The Riviera Express Page 7

  That business of not telling Miss Dimont about the foul play was typical.

  ‘Oh dear, Judy!’ she wailed when tackled. ‘I just – you know Derek and I had been having a tiff – I just forgot!’ And you didn’t know whether that was the truth or not. What can be said for certain is that she rarely did anything for Miss Dimont which took her out of her way.

  The double-death sensation at Temple Regis had been handled extremely competently by his chief reporter but Rudyard Rhys, a belt-and-braces man if ever there was, could not leave well alone. He was nervous of his chairman and he was nervous of public opinion. The bonus of having a celebrity scoop in Temple Regis could easily be outweighed by any further developments uncovered by Miss Dimont which might tarnish Temple Regis’s golden reputation. You could never tell with stories like this – they were, to some extent, an unexploded bomb and he didn’t like it.

  He ordered Betty to keep an eye on her colleague and let him know if she felt things could be done better. Betty blushed and smiled – was she pleased to be put in a position of supervision over her older colleague? Glad her superior journalistic talents were recognised by old Rudyard? Or was it jealousy, pure and simple? For Betty could never quite get the measure of the woman who sat across the desk from her. Miss Dimont seemed to live a unique life, at once both deeply involved in the community and at the same time set apart from it. Betty needed constant reassurance about her looks and femininity; Miss Dimont did not. Betty could not exist without a boyfriend knocking about; Miss Dimont lived alone. Betty talked a lot about men; but though Miss Dimont was far from immune to their charms, she chose not to share her innermost thoughts.

  And then there was the War. Nobody knew quite what Judy Dimont had done, but whatever it was you knew instinctively she would have executed her duties as she did on the Riviera Express – diligently, accurately, speedily, and in a wholly exemplary manner.

  There were many in Temple Regis who talked about the conflict and their part in it; but then again, there were others who did not – not through shame or embarrassment but because they preferred it that way. They knew who they were, it did not take a regimental blazer badge or a jewelled lapel brooch for them to identify each other. You saw them in St Margaret’s Church on Remembrance Sunday, usually sitting towards the back, united in their reluctance to display the shining emblems a grateful nation had planted on their chests. Miss Dimont was one of these lone wolves, quiet people who shared memories only with themselves.

  Any friend of Judy, therefore, alerted to Betty snooping on her colleague’s professional activities might have raged against the iniquity of it. But were she to be made aware of Betty’s peephole activities – and maybe she instinctively knew anyway – it would make no difference for, as always, Miss Dimont rose above. In any event she was the first to admit her occasional journalistic lapses left her wide open to criticism – and usually just at the point where she had scored some remarkable triumph.

  Life, she often reflected calmly, is like that.

  Betty took advantage of her colleague’s absence to saunter round to the other side of the desk. There, an open notebook, festooned with the weird and inexplicable hieroglyphics invented by Mr Pitman to torment successive generations of secretaries and reporters, offered its secrets up for the taking. But Miss Featherstone’s own shorthand accomplishments were courtesy of Pitman’s rival, Mr Gregg, and so she could neither make head nor tail of the scribbles.

  However, there was a handwritten note-to-self from Miss Dim which made interesting reading.

  PA – didn’t know where G was. That horrible reaction!

  RC – something to hide – hated G I am sure.

  Did R&P know each other?

  Don’t forget Shrimsley!

  It didn’t make sense but Betty made a mental note. It was obvious Miss Dimont had something up her sleeve and she did not want to see her rival occupying the whole of the front page again on Friday as she’d done last week – why, that was Betty’s domain!

  She went back to her desk and noted with distaste the most recent edition of the Riviera Express, lying on the subs’ table nearby. And then she did a double-take – Shrimsley in Judy’s note was obviously the late Arthur of that name whose death was recorded so graphically.

  And so . . . G must be Gerald Hennessy! And . . . PA must be Prudence Aubrey!

  This excessive use of grey matter rather exhausted Betty but she struggled on. Who was RC? And why did he hate Gerald? Why was Prudence horrible? And did R and P know each other?

  It was all rather exciting, just like a detective novel. She couldn’t wait to tell Mr Rhys.

  *

  The Palm Court of the Grand Hotel, Temple Regis, was a home-from-home for anyone with upstart aspirations. Here, heavy doors swung open and the world swept through into its colonnaded rooms. Waiters bowed and smiled, ladies rustled their dresses, gentlemen adjusted their cuffs. The air was one of decorum; hotter passions inflamed by early evening cocktails were quickly doused by the trio of ancients who scraped and plinked their way through a menu of dusty Viennese composers. The mercy was that, acoustically, the Palm Court had always been something of a nightmare, and the clinking of glasses and cups and the raised voices of those on their second sidecar drowned out the dismal musical offering which added tone but no bite to the evening’s proceedings.

  But pretentious it most certainly was not. The Grand had long lived up to its name, attracting an exceptional array of the rich and famous – writers, politicians, film stars – by virtue of its high standards, comfortable beds and Nelsonian eye to indiscretion. Nowadays, its swagger had evaporated a little, what with threadbare carpets and manservants to match, but it had lost none of its gravitas or charm. And in one way, the Grand was what kept the town’s head above water – for all the time the well-known and the celebrated continued to check in, those who looked up to them would flock to Temple Regis just to rub shoulders with them.

  It was tragic indeed that Prudence Aubrey now occupied the hotel suite intended for her dead husband – a sumptuous collection of long-windowed, pastel-shaded rooms overlooking a beach which even the merest splash of sunshine rendered idyllic. Gerald’s agent, Radford, had paid for it all; and now Prudence had only to ring, and a boy would come running to open the champagne or race to find a swizzle-stick.

  That invisible chain of porters which stretches from railway station to hotel room in any town worth its salt had delivered the bags; the temporary maid assigned to her had neatly filled the closets and drawers with her possessions. There was nothing for Prudence to do except sit out the week until the inquest proper into Gerald’s death.

  She had brought newspapers and magazines, dark glasses, and a number of current novels. Once upon a time there would have been film scripts, too, but of late there had been fewer of these. On a low table by the window the maid had artlessly left a copy of last week’s Riviera Express, and it came as quite a shock to see on its front page a face she had known so well and for so long staring out, unseeing, at her.

  She looked at the Express’s headline and took in the details of Gerald’s death, almost as if for the first time. Her beautifully painted face gave nothing away as she read Miss Dimont’s account of her husband’s final moments, but a twitch of disapproval corrugated her brow as she discovered that Gerald’s demise had not been the only noteworthy departure in Temple Regis that week. She rather resented the fact that the local rag bracketed his tragic loss with that of another, a man whose name may have seemed vaguely familiar, but who was not one of her circle.

  It must be said that Prudence Aubrey was quickly bored. A half-empty champagne glass signified this fact – normally by 6.45 she would be on a second or third, but this was still the first. She paced the room and wrestled with what to do, for at this hour in London she would be surrounded by friends, good friends, planning an evening at the Café de Paris or the Trocadero. Here, there was no one. Radford would arrive eventually, but for now he was busy sorting out Gerald�
��s affairs.

  To go down? Or to have supper on a tray?

  She turned on the radio. Dance music murmured gently forth from the BBC’s Light Programme, but it failed to catch her mood. She switched the apparatus off and, with a lingering glance in the mirror, picked up her evening bag and prepared to face her public. Anything was better than being cooped up in this dreary old room all night.

  Miss Aubrey was quite surprised by the scene which presented itself on her arrival in the front hall. Women in floral dresses and jewels, men in sober suits or dinner jacket. Waiters weaving through the throng, drinks trays at shoulder level, waitresses skipping after them carrying linen napkins. Though the nation may have lost one of its leading actors and the hotel now sheltered his grieving widow, the party went on.

  Prudence decided to join in. ‘Martini, dry, straight up, olive,’ she drawled to a passing young man in her best Bacall imitation. She had to repeat the instruction once or twice for though the ever-obliging Peter Potts knew his way around martinis he was unfamiliar with the ‘straight up’ business. Finally, the cocktail arrived and she took it on to the terrace.

  The late summer sun lingered lazily, but people were already moving in to dinner and there was plenty of choice when it came to chairs and tables. She selected one which had a particularly beguiling view down to the hazy sea and was sitting down when a voice said, quite gently, ‘Miss Aubrey.’

  The actress looked up to see an elegant figure clad in an emerald silk dress with a nice-looking diamond brooch at its shoulder. The sloping nose carried upon it a pair of spectacles, the hair which might otherwise prove problematic held back by a toque, one hand conveying a cigarette holder, the other a glass containing a liquid not unlike her own.

  ‘Er, have we . . .?’ said Prudence, since from the tone of the other woman’s voice, they had.

  ‘Judy Dimont,’ came the reply. ‘We met this afternoon. At the station.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the—

  ‘Reporter,’ finished Miss Dimont. ‘I’m sorry, I feel I owe you an apology.’

  Prudence was not sure what this meant. The woman had asked awkward questions. Was she about to launch into more? And anyway, was this even the same woman? Could it be some imposter? She looked so very different from the dumpy thing in that dreary old macintosh.

  ‘I really don’t want to talk to the press,’ said Prudence snappily, though this was a lie. She loved talking to the press.

  ‘May I join you?’ asked Miss Dimont gently, bringing up a chair.

  ‘No, I really don’t think . . .’ said Prudence, in a way which did not discourage Miss Dimont from quickly sitting down opposite her. The way the press has of inviting itself into people’s lives – quite outrageous!

  The reporter made hasty amends for their earlier clash and, as she did so, the film star cast a professional eye over this transformed character, puzzling – how could she look so down-to-earth one minute, and really quite regal the next? But then, despite a professional life of being exposed to flashbulbs and notebooks, Miss Aubrey had never really bothered to think about the life of those who put her name in the headlines; that perhaps they, too, were actors, the best of whom adopted chameleon-like qualities to suit the circumstances in which they found themselves.

  At the railway station Miss Dimont looked like a nobody dressed for second-class rail travel. Here in the Grand Hotel she looked like a prized guest, with a gleam in her eye and a straight-backed deportment which might go unrecognised in the dusty offices of the Riviera Express.

  ‘. . . and so kind of the Townswomen’s Guild to invite me to their dinner,’ she was saying softly.

  Miss Aubrey rallied. ‘Another.’ She smiled as Peter Potts slid by. The waiter nodded his acknowledgement, then flicked his eyebrows at Miss Dimont.

  She flicked back. Nice martini made out of water, thank you, Peter, don’t forget the olive. The usual when I’m working. He scurried away.

  Miss Dimont was acting on a hunch. She had been shocked by that vitriolic response from the actress when asked a perfectly ordinary question – when had she last seen her husband? There was something wrong about Gerald Hennessy’s death, and maybe here lay the answer – here, in front of her, in this famous actress with her haute couture smile and martini thirst, her layers of hostility and warmth, and her enviably crafted court shoes.

  No doubt about it, Miss Aubrey was cautious and distant. A simple question had rattled her – though, thought Miss Dimont, it may just have been the reaction of an actress interrupted in mid-soliloquy. That seemed a strong possibility now she had the measure of the woman. But beneath the cool exterior, that cut-glass accent and the beautiful clothes, lay very near the surface something else – another person altogether, a passionate woman never to be thwarted. She sensed before her a fighter and, yes, an animal.

  Maybe all these qualities are needed to succeed in the acting profession, thought Miss Dimont as Prudence Aubrey launched once more into an account of the never-to-be film project with her late husband. Maybe to reach the very top, as she had done, took an almost manic determination.

  ‘My favourite was The Colour of Hope,’ Miss Dimont was saying admiringly. ‘So much seemed to be expected of your character.’

  The actress adopted a sardonic expression – oh, it was Hester Randall to a T! – and quoted, ‘They’ll never get me where I’m going . . .’ while flicking up her eyelids and turning down the corners of her mouth, all at the same time.

  The reporter professed astonishment that Prudence could quote so accurately a line she’d been paid a lot of money to remember, albeit a decade ago. When it came to interviewing film stars, the journalist who scored the greatest success was the one who laid it on thick.

  ‘Wonderful! Magnificent! So I wonder . . . could you tell me . . .?’

  She continued to toss Miss Aubrey questions designed to calm her fears, questions whose answers meant nothing but contributed to a growth in confidence between the two women, while she observed the actress’s demeanour – was this a woman capable of murder? For, reading the runes, Gerald Hennessy’s death could well be murder.

  Or, was it Arthur Shrimsley who’d been murdered? Miss Dimont was glad her martini glass only contained water and an olive, for the answers infuriatingly continued to evade her.

  Experienced – hardened, one might say – by years of interviewing, Miss Dimont realised she was getting nowhere with Prudence Aubrey. Maybe it was time to rejoin her hosts, the Townswomen’s Guild, though the thought did not immediately overcome her with joy.

  Just then a familiar figure wafted past in a cloud of Chanel or Dior or . . . Miss Dimont was not a great one for fragrances.

  ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘Isn’t that Marion Lake?’ Her question was aimed at her interviewee – for Miss Dimont assumed, as most people do, that all members of the acting profession know each other and, what’s more, are friends. Marion Lake was this year’s hot number, with Charm School Graduate, Lady Godiva and The Chilly Wife among the nation’s favourite silver-screen offerings. She was tall, she was blonde, she was sinuous, and she was extremely shapely. And, really, still quite young.

  Instead of the anticipated ready acknowledgement of her fellow-thespian, Prudence Aubrey stiffened in her chair, went white, and swallowed the remains of her martini at a gulp. ‘I must go now,’ she almost hissed. ‘You know, you people in the press never know when to leave well alone. You really are the most awful shower.’

  Miss Dimont blinked.

  ‘Yes,’ went on the actress, with just the mildest hint of two hefty martinis colouring her diction, ‘you just have no idea, no idea at all!’ Her voice rose further. ‘You know, this is press harassment. There ought to be a law!

  ‘Here I am, so very recently widowed, and there you are – drilling questions at me, upsetting me, making life awful when life already could hardly be worse. Have you no sense of compassion? No wonder the British press gets such a’, and here she ended lamely, ‘bad press.’

  With that, s
he snatched up her bag and stalked angrily off.

  Murderer, thought Miss Dimont. Quite possibly a murderer.

  EIGHT

  It had taken Inspector Topham longer than most police officers to shed his uniform and adopt the cloak of detection. Whether it was because he was not much good at exams, or because there were no vacancies in Devon’s CID for a copper of his rank, was lost in the mists of time. Certainly in the aftermath of war, when his soldierly figure first arrived at Temple Regis, the crimes which occasionally occurred in town hardly needed a detective to solve them.

  If Cranch’s sweet shop had been broken into, then it was either the Luscombe brothers or that poor unfortunate Stanley Riddell (‘Not again, Stanley!’ was a catchphrase down the station). White-collar crime of the sort you could get arrested for was non-existent, though that did not mean it didn’t happen – when Alderman Jones, a man never known to don gumboots, bought a farm just outside the town just weeks before his planning committee allowed full consent for Temple Regis’s first housing estate, people merely shook their heads. If the saintly Alderman had made a mint, well, it must be above board, surely. Topham, if asked his opinion, would have inspected his fingernails very closely and grunted non-committally.

  It would be wrong to say there was nothing to do in the CID room at Temple Regis police station. After all, an inspector, a sergeant and two constables all dressed in mufti filed in in the morning and came out again in the evening. Something must have been going on in there, but nobody asked or was even interested.

  However, correct form had to be followed on occasions such as the death of Messrs Hennessy and Shrimsley. Questions had to be asked, even if the coroner could get all the information he required to square away the nasty business of death in Temple Regis without any help from the CID.