of Mr. Cork’s personality, the tired policeman tackled his case with new vigour. A police message asking Anton de Raun, or anybody who had news of him, to make immediate contact was put out by the B.B.C. Scotland Yard were asked to contact Smithson, the Anchor’s Claims Manager at his home, and take him to the office, however tight he was, to collect the full description of the jewels. The Sûreté were wired for fullest particulars about Guydamour and his background.
***
So far, there were no significant clues as to the murderer. It was evident that he had got into Guydamour’s room by climbing up the ivy. He had battered his victim to death with a tyre lever which he had kept hidden in a roll of newspaper. Subsequently, it seemed that he had barricaded the door with the wardrobe while he searched the room for the jewels. He then left the empty case on the floor and got out the same way he had come in.
The murder, according to the police surgeon, was committed some time between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. Suspicion was not aroused until the chambermaid brought morning coffee just before nine o’clock. It was reported to the police by the Paradise shortly after.
Trelawny’s theory was that Guydamour had been followed from Paris. He said the job had the autograph of one of the gangs, or an individual out of one of the gangs, who had been terrorizing the South of France. He had already warned the police in Marseilles.
Mr. Cork was much more interested in two telephone calls, one incoming and one outgoing, which had been taken and made by Guydamour. The first was easily remembered by the operator at the hotel. Almost as soon as he arrived, she’d accepted a call from Paris.
Subsequently, Guydamour himself had made a personal call to London. The London call, an eleven-and-ninepenny one, was recorded on his unpaid bill. It had been traced to a West End hotel. The hotel was the one where Anton de Raun was staying up to the time of his marriage at the Registrar’s office to Fanny Fairfield.
As they talked, Aloysia stood about the office wringing his hands and mopping away the perspiration with his handkerchief. He had given up all hope of saving the Christmas business. The way events were shaping, he’d be lucky if he had any customers left at all for the colossal celebrations he had planned for New Year’s Eve.
‘I think that’s all we can do tonight, Inspector.’
‘I can’t tell you, sir, how grateful I am for your help.’
‘You forget, I have a very personal interest.’
‘I don’t think I should feel overanxious about the jewels if I were you, sir. I can’t believe that the thief can hold on to a hot packet like that for very long. The strings of rubies are said to be among the finest in the world, aren’t they?’
‘Guydamour described them as the most exquisite collection of Siamese gems ever assembled.’
‘Then the moment the thief tries to shift them, we’ve got him.’
‘I hope so.’
‘By the way, what’s the value?’
‘It’s been very difficult to make a figure. Alouette was said to have insured them for a million francs when francs were twenty to the golden sovereign. We were asked to give cover of £100,000. We agreed to £75,000.’
‘Where did Alouette get them?’
‘I thought you read the papers. The story goes that they were given to her, in the days when she was the toast of Maxims, by Izzy Loup, the South African millionaire. When she died in the South of France during the war, Goering tried to lay hands on them for his own collection. But nothing more was heard of Alouette’s Worms until the papers published the story that they were safe and that the complete parure was to be offered for auction in the London Sale Rooms. Subsequently, Anton de Raun, announcing his engagement to Fanny Fairfield, said that he’d purchased them by private treaty as a wedding present.’
‘I’d like to know where he got the money.’
‘So would I,’ said Mr. Cork enigmatically.
He looked at Aloysia.
‘You appreciate, I suppose, that I must have another bedroom for my wife. She mustn’t sleep in that room.’
‘But we are full, Mr. Cork. We are stuffed right up. I ’ave nothing, not even an attic.’
‘You’ve said that before. You’ll have to think again.’
M. Aloysia looked at Mr. Cork with the beady eyes of a stoated rabbit. The Inspector smiled.
‘The de Rauns haven’t turned up. Why not put Mr. and Mrs. Cork in the bridal suite?’
‘But suppose they arrive unexpected. What do I do? They ’ave reserved.’
‘So much the better,’ said Mr. Cork. ‘If Mr. de Raun arrives unexpectedly, I shall have an early opportunity for a private conversation with him.’
M. Aloysia, the best hotel manager in Europe, threw up his hands in total surrender.
***
The dance floor was crowded with sad-looking people in tinsel hats. Clouds of balloons floated down from the ceiling, and the diners who were left behind at their tables solemnly amused themselves blowing out paper tubes with feathers on the end and making shrill blasts with wooden whistles. The English, in their way, were having a Gala Night.
Mr. Cork threaded through the tables to the corner where Phoebe was waiting quietly behind a Cona of black coffee. He smiled at her as he sat down.
‘I suppose the news is bad,’ she said.
‘Not entirely. We’re moving into the bridal suite.’
‘Oh, why?’
‘De Raun hasn’t turned up, so Aloysia thought we’d like it. Aren’t you pleased?’
‘I’ve got something to tell you, Monty. You know that man who followed us when we came down from our room? He has been sitting by himself over there watching me all through dinner. He’s gone now. He went off as soon as you came back.’
‘Never mind him. I want something to eat.’
Phoebe was curious, but she was much too experienced a wife to pester him with questions. As they talked in a desultory way while he had his supper, she noticed that half the time he wasn’t listening.
‘Here comes Mr. Aloysia,’ she said, after a long silence.
‘I expect he’s going to show us to our suite.’
‘It is all prepared,’ said Aloysia with something of his old panache. ‘Your luggage has been moved and your suite is ready, Madame.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Aloysia.’
‘No. Mr. Cork, please. No bill. To-night you are the guest of the Paradise.’
Preening himself, bobbing his head to his favoured customers, the manager led them through the restaurant, along the avenue of Christmas trees, to the gilded lift. The suite was only half a floor up, but the entrée had to be arranged in style. Remembering him only a little while ago in the manager’s office, Mr. Cork couldn’t help admiring the manner in which the born hôtelier was making the best of a bad job.
‘Your suite, Madame.’
M. Aloysia threw open the door which led into the lobby and the second door which opened up into the sitting-room. Out of the corner of her eye, Phoebe saw the tessellated bathroom, with its sunken rose-hued tub and ivory-capped taps. The sitting-room, with french windows opening on to a balcony overlooking the bay, was dressed with huge bowls of white and pink carnations and baskets of long-stemmed rose-buds in a froth of bows of white ribbon. Even Phoebe, accustomed to luxury, was impressed.
‘So this is how film stars live,’ she said.
M. Aloysia made a gallant bow.
‘It is a setting more befitting to a grande dame like yourself, Madame.’
With open palms, he backed his way out of the suite.
***
‘Well!’ said Phoebe contentedly.
But almost at once she gave a cry of surprise. Mr. Cork, who was peeping through the curtains towards the sea, looked over his shoulder with raised eyebrows. A little man in a crumpled suit, dusted with cigarette ash, had detached himself from the deep comfort of an armchair. He was the same man who had shadowed them into the restaurant and kept a watch on Mrs. Cork throughout her dinner.
‘Who the hell are you?’ growled Mr. Cork. ‘How did you get in?’
‘I bribed the luggage porter,’ said the man unconcernedly. ‘My name’s Chris Sparrow. I expect you’ve heard of me.’
‘Of course I haven’t heard of you.’
‘But I have,’ said Phoebe. ‘You write in one of the papers, don’t you?’
‘That’s me,’ said Chris Sparrow. ‘Do you mind if I pour myself a drink?’
He didn’t wait for an invitation. Mr. Cork made a rumble in his throat like an awakening volcano.
‘Damn your impudence,’ he exploded.
‘Granted,’ said Chris Sparrow.
‘My wife and I have noticed that you’ve been following us throughout this evening. You admit you’ve bribed your way in here. Before I have you thrown out, I want an explanation.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m here to give you. To be quite honest, Mr. Cork, I smell a good story.’
‘You’ve discovered my name?’
‘It’s in the hotel register. I also know you by reputation. To be quite frank…’
‘That’s courteous of you.’
‘I came here on the de Raun-Fanny Fairfield story. It’s a flop because they haven’t shown up. The other Press boys have cleared off. Suits me. It means I’ve got a beat on the stiff found in the hotel this morning.’
Mr. Cork glanced anxiously at his wife, but it was evident that she was uncomprehending.
‘Phoebe, dear,’ he said. ‘I’d like to continue this conversation with Mr. Sparrow in private. Would you mind going to the bedroom?’
Mrs. Cork smiled her acquiescence.
‘Don’t stay up too late,’ she said.
Her husband waited until she had closed the bedroom door behind her. Then he glared at Chris Sparrow.
‘You needn’t interpret that,’ he said, ‘as an invitation to extend this conversation. I am simply anxious to spare my wife the knowledge of the grisly information which you seem to have ferreted out of the hotel. Bribery again?’
Chris Sparrow grinned.
‘Maybe a little palm-greasing here and there.’
‘You still haven’t explained what you want with me.’
‘That’s easy. This morning, a murder. This evening, the biggest noise in the insurance world, that’s you, arrives from London. You immediately go to the room where the stiff was found. Later, you’re in conference with Trelawny. To-night, you take over de Raun’s suite.’
‘Well?’
‘It must be a big story to bring you here on Christmas Eve.’
‘So that’s your excuse for breaking-in to my private apartment. I suppose you expect me to give you a sensational interview.’
‘That’s the ticket.’
‘You must be mad.’
‘I’m not, you know.’
He poured himself another drink.
‘I hear you’re looking for Anton de Raun.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Contact of mine.’
‘You seem to have some unpleasant contacts.’
‘This one has the unpleasant habit of keeping the radio on all day. He heard the police message you put out for de Raun about a quarter of an hour ago on the B.B.C.’
‘Do you think you know where de Raun is?’
‘I have a theory.’
‘You lost him after the wedding.’
‘Granted. He pulled a fast one. I don’t know why. He meant to come here. Something must have changed his mind for him.’
‘Have you waited twenty-four hours to decide that? If you’re as smart a newspaperman as you act to be, I should have thought you’d have tested your theory long before this.’
‘I’ve told you why I haven’t. I’ve smelt a bigger story here. Besides, I rather like the Paradise.’
‘What’s this theory of yours?’
‘Not so fast, Mr. Cork. If I can put you on to de Raun’s track, what will you do to help me?’
They both lit cigarettes for themselves.
‘I must warn you of the dangers of withholding important information from the police, Mr. Sparrow. This is a serious business.’
‘So the story is as good as that?’
He blew the ash off the end of his cigarette as it dangled in his mouth. He studied Mr. Cork’s face with concentration. Then he chuckled: ‘How much are they insured for?’
***
Mr. Cork couldn’t sleep. He slewed round and round in his bed, listening to the muffled music of the sea, rising and falling, as the rollers curled over the beach outside his bedroom window. His brain was pumping as restlessly as the waves.
The office had given cover on these wretched jewels before they’d consulted him. Not that the office was to blame; on the face of it, they’d done a good stroke of business. As the Anchor’s own experts couldn’t examine the gems until they were actually in de Raun’s possession, they’d very properly knocked 25 per cent. off Guydamour’s estimated value, raised the premium to 1½ per cent., reinsured heavily and granted temporary cover only. But, temporarily, de Raun was covered. When Smithson had brought him the file and he realized that the company was committed to carrying the risk on these over-publicized jewels, he knew in his bones that even a few days was too long. He’d tried to contact Guydamour in Paris, but he’d already left for England. The brokers had attempted to get hold of de Raun, but de Raun was getting married. He’d followed them both to the Paradise, but it was already too late: Guydamour was murdered. Anton de Raun had gone Heaven-knows-where. The company was liable on the evidence of a dead man for the theft of valuables they’d never even seen.
It was an unholy alliance that he’d entered into with this newspaper fellow. But Sparrow had proved that he had a nose for information and, if he could get a line, any sort of a line, on de Raun’s whereabouts, he could have his story, and welcome. De Raun… de Raun… the very sea seemed to be hissing his name.
He must have dozed. When he stirred again, the luminous dial of his watch showed 3 a.m. He lay on his back, smoked a cigarette and longed for daylight. Unwilling to waken Phoebe, unable to contain himself any longer in bed, he fumbled for his dressing-gown and slippers. Tiptoeing through the darkness, he felt his way towards the door of the sitting-room. He turned the handle as quietly as he could. He did it so quietly that the man with a torch who was feeling the tumblers for the combination of a safe, hidden behind a picture in the wall, never noticed him.
Mr. Cork stood mouse-still until with deft gloved fingers the man swung open the door of the little safe and groped inside.
***
‘How did you know there was a safe there?’ said Mr. Cork. ‘I didn’t.’
Half-turning, the man plunged his hand into his pocket. Mr. Cork flicked on the lights. Dazzled by the sudden glare, the man crouched down with the cornered concentration of a rat in a drain.
‘From the gesture you made just now, I imagine that you’re armed,’ said Mr. Cork, ‘but it’s quite unnecessary to invite the attentions of the hangman by shooting at me. The window, by which you entered, is still open. There’s nothing to stop you leaving by the same route that you came in.’
‘This is a frame-up,’ muttered the man hoarsely. He used the American phrase with an affected American accent.
‘I rather think it is,’ said Mr. Cork, ‘but I’m not the framer. Would you like a drink? You’ve been working very hard.’
‘What’s the game, guv?’
In his surprise, he relapsed into Cockney.
‘I want you to tell me, if you will, what you were looking for in that safe, and who put you up to it?’
‘I ain’t touched nothing, guv. Honest, I haven’t.’
‘I know. The safe’s empty. Have a drink? Come on, you’ve got nothing to lose and you can do yourself a bit of good by talking to me.’
‘Are you going to turn me over?’
‘You haven’t stolen anything—that’s not your fault, but you haven’t—and I’ll forgive you personally for breaking into my apartment in the middle of the night. If the police pick you up, and they probably will, they’ll have very little to charge you with; that is, if you take the precaution to throw away that pistol.’
‘O.K., guv, you can ’ave it.’
He handed the pistol over like a guilty child. Mr. Cork placed it gingerly in his dressing-gown pocket. In return he gave the burglar a whisky and soda.
‘There was a murder in the hotel last night,’ he said casually.
‘Murder, did you say?’
‘Yes, murder.’
‘No wonder you copped me. I must get out.’
‘Don’t hurry. You may be able to help us.’
‘I know nothing about it. Across m’heart, I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do. You and the murderer were both after the same loot. I want to know how you yourself got on to the fact that you might find Alouette’s Worms in a private safe in this sitting-room to-night? Who gave you the tip?’
‘Chap I met.’
‘Where?’
‘South of France.’
‘You’re operating there, are you?’
‘Mostly. I got left there after the war.’
‘Deserter?’
‘You said you’d give me a break, guv.’
‘I said nothing of the sort. I said if you helped me it might do you a bit of good. Who was this chap?’
‘Dunno his name. He was a sailor off one of the English yachts at Cannes. Yacht called Vera, I think it was. The name was on his jersey.’
‘What precisely did he tell you?’
‘He told me that if I wanted to do a plumb easy job, this was it.’
‘When was this?’
‘Six weeks ago.’
‘You mean me to believe that an unknown sailor off an English yacht at Cannes told you that if you came to this specific apartment on the night of Christmas Eve, you’d find a safe behind that picture…’
‘That’s right. With the stuff inside.’
‘And you believed the story?’
‘It was in all the papers.’
‘Naturally you believe everything that you read in the papers.’
‘I swear I’m telling you the truth, guv. I don’t ’old with murder.’
‘I think you are telling the truth. I’m only astonished at your incredible stupidity. You opened that safe with a certain skill, but you fell for a conspiracy which wouldn’t trick a child.’
‘’Arf a mo, guv. Nobody can make a sucker o’ me.’
‘But they have. Now get out the way you came. If you’re making for France, I warn you that all the ports are watched. If the police pick you up, I’ll put in a word for you.’
The burglar looked from Mr. Cork to the window and back again.
‘No, guv, I won’t do it. It’s a fair cop and I’ll take my chance with the police.’
‘You’ve got more sense than I gave you credit for.’
‘My name’s Harry. Don’t tell ’em about the pistol, will you?’
Mr. Cork smiled.
‘Give yourself another drink,’ he said.
***
Chris Sparrow, yawning and unshaven, arrived in Mr. Cork’s apartment looking more unkempt than ever.
‘This is a fine time to turn out on Christmas Day,’ he said. ‘Who’s this?’
‘He’s a friend of mine named Harry. Harry, this is Mr. Sparrow.’
The two shook hands.
‘You keep early hours, don’t you?’ growled Sparrow.
‘Harry works on a night shift,’ said Mr. Cork. ‘He’s helping me on this case. Do you want a cup of tea to wake you up?’
‘I could do with it.’
‘Don’t make too much noise. My wife is still in bed.’
‘Where we all ought to be. What have you dug me out for at this hour? I haven’t got any news yet.’
‘But I have, Sparrow. I think you can help us. Do you know the South of France?’
‘Ought to. I’ve written enough about it.’
‘Have you ever heard of a big luxury yacht there, name of Vera?’
‘Might have. Who does it belong to?’
‘That’s what we must find out.’
‘Soon check that.’
‘At this time, on Christmas morning?’
Chris Sparrow tapped his nose with his finger.
‘There’s one place that never shuts,’ he said, picking up the ’phone. ‘Get Central, London, 7440.’
‘What do you know about this fellow de Raun, Sparrow?’
Chris Sparrow looked over the top of the mouthpiece.
‘Handsome playboy living on his wits. Good athlete, drives racing cars, rides the Cresta Run, always marries rich film stars, does a bit of yachting…’
‘Yachting?’
‘I see what you’re getting at. Hello, Press Association? Happy Christmas to you. This is Chris Sparrow. Can I talk to the news room? O.K… Howdye, pal… Be a good chap and look up Lloyd’s Register of Yachts for me. I want to know who owns a big girl called Vera. Yes, I’ll wait.’
***
‘You said you had a theory of your own about de Raun’s whereabouts?’ Mr. Cork went on.
‘Yep. I know where he’s garaged his car.’
‘Where?’
‘Not far from here.’
‘Are you sure it’s his car?’
‘You haven’t seen the car?’
‘That means he came as far as Exquay, although he didn’t come to the hotel.’
‘That’s the way of it… Hello, P.A… That sounds like it… Motor yacht of 100 tons… Southampton… Who’s the owner? Who?… That’s the ticket… Thanks, chum… I hope I can do the same for you some time… Happy Christmas.’
‘Well?’ said Mr. Cork.
‘Vera belongs to Vic Dimitri, the film producer. He was the best man at de Raun’s wedding.’
‘Can we get Dimitri on the ’phone?’
‘He won’t like it, but we can try.’
They traced him to a number in Elstree. A sleepy voice answered the call. Yes, it was Vic Dimitri: who the hell was that?
‘Tell him the police want to contact de Raun. Can he help us?’
Chris Sparrow echoed the question.
‘Sure, he’s honeymooning on my yacht.’
‘Where is she?’
‘How the hell should I know?’
He cut off.
‘Ring the district officer of the Coastguards.’
‘He might have headed across the Channel.’
‘He might; but it’s been blowing hard, and with luck he’s had to hug the coast.’
‘How do you ring the Coastguards?’
‘I imagine you just ask for them like the police.’
It worked. Another sleepy voice promised to check with the look-outs. Within a quarter of an hour, he called back. Vera had been sighted off Plymouth at dawn the day before yesterday. She’d also been logged by an amateur watcher off Falmouth. She hadn’t been sighted at Penzance. She was probably sheltering from the gale in one of the anchorages beyond Falmouth.
‘Try Cowrie Cove.’
***
It was still half-light when Mr. Cork backed his silver Bentley out of the hotel lock-up. He’d left a message with the police telling Inspector Trelawny to follow him to Cowrie Cove as soon as possible. He’d assured Phoebe that he’d be back in time for Christmas presents after lunch. He was accompanied by one very bewildered burglar and one very jaded newspaper man.
They were climbing into Dartmoor, circling Plymouth to avoid the ferry which, at the crack of daylight on Christmas Day, was hardly likely to be working. A rime of frost silvered the winding, unwelcoming road. Dank mists swirled in the hollows and blotted out the hills. Nothing moved except the buzzards swinging lazily from the fence posts to make way for the passing car. Chris Sparrow was fast asleep in the back seat. Harry sat stiffly at the side of Mr. Cork.
‘You know where we are, don’t you, Harry?’
‘No, guv.’
‘Then, in your professional capacity, I hope you never become better acquainted with it. This is Dartmoor.’
‘The Moor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you taking me to?’
‘Don’t sound so anxious. You’re on the side of the law this morning. I’m giving you the chance to make things straight with the police. It may not be pleasant.’
‘I’ll take m’chance.’
‘We’ll make an honest man of you yet. Now listen. You’ve heard from my conversation with Mr. Sparrow that we’re going to a cove in Cornwall where we hope to find the motor yacht Vera. Aboard it, you may recognize the seaman who gave you the information which tempted you to burgle the Paradise. If you do, give no indication of it until I give you the signal. Is that clear?’
‘O.K.’
‘Now I’ll take a chance. If you’ll put your hand in my overcoat pocket you’ll find your pistol. Put it in your own pocket. You won’t produce it unless a pistol is drawn on us. You won’t fire except in self-protection.’
‘Are you sure this is a straight job?’
‘It’s one of the dirtiest jobs I’ve ever had to deal with. But, for once, you’re on the clean end of it.’
On empty roads, the Bentley silently swallowed the miles through Two Bridges, Tavistock and Callington to Falmouth. Mr. Cork, who ordinarily never drove faster than thirty miles an hour, cruised at sixty and hardly noticed it. In his moments of serenity, his caution was exasperating. But, when he had a case, he could be as rash as a hunter on the brush of his fox.
Beyond the narrow, deserted streets of Falmouth, the car stretched herself on the coast road to Penzance.
‘Look out on the left for a signpost to Cowrie Cove. According to the map, we’re almost on it.’
They nearly overran it. The signpost was half-effaced by the pummelling of wind and weather. It hung over a narrow lane choked with dead brambles and bracken. It was a cart-track, not a road at all. But Mr. Cork bulldozed into it and, bumping Chris Sparrow into wakefulness, pushed the car over the frozen, rutted ground through windswept pasture into a steep descent towards the sea.
‘Is this where we’re meant to be?’ asked Sparrow.
‘This is where the Coastguards told us to look.’
‘If de Raun’s here, he’s certainly picked a quiet hide-out. You’re not taking the car much farther, are you?’
Chris Sparrow, completely imperturbable in the artificial air-conditioned surroundings of the Paradise, was as nervous as a lost child now that he faced the unknown perils of the open countryside.
‘We’ll park here,’ said Mr. Cork.
An area of grass, close-nibbled by the rabbits, indicated where the tourists left their cars in the summer. Through a ragged, narrow gap in the cliffs, they glimpsed a slice of the white-crested sea. Mr. Cork ran the Bentley over the humpy turf until he found a spot where the car was hidden from the road. Then he stopped. He buttoned up his overcoat and, followed by Harry, he stretched his legs.
The salty wind came up to meet them with an enquiring, penetrating lick. Harry, peak-faced, sunk his head in his coat-collar. Chris Sparrow remained obstinately in the car.
‘Are you coming?’ said Mr. Cork gruffly.
Sparrow groaned.
‘How I hate fresh air,’ he said.
But, reluctantly, he got out of the car.
‘Have we got far to walk?’
‘You can see the sea.’
Together, the ill-assorted trio stumbled down the rocky lane, a trench walled in dry stone, to the shore. They passed a padlocked, iron-roofed hut advertising minerals and ice-cream. At the beginning of a stone groin running down to the beach, they saw a heap of rotting lobster-pots. Then they twisted through a dripping gutter in the grey stone cliffs on to the sandy beach.
In summer, Cowrie Cove is a Cornish beauty spot. In December, it is as lonely and hostile as a desert island. The gulls screaming with the anguish of lost souls, and the painted oyster-catchers, piping in shrill alarm, underline the desolation. Chris Sparrow hung back with the air of one in the presence of his Maker.
They stood there, like three castaways on the shore, gazing wide-eyed at the vision in the cove. A slim white motor yacht, with tapering bows and a tracery of fittings on her superstructure as delicate as a cobweb, was nodding like a graceful white ghost under the wall of the cliffs. Vera was painted in gold on her stern.
Beyond the shelter of the cove, the wind whipped the waves into a white fury. Inside it, behind the protecting arm of a curved headland, the sea lapped in oily quiet. The yacht was riding serenely in the embrace of a natural harbour. Her companion-way, lying fore and aft, was down. A sleek motor-boat with engine turning was moored at the foot of it.
Mr. Cork drew his two companions behind a seaweed-sticky boulder, where they were out of sight of the yacht.
‘As we may not be welcome,’ he said, ‘we’ll wait here until somebody comes ashore with the launch.’
***
It wasn’t a long wait. A figure, wrapped in a duffle-coat, who was presumably one of the hands, came down the companion-way, and casting off, put the motor-boat in to the shore. As he tied up on a ring-bolt in the groin, Mr. Cork walked up to him.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I have urgent business with Mr. de Raun. No doubt you picked up the police message for him on the radio last night.’
‘Radio’s out of order,’ said the hand.
‘Indeed? Then that makes it all the more important that I should see Mr. de Raun immediately. Will you put us aboard?’
‘Are you the police?’
‘The police are on their way here. For my part, I have some urgent business to discuss with Mr. de Raun before they arrive.’
‘You’re not Press, are you?’
‘No, it’s a business matter.’
‘Do these other gentlemen want to go aboard too?’
‘They’re with me.’
The seaman scratched his head.
‘We’re not supposed to do it without orders.’
‘I assure you that Mr. de Raun will want to see us. I’ve already spoken to Mr. Dimitri. This is a serious business.’
The hand wavered.
‘Is it Mr. Dimitri’s orders?’
‘Mr. Dimitri told us Mr. de Raun was aboard.’
‘O.K., I’ll run you out. After all, Mr. Dimitri’s my proper boss and the sooner this damned Christmas cruise is over the better.’
They got into the boat and the hand started the engine.
‘When did you start out?’
‘Two days ago, just as we were on the point of going home for Christmas. Got orders to sail down to Exquay to pick up this party.’
‘When did they join you?’
‘Two nights ago. We had to lay off the harbour for ’em. They came aboard about midnight: or, rather, she did. He turned up later. We were supposed to set course for Monte Carlo, but the weather turned nasty, the lady got seasick, so here we are. Nice place to spend Christmas Day, I don’t think.’
Chris Sparrow shuddered.
‘If this is the way the film stars live, they can keep it.’
As the seaman held the launch steady at the companion-way, Mr. Cork pressed a pound into his palm.
‘I’m obliged to you,’ he said.
The seaman winked his thanks.
***
A tall, athletic man in a thick, roll-necked sweater and corduroy trousers appeared out of the cabin as Mr. Cork came aboard.
‘What’s all this?’ he demanded.
He had blue eyes, sandy hair and a lean, sun-tanned face. He was probably over forty but he looked thirty-five, and he hadn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him.
‘Mr. de Raun?’
‘That’s me. I hope you’re not Press?’
‘No, sir, this is a business matter.’
‘But I’m on my honeymoon. Can’t it wait?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘All right,’ said de Raun. ‘Come into the saloon.’
As he held open the door for them under the covered sun-deck, he glanced suspiciously at Harry and Chris Sparrow, following in hangdog fashion in Mr. Cork’s wake. But he made no comment.
‘You’re sure you’re not Press men,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘That’s what we came aboard this boat to avoid.’
‘One of us is,’ said Mr. Cork. ‘Mr. Chris Sparrow, here.’
‘I expect you’ve heard of me,’ said Sparrow.
‘Indeed, I have,’ de Raun replied vaguely.
‘But Mr. Sparrow isn’t here to-day in his journalistic capacity.’
‘Thank Heaven for that. Fanny and I have had too much publicity, you know. After the wedding we both felt that we simply had to escape. So, as we both like yachting, we chartered this one of Vic Dimitri’s. We’ve had it before down in the South of France. Do you know Vic, Mr. Sparrow?’
‘Sure; nice feller.’
‘A very nice fellow. Do sit down, all of you. I’m sorry my wife isn’t about. I’m afraid she’s had a touch of seasickness.’
‘I don’t feel so good myself,’ said Sparrow.
‘Surely there’s not enough movement to make you sick now. By the way, how did you find out where I was?’
‘Dimitri told us.’
‘Dear old Vic, eh? But he didn’t know where we were sailing?’
‘We checked with the Coastguards.’
‘Indeed? Why so thorough?’
‘There was a police message out for you on the radio last night.’
‘For me?’
‘If your radio hadn’t broken down, you’d have heard it.’
‘Yes, that was my fault. It’s one reason why we’re laying in here. The radio wasn’t working properly so I started tinkering about with it and got the wires crossed. But never mind that. What’s been happening in the great big world?’
The man oozed charm. His ease of manner was somehow sickening. As he talked, he admired his long-fingered hands and played casually with his signet ring. A smile, which was almost a sneer, played perpetually over his features.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you,’ said Mr. Cork, ‘that the jewels you were to have given to your wife as a wedding present have been stolen.’
‘Stolen? Where? When?’
‘Did you have an arrangement with your jeweller to deliver them to the Paradise Hotel?’
‘Not necessarily at the Paradise. Guydamour simply arranged to contact me, either at Exquay or in London, when he arrived from Paris. We thought it just as well not to advertise his movements too widely.’
‘Guydamour took the precaution of registering at the Paradise under an assumed name.’
‘Good for him.’
‘But it didn’t save his life. He was murdered, battered to death with a tyre lever, two nights ago.’
‘Guydamour murdered? But this is ghastly. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I can’t believe it.’
‘I’m afraid it’s true.’
‘Where did it happen?’
‘In his bedroom at the Paradise.’
‘Have the police any clue as to who did it?’
‘They suspect one of the gangs operating in the South of France.’
De Raun gave a thoughtful nod.
‘That’s quite possible. Those jewels had altogether too much publicity for my liking. I told Guydamour so.’
‘Yet you yourself made the announcement that you were giving Alouette’s Worms to your wife?’
‘Yes, it slipped out over a drink with one of the Press boys. At that time, I confess I didn’t realize what a song and dance would be made of it. It’s amazing what you chaps can dig up, isn’t it, Mr. Sparrow?’
For answer, Chris Sparrow gave an ominous hiccup. The movement of the yacht might be slight, but his own discomfort was real enough.
‘Is there somewhere I can go?’ he said, with a green smile.
‘Certainly,’ said de Raun. ‘The second door astern of this one. Don’t lean over the side, it’ll make a mess of the paintwork.’
‘Thanks.’
Precipitately, Chris Sparrow made his retreat.
***
‘We’ll have some hot coffee for you when you come back,’ said de Raun.
‘Your friend doesn’t seem to be a very good sailor,’ he went on cheerfully.
‘He didn’t have any breakfast. I expect that’s upset him.’
‘We’ll soon fix that. By the way, that reminds me, I haven’t asked you your name.’
‘My name is Cork, Montague Cork of the Anchor Insurance Co.’
‘Howdyedo?’ He lazily stretched out his hand to be shaken.
‘And your friends?’
‘They’re temporarily advising me.’
‘Well, sir, what can I do for you?’
‘Mine is the company which has insured these jewels of yours, Mr. de Raun. As I presume you will shortly be making a claim on us for the loss, it’s important that I should make full enquiries.’
‘We needn’t bother about that now, need we? I confess I was quite unaware that you were even insuring me. That’s all handled by my brokers. For the present, I’m much too concerned about poor old Guydamour. That’s a bad business. We became quite close friends, you know.’
‘Had you known him long?’
‘A few years on and off. I remember I met him first in the salle privée at Monte Carlo.’
‘So he was a gambler?’
‘He liked a flutter, like most of us.’
‘Did he play high?’
‘I can’t say I ever noticed. Why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered what sort of man he was. But it doesn’t matter. The Sûreté are checking up on him.’
‘Ah, here’s the coffee. How do you like it? Au lait?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Cork. ‘And my friend too.’
‘We must keep some for poor old Sparrow. He’ll need it.’
‘Did you ever see Alouette’s Worms?’
‘But of course,’ smiled de Raun. ‘Many times. I bought them, you know.’
‘Has your wife seen them?’
‘Certainly not. They were to be a surprise. You know, Mr. Cork, it’s my own view that they’ll be recovered. No thief could get away with a collection like that for long.’
‘That’s the opinion of the police, too. I hope you’re both right.’
‘I think you said the police have put out a message for me. I shall, of course, be delighted to see them, but I don’t know that I can be of much help. I didn’t actually know that Guydamour had arrived at the Paradise. In fact, I was wondering what had happened to him. He was supposed to contact me on the morning before the wedding.’
‘He ’phoned your London hotel all right,’ said Mr. Cork quietly.
‘Did he? Well, he never got through to me.’
‘I can quite understand that, at the last minute, you decided against going to the Paradise Hotel. But I’m surprised you never told them.’
‘Really, that’s my own affair,’ laughed de Raun. ‘But, if you must know, our idea, my wife and I, was that if we kept the hotel guessing we’d keep the Press guessing, too. Still, you’ll be glad to hear that I’m putting them out of their misery to-day. I’ve sent one of the hands ashore to telephone. As soon as the weather improves, we’re setting course for a warmer climate.’
‘I hate to spoil your honeymoon, Mr. de Raun, but I fancy the police will want you to remain here, certainly until after the inquest.’
‘You talk as if Guydamour’s death were my personal concern. I’m terribly sad about it but, apart from the loss of the jewels, it’s none of my business. By the way, I suppose there’s no doubt that robbery was the motive; I mean you’ve got evidence that he had the jewels in his possession?’
‘An empty jewel-box was found in the room with the body.’
‘A heart-shaped case with a double-compartment and Fanny’s initials on the lid?’
‘I don’t know about the initials but the rest of the description fits.’
‘Then it’s a bad business, all right. That’s the jewel-case. We had it designed specially.’
‘I suppose you realize that there’ll be a lot more publicity over this.’
Anton de Raun threw up his hands in mock dismay.
‘Poor Fanny,’ he said. ‘She’s worn out with it.’
He poured himself some more coffee.
‘Well, I think that’s all,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘In view of your sad news, I won’t weigh anchor until I’ve given the police all the information I can. But I don’t think there’s much more that you and I can say to each other.’
‘Would you think me impertinent,’ said Mr. Cork, ‘if I asked to meet the crew of this vessel before I leave?’
‘What an extraordinary request. What on earth for?’
‘If they’re the regular crew, it’s possible that my friend here may be able to identify one of them. If he can, it’s of great importance to our case. That’s so, isn’t it, Harry?’
‘’Tisn’t necessary, guv,’ said Harry warily.
‘Why not?’
‘’Cause ’e’s ’ere. The chap what tipped me off on the job was him.’
He pointed accusingly at de Raun.
***
De Raun gripped the edge of the table with long, strong fingers. He half rose from his swivel chair.
‘You keep odd company,’ he said to Mr. Cork.
‘When I’m in odd company, I suit myself to circumstances. Please sit down.’
De Raun dropped stiffly into his chair.
‘Are you sure you’re right, Harry?’
‘’Course I’m right. He knows it, too. Him and his gentlemanly ways. He was dressed as a seaman when I met him.’
De Raun smiled again.
‘I can’t think what this fellow’s talking about, but it’s hardly likely that I should associate with a cheap little crook like him.’
‘How did you know he was a crook?’ asked Mr. Cork evenly. ‘No, it’s not your first mistake, de Raun. Your first mistake was when you said you didn’t know that Guydamour had arrived at the Paradise; but you did know. Guydamour put through a call to you at your hotel in London, on the morning of your wedding. It wasn’t an ordinary call; it was a personal one. It’s recorded on the hotel bill that the call was completed. What did he tell you? All right, I’ll tell you myself. He informed you that the insurance company was getting suspicious. He told you that he’d just had a call from Paris warning him that I’d been asking pertinent questions. He’d got cold feet. But you wouldn’t call it off. You arranged to keep a secret rendezvous with him that night in his bedroom at the Paradise. I can’t prove that yet, but the murderer was careless about finger-prints, because he never doubted that a celebrated honeymooner like himself would ever be suspected. Indeed, he was even stupid enough to use a tyre lever as a weapon which probably came from his own car. I’ve no doubt Guydamour made you a prearranged signal to show you his room as you waited in the gardens.’
‘You forget. I was with my newly-married wife.’
‘Not at that moment. You sent your wife away to the yacht in the motor-boat while you held back on the excuse of parking the car or something of that sort. It didn’t take long to accomplish your plan. Guydamour, your accomplice, was waiting to welcome you. When you shinned up the ivy, he opened the window and held out his hand…’
‘All of which shows to what limits insurance companies will go to evade paying a claim. I don’t want your money. Everybody knows that I’m a well-to-do man.’
‘You mean everybody knows that you’ve got a well-to-do wife.’
‘I can afford to ignore your cheap insults. What you don’t explain, in this cooked-up story of yours, is what possible advantage it can be to me to lose the jewels and accept rather less than their proper value as compensation from the insurance company.’
‘I don’t believe you paid a farthing for the jewels, de Raun. Guydamour was in the conspiracy with you. You made a plot together to defraud my company. A very clever plot, too. By virtue of your social position and your engagement to Fanny Fairfield, you agreed with Guydamour to pretend to buy Alouette’s Worms. You undertook to insure them and you took it on yourself to see to it that they’d be burgled the moment you got them. But you meant to do it properly. You wanted a real burglar and a real burglary. So you picked on poor little Harry here, a clever cracksman but a stupid man, as your tool. Because you were anxious not to introduce a third person into your plot, you took the foolish risk of dressing up as a seaman and tipping-off Harry yourself. You gave him the know-how on a plate, even to the position of a secret safe in the wall. You knew that, after the event, you could deal with Harry.
‘In the end, Guydamour lost his nerve. But you couldn’t afford to. So you made an even better job of it. You murdered your own accomplice. And you might have got away with it if you hadn’t previously done such a good job with Harry. Because there were no newspapers, Harry knew nothing of the murder. Because I couldn’t sleep, I caught him red-handed. Harry led me to you.’
‘Have some more coffee,’ said de Raun coolly. ‘That lot’s cold. I’ll ring the bell for some.’
He put his hand under the table. When he lifted it again, he held a small automatic.
‘I’m sorry to do this,’ he said, ‘but you’re talking rather dangerously.’
‘Don’t move, Harry,’ said Mr. Cork over his shoulder.
‘Wise advice,’ said de Raun.
‘I must remind you that the police are on their way here, de Raun. That pistol is scarcely a recommendation of your innocence.’
‘Get into that locker.’
With the muzzle of his pistol, de Raun indicated a large press in the corner of the saloon.
‘Hurry up. Stand with your backs to the wall.’
He gave Mr. Cork a push, and launched a kick at Harry.
‘You can shout your hearts out in there. Nobody will hear you. We’re going for a long sea voyage together.’
He slammed the door and locked it.
‘You told me not to shoot, guv,’ whispered Harry in the dark.
‘I’m glad you didn’t try. De Raun, I’m sure, is a much quicker gunman than you are. But you can use your pistol now.’
‘What for?’
‘People who carry pistols always have one-track minds. I don’t want you to shoot anybody. I just want you to blow the lock off this door.’
Harry felt about for the lock.
‘If I had time,’ he said, ‘I could pick it.’
‘If you took your time, we’d be half-way across the Channel.’
Harry let go with two shots from his gun. In the confined space of the cupboard, the noise was ear-splitting. The two of them burst out, in a cloud of powder smoke, like magicians in a pantomime.
They ran along the covered sundeck towards the bow of the ship. But they halted in time. The crew, eight of them, were standing on the fo’c’sle with their hands up watching the superstructure. Chris Sparrow was one of them. Mr. Cork took Harry by the arm, and drew him back.
‘De Raun is obviously threatening them from the wheelhouse. Sparrow, I think, wasn’t as green as he looked. He went out to make sure that the hands were on our side.’
‘Can he start the boat, guv, without ’em?’
‘I don’t know enough about it, but I shouldn’t be surprised.’
‘What do we do?’
‘We distract his attention, Harry.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll see to that. You wait here.’
Mr. Cork quietly opened the door at the foot of the companion-way leading up to the wheelhouse.
‘Do you want the gun?’ said Harry in a hoarse whisper.
Mr. Cork shook his head. With hunched shoulders, he jutted out his chin and slowly climbed the creaking stairs. De Raun must surely hear him coming.
The door at the top of the dark companion-way was half-open, swinging gently with the movement of the anchored yacht. He could see the glittering brass of instruments in the wheelhouse and the gritty white enamel of the paintwork. But de Raun made no move.
***
Mr. Cork had only the vaguest notion of how to tackle him. It would be adequate if he could distract the man’s attention long enough to give the crew on the fo’c’sle a chance to make a getaway. The risk that de Raun would shoot on sight couldn’t be discounted; but the fact that he himself was unarmed was a certain protection. Normally, the best way of dealing with a man waving a pistol about was to reassure his immediate sense of security. Apart from that, there were very few people who could use one with any accuracy. He remembered with grim inconsequence that, in his own soldiering days in the First World War, he had failed completely to hit a tin hat with one of the old Webley revolvers at five yards range.
Outside the wheelhouse, he flattened his back against the wall of the companion-way. He slowly put out his hand and, with the tips of his fingers, he pushed the door wide open. Nothing happened.
‘Are you there, de Raun?’
There was no answer.
‘I’m coming in there with you. It’s unnecessary to shoot at me because I’m unarmed. To reassure you, I’m going to show myself with my arms raised over my head.’
He took a deep breath. Raising his hands, he stepped into the glass-fronted cabin. As he crossed the threshold, he was grabbed round the waist. De Raun had been waiting for him behind the door. Half-thrown off his feet, he struggled in the hugging grip of de Raun’s left arm; in his right, he still held the pistol levelled at the men grouped below on the foredeck.
‘Keep still or I’ll brain you.’
Wriggling in de Raun’s grasp, Mr. Cork kicked him sharply on the shin. He was rewarded with a yelp of pain. De Raun fell down. Below on the deck, he heard a shout. The crew started running towards them. De Raun got to his feet, and he, too, ran.
He threw his leg over the rail and dropped overboard into the motorboat as the hands crowded in on him. But they fell back as, bending over the engine, he flourished his pistol menacingly.
The motor picked up with a gurgling hum. He cast off and, reeling back as the boat surged forward, he drove towards the shore. He was almost at the groin when a posse of police, led by Trelawny, came through the gap in the cliffs.
De Raun swung the boat away again. The launch was a fast one. With the throttle full open, it settled down on its stern with its bow slapping on the swell. With a spuming wake, it circled round the yacht in a wide arc and raced out of the shelter of the cove into the open sea.
Then, from a thing of fleeting beauty, it was reduced to the pathetic impotence of a cork. It rolled and plunged in the broken water, one moment with its bow pointing to the sky and the next with upraised stern showing the screw spinning aimlessly in the air. Against the crested cruelty of the ocean, it was lost. With every roll, de Raun was shipping water like a bucket dripping in a well. The seagulls crowded round, wailing like mourners at a wake. From the yacht and the shore, they watched him wrestling with the unconquerable. He went overboard a few seconds before the launch heeled over and, raising her cream bows in the air, slid to the bottom to make a bed for the congers and the other carrion-eaters of the sea. They didn’t see de Raun again. They didn’t expect to.
***
It was a quarter of an hour before they could swing out another boat to bring the police aboard. Fanny Fairfield woke up feeling so much better that she peered out of the porthole. Seeing so many men coming aboard, she took her time dressing and getting her make-up in proper order. When she came on deck, Inspector Trelawny had renewed the laborious business of taking statements and his officers had started the search of the yacht for the missing jewels.
***
Chris Sparrow scooped the biggest story of his life as a newspaperman. Harry, until economic circumstances led him astray again, enjoyed for a while the strange experience of being an honest citizen. M. Aloysia, contrary to all his expectations, did a record New Year’s business. Phoebe had an emerald ring from her husband to make up for the way he’d spoilt her Christmas. Fanny Fairfield married again, quite soon. Only Mr. Cork seemed discontented.
He called conference after conference with his chief executives. He harried his staff with a paper chase of memoranda dictated from the formidable sanctum of his private office. He was determined that there’d never be a de Raun case again.
But he couldn’t avoid the publicity. Under great pressure, when the police proceedings were over, he consented to grant an interview to the Press. He’d never done it before and, after the event, he swore that he’d never put up with it again. At the conference, he explained, with his usual grave clarity, the main details of the fraud. He emphasized that people who try to cheat the insurance companies are pitting themselves against the experience of a business which survives by its capacity to distinguish the honest man from the dishonest one.
He answered all the questions which the Press reporters put to him on the de Raun Case, except one. When they pressed him, he smiled.
‘That’s my secret,’ he said.
When they asked him why, he lit a Passing Cloud. Staring at them over his half-glasses, with his lined face wreathed in the blue smoke, he considered his answer.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘there are certain cases of fraud, and this is one of them, when it would not be in the interest of the great insurance companies—and may I remind you that, for all the world, that means the insurance companies of the City of London—to reveal the whole truth. There are always dishonest people who might make improper use of the knowledge. Thank you, gentlemen, that’s all. If you’ll excuse me, I have a Board Meeting to attend.’
***
Over many a drink in the ‘Cheshire Cheese,’ in Fleet Street, Chris Sparrow has told the story of Alouette’s Worms. But neither he nor his friends have been able to guess Mr. Cork’s secret. Can you?
***
The solutions to ‘Mr. Cork’s Secret,’
as published by Lilliput magazine,
appear on at the end of this document.