The Riviera Express Read online

Hanging in his outstretched fingers was, Miss Dimont felt sure, the key to the mysterious deaths of Gerald Hennessy and Arthur Shrimsley. A beige and tan object in soft leather with faded gilt locks, weathered handsomely by the years, the sort of item one might find equally at home in Mayfair or Monte Carlo – not in a Devon coal-hole covered with black dust.

  Miss Dimont wiped her eyes, for she had been as upset by the tragedy of handsome Barry Shaldon as much as his attack on her, and she placed the case upon her lap. Its locks burst obligingly open at a touch of a finger, and she lifted the lid in a horror of anticipation.

  It was empty.

  Not quite empty, for there were some breadcrumbs and a couple of what appeared to be minuscule red balls the size of a large pinhead rolling around inside, and in a folder there was what turned out to be a script. But when Miss Dimont read swiftly through its contents, hungry for clues, it offered nothing more than a selection of the lines Hennessey was due to deliver in his next film. In the present context, they seemed banal.

  Terry could sense her disappointment. ‘Quick one in the Fort?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Miss Dimont, ‘the Grand!’

  Reporter and photographer tumbled into the Minor, and as it rolled downhill towards town an earnest debate took place over the case’s future. Terry was all for handing it over to the police, Miss Dimont for using it as a lever to get more information out of the mercurial Miss Aubrey. Since Judy had promised to buy the drinks, she won the point and in a few moments they were walking through the hotel’s imposing portico and out on to the sun-splashed terrace.

  ‘Hello, Peter.’ Miss Dimont smiled at her favourite waiter. ‘Give us two cocktails – any kind you like. And, is Miss Aubrey in the hotel still?’

  ‘Yes.’ Potts nodded. ‘In the bar.’

  ‘Would you give her this note?’ She scribbled in her reporter’s notebook, tore out the page and handed it over.

  It took the film star less than a minute to arrive, preceded (but only just) by a quick-marching Peter Potts bearing on a salver her half-consumed martini.

  ‘You found Gerry’s case?’ Miss Aubrey trilled. ‘I am so grateful – so grateful. It means so very much to –’

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’ said Miss Dim. Her voice appeared to have been chilled by the ice in her cocktail; in fact it sounded positively frosty. Miss Aubrey plonked down rather heavily on a chair; evidently Peter Potts had been working zealously on her behalf for some time.

  The actress looked up, then blinked. ‘But how come you have Gerry’s case? I thought Inspector Topham—?’

  ‘It was stolen by a very unhappy young man,’ said Miss Dimont, primly shaking her head as murmurs of arrest and imprisonment bubbled to the actress’s lips. ‘It is unharmed and intact and that I hope will be an end of the matter.’

  Prudence Aubrey, through a slight haze, got the message. She took the case in her hands and stroked it gently.

  ‘It’s a . . . talisman,’ she said. ‘A token of a happy time. When Gerry and I were young, when we had stardom in front of us and ambition at our elbow. We were beautiful people, we were in love, we were . . . wanted.

  ‘“Murgs,” he used to say – that was his name for me – “Murgs, together we will go to the top.” And the rest didn’t matter – the fact we never had any money, we had no children, not even really a home we could call our own. Acting has a way of displacing conventional priorities but it happens so gradually that you don’t realise you are drifting away from the shore. Then one day you wake to find yourself in the middle of the river, with no oars, and the rocks up ahead.’

  She clutched the case. ‘That moment came when I heard Gerry was dead,’ she said. ‘I woke up to the fact that I had moved far, far away from the real world, but now it was marching towards me and shouting that it was going to take me back.’

  A large tear welled in the corner of one eye and slid elegantly down her cheek. It was a good performance. Miss Dimont paused, appropriately, then started her questioning again.

  ‘Are you surprised that Gerald died of a heart attack?’

  ‘Yes and no. He has always been pretty fit – his job required it – but, of course, the drink . . . and recently he’d started taking pills.’

  ‘So that could have been it? Too many pills?’

  ‘You heard what the pathologist said. It was a heart attack. If he’d been taking pills there presumably would have been some evidence.’

  ‘You see,’ said Miss Dimont, ‘although my job is a reporter, I have had some past experience in . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished. Miss Aubrey, looking at her interlocutor as if for the first time, suddenly saw a different woman. It caused her to choose her words with care. ‘Had he had any illness, Gerald?’

  Miss Aubrey thought about that. She did not immediately answer. Then slowly she answered, ‘Well, I don’t suppose it matters now. We never talked about it during his lifetime because nobody wants to hire an ill actor – even one with a reputation like Gerald’s. In films, you know, the insurance . . . so costly. So you keep quiet.’

  Miss Dimont leant forward. ‘But . . .?’

  ‘About five years ago, Gerry keeled over and nearly died. It was horrifying – we were having dinner and he suddenly went red, then purple, in the face, he was sick, and then slid under the table. The ambulance was called and he was in hospital within fifteen minutes. If they’d been any longer he would have been dead.’

  ‘What was it?’ asked Miss Dimont.

  ‘Anaphylactic shock, I think they called it. Gerald had developed an allergy to caviar – well, all fish eggs really, roe and suchlike, but on this particular evening we’d had some caviar. Still hard to come by, even in this day and age, but it was that sort of restaurant.

  ‘It was horrible to see, and the worst of it was that nobody at the hospital knew what to do – they couldn’t work out what was wrong with him. They pumped him full of some drug – epinephrine? I don’t know – and slowly he recovered. It’s ironic that if anybody had lived the champagne-and-caviar way of life it was Gerry. But that put an end to it.’

  A slow realisation was forming in Miss Dimont’s mind. But Prudence Aubrey was rambling on. ‘Funny thing was, Gerry was never that keen on champagne. So all that guff in the newspapers about champagne and caviar – it was all nonsense. By the end he didn’t take either. Of course he kept up the legend, never told a soul he couldn’t eat caviar. I mean, what would that have done to his reputation?’

  ‘It’s a very strange malady,’ said Miss Dimont, thoughtfully. ‘Was there no warning?’

  ‘Well, he’d been unwell a couple of times after eating caviar but we never made the connection – we thought it must be food poisoning. Then one night we were having dinner in the Russian Tea Room in New York. Django Reinhardt was playing. We ordered the full Russian menu but Gerry disappeared after the first course and didn’t come back until after the band had finished – he’d spent the evening in the bathroom, poor lamb. Missed the entire performance. And still the penny didn’t drop.’

  Miss Dimont’s voice was so low it could barely be heard above the clatter on the Grand Hotel’s terrace.

  ‘And so, if someone had wanted to murder Gerald,’ she said very slowly, and as she did so she leant forward and took back the attaché case from Prudence Aubrey’s lap, ‘they could do it by feeding him caviar.’

  The actress went white. ‘Well, no . . . no . . .’ she stuttered. ‘No – Gerry wouldn’t touch anything which contained even the merest hint of fish eggs! It’s an allergy which only gets worse as time goes on – he knew after that hospital trip he could die.’

  Miss Dimont lifted the worn leather case on to her lap and snapped it open.

  ‘Salmon eggs,’ said Miss Dimont bleakly. ‘Red caviar.’

  She looked over the attaché case lid at Prudence Aubrey. ‘That’s what killed your husband.’

  Like poor Gerald, his widow had to be helped up from under the table. She had fainted.

  TWENTY-ONEr />
  Frank Topham had taken his leave of Sid with the customary exchange of monosyllables, and only by chance emerged from the bar of the Grand on to the terrace via its garden door. If he’d gone out his usual way, through the Palm Court, things might have turned out differently.

  Instead he turned the corner to find Peter Potts, Miss Dimont and that photographer fellow struggling under a table to retrieve the inert body of a woman whom, as he approached, he identified as Prudence Aubrey.

  In keeping with the hotel’s famed discretion the fuss was being kept to a minimum by Peter, who’d swiftly called a colleague to place a couple of screens around the table; but Topham’s eyes had already taken in the scene and, just as quickly, seen and identified the missing attaché case.

  ‘How’d that get here?’ he demanded pugnaciously.

  Miss Dimont, helping the actress into a chair, left the answer to that question with Terry, who gave a vague account of the past two hours’ activities without identifying Barry Shaldon or even which part of town they’d visited.

  It infuriated Topham, who pictured the scene back in the CID room when he explained that, once again, his investigation had been bested by that owlish-looking reporter on the local rag. He could hear the cooing chorus of ‘Not again, Stanley!’ and it chilled his blood.

  ‘That,’ he said in midnight tones, ‘is evidence in what may be a murder inquiry.’ Miss Dimont shot him a triumphant look. ‘Give it to me. Now.’

  Nobody raised a finger, so Topham helped himself. Prudence Aubrey was coming round with the aid of a table napkin dipped into an ice bucket.

  ‘Inspector,’ she said weakly. ‘I shall be telling Colonel ffrench-Blake what a miracle worker you are. Gerry’s attaché case . . . so glad . . .’

  The faint, the accumulated cocktails, and frankly the shock of all that had taken place in the past few days had rendered her helpless to comprehend who had done what, thought Topham, but he was mollified to think this might end with a commendation to the CO. But such was the fluster caused by this small group trying hard not to create a scene he realised he would get little more from reporter or actress so, taking up the prized piece of evidence, he turned to walk away.

  ‘It will be returned to you tomorrow,’ he promised Miss Aubrey, ‘and please don’t hesitate to pass on warmest regards to the colonel.’

  The actress sighed, threw a mournful look at the departing case (in the stage version of Brief Encounter she’d delivered a similar moue to departing Alec Harvey) and looked round vaguely for her cocktail glass.

  Miss Dimont had waited patiently for the hubbub to subside but now turned again to Prudence.

  ‘May I just ask you a couple more questions?’ she said, rather more a statement than a question.

  ‘I seem to have lost my drink.’

  ‘Have some water,’ said Miss Dimont, firmly. The actress suddenly looked anxious.

  ‘Inspector Topham now has the case and will no doubt be having its contents analysed,’ she said. ‘But unless I’m much mistaken the cause of Gerald’s death is in there, for all to see.

  ‘We can take it that he did not want to kill himself with caviar. Therefore, we may conclude from the breadcrumbs that it was put in a sandwich by someone else – someone who wanted him dead.’

  Miss Aubrey went white.

  ‘You have said yourself,’ went on Miss Dimont, gently but firmly, ‘that you wanted to kill your husband. He had been unfaithful, he was preparing to leave the marital home. He had come into a substantial amount of money which he was not prepared to share with you. He had changed from a loveable national figure into something of a monster. He was going to write his memoirs, which might do something to refresh his image, but would cause your own reputation – at a difficult juncture in your career – nothing but damage.’

  Miss Aubrey gripped the tablecloth and stared fixedly at Miss Dimont. From a wilting soubrette she had suddenly transformed into a tigress at bay, but the reporter seemed not to notice.

  ‘Gerald was coming down here to claim his fortune – and he was doing so in the company of a woman you thought was his mistress,’ she went on.

  ‘Or, did you know? Did you know that Marion Lake was in fact his daughter? That he had something you could never have – apart from the fame and the continued glory – that he had a child? Had you discovered that? Is that what made you plan to kill him?’

  Miss Aubrey stood up jerkily and threw the contents of her water glass in Judy Dimont’s face.

  ‘Youuuuuuuu,’ she hissed, ‘youuuuu . . . you don’t know what you’re talking about! You have no idea!’ Her face was bunched up, its natural prettiness all but overcome by a sudden mad-eyed pallor. The water glass in her hand now became a weapon, shoved threateningly across the table towards the reporter, who was dabbing her face with a napkin.

  Terry and Peter Potts, caught off-guard, moved belatedly to protect Miss Dimont, who was clearly in danger. The water glass remained just inches away from her face until Terry gently grasped the actress’s wrist and at the same moment relieved her of the glass and pushed her back into her chair.

  ‘You see,’ said Miss Dimont, wiping her spectacles and returning them to their rightful place, ‘only you could know about Gerald’s allergy – you said as much yourself. It would be damaging to his career if it were known he suffered such a terrible weakness, both from a publicity point of view, but also because of the insurance. You kept it a secret between yourselves – you told me so just now.’

  Terry had his hand on the actress’s shoulder, a heavy reminder that he was Miss Dimont’s protector. Peter Potts stood sturdily by the reporter’s side. There could be no renewal of her attack, yet she sat like coiled steel, an eerily frightening presence in the gathering dusk.

  ‘Who then had the knowledge, the motive and the means to kill your husband – apart from you?’

  ‘Who do you think you are, asking all these questions?’ demanded the actress. ‘What are you? Just some jumped-up reporter from a local rag who—’

  ‘Well,’ said Miss Dimont, ‘we can always ask Inspector Topham to come back. Given the circumstances, I think you’d find his questions were very similar to mine.’ Or they should be, added Miss Dimont silently.

  She continued. ‘When he went on his rail trips, he used to take his script with him to rehearse in the compartment.’

  ‘Yes, I already told you that.’

  ‘Would he take anything with him to eat, or did he use the dining car?’

  ‘He liked to get into the part and didn’t want the distraction of people bothering him, so he’d have a sandwich in the compartment.’

  ‘What sort of sandwich?’

  ‘Well, usually smoked salmon. If I could get it. Not always easy, even now.’ She bit at a fingernail.

  Miss Dimont considered this. ‘So it would be terribly easy, wouldn’t it, to fold a layer of salmon caviar into the sandwich without his noticing as he took a bite?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t be able to tell, would he? The taste of the salmon eggs would be lost in the flavour of the smoked salmon. And how would he know the eggs were there – you don’t open a sandwich to inspect its contents before eating, do you?’

  ‘Listen, I don’t know why you think—’ said Prudence Aubrey, now very angry indeed.

  ‘Who else?’ asked Miss Dimont, pressing hard. ‘Who else could it be but you? Who else knew about his fatal allergy?’

  ‘Only members of his family, I suppose.’

  ‘But he hasn’t got any family . . . apart from his daughter. Marion Lake.’

  ‘Then,’ said Prudence Aubrey, rising magnificently from the table, ‘I suggest you go and talk to Marion Lake! She saw Gerald far more recently than I. She was on the train with him, for heaven’s sake!’ She was gathering strength as she spoke. ‘Remember Gerald did not spend that last night with me.’

  ‘We only have your word for—’

  ‘In this case, my word is good enough,’
snapped the actress. ‘And if you’re looking for – whaddyou call it? – motive, then think about this. Marion Lake was abandoned by her father before she was born. She had a difficult time with her stepfather, who constantly sneered about not being his. Sometimes the money Gerald was supposed to send – well, we existed on very little in the early years of our marriage and he didn’t always send the right amount, and sometimes not at all.’

  ‘So you did know about Marion Lake.’

  ‘Let’s say I guessed. I didn’t know who she was, of course. I didn’t know that until you told me in the courthouse.’

  ‘But why would she want to kill a father with whom she’d only just been reunited?’

  ‘How should I know?’ said the actress. ‘Rejection? I don’t know. All I know is, I wasn’t with Gerald for thirty-six hours before he died. She was.’

  And with that Miss Aubrey swept magnificently off the terrace and up to her suite.

  *

  It was not that Betty Featherstone was ungrateful, but somehow she expected better of Rudyard Rhys. Truth be told, the byline queen of the Riviera Express was upset to find in the engagements diary her initials pencilled against the annual meeting of the Regis and Bedlington Bowls Club.

  For a start it was in Bedlington, which was a nuisance to get to. In addition, though local newspapers, especially in this part of the world, left no stone unturned in trying to squeeze a story out of a non-event, it could hardly be said that the AGM of the bowls club was likely to get her a Page One story. She had been almost inclined to do a pick-up – calling the club secretary next morning to glean what miserable nuggets of information had dribbled out during the no doubt dreary (and lengthy) meeting, but Rudyard Rhys was very particular about pick-ups.

  Everyone in local journalism had heard the story of the theatre critic who couldn’t be bothered to attend a performance of HMS Pinafore given by the Young Farmers and so wrote his review from the programme without hearing that the theatre had burned down. That was most decidedly not going to happen on Mr Rhys’s patch, and so to Bedlington poor Betty duly went.