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Al





THE CRIME COAST





ELIZABETH GILL
THE CRIME COAST
A Murder Mystery of the French Riviera
A new author enters the ranks of
detective story writers with this
brilliant story of murder and treach-
ery in the fogs of London and the
sunshine of southern France.
GARDEN CITY, N. Y. PUBLISHED FOR
THE CRIME CLUB, INC.
BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.


PRInted at The Country Life Press, GARDEN city, N. Y., U. S. A.
coPYRIGHT, 1931
BY DOUBLEDAY, DoRAN & company, INC.
all, Richts Reserved
FiRST EDITION
;
i
-
-


7…a …& 44. **, *
A, *...* *… tº *
/*-44
CONTENTS
charte-
I FROM A MORNING PAPER
II P.L.M. -
III PRIVATE INQUIRY
IV. P. L. M. CONTINUED
V LA FêTE COMMENCE
VI BENVENUTO BROWN
VII THE ADVENTURES OF A TAXICAB
VIII CORONA-CORONA
IX COOKERY AND CRIME
X THE PARTY
XI THE DARK HOUSE
XII A WORD WITH MISS MOON
XIII “THE BEAUTIFUL CITY WITH DIRTY
FEET’’
XIV ROUGH-HOUSE
XV IN WHICH ADELAIDE IS BITTEN BY
A MOSQUITO
XVI WINGS
XVII CLIMAX
Pace
II
22
32
58
7o
87
95
III
I24
I34
I46
17o
I8I
2O7


vi
C O N T E N T S
charre-
XVIII
XIX
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXVI
XXVII
ANTI-CLIMAX
“LOU CAT”
“DR. LIVINGSTONE, I PRESUME?”
A YOUNG MAN OF TEMPERAMENT
CONFESSION
IMPACT
CRIME
—AND PUNISHMENT
JUMPING TO CONCLUSIONS
ON THE RAFT
race
216
226
239
248
257
269
274
282
289
307


THE CRIME COAST


-----


CHAPTER I
F. R O M A M O R N IN G PA P E R
DOUBLE CRIME AT LONDON HOTEL
Body of Woman Found
wrapped in Eiderdown
COUNTESS’S JEWELS STOLEN
A TRAGIc discovery was made at Bishop's Hotel
last evening when a maid, on entering the suite
of Signora da Costa, a rich Argentine guest at
the hotel, found her dead body on the bed
wrapped in an eiderdown.
An extraordinary feature of the crime is that
the body had on nothing but a number of mag-
nificent jewels. Other jewels of great value were
strewn on the dressing table, and so far nothing
appears to be missing. The unfortunate woman
had been smothered.
Half an hour after this tragedy was discov-
ered the Countess of Trelorne, on returning
from a drive in her car, found that her room in
9


IO T H E CRIME COA ST
the same corridor had been ransacked by thieves
who had made off with her famous collection
of jewels including the well-known Trelorne
pearls.
Scotland Yard officers are at work on the
scenes of both crimes, and are anxious to get in
touch with a young man who is known to have
lunched with the Signora yesterday, and a wo-
man who visited her later in the afternoon.
The Signora arrived from Paris on Monday
night. She was a woman of great beauty and had
been painted by many artists of the modern
school.


CHAPTER II
P. L. M.
“DIJON, Maçon, Lyons, Valence, Avignon,
Marseille!” shouted the conductors. Paul
Ashby, standing on the platform at the Gare de
Lyons, thought that no poem could please him
better. His place was booked and his luggage
stowed away in his sleeping car, and he walked
up and down watching the tremendous bustle
and excitement that attends the departure of a
French train—rather as if, he thought, a great
experiment were about to be made in transport,
and the first steam-driven vehicle were starting
on a hazardous journey across France. Porters
shouted, whistles blew, bells rang, and passen-
gers rushed madly up and down, losing and find-
ing their places, their luggage, and their chil-
dren. Everyone but Paul appeared to be travel-
ling en famille. The third class was already
crowded to bursting point and through the win-
dows he could see perspiring faces of every
nationality and every hue, peasants, soldiers,
II


I2 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
and sailors; Moors, Turks, Lascars, Chinese,
and French; brown, black, and yellow faces,
white faces, painted faces. Paul caught sight of
the gold teeth and flashing eyeballs of a Negro,
and then the pale face and black hair of a
French woman who had taken off her hat and
was putting a shawl over her head for the night.
The barrows of foodstuffs were doing a brisk
trade with long loaves of bread and bottles of
Vichy and wine, and the air was full of the smell
of sulphur and smoke and, more intimately, with
the odours of humanity, garlic, and French
cigarettes. -
The noise and excitement increased until the
great iron girders of the Gare de Lyons seemed
to vibrate with it, and then a bell rang with more
determination than usual. Paul looked at his
watch and walked towards his carriage.
“En voiture, m'sieurs, dames, en voiture!”
yelled the porters with the enthusiasm that Eng-
lishmen reserve for a football match. Paul got
into the train; doors banged, the whistle blew,
and with a tremendous jerk the train started.
With every revolution of the wheels Paul's
spirits rose. His acquaintance with the Conti-
nent extended at the moment no further than a
view of Boulogne, with gray houses huddled to-
gether in the rain; a rather dull countryside of


P. L. M. I3
wide green fields and gray stone villages seen
from the windows of the train, all of which
looked surprisingly English, he thought; a re-
markably good lunch in the restaurant car where
it had been a relief to find his first order, spoken
a little gruffly, in French, unhesitatingly
obeyed; rain and more rain driving against the
carriage windows and through it glimpses of
long straight roads planted endlessly with plane
trees which together with advertising signs im-
parted a faintly foreign air to the landscape.
“Byrrh,” he read, “Savon Cadum,” “Thé Lip-
ton.”
At last Paris, its outskirts shabby and rather
sordid, lightened with an occasional view of the
Seine, and finally the Gare du Nord where he
was outraged at being taken for an Englishman
by an officious Cook's man. Three hours to spare
—what could one do in three hours?
Deciding to damn the expense, he took a taxi
and drove endlessly through the wet streets. Per-
haps because of the weather, it was not quite the
Paris he had expected—a glittering city of foun-
tains and flowers, chic, elegant, and faintly sin-
ful. Instead he found it a trifle sinister, old, and
heavy with history, half expected a tumbril to
clatter down the gray streets, and to see the full
gutters flowing with blood. In the Place de la


I4 T H E CRIME COAST
Concorde the city surprised him again; here it
was austere, intellectual, and grave, and then in
a flash it changed and seemed to flutter a skirt at
him as he drove down the Rue de Rivoli and
saw through the arcades bright windows of
pearls, flowers, and scents. There on his right
were gardens and statues and a great palace
which must be the Louvre. He decided to have a
drink before seeing anything more, and tapping
on the window told the man to drive to a café.
Here he paid him off, sat down, ordered a
bock, and listened to a bearded gentleman ex-
plain to another with a good deal of passion how
to mix a salad. He wondered if the animated
conversations going on on each side of him were
equally trivial, then, suddenly feeling lonely,
he finished his drink and left. He was glad when
his sight-seeing was over—if Brian and Evans
had been with him it would have been different,
but exploring cities alone was dreary work.
They had planned this trip together, the three of
them, standing over a map of France in Paul's
rooms during their last term at Oxford. Then
during the summer an unexpected job had sent
Brian off to India, and as for Evans, he had sud-
denly, inexplicably, got engaged to be married.
Paul could make nothing of it, and feeling dis-


P. L. M. I5
tinctly bereaved, he had decided on carrying out
the holiday alone—partly from a temperamental
dislike of altering his plans, partly to satisfy a
craving for adventure which existed somewhere
in the secret places of his soul. Once in the train
he forgot to feel lonely—he was heading south,
to a strange country, and unexpectedly on a
stranger quest.
The day before London had been in a particu-
larly bad mood. It was the end of a long heat
wave, and on this particular July evening the
city lay sinister, tense, and expectant, not a
breath stirring. In Bloomsbury the leaves of
the plane trees hung limply, the Georgian
houses looked shabby and discouraged. Paul,
sitting in his rooms in Great James Street, sur-
veyed his pile of neatly strapped and labelled
luggage and wondered if he'd made a fool of
himself. To go south in this weather . . .
He stared out of the window, where the edge
of a purple thunder cloud had rolled into view,
got up, stretched his long legs, and mixed him-
self a drink. “At least,” he thought, “I shall be
able to swim in the Mediterranean, and go about
in shirt sleeves. I wonder if I’ve packed enough
shirts”—and, his thoughts reverting to his lug-
gage, he sat down again and began to write in


I6 T H E C R IM E CO AST
his neat, rather academic hand an extra label for
his largest suitcase:
PAUL ASHBY PASSENGER TO MARSEILLE
VIA BOULOGNE AND PARIS
He blotted the label and paused, listening.
Footsteps were passing his door and ascending
the staircase, and in the tense atmosphere of the
hot evening every sound had a peculiar signifi-
cance. He wondered who it could be, for the
top of the house was occupied only by the offices
of a private inquiry agency which had closed for
the night half an hour earlier.
The footsteps hesitated—stopped—there was
a crash, and the sound of something slithering
down the staircase.
Paul rushed to the door and opened it to find
the body of a man lying at his feet. He appeared
to be just conscious and was breathing fast, his
face distorted with pain. Paul managed to get
him onto his sofa and propped him up with
cushions, looking down at him anxiously. It
would be discouraging on the eve of a summer
holiday to have an unknown man fall into one's
rooms and die on one—and while half Paul's
mind was engaged upon a picture of himself
as chief witness at an inquest, the other half was
taking in details of his precipitate guest. The


P. L. M. 17
man was elderly and white-haired, with a sensi-
tive, distinguished face. His clothes were beauti-
fully cut and there was a nice harmony between
shirt, socks, and tie. He looked pathetic lying
there in his fine clothes.
“How about a whisky, sir?” said Paul nerv-
ously, rather at a loss as to how to deal with the
situation.
“Thank you—no—a little water,” gasped the
old gentleman, his hand going feebly towards
his breast pocket.
Paul brought him a glass of water and saw a
couple of little white pills disappear into his
mouth.
He didn't like to stand there watching the old
man, so he strolled across to the window to await
developments.
There was no car outside; who on earth could
he be? A scholarly soldier or a gentleman of
leisure who dabbled in the fine arts? Certainly
one who would look more at home in a club in
St. James's than in the offices of a private inquiry
agency.
Presently Paul heard a movement behind him
and turned to find his guest, shaky but obviously
recovering, sitting up and dusting his trousers.
“Came rather a crash,” he said apologetically.
“Most good of you to pick me up. It's my


I8 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
wretched heart, you know, gets me like that
sometimes. I do hope I didn't give you a shock.
I'll be getting along now—and many many
thanks.”
“You mustn't think of it, sir. Please sit down
and rest, and I'll get you a taxi later. It must
have given you a nasty jar, coming down those
stairs. Won't you drink a glass of sherry with
me?”
“Well, really, my dear fellow, you're very
good—and if you're sure I'm not putting you out
I will stay a few minutes longer.”
He subsided on to the settee with an air of re-
lief, and Paul went to fetch sherry and glasses.
When he came back he found a card lying on
the table, and read: “Major E. W. Kent, Black's
Club.” He introduced himself as he poured out
the drinks, and as he sat there, glass in hand, felt
the situation becoming more normal.
“Pleasant rooms you've got here,” said Major
Kent appreciatively, looking at the green
painted walls lined with bookshelves, the neatly
framed etchings, and curtains of faded Indian
red silk that hung from the high Georgian win-
dows.
“I’m afraid it looks like a left-luggage office
at the moment,” apologized Paul. “As you see,
I'm just off for abroad.”


P. L. M. I9
“Are you staying in Marseille long?” asked
Major Kent, looking at the label on the nearer
suitcase. “You’ll find it a bit hot just now.”
“I’ve no idea. This is the first time I’ve been
able to go abroad since I was a kid and I'm off
into the blue for a month or so before starting
work. I've no plans and very little money, but
the idea of seeing the Mediterranean makes me
feel as adventurous as though I were about to
explore darkest Africa. I want to stay in France
because I know the language pretty well and I
believe it's cheaper than Italy. I suppose, actu-
ally, the French Riviera is about as exciting as
Bath or Tunbridge Wells?”
“That depends where you go. I have a son—”
Major Kent hesitated, and a look of sadness
crossed his face—“who is a painter and who has
spent a good deal of time down there since
he left the Slade. Before my heart went groggy
I used to travel about with him, and I could give
you the names of a good many delightful places
off the beaten track if you'd care to have them.”
“I say—that would be awfully good of you,
Sir.”
“I don't know what you're after, of course,
but you'll find most of the so-called gay places
like Monte Carlo and Cannes with their dust
covers on at this time of year. Now what was


2O T H E CRIME COAST
that little place Adrian was so fond of?—I have
it—St. Tropez.” And for the next half hour
Major Kent described to Paul the life of the
Southern fishing ports, with their floating popu-
lation of painters, writers, and étrangers from
all parts of the world, while Paul, intensely in-
terested and a little startled, listened and made
some methodical notes in his notebook.
Major Kent talked well, choosing his words
with fastidious care and speaking from a slightly
impersonal angle, as though his interest in life
was from the observer's point of view; though
whenever he mentioned his son a note of warmth
and gentleness came into his voice. -
He appeared to be still suffering from his fall,
and when he rose to go Paul, who began to feel
a sincere-liking for him, said:
“Look here, sir, you'd be doing me a real
favour if you'd care to stay and dine with me. I
was feeling thoroughly bored when you—er—
dropped in, and I’m in the desolate state of hav-
ing nothing whatever to do till my train goes
to-morrow morning. If you don't mind a rather
scratch meal I’d be really grateful if you'd stay.”
After a slight hesitation, Major Kent accepted
and Paul telephoned to the near-by restaurant
that sent up his meals. They were soon seated
over an excellent sole, a bottle of Beaune and a


P. L. M. 2 I
roast chicken, and as the meal went on Paul felt
he had known his guest for years. Major Kent
talked a lot, and on a variety of subjects, yet all
the time Paul felt that one half of his mind was
engaged on some personal and acute problem.
When the waiter had cleared away and left
them with coffee and liqueurs, Major Kent said
hesitatingly:
“That place upstairs—d'you know anything
about it?”
“The inquiry agency? Can't say I do, except
that I don't much like the look of the chap that
runs it.”
“H'm—I was a fool. I went there on the im-
pulse of the moment.” Then abruptly: “I have
been wondering as I talked to you whether I
should put to you a rather extraordinary propo-
sition. It must be on the clear understanding that
if you don't like the sound of it you turn it
down.”
“But of course, sir, carry on. If there is any-
thing I can do . . .”
“Then I'll take you at your word, and ask
you to listen to what is for me a tragic story.”


CHAPTER III
PRI W A T E IN QUIR Y
“I DON'T want to fatigue you with my whole
family history,” commenced Major Kent apolo-
getically, “so I will tell you as briefly as I can
how things stand.
“You heard me speak just now of my son
Adrian. Twenty-five years ago my wife, with
whom I was very deeply in love, died in giving
birth to him. We'd been very happily married
for two years, and when she died I felt—well, I
needn't go into that. I retired from the army and
left England, leaving the child in the care of an
old woman, a cousin of mine. I could hardly
bear to set eyes on him, feeling that his birth
had caused my wife's death. For ten years I
wandered about the earth, doing nothing in
particular, leading a life that was adventurous
and not specially creditable. I had no wish to
marry again, and my chief interest was in start-
ing to make a small collection of paintings,
which is still my hobby.
“At the end of ten years I heard that the
22


PRIVATE IN QUIR Y 23
cousin to whom I had intrusted my son had died,
and I returned to England to make new arrange-
ments for him, but with no particular interest in
seeing him again.
“On arriving in England I went to the small
country town where my cousin had lived. I
found her house, which was a large gloomy Vic-
torian affair surrounded by a garden full of
depressing-looking shrubs and gravel paths. An
elderly parlourmaid informed me that Master
Adrian was in the garden, and feeling a little
conscience-stricken at the idea of a child living
in such an atmosphere, I went in search of him.
He was sitting, dressed in deep black, in an ivy-
covered arbour with a drawing book on his
knee, and when he raised his head he showed me
a face of such strange intelligence and faunlike
beauty, a face which bore so strong a resem-
blance to that of my dead wife that I stood silent
and afraid in front of him. However, he was
very polite, and got up and shook hands with me
with a kind of Victorian courtesy, saying that I
must be his father, and had I had any teaf
“I took him away from that horrible house
the same night, and we spent three months to-
gether on the Norfolk Broads in a yacht. We
had a good time, and I was very happy watch-
ing him gradually throw off the influence of his


PRIVATE IN QUIR Y 25
graph had been in every newspaper about ten
years ago as the chief character in a particularly
unsavoury divorce case? I had reason to remem-
ber her, for this case had involved the disgrace
and ultimate suicide of a man in my old regi-
ment, a great friend of mine. My revulsion of
feeling was so great that I was speechless. When
I turned to my son I saw him gazing at the
painting with such adoration that I lost my head
and heaped abuse upon this woman. I told him
all I knew about her, sparing no detail, and then
suddenly realized as I caught sight of his face
that he did not believe a word I was saying. It
nearly broke my heart and I continued more and
more fiercely, trying to justify myself. We said
terrible things to each other—he accused me of
trying to poison his mind against her.
“The end of it all was that he rushed from
the house and I have not seen him since.
“Soon after my son disappeared I had the
first of a series of bad heart attacks, and my
doctors tell me I may have only a year to live.
I have made every possible effort to trace my
son, with no success, and as I am forbidden to
travel I feel almost despairing, for I am con-
Vinced he is not in England. A week or so ago
I believed I had a clue to his whereabouts. I
had a letter from the Leinster Galleries asking


26 T H E C R IM E COA ST
me to come round and see some paintings which
had just arrived from Paris, the work of a young
English artist named Adelaide Moon, which
they thought would interest me. I went along,
and in looking through the paintings I saw one
of a group of people at a café table in the south
of France. It was dated July of this year—only
a month ago—and one of the figures I felt cer-
tain I recognized as that of my son, from the
very typical attitude in which he is seated. I im-
mediately got into touch with Miss Moon's
Paris dealer, only to hear that she had gone off
on a painting expedition in France and Italy,
leaving no address. They have promised to let
me know immediately she returns, but appar-
ently she is erratic, and sometimes goes off for
months at a time.
“Then, this morning I received a typewritten
envelope, posted in London, and inside it an-
other envelope addressed in my son's hand-
writing.”
Major Kent felt in his pocket and brought out
a letter, which after a moment's hesitation he
handed to Paul.
“Perhaps you'll read it,” he said. “As you will
see, it gives me no clue as to where he is. It ex-
plains better than I can the terrible mess the boy
has got into.”


PRIVATE IN QUIR Y 27
Paul read:
DEAR DAD:
I find it very hard to write to you, for I don't
see that anything can make any difference now
after the awful things I said to you before I went
away. Sometimes I think we will forget about it
one day and our life will go on as it used to. -
Of course you were absolutely right about
Luela. I loved her for months and was terribly
unhappy most of the time. I couldn't leave her for
a long time, even after I was unhappy. She seemed
to make me mad, so that I forgot everything. She
wouldn't let me paint, except sometimes she would
want me to paint her. I used to think she was in-
terested in my work, but I realized after a bit she
would have much preferred nude photographs of
herself. One day we had a terrible row and I went
away. For a month I was very happy—I felt as
if I’d recovered from some horrible disease. I
started to work again, and made up my mind I
would stay abroad for a few months painting until
I had done some decent things I could bring back
to you. I hadn't any money, but I was able to pawn
my cigarette case and a few other things. Then
one day I got very low and I sold that jewel Luela
had given me when I was painting her portrait.
By bad luck the jeweller I sold it to recognized
it, and knew Luela and wrote to her. She immedi-
ately came to see me and begged me to come away
with her. It was all horrible and disgusting, and I
refused. She continued to come and see me, and
then one day got into a terrible passion and said


28 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
unless I would come she would denounce me to
the police as a jewel thief. She went away and I
didn't hear any more for several weeks. Yester-
day I had a letter from her saying she would give
me one last chance to come to her, and if I didn't
she would carry out her threat. I am going to see
her about it, and if she won't relent I shall dis-
appear for a few months, by which time she will
have started a new affaire and forgotten. So
please don't try to get in touch with me. I am not
coming back until this business is all over and
done with. And then—if you can possibly forget
it all—how about that trip to the Pacific we
promised ourselves? -
All my love,
ADRIAN.
Paul finished reading, and sat for a few mo-
ments sucking at his pipe and staring at the
letter in his hand. He felt puzzled and embar-
rassed, profoundly sorry for the old man whose
story he had listened to, yet both shy and hesitant
of offering sympathy or advice. He glanced up
and caught the wistful and eager eye of Major
Kent, who leant forward.
“You must forgive me for inflicting on you
the troubles of an absolute stranger,” he said.
“I was feeling rather desperate this evening and
felt that the only thing left for me to do was to
go to an inquiry agency and employ a man to


PRIVATE IN QUIR Y 29
look for my son. Much as I loathed the thought
of it, I felt I couldn't go on any longer in a state
of suspense. By an accident I find myself in-
stead in your rooms, just as you are starting for
that very part of the world where I feel my son
to be, or at least where news of him could be
had. You've been so very good already in enter-
taining a perfect stranger and allowing him to
take up your whole evening, that I am almost
ashamed to go on.”
“Look here, sir,” said Paul earnestly, “if you
think there's anything I can do, please go ahead
and don't hesitate for a moment.”
“Find the boy for me!” said the old man,
stretching out his hand in a kind of vague ap-
peal. “I must see him—I must—and if he is in
any danger from the police, as he imagines, I
must help him. He does not know I am ill, and
unless I get in touch with him soon I may never
see him again.”
He pulled himself together, and continued
more quietly: “Could you possibly look upon
it as a job to combine with your holiday? It
would give you an object, and might lead you
into places you would not otherwise see. Let me
pay all your expenses; go and make inquiries
among the colony of painters in different vil-
lages in the South for my son and for this Miss


3O T H E C R IM E COA ST
Adelaide Moon. You may fail, in which case
there's no harm done, and meanwhile—well, I
should feel a different man if I knew a real effort
was being made. And I don't believe you would
fail. . . .”
Paul stood in the doorway, with his hands
in the pockets of his Burberry, watching the tail
light of Major Kent's taxi disappear down the
road through a deluge of rain. The storm had
burst, and Paul sniffed the rain appreciatively,
watching the skyline of Great James Street, the
Georgian fronts and plane trees illuminated by
great flashes of lightning, with a loud accom-
paniment in the bass. It was glorious after the
dusty, sunbaked days and stuffy nights and Paul
felt wildly exhilarated. He was committed to all
kinds of adventure, he felt, and grinned as he
thought of himself in his new character of
sleuth. His holiday, which until now he'd
thought of as an opportunity for doing a lot of
reading, walking, and swimming, had taken on
new and exciting colours. What was more, it
wasn't going to cost him a penny, for Major
Kent had insisted on paying all his expenses, and
was seeing him off at Victoria in the morning
with a large check, a letter to Adrian, and a
photograph whereby Paul might identify him.


PRIVATE IN QUIR Y 3I
He went in, shut the door, and ran upstairs in
the best of spirits. His foot kicked against some-
thing as he reached the landing, sending it fly-
ing with a clink of metal. He groped on the floor
until he found it. It was a key. He stood looking
at it for a moment. Then he said aloud: “When
we notice the brass tab attached to the key, my
dear Watson, we realize that our fellow detec-
tives up above have been making investigations
in an hotel.” He slipped the key into the pocket
of his Burberry, thinking that he must remem-
ber to give it to the caretaker in the morning,
and went off to bed feeling that his career as a
detective was launched.


:
CHAPTER IV
P. L. M. C. O N T IN U E D
PAUL stood in the corridor and watched Paris
slip by, rain-swept under a leaden sky. The
storm had followed him across the Channel and
had broken over the whole of the north of
France. The rain looked as though it would
never stop, and he rather enjoyed the dreary
landscape, knowing that every moment he was
nearing a sunny coast he had never seen. How
did the poem go—Dijon, Maçon, Lyons, Va-
lence, Avignon, Marseille—the very names were
full of sunlight and the smell of wine—it
couldn't be raining in Valence or Avignon. His
meditations were interrupted by the dinner stew-
ard and he took a ticket for the premier service.
He went along to his sleeper to clean up for
dinner, and realized with a shock as he opened
the door that he was to share the compartment
with another.
A very stout person was seated on the lower
bunk. He was clad in a light gray suit covered
with the largest checks Paul had ever seen, and
32


P. L. M. 33
on the floor beside him was an extremely pointed
pair of light tan shoes. He was engaged in wrig-
gling his toes, freed from their glacés prisons,
with exquisite satisfaction, and mopping his face
with a flowered bandana. As Paul came in he
paused and looked out from the folds of flow-
ered silk. The small eyes fringed with sandy
lashes were set in a pink face. He was thick-
necked and heavy-jowled, and his head being
almost bald appeared to go up to a point, like
some gleaming and highly coloured egg. Paul
thought of a bookie he had once seen on
Brighton Race Course.
“Evenin’,” he said.
“Good-evening,” replied Paul rather shortly.
“Whew! Bit warm, ain't it? Glad to see you
ain't one o' them Frenchies—can't get on with
their lingo myself. 'Ave a cigar—Coronas, they
are.” And he offered Paul an enormous Corona
from his pocket.
“Er—thanks awfully but I think I'd rather
have a cigarette if you don't mind—I’m just
going to have dinner.”
“Oh, well—just as you like. Pity though—
good cigars, they are.” He lit one himself and
leant back with his thumbs in his waistcoat.
“’Aving dinner on the train, d'you say?
You're wrong, you know, you're wrong. I 'ad a


34 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
slap-up meal in Paree before starting, and jolly
good it was; cheap, too, only fifty francs for a
bottle of 'Eidseick—and everything of the best.”
To add point to his remarks, he removed his
cigar and got to work with a toothpick. Paul lit
a cigarette and stared at him coldly. His com-
panion was rendered temporarily speechless, but
having brought his excavations to a triumphant
conclusion he went on: “You got the top bunk,
I see. Just as well, p'raps—I ain't built for Al-
pine sports meself.” He laughed wheezily.
“Stayin' in Marsails?” he asked.
“No,” said Paul, “I’m going straight through
to a fishing village along the coast.”
“Very nice, too,” said his companion. “Very
nice indeed, I should say. I’m stoppin' in Mar-
sails for a while, just to see a bit of night life—
and then I’m for the seaside meself. Come in
for a bit of the best lately,” slapping his pocket,
“so I thought I'd 'ave a look at the Sunny Sarth,
as they say.”
The dinner bell came as a welcome interrup-
tion and Paul got up hurriedly.
“Well, I hope you'll like it,” he said. “Er—
care to have a look at my papers while I’m at
dinner?”
“Well, that's very kind of you. I don't mind
if I do.’Ere—take a cigar to 'ave with your din-


36 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
Paul blushed again, and renewing his apolo-
gies in English he turned to go on his way when
a voice called him back.
“I say, is this yours?” she said, and Paul saw
her face round the door of the carriage now
definitely laughing at him, and her hand hold-
ing out a battered Corona-Corona. He went
back to retrieve it, conscious of the fact that the
whole carriage was looking on with delighted
interest.
“Thanks awfully,” he said. “Someone just
gave me the wretched thing—how absurd!” and
he caught her eye and laughed, and went on to
dinner feeling he'd cut a figure that was far
from heroic. And such a lovely girl. . . . Paul
wondered if she'd had dinner—if he'd see her
again—if he could possibly go back later to
inquire about her foot.
Sitting down to dinner, he found himself en-
tirely unable to concentrate on the copy of Life
and Letters he'd brought with him to read.
What extraordinarily nice legs she'd got. Paul
wasn't an expert on legs, but frequent visits to
the British Museum to study the Greek vases
made him recognize that hers really were the
most classic shape. He sighed and ordered his
food and wine, and found himself wishing he
was the sort of chap who'd have the courage to


38 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
handbag and frowned slightly into the mirror,
which seemed to Paul extraordinary considering
that it reflected a bronzed oval face with a
flowerlike scarlet mouth and enormous brown
eyes that looked frank and childish in spite of
their heavy make-up. She was beautiful, she
was startling, but to Paul she was a problem
about which he had no data.
Could she possibly be a lady of Uncertain
Virtue?
She summoned the waiter and ordered a
cocktail and her dinner in faultless French.
“Aren't these trains positively filthy?”
Paul gave a slight start and said: “Er—yes.”
She polished her glass, plate, knife, and fork
with a napkin and smiled at him. The waiter
brought her Martini and she leant across the
table.
“Won't you have a cocktail, too, to wash away
our stormy encounter?”
Paul gave in gladly; she was making a party
of it, and, damn it, why not? After all, wasn't
he in France? He summoned the waiter and
ordered another.
“I must explain about that cigar,” he said.
“I don't generally carry them in my hand, but
an awful fellow in my compartment pressed it
on me. I don't smoke the things myself.”


P. L. M. . 39
“Certes, vous n’avez pas l'air d'être banquier,”
she retorted, nonplussing him for the moment.
“We all hate bankers, don't we? Perhaps your
expensive friend is one. Let's make him buy us
some champagne. Isn't this soup almost too
P. L. M.P I suppose you're going to India or
somewhere from Marseiller”
“Oh, no,” replied Paul. “I’m going to St. An-
toine along the coast. Do you know it? I say, by
the way, would you really like some cham-
pagne?”
“Oh my dear no. I was only joking. But thanks
very much. St. Antoine! Why, it's my home
town.”
(She had called him “my dear,” and was
going to St. Antoine.)
“If you've never been there before you'll like
it,” she went on. “Of course everyone's quite
mad, or pretends to be. Lots of bright young
people in bright young jumpers. They talk and
drink and bathe at midnight and have amusing
parties, but it's all froth, you know. Just a few
really hard workers like myself go there every
year.”
She was speaking seriously, and Paul, who
hadn't enough courage to ask her what she
worked at, concluded she was probably a jour-
nalist, or perhaps a professional dancer. Yes,


4O T H E C R IM E CO A ST
very likely she was a dancer and he would see
her in pearls in some Casino.
“Do you paint, too?” she asked.
(Good God! and he'd thought of her fox-
trotting!)
“No, I'm afraid I can't do anything like that.
I'm a barrister. I say, do you really paint?”
“Why do you look so astonished?” she
laughed. -
“Well, I don't know but—I’ve got a cousin
who paints and she goes about in a sort of hand-
woven bathrobe—like Burne-Jones, you know,”
he added vaguely. She gave a peal of laughter.
“Sandals and no sex appeal—I know. Funny
old-fashioned thing. I don't see why one should
dress the part, do you? And anyhow it's a far
cry from Morris to Matisse.”
“No, I don't—that is, I mean,” he stumbled,
“I think you look awfully nice as you are.”
She smiled into her coffee cup.
“We shall get swept out with the crumbs if we
stay here much longer. Why not come and have
a cigarette in my carriage if you don't want to
talk to your banker friend?”
So Paul followed the entrancing creature
along the lurching train, and they sat down in
opposite corners of the carriage. She gave him
a French cigarette from her case and then said:


P. L. M. 4I
“Is that to-day's London paper you've got? May
I look at it? I crossed over last night, and for-
got to get a Daily Mail in Paris.”
She subsided behind it and Paul tried to bury
himself in a magazine. He was rather proud of
himself, for he'd insisted on paying for her din-
ner. And she'd asked him to dine with her in
St. Antoine. What a marvellous holiday he was
going to have. With a sense of guilt he suddenly
remembered Major Kent, and the quest he was
on. By Jove—if she was a painter she would
probably know Adelaide Moon—even Adrian
himself. He would ask her. He leant across and
addressed the Daily Mail.
“I was wondering—do you know anyone
called Adelaide Moon—or—”
The paper dropped from her hands. She
stood up, and her face was white.
“I—I Good-night—I'm going to bed.”
And she disappeared into the corridor.
Paul sat staring at the empty seat in front of
him. What had happened? Why had she rushed
away? Could it have been his question—or
something she'd read in the paper? He picked
it up and scanned it.
The Premier to visit America. Murder in a
London hotel. Cricket results. There was noth-
ing there. Could he have offended her?


42 T H E C R IM E. C. O A ST
Puzzled and miserable, he went along to his
carriage.
Paul told afterwards of the strange effect
that his first view of the South had on him that
morning, after rattling through the night from
the gray rain-swept North:
“I woke up about half-past six, dressed and
went out into the corridor. I suppose I was a
bit sleepy still, and didn't have time to dissect
things and look at them like a tourist. I know
I felt, as I leant out of the window, that I had
suddenly come to life in a new world—a world
that really had been created by the sun. It was
brilliant, hard, dry and clear, extraordinarily
arresting and exciting. There was a great plain
stretching away to the distant mountains under
a pale clear blue sky, and peasants ploughing
with teams of white oxen. I could see far away
towns and villages, white and sharply defined
in the clear morning air. Then some low hills
of crumbling yellowish rock with a little green
scrub on them, some of them cut away into ter-
raced vineyards. I remember a square stone
house looking as though it had grown out of
the side of the rock, with tiny slits of windows
like a Moorish fort, and an old peasant woman
dressed in black sitting under a vine minding


P. L. M. 43
some goats. The whole country was dried with
sun so that the colours of the earth, sky, houses,
and vegetation were pallid and full of light. I
felt frightfully stimulated and excited, as though
all kinds of adventure were waiting for me in
this vital pagan land. Near Avignon I saw my
first silvery gray olive trees—and then, as we
drew in, the Palace of the Popes. I was torn
between its castellated Italian towers and the
smell of steaming bowls of coffee they were
selling on the station. The coffee won!”


CHAPTER V
LA F # T E co M M E N C E
PAUL strolled out on to the quay after dinner.
It was his first night in St. Antoine and he was
feeling very good after a couple of apéritifs, a
cuisine bourgeoise dinner, and a bottle of white
wine.
The sun had disappeared behind the old
houses round the port, and lights were coming
out in the cafés. The whole town seemed to be
out for a promenade, and Paul thought it all
looked very like the scene in a ballet or an
opera. Girls in bright-coloured shawls were
walking up and down arm-in-arm, talking and
laughing and very conscious of the matelots,
smart in their flat white hats with red pom-
pons and blue-and-white suits, who were stand-
ing about in groups with the fishermen. The
high masts and crossed rigging of sailing boats
moored right up to the town made patterns
against the twilit sky.
Paul went into a big café with its tables spill-
ing across the pavement, sat down and ordered

44


46 T H E C R IM E CO. A ST
tables performing feats of balance with drink-
laden trays.
Outside, someone was playing a guitar.
Paul turned to look at a long yellow-and-
black Hispaño-Suiza which had just drawn up
in front of the café with a gentle purr of its
engine. Most of the people at the tables seemed
to know the occupants, and conversation died
down while greetings were shouted to them. A
man got out of the driver's seat whom Paul
mentally described as a Dago. Dressed to match
his car, he wore a saffron-yellow tricot tucked
into beautifully creased black trousers. He was
tall and lithe, and Paul caught a momentary
glimpse of almost jet-black eyes in an olive-
skinned face, before he turned to speak to some-
one in the car. He had evidently been dining
extremely well and swayed a little on his feet.
A man who got out the other side and strolled
round the bonnet, patting it nervously as he
passed, presented an extraordinary contrast to
him. His clothes were rather eccentric, consist-
ing of a very wide pair of almost white corduroy
trousers, liberally, bespattered with paint, a viv-
idly checked shirt open at the neck, and a black
béret. He looked between thirty and forty, obvi-
ously an Englishman, with a humorous, deeply
lined face, rather a big nose, and a long upper


LA F £ T E co M M E N c E 47
lip. Surveying the company through half-
closed eyes, he waved a vague greeting in answer
to shouts from the various tables, before turning
to a girl who was getting out of the car. Evi-
dently a popular figure, and an interesting-
looking chap, Paul thought. But his attention
was immediately concentrated on the third per-
son, who stepped on to the pavement and slipped
her hands into the arms of the two men. Very
young and slim, she was hatless, and her
chestnut-brown shingled hair, disordered by a
drive in the open car, was blown back from
her face. Her fresh white linen frock was
moulded to her figure and was short and sleeve-
less, showing up the startling tan of her arms
and legs. Paul stared at her small oval face
with its flowerlike mouth and half rose from
his chair. At last, it was the girl of the train.
But he sank back again; she seemed to know
everyone in the place and was laughing and
talking with people at the tables round her.
“We represent Breughel's picture of the
Blind leading the Blind. Imitation, very diffi-
cile/* he heard her say. “My dears, I'm so glad
to be back from the land of fogs and savages.
It was raining, as usual.”
She disentangled one of her hands to receive
the kiss of an immaculate youth who bent over


48 T H E C R IM E COA ST
it, saying, “I salute thee, O Moon of my delight!
Did you survive the perils of the P.L.M.?”
(Paul could have killed him.)
“Barely,” she smiled. “I arrived completely
shattered, but Ben and I have been dining at
the Rich Man's Table and he stayed us with
flagons and comforted us with caviar.”
“Talking of flagons—” said the English-
man in the check shirt, and started to pilot her
across to a vacant table. Halfway over she
caught sight of Paul in his corner. She stopped
dead. All the laughter went out of her face,
she paled and flushed, and then suddenly mak-
ing up her mind she murmured an excuse to
the two men with her and crossed over to Paul's
table. She held out her hand with a friendly
smile. Paul stood up and greeted her eagerly.
“I say, it is nice to see you. I've been looking
for you all the evening,” he said, and was puz-
zled to see the curious expression that seemed
very like fear flash across her face. It was
quickly replaced by a smile as she sat down
in the chair he offered her. (Of course he'd
been mistaken.)
“I think it's very nice of you to say so after
the appalling way I rushed off last night,” she
said. “As a matter of fact, I was—I was terribly


LA F £ T E co M M E N c E 49
afraid you were a journalist on my tracks when
you asked me if I knew Adelaide Moon because
—well, I am Adelaide Moon myself, you see.”
Before he could speak she rushed on: “I
don't mean that I'm suffering from delusions
that the whole of Fleet Street is hanging on my
lips—but I have just had a show in London
now, and I do so loathe being interviewed.
You've no idea how humiliating it is to read
things like ‘Girl Artist thinks women should
use lipstick, just because some of one's miser-
able canvases are hanging in a well-known gal-
lery. I assure you!” as Paul laughed.
“Why, last year the Cube Gallery bought
one of my paintings; it was one I did down
here of a Provençal farmhouse and there hap-
pened to be a woman and a child sitting there
while I was working so I put them in-rather
a good design it made. My dear, would you
believe it—the Ladies’ World wanted my views
on Motherhood! When I come down here to
paint I never tell anyone where I'm going or
even leave an address for letters. It makes me
feel absolutely free—and this place is so per-
sonal and absorbing that I forget all about any
other life, and then I can begin to paint.”
“Yes, I can absolutely understand that,” said


5o T H E C R IM E COA ST
Paul. “It is amazingly full of character and
flavour down here—London seems quite a vague
memory to me already. As a matter of fact,
until you came in I was feeling rather like a
disembodied spirit, not knowing a soul here.
Everyone seems to know everyone else.”
She laughed. “We'll soon put that right,” she
said. “I want you to come over and meet a great
friend of mine, Benvenuto Brown. Yes, over
there in the check shirt. He's a perfect darling
—I’ve known him for ever,” she added, and
refusing his offer of a drink she led him across
to the table where the two men were sitting.
They stood up as she approached. Judging by
the drinks on the table, they had not been idle.
“Ben, I want to introduce you to a friend
of mine, Mr.-” She hesitated, looked at Paul
and laughed.
“Paul Ashby,” he said, shaking hands with
the Englishman, thinking as he did so that it
would take him a long time to catch up in the
matter of drinks. The Englishman was looking
mellow and amiable, while the man in the yel-
low jumper had apparently reached the morose
stage. Adelaide introduced him.
“Don Hernandez de Najera, Mr. Ashby,”
she said. “He’s got a lot of other names as well,
but that's all I can manage at the moment.”


LA F £ T E co M M E N c E 5.I
De Najera bowed stiffly and then smiled down
at Adelaide in a way that Paul found himself
very much disliking.
“What are you two going to drink?” asked
the Englishman as they seated themselves; and
as he leant back to order brandies and sodas
Paul turned to Adelaide.
“Er—did you say his name was Benvenuto
Brown?” he asked her quietly. She laughed.
“It really is,” she said, and then, confidenially,
“I do hope you're going to like him. He's a
most frightfully nice and frightfully interesting
person—but he's just a little bit drunk to-night.”
She leant across the table. “Ben, Mr. Ashby
wants to know if you were really christened
Benvenuto.”
He was surveying the world through half-
closed eyes from behind a cloud of smoke, a
pipe in the corner of his mouth, his chair tipped
back, and wearing an expression at once dry
and benign. He nodded gravely. “I had that
honour,” he said. “Possibly it does merit expla-
nation. I understand my parents were drawn
together in the first instance by a mutual enthu-
siasm for the Fine Arts which eventually led
them to Italy on a honeymoon, Ruskin and
Baedeker in hand. It appears that they dis-
covered Florence to be their spiritual home and


LA F £ T E co M M E N c E 53
to be getting extremely drunk, and Paul looked
with some disgust at his vague smile and half-
closed eyes. He was trying to draw De Najera
into a conversation, but the latter either could
not or would not respond.
Suddenly a rather prim-looking woman at
the next table got up and, followed by her hus-
band, left the café, glaring at them as she did so.
Adelaide laughed.
“Ho, I ses, and swep' out,” she murmured.
She turned to Paul.
“I can't think why people like that come
down here. Those people have been here for
weeks, disapproving violently of the whole
place. They hate our costumes, manners, and
customs—so why not leave us alone? I do so
resent the cold breath of disapproval on our in-
nocent pleasures.”
Benvenuto put down his glass with a crash
and, rising with as much dignity as his unsteady
legs would muster, addressed the café.
“My friends,” he said, “we must all have
noticed from time to time a dishthreshing tend-
ency amongst the bourgeoisie—hic—of all
nations to regard the artist,” drawing himself
up, “as a creature of strange habits and unbri-
dled passions.” He turned round to frown at the
author of a feeble cheer, and continued.


54 T H E C R. I. M. E. C. O A ST
“I feel that the time has come to dishpel this
illusion and to show ourselves to the world as
we are—as we have been—from Tintoretto to
Tonks—gentle creatures of domestic habits,
moderate drinkers—hic—fond of children and
dogs.”
He paused amid loud cheering and drained
his glass. He turned and shook his fist at a mild-
looking little man who was silently sipping
his lemonade.
“You tell me Van Gogh cut off his ear and
sent it to his mistress when she betrayed him.
Now I put it to you—wouldn't a business man
have cut off hers?”
He glared fiercely round. “Can anyone here
tell me of a single instance of an artist who has
committed a social scholeshism greater than
being late for meals?” He happened to catch
Paul's eye, who grinned nervously and said:
“What about Adolphus Smith?”
Benvenuto wrung him by the hand.
“My dear sir, a thousand thanks. The crown-
ing point to my argument. The great modern
example of the artist's craving for domesticity,
developed to such an exshtent that the man
begins to found a family wherever he goes.”
Benvenuto subsided into his chair amidst
laughter. By this time the whole café had gath-


LA F £ T E co M M E N c E 55
ered round them and people were standing on
chairs and tables. Tom Mix had the black
pajamaed girl perched on his shoulder, where
she was screaming with laughter, and the
bearded man in his infantile blue-and-white
costume was listening with his mouth open while
his blond companion translated Ben's speech
into his ear.
“Quel type,” he said, looking at Ben.
De Najera was at last roused from his apathy.
He put his arm across Benvenuto's shoulders.
“You will drink with me, my friend,” he
said thickly. He stared round at the crowd of
people and summoned the patron, who hurried
up all smiles, evidently knowing his man. De
Najera went on: “You are all my friends—you
will all drink with me,” he indicated the com-
pany with a wide sweep of his arm.
“I will give you music, dancing, wine—you
will come with me.”
Adelaide pulled at his arm.
“Not to-night,” she whispered. “Another
time.”
He seized her hand and kissed it.
“Lady, I obey, but to-morrow—to-morrow
night, I invite you all to Les Palmiers and we
will dance and drink.”
He passed his hand across his forehead, evi-


56 T H E CRIM E COA ST
dently trying to remember something. “Yes, I
will come back from Cannes in time. To-
morrow night at nine.”
He looked round. People were whispering
to one another, but they all accepted with
enthusiasm.
“You must come,” Adelaide murmured to
Paul. “Hernandez's parties are always marvel-
lous. You and I and Ben will go together—
dine with me first.”
Paul thanked her and agreed eagerly. This
place was exceeding his wildest expectations.
Meanwhile trays of drinks were arriving and
people were settling down at their own tables,
some talking in low voices and casting covert
glances at De Najera, who drained his glass
and relapsed into a stupor. Paul wondered what
they were saying. He thought he'd take advan-
tage of an interval and ask a question that he'd
had on the tip of his tongue for some time. Even
Benvenuto seemed to have got past talking and
was blinking down at a vague drawing he'd
made on the table top. Paul turned to Adelaide.
“What I’ve been wanting to ask you all the
evening is—do you know a man called Adrian
Kent?”
De Najera's chair went back with a crash as


LA F £ T E co M M E N c E 57
he leapt to his feet. Paul looked at him in
amazement.
The man's eyes were flashing, his face was
dark with fury.
“Adrian Kent?” he shouted. “He murdered
my sister!”
Before Paul could open his mouth he felt a
hard grip on his arm, and a voice said: “Don’t
take any notice of him. He's drunk. Help me
get him out of here, quick!”
Paul felt as if he were going mad. For it
was Benvenuto Brown speaking. The blinking
half-closed eyes were wide open, amazing eyes,
of steely clear blue that changed his entire face
as he looked at Paul commandingly, urgently.
The amiably smiling mouth had set in a hard
line, and he issued curt directions to Paul under
his breath. The man was dead sober.
De Najera had slumped across the table. As
they went to help him out Paul looked round
for Adelaide. She had disappeared.


CHAPTER VI
B E N W E N U TO B R O W N
“HALF a minute, till I find the switch. That's
better.”
Paul found himself in a square tiled hall, as
Benvenuto closed the heavy front door behind
him. There were enormous wine casks along
the wall, and a strong sour-sweet, rather yeasty,
smell.
“Smells good, doesn't it?” remarked Benve-
nuto, pausing on his way to the stairs. “My
landlord's a wine grower—that's his cave down
those steps where he keeps the stuff. He's a great
character, a marvellous old chap. Spends most
of his time in his cave, and you can never get
through this hall in the daytime without a
hoarse voice from below inviting you to un peu
de win blanc. He calls it the Café des Hommes.
Come on up and I'll make some real coffee.”
Paul followed Benvenuto up an arched wind-
ing staircase with carved stone balusters. “Amaz-
ing place you've got,” he said. “These stairs
remind me of that German film, Dr. Caligari.”
58


B E N V E N U TO B R O W N 59
Benvenuto laughed. “Come and see the stu-
dio,” he said, and they went into an enormous
whitewashed room with a shining red-tiled
floor. Paul sank into a settee while Benvenuto
went off to make coffee. He lit his pipe and
looked round him. It was a delightful room,
furnished with a few pieces of carved Provençal
furniture, two easels, one holding a half-finished
canvas, and some red flowers on a table. The
long windows were hung with silver-gray cur-
tains in a modernistic design, beautiful with the
red floor and white walls. The rest of the room
seemed to be furnished almost entirely with
books. From the kitchen came the hiss of an
expiring Primus, and Benvenuto appeared with
bowls of coffee.
“By Jove, this is nice,” said Paul. “Very
decent of you to ask me up here at this time
of night. I love your house.”
“Very decent of you to help me send that
drunken fool home,” replied Ben, “particularly
as you must have thought I was blind to the
world myself. I shall feel extremely hurt if you
say you didn't,” as Paul protested, “after my
praiseworthy imitation of a drunken man. I feel
I owe you an explanation, but I wonder if you'd
mind telling me first why you were asking for
Adrian Kent?”


6o T H E C R IM E COA ST
Paul made up his mind to take Benvenuto
into his confidence.
“Are you prepared to listen to a long story?
I don't know the chap myself, and my connec-
tion with him is rather extraordinary.”
“Go ahead.”
And so Paul told him about Major Kent's
dramatic entry into his room, and the curious
mission with which he'd been charged. Benve-
nuto, leaning back in an armchair, regarded him
steadily and put in one or two questions. He
sucked at his pipe for a few minutes when Paul
had finished and then said: “Thanks. I’m glad
you’ve told me all that because now I know
more where I am. This boy Adrian Kent is a
great friend of mine, and of Adelaide's. You
heard what that Argentine fellow said about him
to-night? Well, unfortunately he isn't the only
one who thinks so, and the boy is in very great
danger. Now, I've taken it on myself to do a
bit of investigation on his behalf, and it seems
to me that this is where your job and mine link
up. I may as well say at once that I believe
the chap is perfectly innocent, but at the same
time it may be a tough job to prove it. If you'd
care to come in with me . . . .” He looked at
Paul inquiringly. -


B E N V E N U TO B R O W N 61
“Of course I will—this is terrible. Do you
know where Kent is?”
Benvenuto didn't answer directly. “I can tell
you this much,” he said. “If you'll stick around
here for a bit, and we succeed with some quiet
sleuthing, so to speak, I can promise that you
shall meet Adrian before long.”
“That's a bargain then. Tell me, when was
this woman murdered and who— Good Lord!
Is she the woman Adrian Kent got in such a
mess over?”
Benvenuto nodded. “I expect you've read
about the case in the paper. Three days ago
she was found smothered on her bed in Bishop's
Hotel in London. What makes everything so
difficult is that the police know that Adrian
lunched with her that day in her rooms. Accord-
ing to the evidence in the paper, some woman
also called on her in the afternoon, but at
present they don't know who she was, nor what
time either she or Adrian left. Of course, if
they get hold of her it may clear the whole
thing up. Did you notice a quiet-looking little
chap in pince-nez who was sitting in the café
to-night drinking lemonade? Well, that's Detec-
tive Inspector Leech of Scotland Yard. Fortu-
nately I know him a bit, because I was once


62 T H E C R IM E COA ST
able to give him a hand over one of his cases.
He's told me he's down here after Kent, and
also after another chap, an old lag, commonly
known as the Slosher, who he knows is some-
where along this coast, and who I believe he
thinks may have something to do with this case.
He was a bit close about that though, and I
couldn't get much out of him.
“I think I'd better tell you something about
this unfortunate woman Luela da Costa, who
was done in. She's lived down her for some
years on and off, with her brother De Najera,
whom you met to-night. No one seems to know
much about Da Costa, but rumour hath it that
they were divorced some years ago. De Najera
and his sister own the Château les Palmiers, a
colossal affair along the Corniche that looks like
a pastry cook's conception of an ancestral hall,
all turrets and white icing. You'll see it to-
morrow when we attend the party. They appear
to be rich enough, their possessions—or his, I
suppose I should say now—including a speed
boat and a perfect fleet of cars, one of which
you saw to-night. Almost indecent, isn't it?
“Luela was a remarkably beautiful woman, a
bit too fierce for my taste—all hips and flashing
eyes, you know—but still very fine in her way.
Anyhow, she succeeded in completely turning


B E N V E N U TO B R O W N 63
young Kent's head, although she must have been
at least fifteen years older than he, and he fol-
lowed her about in a highly lovesick condition
for some four months. He told me he wanted
to marry her, and was only waiting till he'd
made enough money to ask her. Well, I hate
butting into other people's affairs of that sort,
and anyhow he was too far gone to listen to
advice, so I avoided discussing the thing with
him as much as possible. He realized I didn't
like her, and things cooled off a bit between us
in consequence. While this was going on she
had a terrific row with De Najera, and rushed
off to Paris or London or somewhere. I don't
know what it was about but it must have been
pretty serious because she hasn't stayed at Les
Palmiers since, putting up at the Continental
when she came down once or twice. There is a .
story to the effect that they quarrelled over Ade-
laide, on whom, as you may have noticed, De
Najera is casting a lustful eye, curse him!
“Adrian was still doing the moth to her
candle at that time and went off after her, but
he reappeared at a village near here shortly
afterwards and started to paint like mad. We
became as good friends as ever and he told me
he was completely cured. Evidently he'd had
a bit of a shock and found out something highly


64 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
sinister about her—but he never told me what
it was. Just as he was getting back his usual
form and starting to work really well (he's a
damn good painter by the way), she descended
on him, and like Diana she pursued him. Luela
wasn't as young as she had been, and had got
to the stage when she couldn't stand the idea
of losing her power over a man. Adrian became
a kind of obsession with her, I think, and when
he presented a blind eye to all her allurements
she turned savage and started to threaten him
over that jewel business. If only the young fool
had told me about it I might have been able
to do something, but at the time I hadn't the
least idea he’d quarrelled with his father or
was short of cash. I believe he'd actually been
pretty near starving before he sold that jewel,
and though I knew him as well as anyone I
hadn't the least idea of it. The end of it was
she went off in a huff, and then started bom-
barding him with letters ending with the one
threatening to put the police on his track unless
he went over to London immediately. He left
a note for me telling me he'd gone to see her
and would be back in a day or two, and then,
as you know, the balloon went up.”
Paul broke in, rather hesitatingly:
“Of course—you know Kent, and I don't—


B E N V E N U TO B R O W N 65
but on the face of it, it really does look as if
he may have lost his head, and y)
“I know it does. That's the devil of it. But
wait a minute. Enter the second murderer. I've
got a theory about the thing that I haven't told
you yet, and that's where you come in. If Adrian
is innocent, as I believe, it's going to be damned
hard to prove it unless the real criminal is pro-
duced. Now, the only other person I know of
who was on bad terms with Luela is—De Na-
jera. And by a fluke I hit on something the
other day which may be interesting in that
connection.
“On the afternoon Luela was murdered, last
Tuesday, at least fifty people in St. Antoine
must have seen De Najera rushing up and down
the coast in his speed boat, dressed in his usual
yellow-and-black outfit, and waving to people
on the beach. It so happened that that afternoon
I'd gone for a pretty long swim, and was lying
on some rocks a good way out having a breather.
I must have been practically invisible because
I'm burnt pretty dark, and my bathing pants
are a dull reddish colour much the same as the
rocks round here. The speed boat came tearing
along quite near my rock, and I was just going
to hail De Najera when I saw to my surprise
that it wasn't him at all, but his valet, who is an


66 T H E C R IM E COA ST
Argentine chap of much the same build and
colouring—wearing De Najera's clothes—and
waving to De Najera's friends on the beach.
Presently, after going up and down the coast
several times, the boat went back into the small
private harbour which belongs to Les Palmiers.
I puzzled lazily over the thing for a bit as I
lay in the sun, and then dismissed it from my,
mind. After all, it wasn't my business if the
chap pinched his master's clothes for the after-
noon. It seemed funny though, because I know
De Najera brought him over from the Argen-
tine and trusts him implicitly.”
“Looks very fishy to me,” said Paul.
Benvenuto went on. “There's more to come.
As soon as I heard about Luela's death and
Adrian being suspected I determined I'd culti-
vate friend Hernandez rather more than usual,
and this incident coming back to my mind, the
next day—Wednesday, that was—I said to him
while sitting over a drink, “How's the boat
going?”
“‘Better than ever,’ he said. ‘I nearly touched
seventy when I had her out yesterday.' That
was the day of the murder, mark you. It's a per-
fectly sweet little alibi, isn't it?”
“What time on Wednesday did you see him?”
said Paul, feeling like the complete detective.


B E N V E N U TO B. R.O.W. N. 67
“It was Wednesday evening, after I'd heard
the news, that I asked him about the boat. But
—he was down on the quay between nine and
ten on Wednesday morning.”
Paul's face fell.
“Well then—he couldn't possibly have been
in London on Tuesday. The night train doesn't
reach Marseille till ten-thirty.”
“Wait a minute,” said Benvenuto. “There are
more ways of getting about than are dreamed
of in the P.L.M. philosophy.”
“That's true, I hadn't thought of a plane,”
said Paul, feeling rather dashed.
“Don’t you worry about that. I've already got
an idea as to how I can check his movements.
Meanwhile, I’m rather interested to know what
he's up to to-morrow. He told me he was going
into Marseille for the day to see the British
consul about his sister's death, which is quite
as it should be. But—he doesn't generally keep
me posted in this touching way as to his where-
abouts, and I thought it might be worth keeping
an eye on him. What's more—to-night, when
I'd got him thoroughly tight, he mentioned he
was going to Cannes to-morrow—d'you re-
member?”
“Yes, of course—when he was issuing his
princely invitation. You're right, he is worth
º


68 T H E C R IM E COA ST
watching. How are you going to manage it?”
“Would you care to come along? Right, then
be sitting in the Café de la Phare over your
morning coffee to-morrow at nine, and I'll pick
you up. Let's see—you're a bit conspicuous like
that, aren't you?” looking at Paul's essentially
quiet gray-flannel suit. “Fit yourself up in a
few glad rags from the Marine Store—they
keep everything the human frame requires—and
wear some green glasses. I don't want him to
spot either of us.”
Paul laughed.
“Anything you say. I was contemplating a
sartorial change anyhow. I can't promise I’ve
got the makings of a great detective, but if I
can help you catch that swine out, well, I should
love to be Watson to your Holmes.”
“Don’t talk rot—two heads are better than
one in a business of this sort, and I'm damn
grateful to you for coming in on it.”
Paul got up to go. “Till to-morrow then. And
thanks for the coffee.” He got as far as the door
and turned back.
“Look here,” he said. “If this chap De Najera
did kill his sister, and it looks very like it, surely
he wouldn't be going about giving parties and
drinking in cafés? He'd be certain to put up


B E N W E N UT O B R O WN 69
an appearance of profound grief, I should have
thought.”
Benvenuto studied the interior of his pipe
for a minute. Then he looked up with a smile.
“That's the perfect reaction, isn't it? I’d
thought about it myself—and as they were
known not to have been on good terms, it seems
to me that De Najera, being far from a fool,
might have decided on a double bluff.”


CHAPTER VII
T H E A D W E N T U R E S OF A TA XI C A B
PAUL woke up and looked at his watch. Only
seven o'clock. He'd time for another snooze;
and pulling the sheet over his head as protection
from an importunate mosquito, he turned lazily
over and closed his eyes. But sleep eluded him,
and instead the events of the last two days came
crowding into his mind. A procession of figures
walked through his brain, people of whose ex-
istence he'd been entirely ignorant three days
before and who had taken their places with an
urgent reality in his life. Adelaide Moon's
laughing face; was he wrong in feeling that
laughter had once or twice been the camouflage
of fear? The gentle features of Major Kent
towards whom Paul felt somehow responsible;
Benvenuto Brown, a definite and eccentric per-
sonality, very reassuring; the Argentine, whom
Paul now thought positively loathsome, with his
sallow handsome face; and mixed with them all
a chorus of strange tongues and curious clothes.
7o


T H E A D v E N T U R E S o F A T A x I c A B 71
This was no time for sleep. Paul jumped out
of bed and went to the window. His hotel was
on the quay, and when he threw back the shut-
ters he found a glorious blue-and-white world
glittering in the sun. Across the bay motorboats
were coming in with the morning catch, leaving
white trails in the vivid blue, their engines plop-
plopping over the water. Below his window
a group of fishermen was collected round a boat
that had just come in. They were discussing an
enormous swordfish that lay on top of a rainbow-
coloured haul, their rich Provençal accents in-
terspersed with words of Italian, and as different
from Parisian argot as Devonshire is from
Cockney. They all appeared to be filled with a
passionate conviction about something or other,
and Paul grinned as he listened to the rapid
deep-voiced argument emphasized with oaths
and gestures. Magnificent-looking chaps, he
thought, with their muscular sunburnt arms and
bare feet, set off by clothes that were washed and
bleached to every conceivable shade of blue.
What a morning—and what a marvellous sea.
In the best of spirits Paul shaved rapidly, and
slipping on a bathing suit under his shirt and
trousers he hurried off for a swim. Halfway
along the quay the Marine Store, already open,
caught his eye, and remembering Benvenuto's


72 T H E C R IM E COA ST
instructions he went in, to be profoundly embar-
rassed by the keen personal interest that the
patronne at once took in his toilette. Linen trou-
sers, check shirts, coloured bérets, and tricots,
being tight-fitting, short-sleeved jumpers of
woven cotton and dyed in every tint, met his
eyes, and he found himself being led to a mirror
in front of which the enthusiastic patronne used
him as a peg on which to hang all her wares in
turn, keeping up a running comment the while.
“Ah! Que c'est jolie, caſ” and then, “M'sieur
va très bien comme ca.”
Discarding a vermilion jumper as being a
little conspicuous for a detective, he finally
picked on one in broad stripes of blue and white,
which besides toning, he felt, with the landscape
had the advantage of being repeated all over
the port. A black béret and a pair of rope-soled
shoes laced across the instep, called, he discov-
ered, espadrilles, completed his toilette. Firmly
resisting offers of coloured trousers and clinging,
metaphorically speaking, to his gray-flannel
bags as a drowning man to a straw, he left the
shop with a bundle under his arm amidst a
chorus of “Au revoir, m'sieur” from the pa-
tronne and her family, all of whom had by now
drifted in to offer words of encouragement and
advice. Next door he found green sun spectacles


T H E A D v E N T U R E s of A T A x 1 c A B 73
and then continued on his way to the beach, feel-
ing rather proud of his efforts.
The beach was deserted, though the sand was
already hot in the sun; the sea, almost motion-
less, stretched before him like glittering blue
glass. He took a running dive and found him-
self borne to the top instantly. Feeling like a
cork floating in blue soda water, he swam on his
back, crawled, dived to the bottom, stood on his
head, sent up mountains of spray, and then came
out feeling tremendously exhilarated, and lay
on the hot sand. His white skin looked terribly
nude, he thought, as he lay stripped to the waist,
and he wondered how long it would take him to
get a rich veneer of sunburn. A pleasant process
—he could feel his skin coming to life in the sun
and air. Presently pangs of hunger drove him
into his clothes, and feeling odd but comfortable
in the unaccustomed tricot and soft shoes, he
stood up, pulled on his béret, shook the sand off
his clothes, and went back to the town.
He ran up to his room to drop his other shirt
and shoes before having breakfast, and started
back in amazement at the stranger who looked
at him from the mirror. Most modest of human
beings though he was, he had to admit he really
looked rather nice; these tricots certainly


74 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
showed off one's shoulders if one had any—and
not wearing a coat did reveal the fact that one
had small hips. He tried on the green spectacles,
and deciding that his dearest friend wouldn't
recognize him, he put them back in his trouser
pocket and went down to the café.
Choosing a table on the pavement in order to
look out for Benvenuto, he ordered coffee and
brioches, and consumed them contentedly as he
watched the life of the port. The early-morning
activities were over and fish nets were spread
out on the cobbles in long trails of dark brown.
Some sailors were polishing the brass of a private
yacht that had come in the night before. Paul
paid for his coffee and lit a cigarette.
Suddenly the yellow-and-black Hispaño-
Suiza went past driven by De Najera and dis-
appeared at a good speed. Immediately after-
wards a closed Renault taxi drew up alongside
the café and the driver looked about. He caught
sight of Paul and leant out saying, “Pardon,
m’sieur—vous avez fait rendezvous avec M.
Brown, n'est-ce pas?”
“Oui, c'est ca,” replied Paul.
“Well then, hop in,” returned the taxi man.
“I’m Brown, and don't look so startled!”
Paul climbed obediently into the back. They


T H E A D V E N T U R E S o F A T A x I C A B 75
didn't exchange a word until they were out of
the town following the Hispaño-Suiza down the
Marseille road. Then Paul slid back the win-
dows between himself and the driver.
“Congratulations,” he, said. “I should never
have known you in that peaked cap and wearing
that little moustache. Simply amazing the way
it alters you.”
“Well, you're looking rather dressy yourself,
aren't you? I was a bit uncertain when I first
caught sight of you. Ah—look at that!”
Paul looked ahead and saw the tail of the
Hispaño-Suiza disappearing off to the right up
a small track through the wood. Benvenuto im-
mediately reversed his taxi and shot back in the
direction from which they'd come, going
through St. Antoine on to the Cannes road.
About four kilometres beyond St. Antoine he
stopped just before a small road that entered the
Route Nationale from the left, and turned round
to speak to Paul.
“Unless I’ve made a fool of myself we shall
see our friend reappear out of that turning in a
minute or two. We're certain to be ahead of him
in time because the forest road makes a big circle
at the back of the town, and it's a bad surface
too—impossible to speed on. Didn't bring my


76 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
own car—he knows it too well. Hired this taxi
from a pal of mine.”
“Jolly good way to hide your identity, too.
But for God's sake put the flag up—all those
francs totting up are making me nervous,” said
Paul. Benvenuto suddenly held up his hand,
listening, then got out and buried his head in
the bonnet, as the Hispaño-Suiza turned into
the road and headed for Cannes at a tremendous
speed.
“Enter through gap in hedge,” murmured
Benvenuto in pleased tones. “Conduct's pretty
suspicious, isn't it?”
Before Paul could reply he had let in the
clutch, and they started down the road at a hair-
raising speed. On one side were high walls of
pink rock, on the other a big drop to the sea, and
Benvenuto went tearing round the hairpin bends
with complete unconcern while Paul was shot
from side to side of the car. To Paul's horror
Benvenuto turned round to address him.
“Afraid we can't catch him up, but if he's
going to stop in Cannes it ought to be quite easy
to find him with that super-shiny Hispaño-
Suiza. Vulgar, I call it, what?”
Paul's only answer was to point frantically
at an enormous lorry that had appeared round
a corner and was crashing down on them. They


T H E A D V E N T U R E S OF A TA XI C A B 77
avoided it by a hair's breadth, and Paul decided
to look at the scenery instead of treading on
imaginary brakes. He realized as he looked
about him what Homer meant by the “wine-dark
sea,” for the blue was so intense as to appear al-
most purple at the foot of the rocks. There was,
however, little else to remind him of the classic
coast, for as they approached the chic part of the
Riviera he saw on the landward side, dotted
amongst pine and palm trees, the hundreds of
hotels and white villas of the cosmopolitan rich
whose coming has created probably the most
highly artificial landscape in the world. Swing-
ing round a corner, he caught sight of the
massed white buildings of Cannes—like lumps
of sugar spilt on the edge of a blue bowl, he
thought. They had long since lost sight of the
Hispaño-Suiza, and another half hour's furious
driving brought them into the town itself. Call-
ing to Paul to keep a weather eye open, Benven-
, uto drove along the water front, raised his hat
politely to Edward VII in yachting costume, so
perpetually unconcerned with the nude lady in
bronze at his feet, and then turned back along
the main street. There' was no sign of their
quarry and Benvenuto drew up for a consulta-
tion.
“Judging by Hernandez's condition last night,


78 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
I think we may safely say he's suffering from a
decided thirst by this time,” he said. “How
about going along to the Rendezvous Bar? I
could do with a drink myself, and Louis the bar-
man's a great friend of mine—one of the few
people I know who would accept my present
costume without blinking. If Hernandez has
been in, Louis may know where he's lunching.”
Paul assented with enthusiasm and they
started off. Seeing no Hispaño outside the Ren-
dezvous, they went in to find the place empty, it
not yet being the hour of cocktails. Behind the
bar a white-coated individual, whose face took
Paul back with a rush to his native land, was
delicately arranging some olives in a dish.
“Good-morning, Louis,” said Ben.
“God bless my soul, sir, good-morning.
Haven't been in to see us lately, eh? Good-morn-
ing, sir,” to Paul. “And what shall we do this
morning?”
“Oh, two of the usual, I think, Louis.” He
turned to Paul. “Will a champagne cocktail suit
you, Ashby? Louis's are the best in Europe.”
“Sounds all right to me,” replied Paul.
“Very good, sir, thank you, sir,” and he began
the rite of mixing them with the air of a true
artist. Perched on a high stool, Benvenuto chat-


T H E A D V E N T U R E S OF A TA XI C A B 79
ted with him until, sipping his drink, he said
casually, “Seen anything of Mr. de Najera
lately, Louis?” -
“Funny thing you should say that, sir—why,
he went out not five minutes before you came
in.”
“Oh, sorry I missed him. Did you manage to
nail him for lunch? What is it now, grouse?”
Louis raised his eyes to heaven. “Wonderful
birds, sir, wonderful. Just you look at these.”
And bustling across to a Frigidaire, he produced
two little carcasses on a plate and eyed them
with affectionate pride. “Came over by plane
yesterday, they did. Absolutely prime—just you
smell 'em, sir. No, Mr. de Najera he wasn't in
no mood for grouse. Generally lunches at one of
them big hotels, I think. Now, can I tempt you,
Sir P”
“Afraid not to-day, Louis, I've got other fish
to fry. Next week, perhaps. Well, we must be
getting along. Er—by the way, I've not been in
here this morning.”
The barman permitted just a flicker of curi-
osity to cross his face as he eyed Benvenuto's
moustache. “Quite, sir, quite—entendu—good-
morning, sir, and thank you very much.”
“Now for ‘them big hotels,’” said Benvenuto,


T H E A D V E N T U R E S OF A TA XI C A B 81
begin from the day of the murder—last Tues-
day.
I.
“Inspector Leech tells me Adrian lunched
with Luela on Tuesday at one o'clock in
her rooms. We know that he had gone there
to make a last attempt to part from her on
good terms and dissuade her from taking
vengeance on him through the police over
the sold-jewel affair. Time of his departure
unknown.
“He also tells me that a woman called on
her later in the afternoon—chambermaid
thinks it was about five o'clock. Name and
business unknown. Time of departure un-
known. Description of back view which
might apply to anyone.
“Luela had given her maid Annette the
afternoon off. This was unusual, according
to Annette, and we presume Luela had
hopes of subjugating Adrian.
“Annette comes in at six-thirty. Unlocks
door of suite with her own key. Goes in,
finds Luela dead on the bed smothered by
an eiderdown. Body has no clothes on but
is covered with jewels. Scarlet silk dressing
gown lying on floor beside bed. Bathroom
in disorder, looking as though Luela had
taken a bath shortly before.


82
T H E C R IM E CO A ST
“It is known that a big jewel robbery took
place in the hotel the same afternoon. Lu-
ela's jewels are, however, intact, although
those she was not wearing were found
strewn about the dressing table. Maid is
uncertain about a diamond brooch which
is missing, but the police don't attach much
importance to that as it had no very great
value compared with other things in her
collection, and Luela may have lost it or
given it away.
“Inspector Leech is down here in search of
Adrian. He is also keeping an eye open for
one known as the Slosher, who I imagine
he thinks committed the jewel robbery.
“De Najera accuses Adrian of murdering
Luela, and has, I believe, told Leech some-
thing about the affair of the jewel which
Adrian sold, and Adrian's former infatu-
ation for Luela.
“I know De Najera to have quarrelled
with Luela and to have been on bad terms
with her at the time of her death.
“On Tuesday afternoon last when the mur-
der was committed De Najera establishes
an alibi by sending his valet out in speed
boat disguised as himself. Valet waves to
De Najera's friends on beach. I, owing to


TH E A D V E N T U R E S o F A T Ax I c A B 83
an accident, spot the fact that it is not De
Najera. -
Io. “De Najera is seen on the quay on
Wednesday morning at ten o'clock.
11. “I hear of the murder on Wednesday, and
becoming interested ask De Najera how
boat is going. He tells me direct lie, saying
he'd had it out on Tuesday afternoon.
12. “De Najera tells me he is going to Mar-
seille for the day on Friday to see British
consul about Luela's death. We follow him
and find he starts for Marseille and doubles
back to Cannes.
“You notice that the end of De Najera's alibi
is established at ten o'clock on Wednesday. Now
I saw him myself late on Monday night, so what
we've got to find out is what time he left St.
Antoine, how he left, and if possible where he
went. I've got an idea about it that I'm going
to test when we get back this evening. Mean-
while Entry No. 13 ought to prove interesting
—here he comes.” Paul looked up to see De
Najera walk down the hotel steps and stroll
along the Promenade des Anglais. Hurriedly
paying their bill, Benvenuto and Paul got into
the taxi and started in pursuit. They saw De
Najera glance at his watch and turn up a side
street where he entered a very chic hairdresser's


84 T H E CR IM E CO A ST
and perfumery shop. Benvenuto whistled softly,
and drawing up to the curb he turned round
to speak to Paul.
“I know this place by reputation,” he said.
“Very shady. More things go on upstairs than
meet the eye. Now unless he comes out very
soon or is having his hair cut he's here to meet
someone. Convenient place, you know. Man
goes into hairdresser's shop for an hour—what
could be more natural and even commendable?”
He got down from the driver's seat, signing to
Paul to stay where he was, and walked past the
shop. Returning immediately, he said, “No, he's
not having his beauty improved. But—there are
two vacant chairs. We go in. You have a face
massage and I’ll have a haircut. If anyone comes
out who looks to me suspicious I will follow him,
or her. You will follow De Najera because he's
seen you only once when he was dead drunk.
They obviously won't come out together. We'll
meet as soon as we can, where we had lunch.
Compris?” Paul nodded and they went in. Lib-
erté, Fraternité, Egalité,” murmured Benvenuto.
“Thank God, this isn't London or my clothes
might prove awkward.” They settled themselves
in the two empty chairs, which faced a mirror
giving them a good view of anyone passing
behind them to the door. Benvenuto entrenched


T H E A D W E N T U R E S OF A TA XI C A B 85
himself behind a copy of La Vie Parisienne and
ordered a haircut, warning the barber to avoid
his moustache which, he explained, he was
bringing up by kindness. Meanwhile Paul de-
livered himself unwillingly into the hands of an
animated gentleman who proceeded to blind
him with a wet pad and then attack his face in
a businesslike fashion with towels dipped in
hot water. Paul submitted himself as philosophi-
cally as possible to being patted, pummelled,
and tapped, to the application of strange smell-
ing creams and stranger lotions, until, with the
pad still over his eyes, he heard De Najera's
voice saying good-bye to someone upstairs, fol-
lowed by heavy footsteps descending. The next
moment Benvenuto's voice in his ear said,
“Even better than I’d hoped. I'm off—good-
bye, and good hunting.” Tearing off the pad
from his eyes, Paul saw Benvenuto hurriedly
pay the bill and leave, and he resigned himself
to the rest of the operation, which unfortunately
came to an end before De Najera appeared.
With a glowing face he stood up and glared
angrily at his tormentor. “Combien?” he de-
manded, and insult added to injury, found he
had to part with an enormous sum. Feeling
thoroughly martyred, he lingered in the shop,
buying shaving materials he didn't want, until


86 T H E C R IM E COA ST
at last De Najera came down the stairs, and
muttering a word to the proprietor went out.
Paul followed at a discreet distance, feeling
reasonably secure with his pink face and sun
glasses.


CHAPTER VIII
C OR O N A – C OR ON A
DE NAJERA walked rapidly into the main street
and entered a Bureau de Change, while Paul
stationed himself at a shop window opposite in
which he could see his prey reflected. It was a
moment or two before he realized that the
shining glass separated him from a delectable
display of the more intimate garments worn by
females, and blushing hotly he strolled on to
the discreet establishment of a watchmaker.
After about ten minutes, by which time he was
beginning to fear that the Bureau had a back
entrance, De Najera reappeared and set off
briskly down the road, Paul following. He next
went into an imposing-looking building which
on inspection proved to be a bank, where he
remained for some time. This was beginning
to get boring—the man appeared to be going
about some perfectly ordinary and legitimate
business and Paul felt rather a fool. However,
his interest revived somewhat when he saw that
87


88 T H E C R IM E COA ST
the third port of call was another Bureau de
Change, and rose to fever heat by the time De
Najera had repeated the proceeding eight or
nine times, calling at every bank and bureau
as he came to it. At last he went back to the
hotel, got his car from the garage, and disap-
peared rapidly in the direction of St. Antoine.
Paul hurried back to his rendezvous with Ben-
venuto, feeling he had some really valuable
news to impart, only to find to his disappoint-
ment that his confederate had not yet returned.
Paul sat down at the table where they had
lunched and ordered some tea, pondering over
his discovery. Was De Najera planning a get-
away? He must have been handling a lot of
money to have divided his patronage between
so many places—and must also have been anx-
ious to conceal the fact. Paul gave it up, and
looking at his watch began to feel a little anxious
about Benvenuto. It was nearly two hours since
they had parted at the hairdresser's, and though
he felt the extraordinary man was more capable
of looking after himself than most people, still
—it would be reassuring to see him turn up.
Paul sat back and began to sort out his im-
pressions. It was peculiar, when one came to
think about it, the way he had placed complete
trust in Brown after knowing him for only a few


C O R O N A - C O R O N A 89
hours, and found it the most natural thing pos-
sible to take the lead from him in the whole af-
fair; particularly as Benvenuto was by no means
a transparent or easily comprehensible character.
It was impossible to fit him in with the popular
conception of an artist, which Paul had previ-
ously to some extent shared, the word calling
up a vague mental image of some highly eccen-
tric and impractical being whose concerns lay
wholly in the realms of imagination. Eccentric,
yes—his odd, rather puckish face and oblique
turns of phrase fitted that; imaginative he cer-
tainly was, for, apart from his painting, his atti-
tude towards the problem they were tackling
proved that, but impractical he definitely was
not. His appearance that morning in a false
moustache and a taxicab, which at the time
Paul had privately felt to be a little like an
incident in a detective serial for boys, now
seemed to be the merest common sense, and his
conduct at the wheel of the aforesaid taxicab
certainly proved he had judgment and nerve
control. Paul was wondering what part he had
played in the war when the object of his medi-
tations drove up to the entrance of the café, look-
ing hot, tired, but triumphant. He got down and
joined Paul, flourishing a hundred-franc note in
his hand.


90 T H E CRIME COA ST
“A little tip from my fare,” he said with
modest pride. “I’d no idea taxi driving was so
profitable.”
“What happened?” asked Paul.
“Well, quite a lot. It was a shame you were
temporarily blinded because he wasn't the sort
of thing one sees every day. Quite the last per-
son one would expect to find hob-nobbing with
De Najera in a scent shop. The Blackfriar's
Ring would be a much more sympathetic set-
ting. He was obviously in an opulent condition,
oozing with food and glittering with rings and
tie pins. I hopped into the Renault and fol-
lowed him down the street, drove slowly past
him, touched my cap, and said in my best broken
English, “Taxi-you want taxi, milord?' He did,
it seemed, and on hearing his native tongue an
expression of such childish joy illumined his
fat red face that he quite charmed me. ‘That's
right, mate,’ he said. “Half a mo' and I'll give
yer the address to go to.” He brought out a slip
of paper from his pocket with the name K.
Paleidos and an address in Cannes on it, in De
Najera's handwriting, which I know well.
Good enough, I thought, you're my man. I don't
know Cannes too well, but by going into a
garage, ostensibly to get some water, I learnt
the direction, and the address turned out to be


C O R O N A - C O R O N A 9I
a dim little bric-a-brac shop near the port, with
the name K. Paleidos, propriétaire, over the
door, and looked like the sort of place where
sailors get rid of things when they come ashore.
Another establishment that doesn't wear its
heart on its sleeve, I thought. My fat friend
went inside, but reappeared in a minute or
two and beckoned me to come in.
“‘’Ere,” he said, ‘can you make out what
this Jane is talking about? I want Mr. Pilidos
and keep telling 'er so.”
“There was rather a pretty girl in the shop
who explained to me that the propriétaire had
a little colic and was at home at his villa, ‘pas
loin six kilometres derrière la ville sur la route
de Grasse.” We got the address from her and
went along to the Villa Spinx, which turned
out to be a most palatial affair with nude ladies
(in stone, of course) climbing about the
façade.
“My profiteer rang the bell and was let in,
and presently I wandered round the shrubbery
which came close up to the house to see if I
could come upon anything interesting. As luck
would have it, there was an open window and
from it came the sound of my fare shouting at
the top of his voice, more in sorrow than in
anger, in a way the English have when trying


92 T H E C R IM E COA ST
to make a foreigner understand them. I kept
below the level of the window sill and had not
the slightest difficulty in overhearing the con-
versation.
“‘Well, if yer won’t, yer won't,' he was say-
ing disappointedly, and then I caught the chink
of metal or glass. A suave voice replied,
‘M’sieur, I am désolé, but it is for me too dan-
gereux. I like not to not oblige, but what will
you? The affair is too recent; but if M'sieur
will go to Marseille to my confrère, every satis-
faction is assured to him.’ Then in a lower voice,
‘M'sieur will understand that here at Cannes
I am municipal councillor, yes, friend with the
police, but I cannot take such risk. At Marseille
my confrère is more friend with the police, she
has-how you say?—a graft. I give to you her
address, enfin?’ Apparently he had to be con-
tent with this and tried, as far as I could make
out, to tip Mr. Paleidos, who was much shocked.
The door opened and shut and their voices died
away. In a second I was in the room, and luck
was with me again, for on a bureau in the corner
was a little writing pad for notes. I tore the
top sheet off, slid out of the window, and ap-
peared round the corner doing up my buttons
just as my fare and the discreet Mr. Paleidos
came out of the door. They seemed to have got


94. T H E C R IM E COA ST
“That's it—but Brighton Race Course, I
thought.”
Benvenuto beamed. “The very man! What
did you learn about him?”
“Practically nothing, I'm afraid—I escaped
as soon as I could and didn't go back till he
was peacefully snoring.”
“Great mistake, you know. Always talk to
people in trains—I do. They'll tell you things
in the intimacy of a railway carriage that they
wouldn't breathe to their dearest friend. Most
interesting. That chap would have told me how
many gold teeth he'd got, what his income was,
and where he'd bought his boots, which would
have been a revelation in itself.”
“Now I come to think about it,” said Paul,
“he did tell me he'd come into some money
lately.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Benvenuto jumped up.
“Let's get to hell out of here. I want to think.
And I want to hear what Hernandez does when
he's alone.”
They climbed into the taxi.


CHAPTER IX
C O O K E R Y A N D C R IM E
AS THE Renault left the outskirts of Cannes
Paul leant across to the driver's seat, and began
to recount to Benvenuto his discoveries while
trailing De Najera. When he had finished, Ben-
venuto was silent, driving rapidly along the
tortuous road and apparently devoting all his
attention to the car. Suddenly he drew into the
side, stopped the engine, got his pipe from his
pocket, and having lit up turned round to Paul.
He frowned. “Can't make it fit,” he said. “It's
got all the elements of a neat little story in the
usual tradition, only unfortunately everything
contradicts everything else. What are your con-
clusions about all this money changing?”
“Don’t you think it looks as though he were
planning a getaway?” Paul asked.
Benvenuto shook his head.
“I don't think that's likely to be his game.
Far too dangerous. If he did go to London last
Tuesday and has covered his tracks as neatly
as he thinks, why attract attention to himself
95


96 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
--"
by disappearing? Let's suppose for a moment
that he didn't do the job himself, but employed
our boy friend of this afternoon, who is, as we
know, fresh from England, to do it for him.
Why then, in heaven's name, was De Najera
receiving money from him instead of paying
it to him? For it seems obvious from his visits
to all these money-changing establishments that
he'd just received a pretty handsome sum of
foreign money, presumably English, from the
fat man and was anxious to change it into French
without attracting notice of the amount. It won't
fit—it isn't even as though there'd been a
motive of robbery, for Luela's jewels were
found intact.” Suddenly Benvenuto sat up, his
eyes wide open, and stared at Paul. “‘The
Countess of Trelorne on returning from a drive
found her room ransacked and her jewels
stolen.’” A seraphic smile spread over his face.
“The Slosher,” he said. “I’ve spent the after-
noon with the Slosher and never knew it. How
annoyed Leech will be.”
“Good Lord—d'you really think it was?”
“Of course—and our Mr. Paleidos is obvi-
ously a jewel fence. It begins to shape—but does
it though? For I don't see where Hernandez
comes in. Whatever his source of income may
be, I'm pretty certain he's not a jewel thief, or


C O O K E R Y A N D C R IM E 97
he wouldn't have his headquarters in the seclu-
sion of St. Antoine. Those sort of gentry lose
themselves in big cities.” He clutched at his
hair. “It’s all so beautifully suggestive and I
can't get any shape into it. I shall have to do
a painting to-morrow, I know I shall.”
“A painting?” asked Paul in surprised tones.
Benvenuto nodded. “I always paint best when
I’ve got a problem to work out, likewise always
work a problem out best when I'm painting.
It seems to get the two sides of my mind free
to work independently. I suppose that's why
I took up criminology.” He laughed. “One
ought to be able to project a world's masterpiece
out of this affair. Meanwhile we shall be late
for dinner if we don't get on, and so invoke
the wrath of Adelaide. That girl's cooking
doesn't deserve a slight, I assure you.” He
kissed his fingers to the air and turned to the
driving wheel, and they were soon racing to-
wards the setting sun.
Paul settled back in a corner of the taxi and
surveyed the world contentedly. It was beauti-
ful beyond words, the sea pale green in the
evening light, and thrning he could see the
mountains behind touched to burning rose by
the sun. The air grew cool after the hot day,
and as they swept past a village he could see


98 T H E C R IM E COA ST
far below on a sandy beach people in gay-
coloured clothes returning from their day's sun
bathing. The sound of voices singing floated
faintly up to him. It was very peaceful. Paul
thought suddenly of Adrian, in hiding and in
fear of his life possibly somewhere along this
sunny coast. It was something to feel that their
day's work might help towards clearing him,
and the prospect of spending the evening at
the house of De Najera was a stimulating one.
With rising spirits Paul remembered Benve-
nuto's remark about dining with Adelaide—
apparently the invitation still held. His life was
pretty good, he thought, and lay back, letting
his thoughts slip in and out of his mind, lazily
conscious of things round him, until Benvenuto
deposited him at the door of his hotel. Arrang-
ing to meet him in the café in half an hour,
Paul went up to bathe and change.
Twenty minutes later, leaning out of his bed-
room window with a cigarette, he saw Benve-
nuto down on the quay, dressed in his corduroys
and minus the moustache, in earnest conversa-
tion with a fisherman. They were too far away
for him to overhear what they were saying and
he stayed there leaning out of the window until
he saw them part with a tremendous handshake.
Benvenuto came striding along, looking pleased


C O O K E R Y A N D C R IM E 99
with himself, and glanced up at Paul's window
as he went by. He waved a greeting. “Joshua
fit de battle of Jericho and de walls came
tumbling down,” he said mysteriously, and
passed on.
Paul pondered over this statement and de-
cided it was an optimistic one. Smiling to him-
self, he completed his toilet and went down to
the café where Benvenuto soon joined him.
“Hullo—I take it you've been putting in some
good work.”
Benvenuto nodded. “Qa marche,” he said.
“I’ll tell you about it later. We'd better get along
to Adelaide's now or we'll be late. There's no
time for a drink, but she'll give us a cocktail
when we get there. Come on—it's just along
the port.”
Beyond the cafés and the Marine Store Ben-
venuto stopped opposite a blue-painted door
and pushed it open. He shouted up the stairs,
and Adelaide's smiling face peered down at
them. She waved a spoon.
“Well met,” she said. “The cocktails are cold
and the soup's hot, so enter. I’ve been wanting
to show you my house,” smiling at Paul.
Bending his head, he entered the low door-
way, followed by Benvenuto, to find Adelaide
in a white frock, her cheeks flushed with cook-


IOO T H E C R. I. M. E. C. O A ST
ing, against the background of a rose-and-blue
room. As she turned to a cocktail shaker on the
table, he looked about him. Long windows hung
with curtains of transparent white material
looked over the port. The walls, faintly washed
with pink, were bare except for a Marie Lau-
rencin flower piece in a silver frame, and cush-
ions and divan were covered in faded blue silk.
On the floor of polished red tiles was a modernis-
tic rug in grays and blacks. It was all very
simple, and never, Paul thought, had he seen a
more charming room. He told her so and she
smiled with pleasure. Giving them each a cock-
tail, she led him to the window. “Come and see
my view which I'm extremely proud of. I wish
you'd been here earlier and seen the sunset. The
cliffs looked as if you could toast bread on
them.”
Outside in the blue night he could see the
houses of St. Antoine in a half circle round the
port, their lights spilling reflections in the dark
water. Above the mass of headland stars were
coming out.
Benvenuto joined them. “My dear, it's high
time you went to live in Clapham Junction,”
he expostulated. “Like Mrs. Aldwinkle of
Barren Leaves, you're developing a proprietary
interest in the beauties of Nature. You're begin-


C O O K E R Y A N D C R IM E IOI
ning to believe you're responsible for all this”
—he indicated the night with a sweep of his
31 III.
Her eyes twinkled.
“At least I’m responsible for the fact that
you can look at it through white curtains, with
a moonshine cocktail inside you. And there's
no need to be catty because you live up a nasty
back street without a view. Come and have your
savage breast soothed with soup and tell me
what you've been doing with Mr. Ashby all
day.”
“Les affaires sont les affaires,” he replied
darkly as they seated themselves at the table.
“As a matter of fact, we’ve been out hunting—
and it's quite possible that before long I shall
invite you to join in the chase. Meanwhile I
am preserving an enigmatic silence.”
She looked at him curiously.
“Has the Open Season for Crooks recom-
menced?” she asked. She turned to Paul. “I
don't know if you've discovered already—but
Ben is quite the most brilliant detective outside
fiction.”
“Quel blagueſ’’
“It is so useful,” she went on. “He can pro-
duce the lost umbrella or the missing heir within
twenty-four hours. It's a little trying of course


IO2 T H E C R IM E COAST
in private life, for I can never deceive him
about the simplest thing. Ben, do give a public
performance and tell me what is in the soup?”
“The result is nectar and ambrosia—my felici-
tations. Chestnuts allied with white burgundy
and cream were a pretty thought—and do I
detect the least trace of Bacardi rum?”
She looked at Paul despairingly. “You see?
One can have no reserves—no delicate mysteries.
All one's subtleties lie naked under his pitiless
gaze.”
Paul laughed.
“Cookery is one of the holy mysteries to me,”
he said, “though, believe me, I appreciate the
results.”
Benvenuto was tenderly apportioning some
sauce-enveloped fish onto a plate. “You shopli
take it up,” he said. “One of the most interesting
of all the arts. I place it above painting, and
below music, though of course it rides hand-in-
hand with them. One has only to try the effect
of a Bach concerto after a good dinner and the
same work after a meal of canned salmon to
prove that.” He handed Paul his plate. “Ade-
laide, who practises both arts with extraordinary
distinction, is the only woman I know who can
give one pleasure in a Mediterranean fish. Her
still-lifes are second only to her sole Normande.


IO4 T H E C R IM E COA ST
this type of crime the police deal with effec-
tively, one case being as like another as two
peas. There remains the subtle motive—the
criminal who is actuated by something obscure,
even praiseworthy. In cases like this the crime is
possibly quite justified, or at least inevitable, and
as far as I am concerned I should hate to be
part of the machinery that inflicts the same pun-
ishment in the one case as in the other. The
English have invented a system of punishment
that probably fits crime in general as well as
any convention can. But it is difficult to forget
that it is a convention, and that in Basutu land,
for instance, it is an offence not to go out and
slay the man who has run off with your wife.
You see, a woman is worth three cows in that
country, and they are a logical people. Like-
wise a hungry man has the right to go into
whoever's house he likes to take food—whereas
our logic would retaliate with three months'
hard in a similar case.”
“But surely,” Paul objected, “you don't deny
the necessity of protecting the individual's prop-
erty? Speaking as a lawyer 27
“I neither deny it nor uphold it. Mine not
to reason why. I only know that by instinct I
prefer knocking the man down whom I catch
stealing my watch to handing him over to a


C O O K E R Y A N D C R IM E IO5
policeman. At the same time we all admire and
respect the policemen who protect our old
mothers. The reasons that would keep me out
of the C.I.D. are purely illogical, and spring
from an inherent desire to sit on the fence. Put
yourself one side or the other of it and you
never know the truth about anything. Take the
case of murder now: When a murderer is
brought to justice he has to pretend he did the
bloody deed because he was inflamed with jeal-
ousy or because the victim had a £Io note on
him, the real reason being that he didn't like his
face or that his conversation was intolerably bor-
ing. But he can't say so at his trial—there are
conventions to be observed. I am perfectly seri-
ous; I have never felt any desire to murder for
money, but often I have been on the verge of
shooting someone out of sheer irritation. If I
had, I should of course have pretended that
he had run off with my wife. Noblesse oblige
—one must have some consideration for th;
corpse.”
Paul's desire for a logical argument vanished
in laughter led by Adelaide, and dinner being
finished they moved over to the divan for coffee.
“Make yourselves comfortable, you two, and
I'll bring you your cups over there. Mr. Ashby,
will you have some of my Spanish brandy? It's


Ioé T H E C R IM E CO A ST
really rather nice, and you'll need a fortifier
before Hernandez's party.”
“I’d love some,” said Paul, and came towards
her. “Let me 7)
She was pouring brandy into beautifully
shaped goblets, when Benvenuto's voice came
from the divan.
“Talking of Hernandez's party—I’ve a fa-
vour to ask you, my dear.”
She paused and looked at him, glass in hand.
“You can help me immensely in-something
I'm trying to puzzle out—if you'd, well, repel
his advances rather less than usual this evening.
Let him drink—and let him talk. You were in
London last Tuesday—” He stepped for-
ward and bent to pick up the scattered frag-
ments of the glass which had slipped from her
hand.
“Bad luck—but at least it wasn't full. Sit here
and I’ll get you another.”
* He went across to a cupboard in the corner,
and when he came back Adelaide was lying
among the cushions smoking a cigarette, Paul
in a chair opposite her. Benvenuto gave her a
drink, and taking one himself sat down beside
her. He went on.
“I want you, if you will, to pull his leg gently,


Io8 T H E C R IM E COA ST
suspected of the murder of Luela, and by an
abominable bit of bad luck things look pretty
black against him. I didn't want to tell you
about it because I knew how it would worry
you, but now every scrap of information I can
get hold of will help, and you can help me
to-night by doing this.”
She was staring straight in front of her, and
Paul was horrified to see tears running down
her pale face. Benvenuto patted her hand.
“My dear,” he said gently, “of course I'm ab-
solutely sure he's innocent and it's only a ques-
tion of time and hard work before we can prove
it. It may not be so difficult after all, because, as
you've no doubt read in the papers, some woman
went to see Luela on the afternoon of her death,
and if she comes forward her evidence will
probably clear up the whole matter, so don't
worry.”
She snatched her hand away from him, and
suddenly bursting into a fit of sobbing, she ran
out of the room.
Benvenuto got up quickly and went across
to the window. Paul sat still and silent in his
chair, fear and doubt and misery closing in on
him. He thought of Adelaide in the train, the
newspaper dropping from her hands, fear in
her white face as she left him; Adelaide in the


COO K E R Y AND CRIM E Io9
café, fear again in her face when she saw him
and her hurried, too-quick explanations; Ade-
laide gone so suddenly after De Najera's accu-
sation of Adrian; Adelaide here to-night. With
a feeling of terror himself, he looked quickly
at Benvenuto to see him strolling back from the
window, and braced himself to conceal the sus-
picions that came half formed into his mind.
Benvenuto sat down and poured out some
drinks, handing one to Paul. He looked wor-
ried and unhappy.
“Poor kid,” he said, “it’s unlike her to let
herself go, but she's as fond of Adrian as I am.
Blasted fool I am to go frightening her like
that. Better let her alone for a bit. Cigarette?”
Paul took one, and they talked desultorily
for a time, Paul trying to appear intelligent
with questions beating in his brain. What was
she hiding?—what was there that she couldn't
tell them?
“Ben, will I do?”
He turned with a start to see Adelaide pirou-
etting in the doorway, vivid as some tropical
bird, in a scarlet frock, her feet in scarlet shoes
showing below her long full skirts, and a scarlet
flower in her hair. Though she was still pale,
she had painted her lips and they were parted
in a smile. His heart thumped as he looked at


II2. T H E C R IM E COA ST
Germans are too precise, the French take too
short steps, Argentines crouch over one like
panthers, Americans wear their shoulders too
high. Letts and Finns I’ve never experienced.
Come and join Ben among the trophies of the
chase—he's looking pretty good.”
The object of her last remark was seated on
a pile of purple silk cushions that were heaped
over a tiger skin. A bottle under one arm and
a glass in his hand, he wore a beatific smile and
was dividing his attention between the stuffed
head of the tiger and a scantily clad little flapper
who was lying beside him, gazing at him ador-
ingly, holding his hand and talking in swift
bursts of French. She greeted Adelaide with
a bright smile and made a place for her, then,
catching sight of Paul, she pulled him down
beside her and climbed on to his knee.
“Engleesh boy,” she remarked, “nice.”
Putting her arms round his neck, she com-
menced to sing in a curious husky voice:
“’E’s got bright blue eyes,
I nevaire caire for bright blue eyes,
But 'e's got bright blue eyes,
Et maintenant j'adore ca.”
She peeped round at Benvenuto for applause.
“Bravo, Tina!” he said, while Adelaide shook


T H E P A R T Y II3
with laughter, looking at Paul. Profoundly em-
barrassed, he groped for his cigarette case, and
furnishing his newly found friend with a ciga-
rette tried to achieve an air of complete noncha-
lance. Hurriedly casting round in his mind for
a suitable conversational opening, he was more
than relieved when Benvenuto despatched the
amorous Tina for some glasses. He looked at
Paul gravely.
“You’ve been received into St. Antoine so-
ciety,” he said. “You must cultivate Tina.”
“Her methods are rather—er—direct, aren't
they?” Paul said.
“Well—possibly. But she's a cheerful little
piece and part of the tradition of this place.
Curse her—she's forgotten about those glasses.
I'll go and hunt some up.”
A circle had formed round Tina, in the mid-
dle of which she was dancing, her diminutive
body shaken by an ecstatic Charleston, entirely
abandoned to the feverish rhythm that was
being stroked and torn from a ukulele by an
American boy. He sang as he played:
“Oh, sister, shake that thing . . .”
His fingers thrumming and flying, his fair hair
tumbled over his sunburnt forehead, his foot
beating the ground, and his body jerking in time


II4 T H E C R IM E CO AST
to the Negro syncopation that he struck from his
instrument, he played faster and faster, his eyes
fixed on Tina's writhing body:
“Oh, sister, shake that thing . . .”
Hands and feet marking time all around her,
she had forgotten her audience, and with her
dark curls flying, her thin brown arms and legs
twisting and stamping to the music, her hips
swaying under the thin silk of her dress, she
looked like a small negress from a Harlem
cabaret. Some forgotten strain of dark blood
was alive in her. Paul counted a dozen nationali-
ties amongst the people round her, all intent on
her, all swaying a little in rhythm to the curious
half-savage dance. One immobile figure seated
on a cushion, his arms folded in a tense stillness,
was that of a Japanese painter. His Oriental
face expressing neither pleasure nor interest, he
kept his eyes fixed on her, and when at last she
flung herself exhausted onto a divan amidst
shouts of applause Paul saw him rise with star-
tling suddenness and cross over to her.
Someone put a record on the gramophone,
and in a moment the floor was crowded. Benve-
nuto reappeared with bottles and glasses and
Paul, who was longing to dance again with
Adelaide, waited for a drink before asking her.


T H E P A R T Y II5
The noise of ice clinking as Benvenuto poured
out brandies and sodas was good in the hot
room, and he passed Adelaide a drink. The next
moment De Najera was bending over asking
her to dance, and they moved off together. Paul,
looking after them blackly, was forced to admit
he was a perfect dancer as he steered her easily
over the crowded floor. His head bent, he was
talking to her earnestly, and Paul wondered
what he was saying.
“Good Lord, look at that,” Benvenuto's voice
interrupted his thoughts; and following the
direction of his glance he saw a curious couple
pass them: the man slightly bald on top with
pince-nez perched on his nose and wearing an
ill-fitting pair of plus-fours, the girl Tina gig-
gling delightedly up at him as he held her
awkwardly and looked down at her with ill-
concealed nervousness.
Paul chuckled as he looked at them.
“By all that's holy—it's Leech,” murmured
Benvenuto. “He’ll need a detachment from the
Yard complete with truncheons to protect him
if Tina's got designs on his virtue. Why in God's
name did he come here?”
“I suppose he took advantage of De Najera's
general invitation and decided to combine pleas-
ure with business—though I don't detect signs


II6 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
of very reckless abandon yet awhile. It must be
the polka he's dancing. Can I have another
drink?”
“Pardon, mon vieux. And when you've fin-
ished it—unless you feel like receiving the
advances of the lady over there—perhaps you'd
come on an expedition with me. I want to go
up to Luela's room and explore. Not the height
of good manners perhaps—but I feel all's fair
just now.”
Hastily averting his eyes from a languorous-
looking lady in a Spanish shawl, Paul got up
and put down his empty glass. He felt curiously
unlike devoting himself to practical things.
The brandy was good—it was perhaps his sixth
—the summer night was hot, and scented breezes
blowing in at the open windows made him long
for a stroll. Later he would take Adelaide out
there. Meanwhile the violins wailed and the
saxophone spilled its plaintive notes through
the room. In the dim light of shaded lamps
couples locked in each other's arms swayed to
the rhythm. Through the crowd he caught a
glimpse of Adelaide's scarlet frock and her face
lifted, smiling, to De Najera. Paul turned
quickly and followed Benvenuto to the door.
He found the latter mopping his brow and
leaning against a gilt cupid in a highly ornate


T H E P A R T Y 117
marble-tiled hall. Palms and flowering shrubs
filled a well in the centre round which the stair-
case rose to the floor above. Stucco ornaments
and painted decorations covered every conceiv-
able space in an orgy of depraved Baroque.
Paul shuddered slightly as he looked about him.
“This is considered extremely chic in the
neighbourhood, let me tell you,” remarked Ben-
venuto. “People have been known to come from
miles round to catch a glimpse of it. I have a
distinct weakness for it myself—don't you ad-
mire the allegorical painting of Hope following
Appetite? Come on, there's some more up the
staircase.”
Past overgrown ladies wallowing in a con-
fusion of fruits and ruined towers against a blue
sky, they mounted to the corridor above.
“If questioned, ask for the bathroom,” said
Benvenuto, but they met no one, and on coming
to some large double doors he went in followed
by Paul. The room was in darkness, but after a
moment's pause Benvenuto found the switch, the
light revealing a large bedroom of a luxuriant
and rather exotic character, with other doors
leading out of it.
“Luela's suite,” Benvenuto explained. “This
room and her boudoir look over the sea, and
there is the bathroom. I’ll open the shutters, and


I 18 T H E C R IM E CO AST
if anyone comes in I'll explain that I was show-
ing you the view, which is colossal.” He unshut-
tered a long window and Paul went out onto the
balcony to find a marvellous moonlit panorama
and a sheer drop to the sea below his feet. On
his left the lights of distant coast towns twinkled.
Les Palmiers was built on a rock and had a stair-
case carved out of the cliff down to a small
natural harbour below, Benvenuto explained.
They came in and went through to the boudoir.
Both rooms seemed to have been untouched
since they were last occupied, a heavy scent was
in the air and photographs littered the tables.
Benvenuto looked through the photographs with
care until he came to one of a man, obviously
taken a good many years before. Uttering a
slight exclamation, he took it to the light and
looked at it in a puzzled way, afterwards put-
ting it in his pocket. Paul watched him curi-
ously.
“I feel rather like a ghoul,” he said, “but that
reminds me of someone and I can't think of
whom.”
Frowning, he walked about the room and then
went back to the bedroom, where Paul followed
him and sat on the bed. Watching lazily, he
thought Benvenuto looked rather like a well-
bred pointer as he moved swiftly about examin-


T H E P A R T Y II9
ing furniture, cupboards, and knick-knacks. He
finally disappeared into the bathroom and was
absent so long that Paul thought he must be try-
ing to reconstruct the crime in that other suite.
Getting impatient, he followed him in, and was
somewhat irritated to find him sitting on a cork-
covered bathstool gazing earnestly at a pile of
powder boxes.
Benvenuto looked up at him queerly.
“Half a dozen brand new boxes of Loty's
bath powder—enough to flour a regiment—
only they're all empty.”
Only mildly interested, Paul looked them
OVer.
“Notice anything peculiar about them? No?
Well, look at the labels—the sticky ones which
they use to seal the top to the bottom. They've
all been carefully steamed open—not torn in
half as one would expect.” He rubbed his chin,
and then jumping to his feet he took Paul's arm
and propelled him out of the room.
“On with the dance—let joy be unconfined,”
he said, and closing the shutters and switching
off the lights they went into the corridor and
down the stairs. There was still no one about,
all the life of the house being confined, appar-
ently, to the big salon which they reëntered and
there helped themselves to drinks. A haze of


I2O T H E C R IM E CO A ST
cigarette smoke filled the room; for a moment
the party was in repose as if in the interval
between two acts of a pantomime.
A sense of unreality took possession of Paul;
he felt that at any moment something magical
might happen, and by association of ideas looked
about for Adelaide. She was lying on some cush-
ions with Hernandez and talking lazily to him,
his arm round her shoulders. Suddenly the rich
twang of a guitar filled the room. A Spaniard
dressed in blue jeans with one foot on a gilded
chair began to sing an Andalusian love song,
fierce and earthy. The jazz beginning of the
party was over, and the Spaniard had timed his
song for the altered mood of the guests, who
were becoming quarrelsome or amorous or
merely sentimental, according to their natures.
As for Paul, he felt unnaturally heroic, and
found himself, rather to his surprise, wanting
both to sing and to hit someone. Controlling
these unusual emotions, he went and sat on the
floor by himself, and watched a couple dancing
slowly a kind of elemental tango. He felt very
much out of it all and became extremely, but
exquisitely, sad: a mood which changed sud-
denly to morbid softening of the heart as he re-
ceived an unexpected wink from Adelaide.


T H E P A R T Y I2 I
The song went on, and suddenly through it
he caught the sound of sobbing behind him.
Turning round, he saw Tina lying on a divan
crying as though her heart would break, and
kneeling beside her the bald and pince-nezed
Leech, who was trying valiantly to mop her tears
up with a large pocket handkerchief, a worried
look on his face. A few feet away sat the Japa-
nese, expressionless as ever, staring at them. Tina
continued to sob with unabated violence and
Paul began to feel extremely concerned about
her. Not liking to intrude himself, he went off
in search of Benvenuto, whom he found talking
to a group in a corner. He attracted his atten-
tion and Benvenuto rose and came towards him
quickly.
“What's up?” he asked.
“Well, it's about Tina—I'm afraid she's got
into trouble of some sort. She's over there with
Leech, crying bitterly. Oughtn't we to do some-
thing? What d'you suppose is the matter?”
Benvenuto caught sight of her and grinned.
“Alcoholic remorse,” he said briefly, and
walked across to her.
As they reached the divan Leech looked an-
grily at the Japanese, whose immobile stare
seemed to infuriate him.


I22 T H E C R IM E COA ST
“What the devil do you want?” he demanded.
A bland smile spread over the Oriental's face.
“I want to dance like a flea,” he replied.
Uttering an exclamation of rage, Leech
turned his attention to Tina, when Benvenuto,
who had been an amused spectator, intervened.
“Tina, my little one, you've been at the gin
again,” he said in French. “Silly child, you're
washing your make-up all over your face—just
look at it.”
Taking a mirror from her handbag he held
it in front of her, and checking a sob she directed
a blurred gaze towards it. A look of concern
came through her tears and the next moment
she was busy with a puff and a lipstick. Having
completed the picture, her mood changed in-
stantly to one of extreme gaiety, and presently
she was dancing with the American boy. Ben-
venuto got up and looked at his watch.
“I don't know about you, Ashby, but I'm
going to push off,” he said. “The night is yet
young—it's just one o'clock—so if you want to
stay here and shake a leg, do, and come along
to my rooms later for a drink.”
Paul looked uncertainly across at Adelaide.
She seemed very much occupied with De
Najera.
“What about Miss Moon?” he said.


T H E D A R K H O U S E I25
any danger in it. But it's all right, you know—
why, there were thirty or forty people we know
there. We shall find the ball still rolling and
Adelaide dancing without a thought for her
miserable confederates—you'll see.”
But his assurance sounded a bit thin, and Paul
looked at him grimly. Suddenly he realized that
Benvenuto's tone had somehow conveyed an
apology to him—Paul—and something seemed
to light up inside him. He crammed on his
béret and marched out, shoulders well back. If
that Dago had been up to any tricks he’d—
The rest of his resolve became blurred but none
the less determined.
The silence of St. Antoine by night was sud-
denly broken by the sound of singing, and Ben-
venuto, hearing it, turned quickly down a side
street that led to the port. They emerged to find
a band of revellers straggling along arm in arm
past the shuttered cafés, singing a little un-
evenly: “Auprès de ma blonde.” The party
halted in front of a café and the singing died
down.
“Arise, O woman, and let me in
2 2
Whisky—Johnny 22
came the voice of the American boy, and then
Benvenuto tapped him on the shoulder.


126 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
“Seen anything of Adelaide?” he asked.
The American boy clapped his finger to his
nose and looked at him sharply. - -
“Sh!” he said, and began to get on with his
song. Benvenuto shook him roughly, and he
paused with his mouth open. Recovering from
his surprise and adjusting his balance, he com-
menced to peel off his coat.
“You guys get ready to witness the middle-
weight championship of Europe—Big Ben
Brown versus the Colorado Chicken—purse Ioo
francs and may the best man win, as Carnera
said to Tunney.” He grasped Benvenuto's hand,
looked at him fondly, and attempted to kiss him.
The latter moaned with rage, and sent the boy
sprawling into the arms of his companions.
The road up to Les Palmiers was dark, for the
moon was down and the town lighting had been
cut off. Benvenuto set off quickly, and Paul was
thankful he knew the road. The squat shapes
of olive trees loomed up as they passed, and the
only sound was the occasional clanking chain of
some goat disturbed by their footsteps. A few
minutes' walk brought them to the château which
they found in complete darkness, grim and se-
pulchral-looking with its mass of white stucco.
Benvenuto pushed at the front door which gave


T H E D A R K H O U S E 127
to his touch, and in a moment they were in the
heavy flower-scented atmosphere of the hall.
“Damn the lights—they won't function,” said
Benvenuto, fumbling with the switches. “Got a
match, Ashby?” Paul struck a light and they
made for the door of the salon. It was dark in-
side except for the first pale glimmer of dawn
that showed through the windows. They were
open and the early-morning wind blew the cur-
tains towards Paul. He shivered and the match
went out, and then Benvenuto said:
“Come on, I'm going up to De Najera's
rooms. There's nothing here.”
Paul struck another match and was turning to
follow him when his eye caught something stick-
ing out from below the curtains of an alcove
close beside him. It was a hand, a very small
hand, lying palm uppermost on the carpet. Was
it the light of the match—or had it a horrible
deathly pallor? Perfectly still, Paul stood star-
ing at it until the match burnt his fingers. Then
he felt himself trembling violently so that he
could not speak. At last: “Brown—come here—
come here—” he said, and fumbled for his
match box. His fingers shook so that it seemed
to him an eternity before he struck a light. Ben-
venuto was beside him.
w


I28 T H E C R IM E CO AST
“What the devil—” he began, and caught
sight of it, lying there. “God,” he whispered,
and his hand shot out to the curtain, dragging
it back.
The next moment Paul heard himself gig-
gling weakly, while Benvenuto, uttering an oath
that was strange to him, directed a kick at the
prostrate form of the Japanese. He, beyond
stirring a little and folding his arms across his
breast, gave no sign that his slumbers were dis-
turbed and continued to wear an expressionless
smile on his immobile face.
“Eclipsé,” muttered Benvenuto, and then with
nervous fury: “Why the devil does he want to go
leaving his yellow hands about the place?”
Somewhat shaken, they got out of the room
and felt their way up the staircase. “Follow me,”
whispered Benvenuto, “and don't make a noise.
I'm going into De Najera's rooms, which are up
on the next floor. When we get in, if there's no
light and no sound, strike a match.”
They climbed another flight, and then Ben-
venuto silently opened a door at the top and
they slipped inside, shutting it behind them.
Their backs against the door, they stood in tense
silence staring into the inky blackness, till Paul
struck a match. The room was empty, the bed
unslept in.


T H E D A R K H O U S E I29
“Stay where you are—I’ll open the shutters
and let in some light,” murmured Benvenuto in
his ear, and Paul heard him creep across the
room. The sound of a latch slipping, a creak,
and things became faintly visible in the cold
glimmer of early dawn.
Benvenuto gave a muffled exclamation as he
leant out of the window.
“Come and look at this,” he whispered, and
Paul joined him. A balcony over the sea ran
along past the window, and where it ended an
extraordinary sight met their eyes; for perched
on the top of the white stone balustrade three or
four feet up were a thin pair of legs protruding
from plus-fours, standing perilously on tiptoe.
The head and upper part of the figure were hid-
den by a flying buttress round which the man's
arm was clinging for support, but it was un-
mistakably Leech. He was watching something
or other with interest, and they could hear
faintly the murmur of voices from above him.
Paul and Benvenuto slid out into the balcony
and went towards him. Hearing a sound behind
him, his head appeared round the buttress, and
recognizing the two men he climbed gingerly
down. -
“Looking for cat burglars?” whispered Ben-
Venuto.


13o T H E C R. I. M. E. C.O AST
The little detective looked somewhat sheep-
ish.
“The fact is,” he answered, “I was keeping
an eye on Miss Moon. I've been trying to get a
word with her all the evening, and . . .”
Without waiting to hear the rest of his sen-
tence, the two men clambered up onto the bal-
ustrade, and were able to see through some stone
tracery the flat roof garden above.
Although the early light had brightened,
Paul at first could see nothing but a large tele-
scope mounted on a tripod which occupied the
centre of the flat roof; but a voice, the silky
voice of De Najera, was evident enough. He was
talking earnestly to someone in the farther
corner, someone who had backed against the
balustrade and whose silhouette against the deep
mauve sky was Adelaide's.
“Let me go now, Hernandez. Let me go, you
hurt me. I must go—I’ve got to meet Benven-
uto.”
“May he be damned in hell.” Then, less
fiercely, “Come with me, my turtle dove, my
little one. See, I only kiss your hand. Listen, I
am rich, very rich now that Luela is dead. In
Argentina I have a palace by the sea where we
shall live, in country more beautiful than you
have ever seen, My house is in a garden where


T H E D A R K H O U S E I31
fountains play and flowers bloom all the year,
and birds sing among the peach groves.”
Paul could see him now, bending forward
over her, talking with all the rich inflections of
his voice, persuasively and passionately. He bent
farther forward still over her shrinking figure;
she turned her head from side to side like a bird
looking for a way of escape.
“Madre de Dios, you are beautiful,” he mur-
mured, and caught her in his arms.
Adelaide's shriek and Paul's climb onto the
balcony coincided. For a sickening moment he
saw far below him the black sea, then pulled
himself over the parapet and he and his enemy
were facing one another.
The pale light on De Najera's face showed it
distorted with rage, and as he saw Paul's threat-
ening attitude he drew a knife from his belt and
walked lightly forward, his thumb on the blade.
The moment for Paul was critical. He knew that
if his first blow failed he was in for it. De Na-
jera crouched. Both men leapt at the same mo-
ment—the Argentine with an upward sweep of
the knife was a fraction late. Paul's left hand,
with all the inhibitions of his evening behind it,
caught his opponent very neatly on the jaw, and
man and knife lifted for a second, then crashed
backwards onto the floor.


I32 T H E CRIM E CO AST
Paul bent down to make sure he was uncon-
scious, picked up the knife, and glowing all
over started to rush back to Adelaide. Then he
stopped—for she was in Benvenuto's arms, while
he patted her shoulder and murmured words of
encouragement. Paul stood quite still and went
very cold.
The next moment a sound beside him made
him look down, to see the face of Leech, pink
with exertion, his pince-nez askew on his nose,
emerging through a trap door in the floor.
“Ah!” he said. “Excuse me intruding, but I've
been wanting to get a word with Miss Moon all
the evening, and this seems quite an oppor-
tunity.”
“Just so, Leech,” returned Benvenuto, “cozy
little spot for a chat. But supposing we defer it
till we get back to my rooms.”
By now Adelaide had pulled herself together
and was wrapping her shawl round her. Ben-
venuto walked over to the unconscious man.
“He'll wake up with a headache, that's all,”
he said. He bent down and grasped the limp
hand.
“Thanks so much for a delightful evening,”
he murmured politely. Then straightening him-


T H E D A R K H O U S E I33
self, “Allons y. Sheath your sword, Ashby, and
come along.”
Paul looked down at the knife in his hand
and blushed, feeling suddenly rather a fool. He
threw it into the sea and followed the others
down the staircase and through the dark house.


CHAPTER XII
A W ORD W IT H M I SS M O ON
ALMOST in silence they walked back to the town.
In the east red streaks were appearing in the sky,
which was a pallid translucent green by contrast,
and though Leech remarked that it was the best
part of the day and it was a pity you didn't see
the sun rise more often, no one seemed disposed
to enlarge upon the subject.
Back in the studio the fire still burned, and
they were grateful for it and for the hot coffee
which Benvenuto soon produced. Seated round
the fire they felt tired, nervous, and ill at ease.
Adelaide, very pale in her scarlet frock, avoided
Paul's eye, and he on his part was suffering from
a reaction after the events of the night. Benven-
uto puffed rapidly at his pipe and stared into his
coffee cup. Leech was the only person who ap-
peared to be entirely at ease, and enjoying him-
self rather than not. He stirred bis coffee vigor-
ously and took a large gulp, then sitting back
with his feet to the blaze he turned to Adelaide.
“As I was saying, Miss Moon, I've been want-
134


A wo R D WITH M I S S M o O N I35
ing to get a word with you all the evening,” he
said. He looked at the other two.
“Mr. Brown is an old friend of mine. Ahem—
I take it I can speak quite frank in front of the
other young gentleman?”
“By all means—certainly,” said Adelaide and
Benvenuto together, and Paul, who had made
a movement towards departure, sank back in
his chair.
The detective rubbed his hands together.
“Well, since we're all friends present, I'm
going to ask you, Miss Moon, to give me some
help about a little matter I’m engaged in. Now,
I want you to tell me in your own words—take
your own time, mind—the events which took
place on the afternoon of last Tuesday the 24th
when you were present in the suite of the late
Signora da Costa at Bishop's Hotel, London.”
Paul felt as though his inside had turned com-
pletely over. Looking at Adelaide, he saw her
paler than ever, but perfectly calm. She was
about to speak when Benvenuto addressed
Leech. -
“On what grounds do you state—” he be-
gan, when she interrupted him.
“It's all right, Ben,” she said. “I was there,
and I’ve been a fool not to tell you about it, but
I was afraid ” She looked at Leech.


136 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
“That's right, Miss Moon,” he said. “We
know you were there, so there's no use in wasting
time, is there?” He produced a notebook and
pencil from his pocket and cocked his head at
her expectantly.
“I went there because Signora da Costa
wished to buy one of my paintings from the
Leinster Galleries,” Adelaide began quietly.
“The show ended before she decided which one
she wanted, and she wrote me a note asking me
to call and see her if I came to London.”
Inspector Leech was scribbling in his book.
He paused.
“Can you let me see that letter?” She looked
at him, startled.
“I don't know—I may have it somewhere—
I—”
“Quite so. I should like to see it if possible.
Purely a matter of routine, Miss Moon. Go on,
please.”
“I rang her up at Bishop's Hotel about half-
past four on Tuesday afternoon and arranged to
go round and see her at half-past five. She ex-
plained her maid was out, and asked me to come
up, telling me the number of her room. When I
got there she was having a bath, and I talked to
her through her bathroom door.”
“How did you enter her room?”


A W O R D WITH M I S S M O O N I37
“How ? Oh, the key was in the door, and
she called out to me to come in.”
“I see. Did you actually see her before you
left?”
“Oh, yes—she came out when she'd finished
her bath.”
“Can you remember how she was dressed?”
“In a silk wrap—a purple one. She excused
herself, saying she was tired and was going to lie
down.”
“Did she say why she was tired—whether, for
instance, she had had a tiring day, or what she
had been doing?”
“No. She told me nothing, nothing at all.”
“You are sure?”
Adelaide stiffened. “Quite sure.”
“Just so, Miss Moon, just so. Did she mention
she was expecting a guest?”
“I have just told you—she said she was going
to lie down.”
“No mention at all was made of anyone com-
ing to see her later in the day?”
“None—none at all.”
He looked at her.
“I see. And what did you two ladies talk
about?”
“My paintings. She arranged to buy one, and
I was to send it to her, and then I left.”


138 T H E C R IM E COA ST
“What time was that?”
“Five minutes to six.”
“Excuse me—how do you happen to remem-
ber the time? This is important.”
“I looked at my watch so as to get away before
—while there was still time to go back to my
hotel and get some food before leaving for Paris.
I was staying at Green's.”
“Did you see anyone when you left her room
—in the corridor, for instance?”
“No-not that I remember. I think there was
a chambermaid coming out of one of the rooms.”
“But no one you knew by sight?”
“Certainly not. I should remember that.”
“Now, about the telephone call that came
through while you were in the room. Please tell
me all you can remember about that.”
“But there was no telephone call.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Be careful, Miss Moon. The telephone
operator says she put a call through between
five forty-five and six when, by your own show-
ing, you would have been in the room.”
“It must have been later, when I had gone.
There was no call!”
Her voice sounded strained under the con-


A W O R D WITH MI S S M O O N I39
tinued questioning, and she looked deadly tired.
The inspector nodded. He made a few notes
and closed his book.
“I am very much obliged to you, Miss Moon
—very much obliged, I’m sure. I hope I shall
not have to trouble you again, but I must ask
you to let me know your movements should you
think of leaving St. Antoine. Purely a matter of
routine, Miss Moon, but until the inquiry is over
I must ask you to keep in touch with me.”
She looked at him quickly.
“I-am not going away,” she said.
“Well, perhaps that is wisest.” He got up.
“And now, Mr. Brown, allow me to thank you
for some very pleasant refreshment, and very
welcome, I’m sure.” He smiled genially round
at them and rubbed his hands.
“Well, my little white sheets are calling me,
so allow me to wish you all a very good night—
or morning, should I say? Ha, ha!” He shook
hands all round and Benvenuto took him down-
stairs.
“Can I get you some more coffee? You must
be dead beat,” said Paul. Adelaide started to
laugh hysterically.
“His little white sheets . . .” Her voice
trailed off into something very like a sob. She
smothered it and looked up at him.


I40 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
“Sorry,” she said. “It's been so awful all
night.” She put her hand out to him impulsively.
“I don't know how to thank you—it seemed
like a miracle when you came. I don't know
what I’d have done—”
“Thank God he's gone,” said Benvenuto,
walking in. “Hullo—all silent and all damned?
How about some more coffee—and your excel-
lent dinner, my dear, is now so much a thing of
the past that there’ll be no offence offered if I
suggest kippers.”
“Ben, you are a genius sometimes. Have you
been extracting them from the Mediterranean?”
“Got them in Cannes, and I’ve waited in
modest pride all the evening for the right mo-
ment to produce them. Ashby probably doesn't
realize the exile's craving for them, being as
he is fresh from an English breakfast table. Any-
one want to come and smell them cooking?”
They repaired to the kitchen, where Adelaide,
an apron over her frock, fanned the charcoal to
a glow and insisted on grilling the kippers her-
self. Paul ground the coffee while Benvenuto
laid the studio table, and they were soon seated
at an excellent meal, telling Adelaide their ad-
ventures of the evening. Somewhat to Paul's
surprise, Benvenuto made no reference to her


A wo R D w IT H M 1 s s Moo N 141
f
revelations to Leech, nor did he ask her what
she had been able to get out of De Najera. At
last with an effort she spoke herself.
“Ben, couldn't you reproach me a bit?” she
said. “I should feel less of a criminal if you did.
I have been such a fool, and I felt so bad about
not telling you I was in Luela's room. But you
see, I thought the Missing Woman—if she re-
mained a mystery to everyone—would be a point
in Adrian's favour. I still don't know how Leech
found out I was she. You must both think I was
being a frightful coward.”
“On the contrary.”
“I think it must have taken a tremendous
amount of pluck not to tell the truth before,”
said Paul admiringly.
Benvenuto looked at him for a minute. Then:
“Ah, young man,” he said portentously, “what
is Truth?” He turned to Adelaide, leaving Paul
puzzled. “Don’t you think it's about time, my
dear,” he said gently, “that you told me the
truth?”
She sat very still, staring at him. At last, “Ben,
what do you mean? You heard me tell Leech
what happened. There's—nothing else.”
“What I mean, Adelaide, is this. I believe
Adrian is innocent, and I mean to prove it. But


I42 T H E C R IM E COA ST
I can't do it if things are kept hidden from me.
Something happened when you were in Luela's
room that you think looks black for Adrian, and
with a great deal of courage and tenacity you're
hiding it. You can fool Leech—but you can't
fool me. And it is probably only a question of
time before Leech, or somebody else, finds out
what it is. If it is something that looks as though
it implicates Adrian, isn't it better to tell me,
when I think he's innocent, what it is, and give
me an opportunity of clearing him, than to leave
it to chance that Scotland Yard won't find out?”
She was swaying in her chair. “Don’t, Ben
—don't go on. It's no good—nothing's any
good. . . .”
There was a pause. Benvenuto, with his arms
folded on the table, stared at the girl and she
stared back at him with vacant eyes. Suddenly
he leapt to his feet, sending his chair spinning,
and began pacing up and down the studio. Then
he turned and faced her. He brought down his
fist on the table with a crash that made the plates
jump.
“Adelaide,” he said, “you're a damned young
fool. You're a criminal fool. I know you're tired,
I know you're frightened, but I tell you this—
if you don't tell me the truth now, at this mo-


A W O R D WITH M I SS MO O N I43
ment, it may be too late. Answer me, am I Adri-
an’s friend or not?”
“Yes.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes, absolutely, but y)
“Do you think I or Ashby would give Adrian
away even if he had done it?”
“No-but Oh, Ben, you are bullying me,
and I am so tired.”
“I’m bullying you, and I’m bullying you for
the sake of Adrian, and I’m going to keep on
bullying you.”
“Oh, Ben, don't make me say it.”
“Say what? Say what? Shall I tell you? Or
will you tell me?”
“Ben, you know?”
“Yes.”
Adelaide dropped her head on her arms and
sobbed. Through her tears Paul heard her say
brokenly, “Adrian killed her. Oh, Ben, what can
we do?—how can we save him?”
“Drink this brandy. That's it. Now take a
deep breath and tell me about it calmly.”
She sat up gallantly and wiped her eyes. Ben-
venuto gave her a cigarette, and there was
silence for a moment while she lit it; then, in a
voice still shaken by tears, she began.


I44 T H E CR IM E COAST
“It started just as I told Leech—I talked to
Luela through her bathroom door, and then
while she was still in her bath the telephone
rang. She called out and asked me to answer it,
and then a man's voice asked for her. I said she
was engaged and could I take a message—and he
said would I ask her if she could see Adrian
Kent at six o'clock. When I told her, she sounded
very excited and said yes, she could.”
“Was it Adrian speaking?”
“No, it was someone speaking for him. A
minute after I'd rung off she came running in in
her dressing gown, and went to her dressing
table. We fixed up about the painting, and then
I could see she was anxious to get rid of me—
and I was anxious to go, for I didn't want to
meet him, there. I said good-bye to her, and she
could hardly turn from her mirror—and when I
left her she was putting on her jewels for him.
The next thing I knew was when Paul lent me a
paper in the train.”
Adelaide's voice broke, and there was silence
in the studio. Then Benvenuto got up and went
out of the room. When he came back he had a
heavy overcoat on his arm, which he wrapped
Adelaide in, very carefully.
“Listen,” he said, “you're to go home and


A W O R D WITH M I SS MO O N I45
you're to go to bed and you're not to think about
anything any more until you've had a good sleep.
D'you see? And nothing is your responsibility
any more—it's mine, and you've got to trust me.
“Here, Paul, take her home.”


CHAPTER XIII
“T H E B E A U TIF U L CITY WITH
D I R T Y F. E. E. T. "
TAP-TAP-TAP! So they'd come for him. They'd
found him after all, and now they'd come to
take him away, him, Paul Ashby, and hang him
by the neck till he was dead for the murder of
Luela da Costa. Tap-tap-tap/ By God! they
shouldn't catch him—he'd see them in hell first.
There was still time—he'd run for it. But the
room had no window—no door except that one
which trembled with the insistent knocking. If
it was that damned little Leech he'd trip him up
and run for it. But of course it wouldn't be—
they'd never send Leech by himself. They'd sent
him to torture Adelaide, though. Tap-tap-tap/
God! he hadn't much longer—they'd break the
door down.
Adelaide—would she be sorry when she
heard?—would she cry, as she had for Adrian?
Tap-tap-TAP-TAP/ Could nothing save him?
They were opening it . . . Oh, God! they'd got
him!
146


“T H E c 1 TY w IT H D 1 RTY FE E T * 147
He struggled, and woke to find Benvenuto
shaking him by the arm.
“You lazy devil, get up. I’ve been banging on
your door for the last ten minutes. Thought I'd
better come in and see if you'd passed away in
your sleep. Buck up and dress—we're going to
Marseille in the car.”
“MarseilleP” said Paul half awake. “What
the devil for?”
“I want to find our friend the Slosher. Ex-
plain later. How soon can you be ready? Ade-
laide is having coffee with me down at the café
—join us as soon as you can.”
“Ten minutes,” said Paul, springing out of
bed, and the door banged behind Benvenuto.
He turned on the bath, and splashing himself
with cold water tried to get his thoughts into
shape. Why on earth was Benvenuto interested
in the Slosher now—when Adelaide had made
plain Adrian's guilt? Or was that all a dream,
too? He shook himself, and started to scrub
vigorously. Of course it wasn't—he could re-
member the whole thing, and taking her home
afterwards, she leaning on his arm. Was Ben-
venuto trying to get hold of something to put
the authorities off the scent while he got Adrian
away into safety? If that was it, he'd help, too.
Adrian, poor devil—Paul was able to feel noth-


I48 T H E C R IM E COA ST
ing but sympathy for this man he'd never met.
Tough luck on his father; shock would prob-
ably kill the old chap. So thinking, Paul shaved
and dressed as quickly as possible, and ran down
to join the others.
He saw them drinking coffee on the quay, and
Adelaide waved as he came towards them. He
was sorry when he saw she had no hat; she
couldn't be coming. Dressed in one of her usual
white linen frocks, she looked very fresh and
trim, her hair waving back from her face.
Her smile was almost as gay as usual when
she greeted him.
“Forgive all this handshaking,” she said.
“Touche la main is the great national sport of
France. We shake hands when we meet a friend,
regardless of the fact that we'd met round the
corner five minutes before. He sits down at our
table, finds he has no cigarettes, rises to go and
buy some, shakes hands all round, is absent two
minutes, and the ceremony is repeated on his
return. I shook hands thirty-five times in one
morning with a woman who was doing her
marketing at the same shops that I was, and
she'd have been deeply offended if I hadn't. Do
try to remember!”
“I will,” said Paul fervently. “Useful little


“T H E c 1 TY w IT H D I RTY FE E T * 149
tip that. Do you mind if we practise it? I find
I'm out of cigarettes.”
“Bon voyage,” they said, and he left them, his
brain rather in a whirl, to find the nearest tobac-
conist's. How were they managing to be so cheer-
ful when things had taken on such a sinister
appearance? “Upon my word, I believe I'm
more concerned for Adrian than they are,”
thought Paul, walking back from the shop; and
then had an idea so startling that he stopped
dead. Supposing someone else had used Adrian
Kent's name on the telephone in order to throw
suspicion on him? This was interesting. He lit
a cigarette and stared out to sea. But who could
have done it? Adelaide would have recognized
De Najera's voice with its rich Southern drawl,
and yet who else was there? . . . Ah, he had it
—the Slosher, his companion of the train. He
hurried back to the café full of his idea to put it
to Benvenuto, and somehow his enthusiasm
evaporated when he found them calmly discuss-
ing painting.
Sitting down to his coffee, he determined to
test his theory. “You know that chap you spoke
to on the phone, who made an appointment for
Kent,” he said to Adelaide. “D'you remember
if he had an extraordinary uneducated voice?”
“No, he hadn't in the least,” she said, be-


I5o T H E C R IM E COA ST
wildered. “Why?” Benvenuto shook his head at
Paul.
“I’m afraid we can't hang my late fare on his
accent, strong as it is,” he said.
“That's disappointing. But didn't you say
just now that we're going after the Slosher to-
day?”
“Mr. Herbert Dawkins, to you,” corrected
Benvenuto. “I got his name from Leech this
morning. Yes, at the moment he's our only line
of action, for since you laid out De Najera last
night we can't expect to glean anything from
friendly intercourse with him. Still, I must say
it was worth it.” He smiled reminiscently.
“Meanwhile Leech is keeping a firm eye on the
château. You know, there's no doubt that Her-
bert is mixed up in the affair, more so than I can
explain to you just at present, for I've no facts,
and only an inkling as to how. Now, it seems to
me more than likely that he'll be in Marseille
to-day, for it was only yesterday he got that
address in the Rue Galette from Mr. Paleidos.”
“Seems like weeks to me,” said Paul. Benven-
uto nodded. “Me too. If you've finished your
coffee I think we'd better be getting along.”
They said good-bye to Adelaide and climbed
into Benvenuto's car, a rakish-looking two-
seater. Driving along the Marseille road they


“T H E cl TY w IT H D 1 RTY FEET * 151
passed the spot where De Najera had doubled
back the day before and continued inland for a
time, the white dusty road, already very hot in
the sun, winding up through the hills above the
town. Paul caught a glimpse of the port of St.
Antoine far below him, the church raised up
over the houses like a hen brooding over her
chickens, the bay lively with boats. A big wine
ship was coming in, its siren hoarsely summon-
ing the town pilot. Along the road the olive trees
were a dusty gray, and through them Paul could
see vineyards heavy with grapes, and sometimes
a stone-built farmhouse with a shaded court in
front where children played and hens scratched
about. It got hotter as they went inland, and the
peasants at work in the fields wore wide straw
hats to protect them from the sun. Topping a
rise, a great plain spread out before them
bounded by range upon range of bare mountains.
They passed an ancient Provençal village, for-
mal as an Italian hill town, its red roofs packed
closely round a square-towered church, and be-
yond it a massive wedge-shaped mountain jutted
into the plain. The side facing them was perpen-
dicular, formed of different stratas of rock, and
Paul imagined the sea washing against it thou-
sands of years before.
“Montague de Ste. Victoire,” said Benvenuto,


I52 T H E CRIME COA ST
taking off his hat. “You’re on holy ground—
rapidly approaching the birthplace of Cézanne.
All this country looks to me as though it had
been created by him—indeed was, as far as I'm
concerned. Five minutes, and we'll drink to his
memory on the Grande Place.”
Aix-en-Provence proved to be a town of mel-
low and faded magnificence, very quiet and for-
gotten. Paul caught glimpses of enormous
carved gateways and ancient courtyards where
fountains played, and determined he would come
back one day and stay for a bit. They drove
down a fine wide Place with a great fountain
playing at one end, and had drinks in a café in
the shade of plane trees, watching the towns-
people go by with their market baskets, and stu-
dents from the university with books under their
arms. It was very tranquil and orderly.
Half an hour's drive down the main road
brought them to the outskirts of Marseille, and
Paul asked Benvenuto his plan of campaign.
“Well, the only real clue we've got to the
Slosher's whereabouts is Madame V.,” he re-
plied, “but it would be difficult to watch her
house all day, particularly as the Rue Galette
is down in the Vieux Quartier, and it's no place
to hang about in. I think the best thing to do is
to go straight to the Gare, for the station detec-


“T H E c 1 TY w I TH D I RTY F E E T * 153
tive is a pal of mine and he might give us a lead.
Fortunately the Slosher isn't one of these people
one would overlook.” Paul agreed, and on arriv-
ing at the station Benvenuto went in to make in-
quiries, leaving him in the car. He reappeared
in a few minutes.
“Bad luck,” he said. “Chap's gone off duty.
However I’ve got his address and we shall have
to go and hunt him up. Damn waste of time.”
They started off again, crossed the Canne-
bière, the main street of Marseille, and drove
into the suburbs; Benvenuto held his own with
great skill amongst the Marseille taxi drivers,
possibly the most temperamental in the world,
and presently arrived at a small villa surrounded
by a neat garden on the outskirts of the town.
He rang the bell and they were let in by a
cheerful-looking woman with a shrill voice, who
explained her husband was in bed, but if they
would give themselves the trouble of entering
she would go and speak with him. With many
apologies on their part and much volubility on
hers they seated themselves in a dark little par-
lour where heavy Provençal furniture smoth-
ered in knick-knacks and fringed mats stood
uneasily against an execrable modern wallpaper.
Presently their hostess returned and begged
them to mount to her husband's bedroom, where


I54 T H E C R. I. M. E. C. O A S T
he would have much pleasure to see them if they
would excuse . . . Passing through a tiny hall,
where mingled odours of charcoal and garlic
issued from the kitchen, they went up the stairs
and into a bedroom, preceded by Madame.
Here, lying in an enormous bed draped with
mosquito netting, lay a fat Frenchman with
fierce moustaches who greeted Benvenuto en-
thusiastically.
“Ah, mon vieux, vous allez bien?” he roared,
grasping his hand, and Paul saw to his great
delight that he was wearing a flannel nightgown.
Then Paul's hand was crushed in his grasp
while the great voice said:
“Enchanté, m'sieu, enchanté—et qu'est-ce que.
vous voulez boire? Mais oui, mais oui, il faut
prendre un petit verre.”
The preliminaries over, healths drunk and
compliments passed on the brandy, Benvenuto
broached the subject of their errand, to find that
the detective had been on duty the night before
and remembered a monsieur who might be their
friend arriving on the nine o'clock train from
Cannes. The monsieur was carrying two suit-
cases, one large, one small, but helas/ he re-
gretted infinitely he knew not what had become
of him after leaving the station. Benvenuto
thanked him profusely, and with many hand-


“T H E c 1 TY w IT H D 1 R T Y FE ET * 155
shakes they left him among his pillows and went
down to the car.
“That's something anyhow,” remarked Paul.
“What do we do now—try the hotels?”
Benvenuto considered, and then said: “I think
on the whole we'll try the station again first. The
town is stiff with hotels and it would be a long
business, whereas if we're lucky we might get
hold of a taxi driver or a porter who remembers
him and knows where he went.”
Back in the station yard Paul sat in the car
while Benvenuto strolled over to the taxi rank,
where he soon had all the drivers round him,
gesticulating and talking. After various sugges-
tions had been made and discarded Paul saw
him hand a note to one man and walk on one side
with him. Presently he came back looking very
pleased and said: “Smart fellow—remembers
taking him to the Hôtel George W. Attaboy”—
and off they went again.
Leaving the car in a garage, they walked to
the hotel, where things were simple, for after a
murmured consultation with the hotel clerk and
a further note expended, they were allowed to
look at the register. Benvenuto ran his finger
down the names entered on the previous night
and stopped opposite one of them. A delighted
smile overspread his face. “Percy de Winter,


156 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
London,” he said softly, and Paul bent over and
read it, written with many flourishes. A confer-
ence with the clerk confirmed their suspicion—
Percy was undoubtedly the Slosher, and he had,
it seemed, left the hotel half an hour before,
saying he would not be back for lunch.
Whilst standing in consultation at the hotel
entrance they were approached by a very shabby,
genteel, elderly Englishman.
“May I have the pleasure of showing you
round this city, sirs?” he began, taking off his
greasy hat and speaking in a sprightly tone
which went badly with his threadbare clothes
and furtive-looking face. They turned away
hastily, but he was not to be put off.
“Very interesting, the old quarters of the
town, sir,” went on the voice insinuatingly.
“Churches — antiquities — unusual cinemas —
lovely women—”
Benvenuto drove him off with a curse, and
then suddenly took Paul's arm and went back
to him. He drew a fifty-franc note from his
pocket which the man eyed hungrily. Benvenuto
gave it to him and said, “This your usual pitch?”
“Yes, Captain, night and day. I have many
clients among the English visitors.”
“Well, look here. A stout man came out of this
hotel this morning—an Englishman with sandy


158 T H E C R IM E CO A S T
to meet his little friend of last night. He did not
mention where, sir.”
The man appeared to be speaking the truth
and they left him, though not before he had
made another attempt to show them the sights.
“Ten to one it's the Cintra,” said Benvenuto
to Paul. “Everyone goes there, and it's a likely
rendezvous with a poule. And look here, when
and if we do run him to earth he's certain to
recognize you. Don't cut him—but on the same
hand don't be too eager, for I imagine you didn't
exactly part like brothers. I flatter myself he
won't know me, for I was pretty well camou-
flaged the other day.”
The Cintra they found crowded, and noisy
with many tongues. Pushing their way to the
bar, they ordered brandies and sodas, and looked
about them. Paul was the first to discover their
quarry, and murmuring to Benvenuto he edged
sideways through the crowd. The Slosher was
sitting at a small table with a man and a girl,
and the party seemed to be in the best of spirits.
In fact the laughter was so loud that it was at-
tracting general attention. The girl was quite
young, and crudely painted, with coarse black
hair plastered in curls on her cheeks. She was
extremely smartly dressed, though when she
laughed she displayed teeth that made Paul


“T H E c 1 TY w IT H D 1 RTY FE ET * 159
shudder. Her companion was a thin dark man in
an exaggeratedly cut suit, a typical bar lounger.
Paul was doubtful of his nationality, though he
appeared to be acting as interpreter to the party.
They were both laying themselves out to please
the Slosher, who responded cheerfully.
“Wot abaht painting the town pink ternight?”
he was saying expansively, as they got near
enough to catch his words. The interpreter was
unequal to this and said, “Pardon?”
“Seein’ a bit of life,” elaborated the host,
raising his voice hoarsely.
“Ah/ mais out—yes, yes, parfaitement,” said
his companion. He smiled and translated to the
girl, who broke into a torrent of agreement.
“Je connais une boite beaucoup plus curieuse
que celle d'hier soir, ou y trouve des jolies gon-
zes—et on y boit bien,” she finished, looking at
the Slosher eagerly. He was bewildered for a
moment, but the man explaining, he proved en-
tirely agreeable.
“Tell 'er,” he said, pressing his companion's
waistcoat with a podgy forefinger, “tell 'er if
she's a good girl I'll give 'er a brace of hear-
rings.”
“Herrings?” queried the guide, again baffled.
The Slosher frowned as if he suspected a
joke in bad taste, and then decided to laugh. He


“T H E C IT Y w IT H D I R T Y F E E T * 161
to-day to meet a friend of mine, Mr. Brown,
who's just landed.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Brown,” said the
Slosher, shaking hands, his face clearing. “’Ave
a cigar. This is some town, this is, 'ot stuff I can
tell you. Now where's my little bit o' skirt gone?
'Ere, Fifine, come and say 'ow do to the gentle-
men.”
“Enchanté, m'sieurs,” said Fifine, looking far
from enchanted, and a moment later hurried
after her companion who had strolled to the
door and was waiting with a frown on his face
and a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Little bit of orl right,” said the Slosher,
winking at Benvenuto who nodded sympatheti-
cally. “Well, sorry I can't stop—pressin'engage-
ment and I got to get a bite to eat first. So-long,
all.”
By this time the bar had emptied, and Ben-
venuto turned to Paul.
“Look here—can you lunch on sandwiches?
They'll give us some here, and we've not much
time,” he said.
“Rather—I'll go and order some at the bar,'
said Paul.
When he came back Benvenuto had moved
over to a corner table. He bent forward eagerly.
“Now for a council of war. If I mistake not,
y


162 T H E C R IM E COA ST
things are going to hum this afternoon. I'm de-
termined on a quiet interview with the Slosher,
and we must waylay him before he gets to
Madame V.'s—for that's obviously where he's
going after lunch—he's full of it. The Rue Ga-
lette is down in the Vieux Quartier and I warn
you that place is no picnic. Want to come?”
Paul chuckled. “You bet I do. I’m told it's as
fierce as the underworld of Chicago. It doesn’t
seem possible, cheek by jowl with this well-
gendarmed city.”
“Believe me, it is. Last winter I spent three
months down there, painting, and more or less
received the ‘freedom.” I’d got no money and
nothing they wanted. I didn't poke my nose into
their business, and that being so, I found thieves
and harlots extremely good company when off
duty. The Senegalese are the worst. Last time I
was over here I went into a gunshop to get some
shot for my rifle, and while I was there five buck
niggers came in and purchased between them
twenty revolvers, discussing meanwhile some
gentleman of the name of André. But to return
—I'm afraid the plot is thickening round the
Slosher's head.”
“How d'you mean?”
“Well, I'm pretty well convinced that his
young woman is the decoy of a gang. Poor


“T H E c 1 TY w IT H D 1 RTY FE E T * 163
Slosher—he may be a grand criminal in his own
country, but he's a sucking babe in this town. I
don't think their plans for trapping their rich
Anglais will mature till to-night—you remem-
ber she was very enthusiastic about some place of
amusement she intends taking him to–and
there's our chance. We must act this afternoon
or there'll be no more jewels, and very possibly
no more Slosher. When I’ve got hold of him I
propose doing a bit of blackmailing. We've got
to get his story of last Tuesday evening, and the
threat I can hold over him is my knowledge, or
suspicion that amounts to knowledge, of his theft
of Lady Trelorne's jewels. Hence the haste—for
once he's disposed of them to Madame V. the
thread is valueless. Finished lunch? Well, let's
go. I have a revolver (which doesn't revolve, it's
true) and you have a fist. Forward to Madame
V., and for the love of heaven obey me exactly.”
“Yes, Captain!” said Paul, and they started
off down the Cannebière, a wide street of hotels,
shops, and cafés, with a tramway down the
centre, crowded and noisy. It terminated on the
Old Port, and while they were held up at the
corner by a stream of traffic Paul looked about
him. Sea and sky were a burning blue, the sun
blazed down baking the cobbles so that they hurt
his feet, the noise was terrific, the air full of the


I64 T H E C R IM E CO AST
tang of fish, salt, and gasoline fumes. A wide
cobbled causeway ran round three sides of the
port, backed by tall houses huddled unevenly
together and sun-dried to a dusty white. Fish-
wives were throwing pails of sea water over
their stalls. It glistened on the bright green of
seaweed and the yellow skins of lemons which
decked trays of strange shell fish. Plaques stuck
in them announced the price and the different
varieties—piades, piadons, esques, moredues,
violets, moules, portugaises. The harsh accents
of the fishwives rose' above the noise of traffic
as they called their wares or shouted across at
each other from throats apparently of brass.
Enormously strong, rather short and broad in
the beam, they were dark and swarthy-skinned,
and seemed to Paul, as they clattered about in
wooden clogs with baskets of fish and pails, to
be the embodiment of this harsh and vigorous
town. He stared about him, fascinated, till Ben-
venuto pulled him by the arm through the traffic
to the other side, where boats were moored up
against the causeway. Here they could walk
with comparative safety, picking their way
among ropes and barrels, and eluding the boat-
men who sought custom for a trip round the bay.
Another five minutes brought them to the be-
ginning of the Vieux Quartier, where every


I66 T H E C R IM E COA ST
dame V. Corsets. 5me étage.” They walked on to
the end of the street, turned and came back, and
suddenly Benvenuto pulled Paul into a doorway.
Coming towards them was the girl Fifine, her
hands on her hips, whistling. She had not seen
them and they crouched back as she went by, and
then suddenly Paul felt hands pulling him back-
wards into the house. Not daring to struggle,
he looked behind him to see an old hag with a
painted mouth smiling horribly at him. Ben-
venuto thrust ten francs into the hands, mutter-
ing something in an argot Paul did not under-
stand, and he was released.
“Can't go out for a minute—curse the girl—
but what did I tell you? Unfortunate Slosher!”
said Benvenuto in his ear. “Still, this isn't a bad
observation post for the moment, for he must
pass this way to get to Madame V.'s.”
As he spoke a taxi turned up the street that
was only just wide enough to take it, and as it
went quickly past them they could see the
Slosher inside.
“Damn!” said Paul with emphasis, and Ben-
venuto broke into a string of curses.
“I never thought of the fool coming up here
in a taxi-didn't think it could be done. Come
on, after him.” They saw the Slosher alight,
hand the taxi man a note, and enter the bistro,


“T H E cl TY w IT H D I RTY FE E T * 167
and then Benvenuto pulled Paul back into the
doorway. For the girl, who had been whistling
all the time in the street, suddenly stopped doing
so, and three men emerged from a house and
walked quickly across into the bistro.
“Hell! he's trapped. They won't attack him
till he comes out, for money is money and jewels
are hard to get rid of. Come on—we'll have to
do our best and Lord help us.”
Fifine had apparently done her bit and was
walking off. They waited till she disappeared
and then walked down towards the bistro, which
was empty except for the three men, one of them
a Negro, who were seated at a table drinking.
They walked straight through and met the bar-
man, a small green-faced diseased-looking pimp,
who stopped them.
“I have an appointment with Madame V.,”
said Benvenuto in French.
“Elle est occupée,” returned the barman.
“Yes, I know, but it is my friend with her and
I have some important information for him.”
“On ne passe pas.”
It was getting difficult, for the gang were all
looking at them and talking in low voices. Sud-
denly Benvenuto leant forward and whispered
something in the barman's ear. His sickly face
immediately became wreathed in smiles, and he


I68 T H E CRIM E COA ST
made way for them to reach the staircase, mak-
ing a sign to the three men as he did so.
“Bit of luck,” whispered Benvenuto. “Fifth
story—top of the house. Now follow me, and if
you make a single sound, even breathe, you're as
good as dead.” With which cheerful remark
he preceded Paul up the dark staircase.
Very slowly and quietly they climbed five
flights without encountering anyone, and found
themselves in a long narrow landing at the top
with two doors facing them. Benvenuto bent
down and examined the lock on the first door
very carefully, and listened with his ear to the
keyhole, then, making a cheerful gesture to
Paul, he crept along to the next door. After
repeating the proceeding he took what appeared
to be a small tire lever from his pocket, and in-
serting it between the door and the lintel he
levered very gently at the lock until the door
swung quietly inwards. They slipped inside and
found themselves in a passage with a thick car-
pet on the floor. Benvenuto closed the door be-
hind them, and went towards another at the end
of the passage. This proved to be unlocked and
he opened it very slowly, looked inside, and
beckoned to Paul to follow him. They found
themselves in a large bedroom ornately and
vulgarly furnished, dim daylight coming in


“T H E c 1 TY w IT H D 1 RTY FE ET * 169
through the shutters. Another door, opposite the
one they had entered by, obviously led into the
second room which communicated directly with
the staircase. They crossed over to it, thanking
heaven for a thick flowered carpet on the floor;
they heard the sound of voices, and it seemed to
Paul an eternity before Benvenuto had turned
the handle, pushed the door inwards, and re-
leased the handle without making a sound. He
peered round the door, his revolver in his hand,
and motioned to Paul to do likewise. They saw
a large room with a window straight ahead of
them, and in front of this an ormolu table was
drawn up. Sitting up to it, his back towards
them, was the Slosher, and on his left another
man, enormously fat, with a microscope in his
eye. So Madame V. was a man! The table was
covered with jewels which flashed and glittered
as the men handled them.
Benvenuto covered the two men with his re-
volver, walked into the room and said:
“Mr. Dawkins, I presume.”


CHAPTER XIV
R O U G H – H O U S E
THE Slosher had turned round, and was looking
at them with the air of a paralyzed pig. The
jewel merchant clasped his fat hands in front
of him and smiled in a noncommittal sort of
way, as if to say, “This is no affair of mine.”
Benvenuto advanced further into the room.
“It's all right, Mr. Dawkins, I'm not going
to shoot you if you keep quite still,” he said,
taking a chair, while Paul stationed himself
behind him. -
“Now listen to me,” he went on. “We want
some information from you and you don't leave
here until we’ve got it. We have no connection
with the police”—here the Slosher took on an
easier attitude and gingerly turned his chair
towards them—“but on the other hand I can,
if I choose, put them on your tracks in ten min-
utes. Meanwhile I have three of the toughest
thugs in Marseille downstairs in the bar, and
unless you tell me what I want to know you will
never leave this place alive. D'you understand?
17o


R O U G H - H O U S E 171
Your fat body will be rotting down a drain this
evening instead of drinking champagne on the
proceeds of the Trelorne jewels. Oh, yes—I
know what I’m talking about.”
The Slosher blinked.
“You fair took me by surprise, as the saying
goes. Oo are yer, anyway?”
“Never mind about that. The point is I’ve got
you by the short hairs, and unless 9)
“Anything I can do to oblige,” the Slosher
cut in hastily.
“You will tell me exactly why you went to
the rooms of the Signora da Costa in Bishop's
Hotel last Tuesday evening about six o'clock.”
The Slosher gave a spasmodic jump.
“I never done it—wajjer mean? I wasn't never
in 'er bloody rooms, s'welp me Gawd I wasn't.”
“I am not asking you whether you smothered
the lady,” said Benvenuto soothingly. “We will
not touch on such a delicate matter, and even if
you did I couldn't expect you to admit it. No.
But you were there, and now's your chance to
explain why. Quick, Mr. Dawkins.”
“I take me bleedin' oath I never went near.”
Benvenuto smiled.
“Does Loty's bath powder mean anything to
you? Or this?” With a stride he had reached
the table, and from the tangle of pearls and


172 T H E CRIM E CO AST
bracelets he picked up a small diamond brooch
and held it in front of the Slosher, who quailed.
“You seem to know a 'ell of a lot. I’ll come
across; that's ter say, you get me out of this 'ome
of rest and I'll come across.”
Benvenuto thrust his revolver nearer. “You’ll
tell me now or you're a dead man,” he said
threateningly.
“Orl right, orl right, don't be so 'asty. Yer see,
it was like this 'ere. The lidy you mention 'ad
come over from Paris with a packet of snow—
that's ter say, cocaine. A big packet it was, and
a friend of mine 'oo'd 'ad a row wiv 'er—”
“Yes, yes—her brother.”
“Well, it was 'er bruvver, now you mention
it. 'E'd 'ad a row wiv'is sister and wanted to get
one back on 'er, like. Likewise 'e wanted the
money, and 'e 'ated 'er like 'ell 'cos 'e said she
was double-crossin' 'im and not goin' fifty-fifty,
if yer get me.’Er part of the job was to smuggle
the stuff across from Paris to London, see? Jolly
smart she was at it, too, and done it lots o' times
before. Well, as I was sayin', this 'ere Dago and
me, we fixed it up as I was to take a room in
Bishop's 'Otel, nab the stuff, sell it in London,
and give 'im two thirds of the doin's. The stuff
was done up in Loty's bath-powder boxes, four
of 'em, wiv a little real powder on the top. He


R O U G H - H O U S E 173
tips me the wink from Paris, and I dresses up
and takes the room the same day as the Signora
arrives. I made all me plans to sell the stuff
quick, and I 'ung around until 'er room was
empty, as I thort. While I was 'anging around
I managed to pick up this little lot from a room
near,” he gestured towards the table. “Couldn't
keep me 'ands orf 'em like—saw the door open
and slipped in easy as kiss me 'and. Well, then
I went back to No. 62 and the key was in the
door, and I'd seen the maid go out. In I went
and what should I'ear but the Signora splashin'
about in 'er bath. 'Owever, I’m used to the work
yer know,” he smiled modestly, “and I took a
chance. Didn't 'ave much trouble in findin’ the
stuff—there it was in a dressing case in the next
room where'er clothes was 'angin' up. I’ad me
little bag and popped 'em in, likewise that there
brooch, like a bloody fool, never could say no
to diamonds. I wos just going to slip out when
strike me pink if there wasn't a knock at the
door, and under the bed I was in a twinklin'.
‘Come inl’ yells the Signora, and a girl comes
in, leastways judgin' by 'er ankles she was a girl,
and they 'ad a set-to about art or some rot and
me sweatin' like 'ell under the bed wiv the big-
gest scoop I ever 'ad. Well, after a bit the girl
goes orf y)


R O U G H - H O U S E I75
to the dealer, poked him in the stomach with
his revolver, and said quietly, “Ask who is there
and what they want.”
“Qui va là?” said the dealer obediently, in a
voice so high and squeaky that Paul wanted to
laugh, in spite of an inner conviction that they
were in a tight place should the gunmen be
outside. The reply was unexpected, and was
rumbled out in such a mixture of French and
Italian that Paul could only catch its drift with
difficulty.
“It is I, Julius Caesar,” said the voice. “We
came up to see if all goes well. The fat English
is still there, yes?”
Benvenuto closed his hand over the dealer's
mouth, pressed the gun yet further into the
yielding flesh, and turned his head towards the
door.
“Go down, my children,” he said in a very
fair imitation of his victim's high treble, “and
wait for ten minutes. All goes well.”
It was a critical moment. Benvenuto's sug-
gestion seemed to be causing a difference of
opinion outside the door, and voices were
raised in argument. It was obvious they weren't
going to risk the chance of a fortune if they
could help it. Paul suddenly realized the danger
they were in, and looked round for something


176. T H E C R IM E COA ST
heavy to use in self-defense. The Slosher, mean-
while, not understanding French, was at a total
loss as to what to think of the situation. He was
rapidly replacing the jewels in his little black
suitcase, and wearing the expression of a man
who knew not who was his friend and who
his foe.
The consultation outside came to a climax
with a heavy blow on the door, and a voice, this
time not belonging to Julius Caesar, said,
“Open.”
Benvenuto, still with a firm grasp on Madame
W., said to Paul softly, “Shove furniture across
the door and keep low in case they fire,” and
then to the dealer, in French, “Your private
entrance, quick, or I'll shoot.”
The dealer hesitated but for a moment, met
Benvenuto's fiery eye, and a sob shaking his fat
body he gestured towards the bedroom door
with a small ringed hand.
“Come on!” This time Benvenuto had to
shout, for blow on blow battered at the solid
door, and a revolver shot through the lock lost
itself in a heavy wooden armoire which Paul
had managed to drag in front of it.
First went the dealer, tripping neatly forward,
then Benvenuto, using the revolver barrel as a


178 T H E C R IM E COA ST
ing down the fat and powdered cheeks. Was it
a man or a woman? He had a moment of com-
passion.
A couple of hundred yards brought them to a
populous thoroughfare; five minutes more and
they were on the port near the Cannebière and
dropped their pace to a quiet walk.
“Good exercise, that,” panted Benvenuto.
“Splendid for the liver. D'you know—I almost
feel I could do with a drink.”
Three empty glasses were on the table. Three
men, sitting back in their chairs, presented a
friendly spectacle to the outward eye, each
smoking respectively a cigar, a pipe, and a ciga-
rette. The centrepiece of the scene was a small
black suitcase placed conspicuously on the table,
at which they were all staring ruminatively.
Benvenuto was the first to break the silence.
“Well, Mr. Dawkins, as you were saying when
you were so rudely interrupted ” he began,
when the Slosher sighed dismally.
“Orl right,” he said, “I’ll come across wiv
the rest of it, but couldn' we 'ave another drop
o' the old nonsense first?” He placed his hand
over the region where his heart might be pre-
sumed to lie. “I feels quite faint after all that
there.” And he sighed again. His face had cer-


R O U G H - H O U S E I79
tainly taken on a purplish hue, and Benvenuto
looked at him reprovingly.
“You should try banting, Mr. Dawkins,” he
said. “A rusk and a dash of lemon juice for
dinner would do wonders for you. Meanwhile,
if you feel some liquid refreshment would make
your story flow I think you might have it. Here
—garçon/ But if it doesn't—and quickly, too—
we go hand in hand to the nearest gendarme,
taking this little lot,” pointing to the bag, “with
us. You realize that, don't you?”
“I’ll come across,” repeated the Slosher ear-
nestly, “specially after your getting me out of
that there joint.”
“Very well, then. Garçon/ Curse the waiter
—see if you can wake him up, Ashby, will you?”
Paul jumped up, and went to the back of the
empty café to summon the waiter from a room
beyond. He hurried, for as he rose from his
chair the Slosher bent over the table towards
Benvenuto.
“Well, it was like this ” he was beginning,
and Paul didn't want to lose a word of the story.
He had picked his way through half a dozen
tables and chairs when a shout from the Slosher
arrested him. “Look out!—'ere comes them
bleedin' thugs!” he bellowed, and Paul was in
time to see Benvenuto, who had turned to look


I8o T H E C R IM E COAST
behind him, bashed on the head with a water
bottle by the Slosher, who thereupon grabbed
the case of jewels and ran for the door with
surprising agility. Paul tore down the room
after him, his progress impeded by the tables
and chairs in his path, and as he passed Benve-
nuto, saw him slip to the floor with a groan,
blood and water pouring down his face. Paul
reached the door in time to see the Slosher jump
into a moving taxi, flinging a note to the driver
as he did so. The taxi put on speed, and Paul,
looking wildly round, saw there was no other
in sight and not a gendarme for miles. He ran
a long way down the road before he realized
the chase was hopeless—a French crowd will
not concern itself with cries of “Stop thief!”
and the taxi had disappeared into a maze of
side streets. Back to the café Paul ran, cursing
himself at every step, to find a scared-looking
waiter bending over the unconscious form of
Benvenuto. Paul wiped the blood from the side
of his head and forced some brandy through
his lips. Presently his eyes opened.
“Dear me, Ashby,” he said weakly, “you have
triangular eyes,” and returned to unconscious-
Il CSS.


I82 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
in persuading him to stay in the studio and have
his dinner sent round.”
They were sitting in the Café de la Phare
having after-dinner coffee, while Paul recounted
to Adelaide the day's adventures. It was very
hot, and a full moon hung over the port, turn-
ing the night into a brilliant and phosphorescent
day. All St. Antoine was out to enjoy it, and
fishermen were taking parties of people across
the bay in their motorboats. Outside the next
café, sailors, home on leave from Toulon, were
dancing together, spinning round very fast to
a curious Provençal tune played by a pink-
shirted man with an accordion.
“Enter bottle-scarred veteran.” Paul turned
with a start to see Benvenuto, the side of his
head artistically decorated with sticking plaster,
looking down at them gloomily.
“Ben, oughtn't you to be in bed?” Adelaide
looked critically at him as he sat down beside
her. “Paul has been telling me of your bloody,
bold, and resolute deeds—and I’m feeling so
proud of being an English Girl.”
“Never felt finer in my life. I've just been
interviewing Leech, which is always interesting.
And talking of blood ” He bent forward,
and Adelaide jumped as his hand came down on
her shoulder. “Got it,” he murmured, and stared


184 T H E C R IM E COA ST
ing the town with his presence this afternoon,
and quite all right apparently. Leech tells me
he called on you when you were out, my dear,”
he said to Adelaide.
She shivered. “Thank goodness I was. I went
up into the hills to do a painting. I wonder
what he wanted.”
Benvenuto laughed. “I think I can guess,” he
said. “But let's get down to business. Look here,
Paul—you're a lawyer—I suggest it would be
good practice for you to present the case to us
up to date. I've got various theories germinating,
and it would clear things up in my mind to hear
the facts as we know them expressed from your
point of view.”
“Right—I’ll do my best. But first of all I'd
like to hear what you found out about De
Najera's alibi from that fisherman yesterday—
you never told me, if you remember.”
“Neither did I. Well, I had a talk with old
Gallo, who's a great pal of mine, and it so hap-
pened he was down on the shore painting his
boat at about seven o'clock last Tuesday morn-
ing, and he remembers seeing De Najera put
out from his private harbour in the speed boat.
It stuck in his mind because it was a bit early
for the gentleman to be about, and he's certain
it was De Najera on account of his yellow


A D E L A I D E I S B ITT EN 185
jumper and white hat. He was alone, he said.
Then at about ten-thirty he saw the boat come
back and turn into the harbour, De Najera still
alone in it. As we know, it was seen later in
the afternoon by dozens of people, and by a
pure bit of luck we know it was the valet dis-
guised as his master who was in it. With this
knowledge it seems fairly obvious what hap-
pened in the morning.”
“Why, of course,” assented Paul. “They both
started out from Les Palmiers, one of them
lying in the bottom of the boat covered with a
sailcloth or something. Then De Najera prob-
ably changed into ordinary clothes if he wasn't
in them already, landed somewhere along the
coast near Marseille, took a train or taxi into
the town, and sent the valet back alone. How's
that?”
Benvenuto nodded. “Very pretty. And, so long
as it was unsuspected, a very nice little alibi in-
deed. If we're right it will be quite easy to
prove. Meanwhile I think we can take it for
granted that he can have had a good twenty-
four hours away from St. Antoine, beginning at
about 7 A.M. on Tuesday. Now carry on.”
“Well,” began Paul, “we know the history
of the afternoon at Bishop's Hotel up to, ap-
proximately, six o'clock—that is, five minutes


186 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
after Adelaide left, when the Slosher's story
came to an end. At six-thirty the maid entered
the suite to find that Signora da Costa had been
murdered. Let us say that five minutes elapsed
between the departure of the murderer and the
entrance of the maid—and possibly ten minutes
for the murder itself. That leaves fifteen min-
utes unaccounted for; probably less.
“Who entered the Signora's room between
six and six-fifteen?
“First we must consider Adrian, for he's obvi-
ously the perfect suspect from the police point
of view. He had a motive, or at least what the
police would certainly consider a motive, know-
ing as they do that Luela was threatening him
with an accusation of theft. Further, he has dis-
appeared, which is in itself extremely suspicious.
Worse than all, he had a telephone appointment
with Luela for six o'clock, although thanks to
Adelaide the police do not know this.”
He paused. The other two were silent until
Benvenuto, in a low voice, said, “Go on.”
“Suspicion next falls on the Slosher. He was,
on his own showing, still in the room at six
o'clock. He had in his possession a big haul
of jewels stolen from Lady Trelorne's room, to
say nothing of what must, I imagine, have been
several thousand pounds' worth of cocaine, and


A D E L A I D E IS B ITT EN 187
a diamond brooch belonging to the Signora.
Therefore he was a desperate man in a very tight
place. What more likely than that in order to
escape he crept out from under the bed, pos-
sibly at a moment when the Signora had turned
to get a dress from the dressing room, seized
the eiderdown from the bed, flung it over her
head, smothered her without a sound, laid her
body on the bed, and slipped quietly away?
He is, we know to our cost, a strong brute and
a treacherous one.”
“I’ll tell the world he is,” murmured Benve-
nuto, ruefully rubbing his head. “And you make
a strong case against him. But go on.”
“Next—we have De Najera, and here is a
definite motive, according to the Slosher's story.
He and his sister had been partners in the ille-
gal and highly dangerous business of cocaine
smuggling. They had fallen out, apparently be-
cause the Signora had ‘double-crossed’ him, as
Mr. Dawkins put it, and De Najera wanted
money and he wanted revenge. He employed the
Slosher ostensibly to steal a packet of cocaine
from her; but isn't it quite probable that this
was a blind—that he really intended murdering
her and was proposing to use the Slosher, caught
red-handed in a burglary, to divert suspicion?
Further, isn't it at least possible that to make


I88 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
assurance doubly sure he telephoned, or got
someone to telephone for him, making an ap-
pointment in Adrian Kent's name for the fateful
hour? If so, it was an ingenious idea, for Kent is
known to have been her lover, to have quarrelled
with her, and to have been threatened by her.
The most damning evidence against De Najera
is, of course, the fact that he troubled to estab-
lish an alibi for himself on that day.
“Fourthly and lastly there is the possibility
of some unknown person or persons—either
someone who had a grudge against the Signora,
or one of her dope-smuggling colleagues—who
knew of the valuable booty concealed in her
TOOITIS.
“Now I propose we try to defend each one
in turn.
“Take Kent first. The only thing in his
favour, as far as I am concerned, is your belief
in his innocence. The fact of his disappearance
is what chiefly troubles me.”
“H'm. He's a curious chap—I wish you knew
him,” said Benvenuto. “As I've told you, I know
him pretty well, and he's never to be relied on
to do the obvious thing. In my opinion he is the
sort of chap who, if he had committed the mur-
der, would have given himself up. If he hadn't,
and knew that suspicion had fallen on him, he


A DE LA ID E IS BITT EN 189
would be quite likely to go into hiding in order
to avoid being questioned and so on, believing
that the real murderer would be caught, and
not realizing that he was making things look
doubly black against himself. Not only that,
he was suffering from extreme contrition at the
quarrel he had had with his father and at the
worry and anxiety he had caused the old chap.
He's a highly nervous and sensitive fellow, and
his first thought on learning that he was sus-
pected of murder would probably be to keep it
from his father at all costs, and to save him the
horror of seeing his son standing for trial. If
you remember, in that letter you told me about
he said he was going away ‘until this business
was all over and done with'—meaning Luela's
trumped-up case about the jewel—and that gives
one an idea as to what his reaction to the really
serious charge would be.”
“I suppose that's possible,” said Paul slowly,
when Adelaide broke in.
“Oh, Ben,” she said, “I’ve been so terribly
afraid all the time that he did do it in a fit of
madness, and that he killed himself afterwards.”
Benvenuto didn't speak for a moment. Then:
“You know him as well as I do, Adelaide,” he
said, “and it looks—pretty bad—if you, too,
think he may have done it. And yet—I can't


I90 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
believe it. Go on, Paul—clear your next man.”
Paul considered for a minute.
“The great point in the Slosher's favour,” he
said, “is, of course, the telephone call, which
certainly indicates that someone came to the
Signora's room at the appointed hour. It cuts
both ways, of course, because the Slosher had
overheard the conversation and knew someone
was coming. Also he realized, no doubt, that
a hue and cry after Lady Trelorne's jewels
would soon start and that the hotel would prob-
ably be searched—and his fears may have in-
cited him to try and get away at all costs. But
it would have been a bit risky, to say the least
of it, to attack her when he knew someone
might arrive at any moment.”
“Quite so. He was confronted with the devil
and the deep sea all right. And remember—he
hasn't the figure for playing hide-and-seek un-
der a bed. But go on.”
“Well, there are, it seems to me, three reason-
able explanations:
I. “The Slosher committed the murder. In
which case the Unknown, that is, Kent or
someone using his name, would, one would
have thought, have given the alarm, though
this might not apply (a) if the visitor were
De Najera or (b) if it were someone who


A D E L A ID E I S B I TT EN I91
took to his heels when confronted with a
corpse, and hasn't come forward for fear of
being suspected.
2. “The Slosher managed to slip away un-
noticed while the Signora was in the bath-
room or dressing room, and before the
visitor arrived. Or,
3. “He lay hidden under the bed while the
murder was committed, and escaped after-
wards. He may not have seen the murderer,
or even realized at the time that the Signora
was dead. Remember his view was a bit re-
stricted—an ankle was all he saw of Ade-
laide.
By the way, d'you know anything about his past
record?” -
“Who? Oh, the Slosher.” Benvenuto had been
gazing abstractedly out to sea, and pulled his
attention back with an effort. “Yes, I learnt a
few things from Leech this evening. He's an
ex-pugilist—got turned out of the ring some
years ago, and seems to have run to fat and crime
ever since. He's been in clink twice—once for
robbery, once for robbery with violence. Also
he's known to be mixed up with an extremely
shady racing gang in London—a man of parts,
you perceive. I told Leech a garbled version
of our encounter with him in Marseille, and he


A D E L A I D E IS B ITT E N I93
was about to suggest that to-morrow we go into
Marseille again, and visit the aérodrome.”
“Please can I come too, Ben?” said Adelaide.
“I don't much want to lose sight of you two
again after what you've been up to to-day, and
besides, I want my hair cut.”
Benvenuto looked at her dubiously.
“I suppose it is a bit long,” he said, “but if you
think you're going to have a private view of
Marseille gunmen you're wrong. We're going
to spend a sober and uneventful day making a
few discreet inquiries, so perhaps it would be
better for you to come along with us than to stay
here and be wooed by Hernandez. By the way,
did you tell Paul about your bit of research last
night about ačroplanes?”
“Oh! Paul, I forgot.” She looked at him con-
tritely. “And it was so exciting. I feigned a girl-
ish enthusiasm for flying, and told him how I
longed to go up. Actually I’ve flown a good deal,
but he didn't know that, and he rose beautifully
and said he would be honoured to take me on my
first trip. So then I got quite ecstatic and said
how marvellous it would be, but how could it
be done? and he confessed to having a private
plane of his own which he uses for going across
to his place in Spain, and which he keeps in an


I94 T H E C R IM E COA ST
aérodrome along the coast. He didn't say where,
and I didn't like to seem too inquisitive, think-
ing that the best plan would be to go up with
him one day soon. After that—well, things be-
gan to get rather difficult, as you know.”
Paul congratulated her on her tactics, and
then the council of war became gradually mori-
bund. One by one they dropped into silence,
watching the pale beauty of the night, and oc-
cupied with their own particular thoughts.
From the town, along the mole, came a small
group of men and women, and with them a
musician, striking now and again a few chords
on his guitar. They climbed down into a boat
painted pink and blue and, one taking the oars,
rowed out across the bay.
“L’Embarquement pour la Cythére,” mur-
mured Benvenuto.
The voices of the singers came to them across
the water:
“Chaque soir à la brune
Quand au ciel monte la lune,
Au loin dans des Savanes on entend
Un chanson que fredonnent les amants. . . .”
As the song faded softly in the distance Paul
found Adelaide's hand resting in his own.
Benvenuto yawned and got up.


A DE LA ID E IS BITT EN I95
“For your own sakes I will leave you,” he
said.
“Why for our sakes?” asked Adelaide
quickly.
“I might recite one of my own poems,” Ben-
venuto replied gloomily. “Good-night, my chil-
dren.”


W I N G S I97
over to the waiting car that she was to spend the
morning in so scented and civilized an oasis.
Benvenuto looked at him critically as he got
into the car.
“I was wondering which of us most nearly
resembles a merchant prince,” he said. “I rather
feel I do.” He looked into the driving mirror
and carefully placed a bowler hat over his plast-
ered head. “How's that?”
“Charming,” replied Paul, regarding him in
some astonishment. “But may I ask y)
“Got a card on you?” interrupted Benvenuto.
Extracting one from his case, he handed it
to him, and watched him take out a fountain
pen and add to the name of the club it already
bore, “Directeur du Commerce Civil Aéro-
nautique d’Angleterre.”
Regarding it with some satisfaction, Benve-
nuto said, “Most impressive. And I think for the
time being, with your permission, the card is
my own. You, of course, are Our Mr. Brown,
and we represent an English firm desirous of
arranging an air route between London, Paris,
Marseille, and Nice with a view to supplying
the Riviera with salmon, pheasants etc., and
taking back flowers and fruit. We may require a
hangar at Marseille and so, of course, wish to
inspect the accommodations available.”


198 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
Paul laughed. “I don't feel it has the makings
of a commercial success,” he said, “but it cer-
tainly ought to get us round the aérodrome.”
They drove through the town, and leaving the
outskirts behind them came presently to a big
flying ground on which stood numerous sheds
and hangars. Benvenuto drove through the gates
and up to the manager's office, leaving Paul
in the car while he went in. The rain had sub-
sided somewhat, and he got down and looked
about him with interest. Through the open door
of a hangar he could see mechanics at work on a
machine, cleaning and polishing the gleaming
metal, while in the distance across the muddy
landing fields a big liner was taking off, the roar
of its engine filling the air. Paul watched it
bumping across the ground, the figures of the
mechanics small and insignificant beside it, saw
it rise into the air while its engine roared louder
still, and then sail away in what seemed a curi-
ously effortless flight over the distant trees and
buildings, and gradually disappear into the gray
clouds. He turned, to see Benvenuto and some-
one who was obviously the manager descending
the steps of the office. Benvenuto's personality
combined with the card had worked wonders,
and the man was being very polite and talking
------------


2OO T H E CR IM E CO A S T
the backs of the row of small private hangars.
He drew up to the roadside, stopped the engine,
and took out his cigarette case.
“Five to twelve,” he said. “In five minutes
exactly the mechanics will go to lunch, if I
know anything about the French—and there is
our chance to do a bit of investigation. The
hangar with the monoplane in it is the third
from this end, and I feel pretty well convinced
it's De Najera's. If we can get inside we may be
able to make certain, and also find out a few
details about tank capacity, etc. Damn the rain!
—it's worse than ever. I hope to God it won't
keep those mechanics in the sheds.”
A few moments later a hooter blew, and they
could hear the sound of heavy doors being
pulled to and locked. They got out of the car,
and standing on the step could see some men
running over the landing ground in the rain
toward the entrance gate. Benvenuto replaced
his bowler with a béret and they started across
the muddy field. When they reached the fence
and looked through there wasn't a soul about,
and they scrambled over, and walked along to
the third hangar, keeping a sharp look-out. Each
hangar had a small door at the back, and after
making sure there was no sound from inside,
Benvenuto brought out a bunch of keys from


W I N G S 2OI
his pocket and inserted one after another in the
lock.
“I don't want to break the lock if I can help
it,” he said. “It would attract too much atten-
tion to our visit. I'm afraid these are all too
small. Got any keys on you?”
“I don't think so,” said Paul. “Here's the key
of my room in the hotel—try that.” This proved
to be far too large, but after groping about he
found another in the pocket of his mackintosh,
which he handed to Benvenuto, who was so long
fiddling about at the lock that Paul began to
think they would have to break in. At last, how-
ever, the door gave and they stepped inside. Ben-
venuto slipped the keys into his pocket and
cursed the rain as the water ran off their clothes.
“I hope to God this will dry up before the
chap comes back from his lunch,” he said.
“We're flooding the place out. It's bad luck be-
cause it's not the sort of contingency one reckons
with out here. Most unusual at this time of year.
Was it wet when you left England?”
Paul nodded. “Rained like fury the night be-
fore I left, and probably hasn't stopped yet. I
say, what a beauty!”
The monoplane in front of them lay impres-
sive, shining, and competent. Benvenuto took it
in from propeller to skid with an expert eye,


2O2 T H E C R IM E COA ST
climbed into the cabin, and then, looking down
at Paul, said, “Note down a few readings while
I sing them out, will you?
“Cabin monoplane, L’Hirondelle. Six months
old. High lift wing. Horsepower, on a rough
calculation from the French, 375. Got that?
Two seats, pilot and mechanic. Aérial charts
have been removed. That's food for thought.
Mileage, roughly, 11,000. Can you beat it?
Tanks. Here we are. Service tank, capacity IOO
gallons, down to twenty according to the gauge.
Reserve tank No. 1, same capacity, full. Reserve
tank No. 2, same capacity, full. Reserve tanks
3 and 4, same capacity, empty. Most curious.”
He descended abruptly and seized Paul's
notebook and pencil.
“Now, the total gasoline capacity of this plane
is 500 gallons, and the fuel consumption half a
pint an hour for each horsepower of the engine.
Any schoolboy, therefore, will tell you that it
is capable of twenty hours' flying without
descending or refuelling, taking it that he'd use
twenty-five gallons an hour. Actually he'd not
use quite so much. But twenty hours, mark you!
Fly to London? He could fly to New York.”
He stamped his foot irritably. “To the devil
with these calculations. We can work them out
later.” He turned to examine the hangar. A long


W IN G S 2O3
bench with a row of tools above it; spare landing
wheels slung to the roof; empty cans; and many
complicated garnishings of modern flight. In a
corner a couple of leather coats hung on nails
caught his eye, and he promptly examined every
pocket.
“Nothing.”
He turned away but as he did so his sleeve
caught in a button of one of the coats, and it slid
to the ground, disclosing a pile of papers care-
lessly stuck on a nail in the wall.
“Gasoline receipts. Good. Stick 'em in your
pocket, Paul. No, wait a minute. Last Tuesday
—a hundred gallons.” He had flicked off the top
sheet and was examining it closely.
“A hundred gallons, Paul, on that day. We're
getting on.” -
But he did not seem to Paul, who was getting
nervous about the return of the mechanic, to be
getting on. He stood still, looked at the ground,
gave a deep sigh, and filled his pipe. Suddenly
he roused himself, and murmuring, “All is van-
ity,” took Paul's arm and they walked towards
the door.
At the door Benvenuto stopped, still grasping
his companion's arm, and stared at him. Paul
felt slightly embarrassed, and was about to sug-
gest moving on when Benvenuto turned and


2O4. T H E C R IM E COA ST
walked back to the plane, saying, “Those reserve
tanks, you know . . .”
He carefully unlaced the canvas covering of
the fuselage behind the pilot's seat and, bring-
ing out an electric torch from his pocket, exam-
ined the tank tops with minute care. The cap of
each one of the four reserve tanks had a bar
across it fastened with a small but strong steel
padlock and chain, making it impossible, short
of forcing the locks, to unscrew the caps. Paul,
watching with interest, was told to fetch a span-
ner from the bench.
“No time for scruples,” said Benvenuto, and
taking the tool he got a leverage on the chain
of tank No. 4, snapped it, and removed the
round brass cap.
He looked quizzically at Paul. “The fate of
a certain gentleman of our acquaintance de-
pends on the brand of gasoline,” he remarked,
and bending over the aperture he lowered his
rather large nose into it and sniffed. There was
a pause while he hung suspended over the tank
and then he turned with a seraphic smile on his
face.
“Smell it—I beg you'll just smell it,” he mur-
mured.
Paul smelt. Certainly it was not in the least


W I N G S 2O5
like gasoline. A sweet, rather stimulating smell
came from the tank.
“It's cough mixture—or—no, toothpaste,” he
said turning in perplexity to his companion.
Benvenuto laughed. “La sorcière glauqueſ”
he said exultantly. “Never tasted absinthe,
Paul? It's forbidden in France—sent too many
people mad—and, smuggled over from Spain in
concentrated form very simply by our friend De
Najera, it must be a paying commodity. Very
paying indeed, I should say, judging by the
price it fetches in the more dubious dives of
Paris. Really, I admire the man.”
“But,” expostulated Paul, “he's a wealthy
chap. Why 77
“So would you be if you were a successful
absinthe and dope smuggler,” returned Ben-
venuto shortly. “Let’s get to hell out of here—
I don't want to be shot up by his mechanic.”
They hurriedly left the hangar; Benvenuto,
Paul noticed, didn't trouble to relace the fuse-
lage or even close the door, and when he asked
him why, replied, “The game was up for De
Najera when I broke the chain on the tank. Sure
to be noticed. Why trouble to hide anything
now?”
He relapsed into a gloomy silence.
As the car shot back down the Marseille


206 T H E C R IM E COA ST
road Paul thought to himself that this fresh
evidence of De Najera's criminal activities
would be valuable to them when he was arrested
for murder. What was even better, they had
proved beyond a doubt that he could have
reached London, killed his sister, and returned
to St. Antoine well within the period of his
alibi.


CHAPTER XVII
C L I M A X
BENVENUTo stopped the car in the Cannebière.
“We’re late,” he said. “It's getting on for one
o'clock. You go along to the Bristol and meet
Adelaide, and I'll join you there in a few min-
utes. I’ve got to send a wire.”
Paul hurried down the road, and reaching the
Bristol looked for Adelaide among the crowded
tables. He did not see her, and walked past a
second time anxiously scanning every face. But
she was not there, and he sat down at a table to
wait. He ordered a Vermouth, and while he
sipped it kept a watchful eye on the crowds
passing along the pavement. Everyone seemed to
have come out after the rain, and mixed with
the townspeople were African and Moorish
troops, spahis in flowing robes, and peasants
from the country wearing shawls and white
linen caps, the children dragging at their
mothers' hands while they stared at the shops
and traffic. At any other time Paul would have
enjoyed it, sitting there with his drink and
207


208 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
watching the people. But at that moment no
face interested him that was not Adelaide's, and
his eye slipped from dark skins to light ones,
from the flat, coarse profile of an African to that
of a trim bearded French bourgeois, without
registering what he saw.
He looked at his watch. A quarter-past one; it
was absurd to get oneself into a state—a thou-
sand things might have detained her. But he was
on the point of getting up from his table to see
if he could find her at the coiffeur's when Ben-
venuto walked in, looking thoughtful and rather
gloomy.
“Sorry I’ve been so long,” he said. “Garçon/
Donnez moi un Pernod.” And he relapsed into
silence, staring in front of him.
“I can't think what's happened to Adelaide—
she's not turned up yet,” said Paul.
“Hasn't she?” Benvenuto answered abstract-
edly. “She'll be along in a minute or two.”
“I think I'll just go up to the hairdresser's and
see if she's still there—it's a long time since she
was due.”
“Right.” Then, just as Paul was leaving, he
called after him. “Oh-it's no good doing that—
all the shops shut from twelve till two. Much
better sit down and wait for her.”
Paul returned to his seat moodily. If all the


C L I M A X 2 II
In which direction he did not know. If M'sieur
liked he would call the waiter who had served
them.
Benvenuto said he would like to speak to him,
and Paul fumed at the delay while the man was
fetched from the kitchen. At last he appeared
and Benvenuto, thrusting a note into his hand,
questioned him in French.
But yes, he remembered perfectly. The Span-
ish m'sieur had wanted his bill rather hurriedly
after he had been called out to speak with a man
who was asking for him. Yes, the man who had
called was possibly a mechanician, and had
driven away with the m'sieur and madame in
the big auto.
They hurried out into the street and hailed a
taxi. Benvenuto told the man the direction and
bribed him to go as fast as he knew how.
“It would take even longer to get the car—I
ran it into a garage before I met you,” he said
as he climbed in.
The drive through the crowded streets was
maddening, and cross streams of traffic seemed
to hold them up at every moment. Paul, sitting
on the extreme edge of the seat and peering
through the glass window in front of him, tread-
ing in imagination on the accelerator and taking
off the brakes, would have been both annoyed


2I2 T H E C R IM E COA ST
and incredulous had anyone suggested he was
not hastening their progress. He banged on the
window in exasperation when the driver wasted
precious moments in a rich stream of Marseil-
laise invective directed at another taxi which
had cut in front of them. At last they got away
into the less crowded streets and were soon leav-
ing the town behind them. Paul suddenly real-
ized they were taking a different road from the
one they had followed in the morning, and was
about to expostulate when Benvenuto pulled
him back.
“Let him alone,” he growled. “There are two
roads and this is probably shorter.”
Paul sat back feeling thoroughly impotent,
only to spring up in his seat a moment later.
“Look!” he said, clutching Benvenuto's arm.
Far above them was a small plane, rising rap-
idly and heading in the direction of the sea.
They stared at it, then met each other's eyes.
Paul was very white.
“It's De Najera. Hold on, Paul. She may not
be in it. We'll know in a second. If she is—we'll
get him.”
They swung into the gates, nearly colliding
with a taxi coming out, and saw in front of them
the empty Hispaño-Suiza drawn up just outside
the manager's office. At that moment the man-


CL I M A X 2I3
ager emerged and walked down the steps, pull-
ing on his gloves in a leisurely way, to receive a
violent shock as Benvenuto leapt out of the taxi,
Paul at his heels, and addressed him.
“Was that De Najera's plane that went up a
few minutes ago?” he demanded.
Recovering from his surprise, the man drew
himself up.
“By what right, m'sieur, do you question me
regarding my clients?” he began, when Benve-
nuto interrupted him savagely.
“Your precious client is an absinthe smuggler,
carrying on his business under your nose. Had
he a lady with him when he went up?—answer
me.”
A startled look crossed the man's face.
“The Señor arrived with a lady and has taken
her up for a pleasure trip—he told me himself.
It is monstrous what you say, m'sieur, impos-
sible. . . . I shall complain to the police.”
“You’ll soon have ample opportunity, m'sieur
—they will be here in a few moments. Come on,
Paul”—and leaving him aghast on the steps,
they tumbled into the taxi, Benvenuto giving
hurried directions to the driver, and started back
down the road. Benvenuto's face was grim as he
turned to Paul.
“We're going straight to the gendarmerie—


CHAPTER XVIII
A NT I – C L IMAX
“My BLESSED children, what is the matter?
Aren't you glad to see me?”
The two men had dropped into chairs on each
side of her, and she regarded their paralyzed
expressions with amusement as they stared at
her unbelievingly.
At last, “Glad to see her,” murmured Ben-
venuto weakly. “She wants to know if we're glad
to see her, Paul.”
Paul removed his gaze with difficulty from
Adelaide's face and met Benvenuto's eye. Sud-
denly they started to laugh as though they would
never stop, and Adelaide looked at them with
amazement, concern, and finally petulance.
“I’ve always been told women have no sense
of humour,” she said, “and really I begin to be-
lieve it. All the same, if it's such an exception-
ally good one I do think you might try it on me.
Ben! Paul!”
Exhausted, they lay back, and then Benvenuto
216


A N T I - C L I MA X 217
addressed her with something like fury. “Oh,
disgraceful and abominable woman,” he said,
“d'you realize that the police of every country
in Europe are this moment writing down de-
scriptions of you—and that Paul and I have
been spilling our heart's blood because we be-
lieved you'd been abducted?”
She dimpled. “I very nearly was,” she said,
“and it's entirely due to my native wit and femi-
nine intuition that I'm with you now—so don't
be rough with me. Hadn't you both better
have some tea and hear my piteous story?
But-oh, Ben!—what about the poor police-
men? Oughtn't we to go and reassure them?”
Benvenuto looked at her wearily. “I refuse to
stir from this spot until I've had a drink and a
sandwich,” he said. “I’ll write a note to the gen-
darmerie to tell them you've been found, and
you'll have to come around and explain after-
wards.”
He scribbled a note while Adelaide poured
out tea, and despatched a messenger with it,
after which both men fell upon sandwiches and
brioches with fury. Paul suddenly remembered
he'd had no food all day—he'd not given it a
thought before.
“Fire away,” said Benvenuto with his mouth
full.


22O T H E C R IM E COA ST
stare at us, and I tried to interpose a few sooth-
ing words, but it was no use. Apparently he'd
been turning over in his mind what I'd said the
other night about seeing him in London, and he
asked me why I'd said it. I opened my eyes inno-
cently and said I really thought I'd seen him,
but that seemed to make him worse and he swept
on and said he was surrounded by an atmosphere
of suspicion—and what were you and Leech
doing in his house the other night? Apparently
his servant had seen us when we went out, and
had told him, and he was beginning to believe
we all suspected him of something. I thought
this would never do, so I did my level best to
disabuse him of the idea—and succeeded only
too well, for the next thing was he asked me out
to lunch. I said I couldn't possibly come because
I was meeting you two at half-past twelve, and
he begged me to leave a note for you and come
with him. He said he wouldn't believe I had
forgiven him unless I did, and began to work
himself up into a state again, about our all being
in league against him, so finally I agreed and
wrote you that note and gave it to Georges. You
see, Ben, I really thought it better not to antag-
onize him while you were still making investiga-
tions, and I didn't dare to do anything that


A NT I - C L I M A X 22 I
might hinder our clearing Adrian. It was a per-
fectly hateful business—I simply loathed eating
his food, and I was so miserable the caviar tasted
like sawdust.
“However, the lunch was quite a success, I
suppose—I was very bright and encouraged him
to talk, hoping he might let drop something use-
ful, but he would enlarge on the beauties of
Spain and the Argentine. I could see we were ap-
proaching dangerous ground—another minute
and he'd have proposed again—so I was terribly
relieved when the waiter came and said some-
body called Miguel wanted to speak to him. He
excused himself and went outside. He was away
quite a time and I lay back and looked out of
the window, and wished I were sitting over a
nice honest bouillabaisse with you, instead of
eating everything that was geographically and
seasonably improbable. However, I cheered my-
self up with the thought that I was being terri-
bly knowing and helping you two like anything,
really.
“When he came back he looked rather ex-
cited, I thought, but he only apologized about
being away so long, and said he'd been speaking
to his mechanic who knew where he generally
lunched, and had come along to tell him that


222 T H E CR IM E COA ST
he'd finished working on his plane and it was
in perfect shape. Then he remarked that the
weather had cleared up and looked like being a
nice afternoon—would I care to come up for a
short trip?—and that we'd have plenty of time
to get back so that I could meet you at three, if
we hurried. Well, of course I didn't know how
successful you might have been in running his
plane to earth this morning, so I was quite en-
thusiastic at the idea, having a private vision in
my own mind of meeting you both afterwards
and your looking very discouraged and saying
you'd entirely failed to find out where the ma-
chine was kept, and my remarking, casual-like,
‘Oh, I've just been up in it.’ Sensation. “What a
lucky thing for us that we've got Adelaide to
help us.’”
She smiled mournfully at them. “I take it
you'd actually been there first?”
Benvenuto smiled back at her. “We did man-
age to catch a glimpse of it as a matter of fact.
But go on—I can't bear the suspense.”
She sighed, and continued: “After he'd paid
the bill we went out, and there was the mechanic
waiting with the car. He scowled when he saw
me, and I thought it rather funny for a minute.
However, he touched his hat and opened the
door for me and then climbed in at the back, and


224 T H E CR IM E CO AST
again, and I stared at the muddy field and the
gray clouds, and all at once I began to feel most
peculiar. All my excitement had gone, and I
began to get terribly frightened. Hernandez
came towards me looking very white and shak-
ing and began to hurry me into the plane, and all
the while Miguel went on talking, his voice get-
ting angrier and angrier. I’d got one foot up on
the plane when he suddenly dashed forward and
pulled Hernandez's arm, and then they both
started to shout at each other. I listened for a bit,
and although I don't speak Spanish I began to
understand that Miguel wanted to go up in the
plane instead of me, and that he kept on refer-
ring to the police. Suddenly I remembered Her-
nandez's violent haste—his visit to the bank—
the way he'd examined some part of the plane
and then tried to hurry me into it—now Miguel
refusing to be left behind; and while they were
still arguing with each other and getting more
and more angry, I slipped down and tore out of
the shed and across the field as fast as I could go.
There was a taxi standing in the yard and I
told the man to drive to the Bristol, and then
fairly collapsed on the seat. When we'd got
down the road a little way I told him to stop and
then got out—and I knew my fears had been


A NT I - C L I M A X 225
justified, for I could hear the roar of the engine.
A minute later the plane appeared over the trees
and made off—so it seems”—she looked at them
comically—“Hernandez wasn't going to risk
his skin in following me!”


CHAPTER XIX
“L OU CAT *
SHE lay at anchor, rocking gently in the water
of a sheltered cove. She was painted pink, the
chilly pink of an ice cream, her line accentuated
by a thin band of green, and on her bow was
written Lou Cat in white lettering. She looked
coquettish, conscious of her finery as she rode
the glittering water, Paul thought, and he
paused in his scramble over the rocks to admire
her. The picture was completed by Adelaide, in
a short white frock, as she jumped on board and
began to handle the ropes in a seamanlike man-
In CT.
“I don't know that rig,” Paul called to her as
he continued his descent. The sail came down
with a rattle and flapped in the breeze.
“It's a tartan—usual Mediterranean rig,” she
answered, her hands busy. “You won't like it if
you're used to yachting in the grand manner. I
prefer it myself—it's such a relief to have an up-
right boom that doesn't clip you on the head. I’ll
226


“L O U CAT * 227
be captain this morning till you're used to it.
Will you take the sheet?”
He clambered on board as she started the
engine, and in a moment they were chug-chug-
ging out of the little bay. Away from the shelter
of the coast there was a light breeze, and soon
she bent forward, close-hauled the mainsail and
stopped the engine, and Lou Cat slipped
through the water in an exquisite silence. The
only sound was the water slapping the bow, the
only colour an illimitable blue, and Paul was
divinely happy, sniffing up the salt breeze and
feeling his skin burn in the sun. He did not want
to speak—he felt himself and Adelaide existing
for the moment as part of the boat, the sea, and
the clean wind. Presently when he looked at her
she was sitting still and straight as a figurehead,
the tiller under her hand and her eyes fixed on
the distant horizon. Conscious of him, she
brought them back to his face with a smile.
“This is more like it, isn't it?” she said. “It's
nice to do something normal again. I’m always
happy in Lou Cat—Ben taught me to sail her
four years ago when I first came down here.”
“Are you certain he won't mind our taking
her out—I mean, oughtn't I to have asked him?”
She laughed. “Of course he won't mind.
Didn't you see him this morning?”


228 T H E cr IM E co Ast
He bent forward. “Well, yes, for a minute. I
wanted to tell you about it. You see, I didn't get
much chance to talk to him yesterday—he got
very silent and absorbed, and I thought prob-
ably he was tired. So first thing this morning I
went round to the studio; as you know, there are
a million things to discuss since we were at
the aérodrome yesterday—calculations to be
made about De Najera's possible journey to
London last Tuesday, and so on. Also, I should
have thought that this was the right moment to
compile our suspicions against him and hand
them to the police, because although Ben told
the French authorities in Marseille yesterday
about the absinthe smuggling, he didn't say a
word about suspecting him of murder. Of
course, that isn't their affair, I know; Scotland
Yard is the place to inform, and I naturally
thought Ben would be taking some steps in the
matter. Instead of which, when I get round to
the studio I found him sitting opposite a col-
lection of eggs and oyster shells, a loaf of bread
and some wine bottles, painting away like mad
at a still-life. The room was full of smoke—
he must have been at work for hours, and he'd
hardly speak to me. Meanwhile I'm afraid De
Najera will get clear away in that plane of his


“L O U c AT * 229
to some country like Paraguay or Chile where
there's no extradition.”
Adelaide regarded him with wrinkled brow,
and shook her head slowly. “You can depend on
it, Ben hasn't been idle,” she said. “Either he's
got an idea incubating in his head or else he's
taken action of some sort and is waiting for re-
sults. It's no good trying to probe him when he's
in one of his moods. The only thing to do is to
leave him alone till he emerges of his own ac-
cord. In the meantime”—she shook her head in
the wind and broke into a smile—“let’s have a
day off. I say, wouldn't you like to bathe soon?”
“Rather. Shall we put ashore or bathe from
the boat?”
“There's an island about a couple of miles
along the coast—no one ever goes there, and I
know a strip of shore out of the wind where we
could tie up.” She held her hand up to the
breeze. “It’s freshening a bit—we ought to do it
in about a quarter of an hour if you can hang
out till then. Hot, even out here, isn't it?”
Paul stretched himself along the deck and
looked up at her in perfect content, slowly took
out his cigarette case, lazily gave one to her and
one to himself.
“As leading ladies say on first nights, this is
the happiest moment of my life,” he murmured,


23o T H E CRIM E COAST
watching blue smoke vanish into the blue air.
“It's the sort of thing one dreams about on a wet,
gray day in London—only better. I’ve never had
the imagination to dream of such a day as this
or such a boat, or—or you,” he added, only so
low that he thought perhaps she hadn't heard.
The coast was changing, the gray rocks of
St. Antoine were left behind, and instead high
cliffs of deep red, capped with pine trees, rose
from the water, casting purple shadows on to
the intense blue. Rounding a point, a chain of
small islands three or four miles from the coast
came into view. Paul, propping himself on an
elbow, looked at them with interest. “What a
marvellous place,” he said. “Does anyone live
out there?”
Adelaide shook her head. “There's no water,
and in rough weather it's difficult to land.
There's nothing on them but what you see—
rocks and a few pine trees—and they're very
seldom visited. I landed once with Ben, when
we were out sailing last year. Ben's a wonderful
sailor—the fishermen round here think he's
crazy, the weather he goes out in.” She laughed.
“We were out once in a mistral, the big wind
they get round here, and when we got back to
the town we found the natives offering up
prayers for us.”


232 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
and paint, Ben was here too, and he took me
under his wing, pacified my irate guardian, and
persuaded him to let me do what I wanted.
We've been tremendous pals ever since—we
both come here every year. Then, two years ago,
Adrian turned up and we always went about
together, all three. Oh, Paul, I wish—I wish I
knew what had happened to him!” She sighed
and then shook her head. “Sorry. I said we'd
have a day off. And here we are at the islands—
we'll run into the biggest one, it's the best beach.
Stand by to go about.”
Quite a high sea was running as they tacked,
and their faces were drenched with spray be-
fore Adelaide skillfully piloted Lou Cat into a
kind of rocky fjord that cut into the island, end-
ing in a sandy beach. Here there was no wind,
and Paul took the oars for the last few yards
until the boat grounded on the sand. Adelaide
jumped out and made fast, splashing through
the surf in her bare feet.
“Bring the bathing things,” she called. “Isn't
this a wonderful place? There are a lot of these
fjords along the coast—calanques they call them
here.”
Paul followed her and stared about him. It
was curiously impressive, like some roofless
cathedral, for water action had twisted and tor-


“L O U CAT * 233
tured the walls of gray rock into high pillars,
some resembling organ pipes, others in the
shapes of men and beasts. Adelaide's voice had
wakened a dozen echoes, and Paul felt a little
awed as he stood there. The calanque continued
some way inland, turning at an angle so that the
end was not in sight, and what looked like a
stony path was overgrown with bushes and
stunted pine trees. Adelaide, seated on the shore,
was pulling her frock over her head, and Paul
retired behind a bush to get into his bathing suit.
When he emerged she was already in the water,
her scarlet costume bright as a poppy, and one
brown arm flashing up into the sun as she swam
swiftly out towards the open sea. Paul was a
strong swimmer, and overtaking her they went
side by side down the calanque to a rocky ledge.
Together they climbed a natural stairway, and
looked down from twenty feet into the clear
deep water.
“Can you dive with your eyes open?” she said.
He nodded, and in a second she was a red bird
skimming through the air, a moment later a
goldfish in the translucent depths. It was a good
dive, and Paul pulled himself together—she was
watching him. He went in neatly and for cool
moments of silence saw the green world slide
past his eyes, saw the smooth stones of the ocean


234 T H E C R IM E COA ST
thed, and fish that flickered and vanished mys-
teriously, before he shot up into the dazzling
sunshine.
When they were lazily swimming back she
said, “I’d like to live here forever.”
In the boat was a bottle of wine and some
cakes they had brought with them, and they lay
on the sand and drank from the bottle, turn and
turn about. The sun and wine were making him
relaxed and sleepy, Paul felt—and it was fine.
Here he was, alone for the first time with Ade-
laide; she was terribly attractive, they were on
a desert island. He wished he could express what
he felt about everything, especially about her;
he would give anything to tell her. How did one
begin? He could think of nothing but a classical
quotation, and cursed himself for a clumsy fool.
Why wasn't he able to flirt graciously with her?
He had just decided to begin by saying he
wished the boat would sink and they would be
marooned, when she said, looking up at the sky,
“What I like about you, Paul, is that you don't
try to make love to me.”
“Damn,” he thought, and then aloud, “Per-
haps it's because I haven't the courage.”
“You know,” she went on, ignoring his re-
mark, “there are awfully few men I could come
out here alone with who would behave nicely,
***-*-** = -


“L O U C AT * 235
like you do, and not spoil everything by flatter-
ing me, and making me use all my wits to stop
them being what the Americans call ‘fresh.’
And all without making enemies of them, if you
see what I mean.”
“I say,” said Paul indignantly, “how perfectly
horrible for you.”
“On the contrary I find it most agreeable,” she
said, and gave a peal of laughter at his bewilder-
ment. “I believe somebody has poisoned your
life,” she went on solemnly, making him em-
barrassed to a degree, “and I think it's mon-
strous.”
He sat up. “You're making fun of me and I
deserve it; I must be an intolerably boring com-
panion. But honestly I don't know much about
women, except that I think they are wonderful.”
“You don't deserve anything of the kind and
I’m awfully sorry. Really we have a good time,
don't we, Paul? And—I only wanted to make
you talk to me.”
He bent forward eagerly. “You know, I be-
lieve I could talk to you. . . .”
Dressing again behind a clump of bushes, he
decided to explore the calanque a little until she
was ready to go. It looked desolate and mysteri-
ous, and he thought he heard an animal moving


“L O U CAT * 237
engine waking echoes across the water on each
side of them.
“The breeze has gone,” she said. “We'll have
to go back on the engine. Oh, Paul, I'm so
hungry—where shall we lunch?”
Half an hour brought them back to the little
cove, and making fast the boat they scrambled
over the rocks towards the town. They passed
the American boy perched up on a ledge, intent
on a canvas he was painting. He waved a brush
to Adelaide and begged a cigarette as they
passed. “The Mark of the Beast,” she laughed,
as they turned to leave him, and pointed to the
rock beside him streaked with different-coloured
paints. Paul stood still, staring at it. In one place
a blob of paint was running down the hot rock
—of what did it remind him? He followed Ade-
laide, puzzling over it. After all, it was too hot
to think consecutively about anything—and
then, just as they reached the town, it came to
him. The green lizard on the island that seemed
to grow longer as it crawled was nothing but
green paint—and wet paint at that, fresh from
somebody's palette. He remembered the move-
ment through the undergrowth that he had
thought was some animal startled by his ap-
proach, and determined he would go back to
the island and investigate. Better not say any-


238 T H E C R IM E COA ST
thing to Adelaide—after all, it might be a mis-
take, it might have been a lizard and his eyes
had played him tricks in the sun.
Meanwhile there was lunch to think of. Inside
the little restaurant it was cool and dark. “Let's
have some of these hors d’aeuvres,” he said, paus-
ing on the way to their table; “they look de-
licious.”


CHAPTER XX
“D R. L. I V I N G S T O N E, I P R E S U M E?”
AS HE left Adelaide at her door Paul half
regretted his resolve. Before lunch it had been
hot—now, for the first time in his life, he real-
ized why the sun is not always regarded as the
friend of man. He went down to the quay to
see if he could hire a boat, but the sun-baked
port was deserted; for everyone but himself it
appeared to be the hour of siesta. The only sign
of life was an old woman mending some nets,
her chair tipped back in the shade of a pink
house, and as Paul approached her an ancient
dog at her feet opened one eye and growled
half-heartedly at him, then stretched himself
out and resumed his slumbers.
“Bon jour, madame.”
Her reply, accompanied by a toothless smile,
was unintelligible to Paul. He tried with
French and Italian to make his desire for a
boat known to her, and deciding that she spoke
nothing but Provençal he sighed and went on
his way. The only thing to do was to take out
239


24O T H E C R IM E COA ST
Lou Cat again—he would have to apologize to
Benvenuto afterwards, but anything seemed bet-
ter than disturbing him at work. With a vague
sense of guilt he bought a can of gasoline and
went on his way, to feel somewhat encouraged
as he passed the paint-daubed rock where they
had seen the American.
Sea and sky were a milky blue. The boards of
the Lou Cat scorched Paul's hands as he climbed
in and busied himself in setting off. He was glad
to get away from the coast to where the air was
cooler, and put his feet over the side into the
water. The town, the port, the white rocks
diminished slowly but did not lose definition.
The island, when it came into view, was black
against the sun. “When I get there,” he thought,
“at least I can bathe,” and remembered his
morning with Adelaide. He fell to thinking of
his search—and even more of what he had al-
ready found, and between the two reached the
island before he realized it. The sea was calm
now; he swung into the calanque, and shutting
off the engine drifted down towards the white
beach. It was best not to disturb the possible
inhabitant. Following his path of the morning,
he came upon the rock where he had seen his
green lizard. There was the emerald paint, now


“L I v I N G s To N E , 1 P R Es U M E * * 243
Paul thought that to announce himself as “a
friend” would sound too melodramatic.
“Sorry to break in,” he said. “I think you
must be Adrian Kent,” he continued pacifically.
“No!” said the young man, preserving his
tense attitude, his eyes blazing out of the shadow.
“Never heard of him. My name is Short, and
I've been here for a long time, painting.”
Paul usually tended to believe what people
said, too much so, perhaps, for a barrister, and
a doubt began to creep into his mind as to
whether, in spite of the unusual face, the resem-
blance to the photograph, and the man's obvious
fear, he might not be making a mistake. After
all, it was difficult to tell—the shadow was deep,
the man was bearded.
“Well,” he said, “I’m sorry. I'm looking for
a man called Kent. You see, his father is ill,
and I have a letter from him.” He looked keenly
at the other's face, where conflicting emotions
became only too apparent. “Benvenuto Brown
is a friend of mine,” he added.
“Oh!” The young man looked enormously
relieved. “In that case—” He realized that
he had given himself away, and after a second's
pause straightened himself and came forward
courteously. “Please come in. I am Kent but I


“L 1 v 1 N G s To N E , 1 P R Es U M E f * 245
bethan poets with this strange, burning-eyed
young man, and as he did so his gaze wandered
round the shelter he sat in. It was a natural
chamber in the rock and had the semblance of
three walls and a roof, the lower part of the
walls jutting out in shelves. On these were ar-
ranged, very neatly, the few clothes, books, and
cooking pots of the occupant; on one side a heap
of canvases, with tubes of paint and brushes in
a row, on the other a group of sea shells ar-
ranged with sprigs of flowering herbs. It was
very orderly, almost feminine. Paul looked at
lis watch and jumped up, anxious to be gone
while the conversation remained impersonal.
“Time I was going,” he said.
The young man laughed. “Time!” he said.
“There is no time here, only light and darkness,
hunger and food. I had forgotten time. Must
you go? I am glad you like Donne. He was the
best of them all.”
He said good-bye at the door of his shelter,
and when Paul looked back he seemed to have
forgotten his very existence, and was leaning
against a tree, broodingly examining some leaves
he held in his hand. . . . Paul felt more mysti-
fied about him than before he had found him.
Once out of the calanque and the boat heading


“L I v I N G s to N E , 1 P R E s U M E * * 247
ill—though it had found no expression beyond
his seizing the letter and placing it, unopened,
in his pocket. Had his mind become unhinged
by his solitude? Paul gave it up, and hoped for
enlightenment from Benvenuto.


CHAPTER XXI
A Y O U N G M A N OF T E M P E R A M E N T
AT HALF-PAST three Paul was mounting the
studio stairs, nervous as to what his reception
would be, and extremely nervous of explaining
to Benvenuto that he had found Adrian. He felt
—illogically, he knew—like a spy about to con-
vict himself. It would have been easier if only
he had not used Lou Cat.
A savoury smell greeted his nose as he got
higher, and at the top he met Benvenuto emerg-
ing from the kitchen with a spluttering pan of
bacon and eggs.
“Good man,” he said, “just in time to share
my breakfast, lunch, and tea. Come along in.
Afraid I was a bit terse this morning. My crea-
tive powers were better than my temper—at
least I hope so.”
Considerably relieved, Paul followed him
into the studio, and earnestly refusing offers of
food he stopped opposite a canvas on the easel.
Here were the eggs, the oyster shells, and the
wine bottle sublimated into a still-life of re-
248


A Y O U N G M A N OF T E M P E R A M E N T 249
markable beauty. The colour was pallid and
cold, the form suggested rather than stated, the
brush work nervous and sensitive. It gave Paul
an impression both restrained and austere, and
he eyed it with delight.
“I think it's fine,” he said.
Benvenuto grunted. “They're always so damn
fine while you're doing them. You think to
yourself, “At last I’ve got it'—and in the end,
of course, you haven't. Still, it has its points.”
He sat down at the table, his head on one side
looking at it. “Well, have you been giving detec-
tion a rest?”
“As a matter of fact, since I saw you, I've
found Adrian.” Paul blurted it out half de-
fiantly.
Benvenuto paused with his fork halfway to
his mouth. Then, after consuming a mouthful
of egg and bacon, “Nice chap, isn't he?” he said.
The remark for some reason enraged Paul—
really, this taking things for granted was going
too far—and he burst into an explanation of
how he and Adelaide had borrowed Lou Cat
and gone to the island, of how he had seen the
paint on the rock, and realizing later its signifi-
cance, had gone back to investigate, without sus-
pecting for one moment that Benvenuto knew
of Adrian's hiding place.


250 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
Benvenuto nodded. “Unless a man is temper-
amentally a good liar,” he said, “it always seems
to me a pity to load him up with information
that he may have to conceal. There seemed noth-
ing to be gained by telling you where Adrian
was. I’ve been able to keep him supplied with
everything he needs, and I gave him a small
dinghy which he's got hidden somewhere and
could use in the event of my being eaten by a
shark. Actually I don't believe he'd notice if I
didn't appear for a week or two. He's always
pleased to see me, but I often find he's com-
pletely forgotten to eat the food I take him. I've
given up taking him fish—he invariably uses it
as the subject of a painting, and leaves it about
in the heat until it has to be returned hurriedly
to the sea from whence it came. He's doing some
magnificent work—did you see any of it?”
Paul shook his head. “What an extraordinary
chap he is. He betrayed not the slightest inter-
est in the progress of events—and instead we
discussed the Elizabethan poets. He's a complete
enigma to me.”
Benvenuto sat back from his meal and lit his
pipe. “Nero fiddled while Rome burned,”
he remarked, “and doubtless was denounced
by his friends for callousness, bravado, or
affectation. Actually, I expect he had got


A Y O U N G M A N OF T E M P E R A M E N T 253
an eye on him. Also he said he was after a jewel
thief, who was, of course, our friend the Slosher,
as I learnt later. He said he was going on to St.
Antoine the next day, in the guise of an ordinary
tourist. I said good-bye, after recommending a
hotel, and went back to wait for the rest of the
train, which turned up half an hour later com-
plete with Adrian. He was looking thoroughly
worn out so I took him to the station restaurant
for a meal, and bought a copy of the Daily Mail,
which comes down from Paris on that train. I
gave him a cocktail, and opened the paper to
give him time to recover from the journey before
asking him how things had turned out. You can
imagine I was a bit taken aback to read an
account of the murder of Luela in Bishop's
Hotel, and it immediately occurred to me that
this was the case Leech was working on. I didn't
say anything about it to Adrian, but asked him
how he'd got on in London and if he'd been able
to pacify Luela. He shook his head gloomily,
and said they had had a terrific dust-up over
lunch the day before and parted on the worst
of terms. I asked him how he'd passed the time
before the boat left in the evening, and he was
completely vague about it—said he'd wandered
about, and thought he'd been in the park because


258 T H E C R IM E COA ST
intolerable and impossible. Paul grew hot all
over as he considered it. Yet, all the afternoon
a growing suspicion of Adrian had been form-
ing in his mind, a suspicion which had not been
dispelled by Benvenuto's explanation of his
character, and which had been definitely
strengthened by the account of the events which
led up to Adrian's flight to the island. Every-
thing pointed to his guilt—the motive, the op-
portunity, the subsequent flight—and he, Paul,
had allowed his judgment to be warped by Ben-
venuto's professed faith in his innocence. God!
what a fool he had been. He looked at Benve-
nuto, half determined to have things out with
him, and felt his anger die down. Benvenuto's
humorous, sunburnt face looked worn with
anxiety, his keen blue eyes were fixed on the
rapidly approaching shores of the island. He
was so obviously unaware of Paul's confusion
of mind, so obviously concerned with some ur-
gent problem of his own, that it was impossible
to interrogate him, Paul felt, and he resigned
himself as philosophically as possible to waiting
for whatever his third visit to the island might
reveal.
As the boat entered the calanque he looked
towards the shore with feelings of excitement
and, for some reason that he couldn't account


26o T H E C R IM E COA ST
breathless to the door in the rocks. For a moment
he could see nothing, then as his eyes accus-
tomed themselves to the shadow he realized the
room was empty except for Benvenuto kneeling
on the bed, looking at two sheets of paper he
held in his hand. He read them in silence, his
breath coming fast after his run, and gave some-
thing like a groan as he finished. He looked at
Paul standing in the door, and after hesitating
a moment handed the letter to him.
This is to confess that I, Adrian Kent, mur-
dered Luela da Costa in her room at Bishop's
Hotel, London, on the evening of Tuesday, July
29th. We had quarrelled and I killed her in a mo-
ment of passion. No one else is implicated in any
way.
The second sheet read:
DEAR BEN:
Please give my confession to the police. It is
no good their trying to catch me, or you either.
It has been the worst of all, deceiving you.
ADRIAN.
“My God—do you think he's killed himself?”
Benvenuto jumped up from the bed. “No, I
don't—but we'll make sure the boat's gone.” He
hurried off, his face drawn and white, and went
down the path away from the beach. A few mo-


C O N F E S S I O N 261
ments brought them to the opposite shore and
Paul joined Benvenuto as he stood examining
the tracks of a boat that had been dragged out
from the shelter of some bushes.
“As I thought—and he's got a good start be-
cause he's got a better engine than Lou Cat's.
There's no time to be lost,” he said as he turned
to go back. Catching sight of Paul's face, a faint
smile broke through his troubled expression.
“Expecting me to take out my truncheon?
Believe me, Paul, I'm not a policeman but all
the same I’ve got to catch Adrian.”
Paul followed him down the path. “Are you
going to bring him back here?” he asked.
“No, I'm not. He can't stay in hiding any
longer.”
It was nearly six by the time they were back
in the town. The voyage home had been silent,
for Benvenuto, beyond telling Paul that he be-
lieved Adrian would make for Marseille and
take the night train to Paris unless they could
intercept him, had been wrapped in his own
thoughts. Back in St. Antoine they started to
hurry to the garage, and everything contrived
to delay them. From the terrace of the Café de
la Phare Adelaide hailed them, and Paul looked
longingly at her sitting there, cool and beautiful,


262 T H E C R IM E COA ST
a cocktail in her hand and an empty chair
opposite.
“Don’t tell her,” said Benvenuto sharply in
his ear, then, “Can't stop, my dear—we've got
to go into Marseille. See you later.”
She looked at them disconsolately. “Oh, Ben,
and I am so consumed with curiosity.”
“What about?” He paused a moment.
“Why, the elegant closed limousine that dis-
gorged some person unknown into your flat. I
thought you were having a party and hadn't
asked me.”
“Oh, my God—I hadn't realized it was so
late! Come on, Paul.”
To Paul's surprise he went on to the garage,
and there, while the mechanic filled the car with
gasoline and oil, he hurriedly scribbled a note
and sent it round to the studio. They got in and
drove quickly through the town. Soon they were
climbing the now familiar road, Benvenuto
driving into the eye of the setting sun, and keep-
ing up a good speed in spite of the blinding
glare, the bad surface, and the tortuous route.
He looked at the clock on the dashboard from
time to time. “I don't believe we can do it,”
he said.
Mile after dusty mile rushed by. Paul had
ceased to think, his mind so torn by conjecture


C O N F E S S I O N 263
that it no longer functioned, and he felt himself
identified with the engine that bore him swiftly
onwards. Benvenuto's urgency had somehow
conveyed itself to him and he felt the need of
nothing but speed and still more speed as he
stared ahead, his eyes smarting with the dust and
sun, the wind blowing past his face, while the
car lurched and skidded round corners. For one
mile the sun would be straight in their faces,
for the next, as the road went off at an angle, it
would stream through the plane trees planted
regularly along the ditch, staining the road with
zebra-striped light and shadow, until Paul was
mesmerized into thinking he would ride on like
this for ever, chasing something that perpetually
eluded him.
He was brought back to reality with a start
by a loud report and the shriek of brakes as
Benvenuto drew into the roadside. The two men
stared at each other in dismay for a moment.
Then, “Damn!” said Benvenuto, “that's a burst
tire.” He opened the door and got down. “We'll
have to get the spare on as quickly as we can,
but I'm afraid that's torn it.”
While he hurriedly jacked up the car Paul
unscrewed the spare wheel, but a precious ten
minutes had been lost before, hot, greasy, dusty,
and bad-tempered, they resumed their journey.


264 T H E CRIM E COA ST
Paul had a momentary vision of a whisky and
soda, iced, with a slice of lemon, so vivid that
he said the words aloud. Benvenuto groaned,
his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“Mint julep,” he replied briefly.
At last the outskirts of Marseille came into
view, and tram lines and traffic forced them to
slacken speed. The clock on the dashboard
showed them the train was due to leave in five
minutes.
“But I don't know if it's right,” said Benve-
nuto. “There's the railway over there—and just
ahead is Marseille Blancard, the suburban sta-
tion. The trains for Paris go straight through it.”
Paul kept his eyes glued to the railway line
—there was no sign of the train. They passed
Marseille Blancard and then heard the shriek
of a whistle as a long train with every window
alight thundered through the station. “Grandes
Expresses Europeans. Wagon Lits. Restaurant
Car,” Paul read, and then in white letters on a
black board, “Paris.” So he'd got away. Paul,
to his surprise, felt a lifting of the heart.
Benvenuto paused but for a moment before
he ran the car into a side turning and reversed it.
“I’m sorry, Paul,” he said. “We shall have
to try and make Avignon before the train gets
there. We've got an hour—and a fairly good


C O N F E S S I O N 265
road. Eighty kilometres—now for a race with
the P.L.M.”
Off again in the gathering dusk, lights begin-
ning to twinkle in the roadside cafés, slow tram-
cars alive with hordes of home-going workmen
blocking the road. At last they were out in the
open country, making good going along the now
empty roads, but slowing down of necessity
through villages where the peasants were all out
for their evening promenade in the cobbled
streets. Many had brought their chairs out into
the road and were seated there, the men,smoking,
the women with their hands busy at work, chat-
tering with their neighbours who collected in
groups round them. It was impossible to hurry,
and Benvenuto's hand was perpetually on the
horn, though the loudest warning made little
difference to the strollers. In France the street
is a social club to which the natives feel they
have prior rights over the bustling noisy
étrangers.
Through Aix, where the going was easier, for
the streets were empty of pedestrians and the
traffic well ordered; through Orange with its
Roman gateway and crumbling walls, mysteri-
ous in the half light; through smaller towns of
which Paul did not know the names, and then
at last they crossed the Rhône and drew into


266 T H E C R IM E COA ST
Avignon. A few more minutes and they were
at the station, and Paul leant out and shouted
to a porter as they drove up the yard.
“Encore dix minutes m'sieur,” he replied, and
strolled off when he saw they had no luggage.
“Ten minutes to spare,” Paul breathed. “What
a marvellous run!”
Benvenuto got down stiffly, mopping his brow.
“Time for a swift one—and two platform tick-
ets,” he said.
They consumed two bottles of weak French
beer and arranged that Benvenuto should search
the front of the train while Paul took the back,
and they'd meet afterwards under the clock.
Seven minutes for their search; Paul felt nerv-
ous when at last the train was signalled, and
envied the innocent passengers around him who
had moved their bundles and suitcases to the
front of the platform and were full of prepara-
tions to embark. He left Benvenuto and took
up his place nearer the end of the platform.
Suppose Adrian offered resistance—or worse,
denied all knowledge of him and refused to
move from his seat? Paul shrugged his shoul-
ders resignedly; it was likely to be a difficult
encounter, particularly if he had to use force in
a carriage full of French bourgeoisie. The idea
of Benvenuto finding him in his half of the train


C O N F E S S I O N 267
never occurred to him, somehow. The line of
passengers bowed down to their luggage like
trees in a wind, porters with bags slung over
their shoulders stood to attention, the hissing
of the engine and interminable lines of lighted
windows flashed past him and came to a stand-
still, and in a second Paul had boarded the end
compartment. The first coach was easy, no one
seemed to be alighting at Avignon, and Paul
pushed his way through the corridor, passing
in review a double line of faces, pale in the
lamplight, in each carriage. Then his troubles
began, and his progress was impeded at every
step, as he came into contact with the oncoming
passengers who surged towards him, weighed
down with their luggage, anxiously searching
every compartment for a resting place for the
night. He was further confused by those trying
to get out, most of whom were engaged in thrust-
ing their bags and boxes through the corridor
windows to porters waiting on the platform
below. The train was hot and stuffy, and Paul
was pushed and buffeted and his feet were mer-
cilessly trampled, but he persisted doggedly,
and did not let a single face escape him. Once
or twice a trick of light or a young man's face .
imperfectly seen brought his heart to his mouth,
but each time he found, half with relief, half


CHAPTER XXIII
I M P A CT
SEATED in the dickey, while the car bumped
along the dark country roads, Paul considered
rather miserably the state of mind of the two
men in front of him. Adrian's youthful face
had looked wretched and hopeless, very white
under his sunburn, as Paul saw him into the
front seat. Benvenuto he could make nothing of
—for his action in hunting down his best friend
seemed totally opposed to his character as Paul
understood it, and for the past two days he had
preserved most of the time a moody silence,
making his motives doubly incomprehensible.
Until the moment of Adrian's capture Paul had
felt a secret hope he would get away—or failing
that, that Benvenuto would help him towards
escape. Now—they were bound for St. Antoine,
where Leech might already have returned,
thought Paul as he stared into the darkness, and
Adrian's fate as a self-confessed murderer left
no room for doubt. He tried to put himself in
269


272 T H E C R IM E COA ST
fumbling with the clothes on the chest. He rose
slowly.
“There's nothing to be done—he was killed
instantly. Justice has been done for you, Leech.
Would you like me to send the doctor out from
St. Antoine, while you stay by the body?”
Leaving Leech and his chauffeur standing in
the road, Paul and Benvenuto walked slowly
back towards their own car.
“I didn't see him very clearly,” said Paul,
“but was it—the Slosher?”
Benvenuto nodded.
“Yes. Nasty business. Poor old scoundrel—
he didn't get much of a run for his money, did
he? Well, after all, the very least that awaited
him was a long term of imprisonment. It was
a swift finish.”
They had reached the car and Paul suddenly
remembered Adrian. He was still sitting there,
sunk back in a corner, his face in shadow. What
was Benvenuto going to do? Paul wondered,
as he climbed into the dickey; he hadn't said a
word to Leech. As they drove on every detail
of the roadside was vividly illuminated by the
wreckage of the car, there was a strong smell
of burning rubber and oil, and they passed
through a zone of scorching heat before round-
ing a bend into complete darkness. They were


I M P A CT 273
descending the hills to St. Antoine, and another
quarter of an hour brought them to the town.
Benvenuto drove through the back streets and
stopped at the door of his own house, where he
got down and came round to speak, to Paul.
“I’m going in for a minute—if you'll wait
in the car I'll drive you down to the café.”
He took Adrian into the house and joined
Paul a few minutes later.
“God! what a day. And it's not over yet, be-
lieve me. Look here, what you'd better do is
this: Go and get some food—if you're as hungry
as I am you need it—and then in half an hour
call for Adelaide and bring her along to the
studio. You've been most forebearing, Paul, and
I’m grateful to you, and I hope that to-night
matters will clear up. We're going to have a
difficult time, and I shall want your support.
Here we are—see you later.”


CHAPTER XXIV
C R IM E
HIS heart beating uncomfortably, Paul stood
with his hand on the studio door, and looked
down at Adelaide standing beside him.
“I’m frightened, Paul,” she said.
He slipped his hand into her arm, opened the
door, and drew her into the room.
Three people were sitting round the fireplace:
Benvenuto on one side, his pipe in his hand,
Adrian opposite him, and a third man, whose
back was towards them. He rose with the others,
and when he turned round, Paul, in a flash of
realization, felt he understood at last the signifi-
cance of Benvenuto's actions. He had brought
Adrian back to St. Antoine for a last meeting
with his father—for the man who came towards
Paul with his hand outstretched, his face worn
with grief, was Major Kent. He seemed to have
aged by ten years since Paul had seen him last,
and looked very frail and ill. After a few words
of greeting Major Kent looked expectantly at
Benvenuto, who was standing by the fireplace.
274


CR IM E 277
piness to his father, whom she knew he cared
for more deeply than he had ever cared for her.
At last he escaped and rushed away, to wander
about London in a state of complete misery and
indecision. He thought of going to his father's
house, but pride and the fear of hurting him
kept him from this.
“We will leave Adrian and go back to Luela,
lying in floods of tears in her room. She was dis-
turbed at last by the telephone, and pulling her-
self together she answered it. It was Adelaide,
asking if she might come round and see her
about some paintings that Luela had written to
her about. Anything was welcome as a distrac-
tion—she could not lie in her room all day, it
would send her mad—so she arranged with Ade-
laide to come round. She decided she'd have a
bath—it would make her feel better and repair
the ravages of her tears—so she placed a key in
the outer keyhole of her door in case she was not
ready to open it, and went to the bathroom. Per-
haps ten minutes later the outer door of her
suite was quietly opened, and one Herbert
Dawkins, alias the Slosher, a jewel thief and
habitual criminal, slipped into her room. He
had been sent there by Luela's brother, De Na-
jera, to steal a big packet of cocaine which she
had smuggled to England. The unfortunate man


28o T H E C R IM E CO A ST
that at last Luela, inspired by God knew what
feelings of disappointment, lust, arrogance, tore
off her silk wrapper and stood defiantly before
him in the pride of her beauty.
“I think there was only one instinct in the man
—to hide her from his eyes—to get her out of
his sight, forget she had ever come into his life.
He stood at the end of her bed, and hardly
knowing what he did, he put out his hand blindly
for something—anything—to cover her with.
He advanced towards her holding in his hand
the silk eiderdown, and she, fear beginning to
creep over her, backed away from him until she
reached the bed. In an instant he had thrown the
eiderdown over her, covered her, pressed her
backwards. She struggled under his hands, but
by now a kind of madness had seized him and he
pushed her down and down, the thick silk cover-
ing over her body and over her face, hiding
her from his eyes, until at last she lay still. I
don’t know what he did then—whether he tried
to wake her, to make her speak. I think he simply
crept away out of the room, hardly knowing
what he had done, locking the door behind him,
putting the key in his pocket with a kind of
instinctive caution. Perhaps he knew she was
dead—I don't know. He hadn't gone there to


C R IM E 28I
kill her—he'd gone there to plead with her, to
bribe her. . . .”
“She had been my mistress when Adrian was
a child.” Benvenuto looked at Major Kent, who
stood facing him, and gave a sigh that was al-
most of relief.


CHAPTER XXV
– A N D P UN IS H M E N T
THERE was silence for a moment. Adrian's face
was hidden in his hands, Paul and Adelaide sat
in paralyzed stillness, while Benvenuto and
Major Kent faced each other. Then the old man,
as if in answer to some unspoken word of Ben-
venuto's, sank back in his chair and went on, his
voice suddenly quiet and expressionless.
“I saw in the morning paper that she had ar-
rived in London, and I knew from my son's
letter that he was going to see her. I decided I
would make one more attempt to find him, for
although I had little hope of appealing to her
humanity or decency—I had learnt too much
about her before we parted fifteen years ago to
expect that—still, I thought, I might be able to
find out from her his whereabouts. I rang up her
suite at the hotel and someone answered for her,
and gave me an appointment at once. Appar-
ently, as it turned out later, she thought I was
my son, and was waiting for him when I arrived.
“I tried to talk to her quietly, without bitter-
282


— A N D P U N IS H M E N T 285
for enforcing a very wise and very sound judi-
cial system which we have built up in our own
interests, and for which I have as great a respect
as any of you. It succeeds in making us the most
law-abiding people in the world, and under its
rule the majority of us live in peace and secur-
ity, able to sleep at night with a reasonable con-
viction that we shall not be murdered in our
beds. I very much doubt if this state of affairs
could exist unless the punishment of willful
murder were death, or at least life imprison-
ment, which instils into most people a deep-
rooted conviction that murder, as a means of
satisfying greed or lust, is a game that simply
isn't worth the candle. The result is that the ma-
jority of murders are committed by people who
are mentally, physically, or morally diseased,
and so are better out of the way. There remains
the minority—the rare murders which are com-
mitted by the sane, the essentially gentle and
law-abiding specimens of humanity who are un-
der the influence of obscure, even ethical mo-
tives. In some cases a wisdom above law and a
merciful ruler may extend pardon, but not be-
fore the agony of a prolonged trial and the re-
sultant suspense and suffering have done their
work.
“Surely, to all of us who are not servants of


286 T H E C R IM E COA ST
the law it is the spirit, and not the letter of the
law, that matters. If that is so, surely it is pos-
sible to conceive of a situation in which an ordi-
nary thinking man might arrive at a better un-
derstanding of what is justice than a judge and
jury, who are bound to apply general principles
in individual cases?”
Now he was directly addressing Major Kent.
“Everything that you have told us to-night I
knew, before I sent you that telegram which
brought you out here. How I came by that
knowledge I will explain to you later; it is suffi-
cient for the moment to say that it would have
been extremely difficult for me to offer proofs
of what I knew, and further, that no one beyond
the five people in this room share this knowl-
edge. You told us just now that you have been
waiting to see your son before going to the police
with your confession. I want you to realize that
at this moment the police hold no shred of evi-
dence against you, and it is extremely improb-
able, indeed practically impossible, that they can
ever find any. Such evidence as exists points to
one man, and he—”
“Do not go on.”
It was Major Kent speaking. “Believe me I
am grateful for what you have done for me, and
grateful to all of you for what you have done for


– A N D P UN IS H M E N T 287
Adrian. But my mind is made up, and nothing
that you can say can make any difference. Sus-
picions exist—and the only thing that I can do
is to give myself up to-morrow—” The quiet
voice stopped as a loud knock sounded on the
door. Each one of them turned with a start, and
after a hardly perceptible pause Benvenuto
called, “Entrez.”
The door opened, and Leech stood there, be-
hind him two uniformed gendarmes. They came
in and stood in a group round the door. Leech
looked straight at Benvenuto.
“Sorry to intrude, Mr. Brown, I didn't know
you had company. I just came in, knowing you
was interested in the matter, to tell you we know
who committed the murder in that Bishop's
'Otel case.” He paused for dramatic effect, and
there was a breathless silence in the room.
Paul jumped to his feet.
“Who d'you mean?” he demanded hoarsely.
But Leech was not to be hurried.
“Of course, nothing's proved yet, but there's
evidence that makes it as plain as a pikestaff. I
had my suspicions all along. Herbert Dawkins,
alias the Slosher, it was, him as you saw dead
on the road this evening. When I came to search
the body, bless me if I didn't find the missing
diamond brooch with initials L. da C. on it,


288 T H E C R IM E coast.
and alongside of it the actual key of her room. It
beats me, the way they'll carry incriminating
evidence about on them, even the most experi-
enced ones.”
“Extraordinary,” interjected Benvenuto.
“You may well say so, Mr. Brown. Well, he's
no great loss to the world. He's been suspected
of murder before, but we could never fix any-
thing on 'im. I must be getting along now.”
Major Kent rose from his chair and took a
step towards the little detective, and then Paul
placed himself between them.
“Congratulations, Leech,” he said, shaking
him warmly by the hand. “Pretty good evening's
work, that. He looked a thorough-going scoun-
drel, that fellow, and I can't say I'm surprised.
Well, he saved you some trouble at the end,
didn't he? C'est la Justice, eh?” he added, ad-
dressing himself to the two men in uniform.
“C'est la Justice Divine,” said the fatter of the
two gendarmes, taking off his hat.
“That's true enough,” agreed Leech. “And
now I must be O. P. H., so good-night all.”
“Good-night,” said Major Kent.


CHAPTER XXVI
J U M P I N G TO C O N C L U S I O N S
THE next day towards dusk Paul and Adelaide
climbed Benvenuto's stairs, for he had asked
them to dine with him, promising to take them
in retrospect through his investigations. Pleas-
antly tired, they sat down on the big settee, while
a fat peasant woman laid plates and glasses on
a check tablecloth. The day had passed like some
agreeable dream, Paul thought, for Adelaide
had painted him, sitting on the rocks in his blue
tricot, and at frequent intervals they had bathed.
Impatient to hear Benvenuto's story, they also
felt remarkably hungry, and while there were
obvious preparations for dinner and an appetiz-
ing smell, the principal character was still miss-
ing. Soon, however, his footsteps were heard on
the staircase, accompanied by a song to the effect
that
“He was her man
But he done her wrong,”
and Benvenuto opened the door and greeted
them.
289


290 T H E C R IM E COA ST
“Food is what we need,” he cried. “Rosette,
the soup!” and they sat down to dine in the cool
twilight.
“I can't tell whether my wine is red or rosé,”
expostulated Adelaide. “Do turn on the lights,
Ben.”
He got up and turned the switch, flooding the
large room with amber light, and at once was
answered by a subdued twittering that came
from a house across the narrow street. The sound
grew, swelled, and mounted into a burst of
watery bird song, and as they sat silent, listening,
Paul half expected to see eggs and bacon on the
table before him, such a morning exuberance
was in the air.
“Poor silly things,” said Benvenuto at last.
“Those birds are kept in cages on the shutters
of a fisherman's house across the way, and each
evening when I turn on the light they think the
sun has risen. They jump to the wrong conclu-
sion, in fact, and what right have we to laugh at
them? Haven't we all been doing the same thing
for the past week?”
“Speak for yourself,” said Adelaide, holding
out her plate.
“Well,” said Benvenuto, serving her to bouche
de la reine, “there would have been no mystery
at all if you hadn't jumped to the conclusion


J U M P I N G To co N c L U S I o N s 291
that a certain telephone call was from Adrian
Kent, and not from Major Kent. You expected
the name of Adrian, and you heard it, my dear,
or thought you did.”
“And you jumped to the conclusion that I'd
made a mistake, I suppose?” said Adelaide.
Benvenuto smiled. “Perhaps you'd better hear
the whole story. I started off in birdlike inno-
cence myself, jumped to a false conclusion, and
saw what I expected to see. I think I shall have
to give up reading detective fiction—it tends to
make one so horribly conventional. I ought not
to have been led away by the fact that De Najera
was an obviously perfect villain, but I was, and
wasted a lot of time disabusing my mind of the
idea that he was our particular villain. Still, I
must say in my own defense that there did seem
to be a reasonable amount of evidence against
him.”
“Indeed there was,” Paul agreed. “The false
alibi alone was enough to make anyone suspi-
cious.”
Benvenuto nodded.
“The trouble with us was that, a murder hav-
ing been committed, we allowed it to over-
shadow everything else, and forgot that business
was as usual in other branches of crime. We both
of us felt about De Najera that we were dealing


292 T H E C R IM E COA ST
with a criminal, and we were perfectly right.
His elaborate alibi was obviously covering one
of his little absinthe smuggling expeditions, and
no doubt the valet masquerading as his master
was a precaution that De Najera had taken many
times before. It was unfortunate for us that I
happened to spot it at the very time when darker
deeds were afoot—though I think even without
the incident I should have been obliged to sus-
pect the man.”
“Why d'you say 'obliged’?”
“Simply because he was such a perfect sus-
pect, both from the point of view of his own
character, and our knowledge that all was not
well between him and Luela. Never at any time
did I feel an inner conviction about his guilt,
but I didn't dare to disregard the apparently
logical chain of thought which directed suspi-
cion against him. From the moment that I heard
Adrian's story, a fugitive idea began to float
about in the back of my mind, something flimsy
and unsubstantial that had no foundation in evi-
dence or in logic. It was far too slight to be
called a “suspicion,” and was directed against
no one, yet it had sufficient vitality to rob me of a
comfortable degree of conviction in my suspi-
cions against De Najera. In almost every in-
vestigation I’ve ever made I have had this same


J U M P L N G To co N c L U S I O N s 293
experience—of something which begins to roam
about in my subconscious mind, and worry me,
in contradiction to any amount of apparently
satisfactory evidence. I can only describe it as
the ghost of an idea, that is, as Chesterton says,
the ‘right shape,” and though I don't know
myself what shape it is, yet by contrast it makes
other apparently well-fitting pieces of a puzzle
appear the wrong shape. The only thing to do,
I've found, is to carry on with one's investiga-
tions, follow up every clue that offers itself, and
keep one's mind on the alert for anything—a
chance word, a turn of a head, even a smell,
that will suddenly drag this elusive wisp of an
idea out into the broad light of day. In the
present instance it was borne forth on the wings
of a mosquito, but I’ll come to that later.”
“I think I see,” said Paul. “It must be rather
like having a word on the tip of your tongue that
you can't for the life of you bring out—or find-
ing one day that you can't whistle a single note
of a tune which actually you're perfectly fa-
miliar with.”
“Exactly. Now, to get to business. I heard
Adrian's story and took him to the island. I
talked with De Najera, and, putting two and
two together, produced a spurious four on the
strength of his false alibi. I heard your story,


J U M P I N G To co N C L U S I O N S 295
wasn't a certainty, and its value was negligible
compared with the other jewels; though its value
as evidence was great, as it turned out later. To
make confusion worse confounded—why had
De Najera established an alibi if he hadn't done
it himself? I decided to continue along the safe
paths of research and wait for an inspiration.
“The next problem that confronted me was
the behaviour of Adelaide. Never, never at-
tempt to earn your living on the stage, my dear,”
he smiled at her. “Your dismay on first catching
sight of Paul in the café was sufficiently obvious
to set my inquisitive mind working, though I
naturally didn't connect it in any way with the
crime. Actually, I take it, you thought he was a
detective engaged in tracking you down in your
character of the Missing Woman? I thought so.
Anyhow, later in the evening when De Najera
made his drunken and melodramatic denuncia-
tion of Adrian in the café, it struck me you
looked really unnaturally alarmed even in the
circumstances, and beat rather too hasty a re-
treat. The following night when Paul and I
dined with you after our adventures in Cannes,
I determined to find out if you had in some
mysterious way got yourself involved in the
affair, and when I told you of Adrian's danger
and asked you to do a bit of espionage, your


J U M P 1 N G To co N c L U S I O N S 303
of faint illogical hope came to me as I thought
of these two, and I determined to go on, just
as though I didn't know. Suddenly I thought of
the faded photograph, and leaving you two at
the lighthouse I hurried home to look at it. It
might, I thought, establish a link between Major
Kent and Luela in the past. I held it to the light
and round went the roulette wheel. It was
Adrian it reminded me of but wait a minute.
Could I be sure? Wasn't I seeing what I ex-
pected to see—jumping to conclusions? I didn't
know, I only knew I had no proof but my inner
certainty, and on that I could not act. I stumbled
into bed, feeling dizzy and pretty miserable.
“It's difficult to say how things would have
turned out next day if it hadn't rained.” To the
exasperation of his two listeners Benvenuto
stared at the fire absent-mindedly before con-
tinuing.
“When we burgled the aéroplane shed, the
rain, if you remember, was coming down like
fury. We stood outside the little door at the
back of the shed fumbling at the lock and curs-
ing, and when I'd tried all my keys unavailingly
I asked you, Paul, if you'd got any on you. You
said you hadn't except your hotel key, which we
tried and found too big, and then to your sur-
prise you found another in the pocket of your


J U M P I N G To co N C L U S I O N S 305
I tried to make sound casual, you told me it had
rained the night before you left England, I knew
there was no escape. All the time we were exam-
ining the plane I was torn with indecision, and
when we found the absinthe tank I knew I had
accounted for De Najera's false alibi, and so
destroyed the last bit of evidence against him.
Directly I got back to Marseille I wired to
Major Kent to come.
“After that—well, I was faced by two prob-
lems. What to do finally, after I had spoken
with Major Kent; and how to conceal from
everyone my suspicions until the time when he
arrived. As it turned out, Adelaide and De Na-
jera provided a quite sufficient distraction to
engage Paul's attention for the rest of the day,
and I must say my own problems didn't enter
my head for an hour or two.
“My visit that night to Adrian was brief, for
after unpacking my basket of food and wine,
I left him hurriedly, afraid to talk with him. I
passed a melancholy night, trying unsuccessfully
to persuade myself that I had constructed a
fabric of lies out of a diseased imagination, got
up early next morning and threw all my energies
into that canvas over there. It had the double
advantage of absorbing me and frightening
Paul, who, coming round after breakfast to talk


306 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
about the crime, beat a hasty retreat down the
stairs on catching sight of the Artistic Tempera-
ment. While painting that picture the details of
the crime sorted themselves out in my head, and
I began to know what I would, and finally did,
say to Major Kent. If he came by plane he
would probably arrive that afternoon; mean-
while you and Adelaide were out for the day
and all went well. However, I soon discovered
I was living in a fool's paradise when you came
in and said you'd found Adrian and given him a
letter from his father. The rest you know—and
it's odd, when one comes to think about it, that
throughout all our investigations you were
carrying in one pocket a letter of confession
from Major Kent to Adrian, in another the only
real piece of evidence—the key.”
Adelaide bent forward.
“Ben—I know I’m stupid—but I don't see
why that key was such important evidence.
After all, the Slosher had a key, and Luela's
brooch, in his pocket when they searched the
body.”
Benvenuto looked at her blandly.
“My child, I put them there myself.”


308 T H E C R IM E CO A ST
and smiled lazily at him, and suddenly he found
that he did want many things, and had no words
to ask for them. He turned away and stared at
the shore, where the bright houses of the port
seemed painted against the mountains and scat-
tered bathers on the beach so many spots of pig-
ment. As he watched, a figure separated itself
from the rest, and climbed a high rock, dived
neatly, and reappearing a moment later, struck
out towards the raft. Suddenly brave, Paul
slipped his hand over Adelaide's.
“There's somebody coming,” he said.
“Oh, Paul!” She sat up and rubbed the sun
from her eyes; then, looking across the water, “I
believe it's Ben.”
The swimmer was still a long way off, thought
Paul . . . and Adelaide's face . . . so very
close to his own . . .
When Benvenuto arrived at the raft he half
swung himself on to it and shook the water from
his eyes. Then he paused.
“What happy hours a man attend
That hath a cultured female friend,”
he murmured, slipping back unseen into the sea.
THE END








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