Death in High Provence, page 17
“All peasant, I’d say. What we’d call a country girl at home.”
“What did I tell you! Claudius was a farm labourer’s son whom the father of the present Marquis took a fancy to, and trained as a house servant. And the Alivons were countrymen... owned a little land. I’ll bet Mademoiselle Blanche hasn’t the hands and racehorse’s ankles of the gentry... Now has she? And don’t tell me you haven’t noticed, monsieur.”
Mrs. Littlejohn’s turn to laugh at her husband’s rising colour.
“Of course he’s noticed. She’s a very nice girl, but she has the strong features, heavy limbs, and the thick bone of country stock. Her taste in dress, too, wasn’t inherited from the château.”
“That’s right. Madame is more observant than the men, as usual. A pretty face and a nice leg for them... Here comes Fonsine.”
Another countrywoman, middle-aged, carrying a string bag full of vegetables with a long loaf of bread thrust among them and a bottle of wine under her arm. She paused and gave her mother a quick glare.
“Yes, I’m still here, Fonsine. I was just having a word with this lady and gentleman. They’re English tourists. It’s nice to have someone intelligent to speak to now and then...”
It went quite over Fonsine’s head. She had a placid, heavy face and a mop of dark unruly hair. Perspiring and plump, she was obviously busy and bothered by her family duties and resented her mother wasting time.
“Bonjour, m’sieur, ‘dame... Glad to meet you, I’m sure...”
Her speech was very different from her mother’s and difficult to follow. Gruff Provençal against the old lady’s sparkling and clear Gascon...
“I must be going.”
“And bring your chair up with you. You can’t leave it there cluttering up the door. The neighbours will complain.”
She was wearing carpet slippers and shuffled off up the stairs without another word.
Littlejohn passed a thousand-franc note to Madame Bonjour.
“This will pay the fare to the funeral, I hope, Madame Bonjour. We may meet again if you’re coming to St. Marcellin. You must call and ask for us at the Hôtel Pascal. Perhaps we’ll still be there...”
“I shall be surprised. St. Marcellin’s not much of a place to spend a holiday in. You must be short of somewhere to go. But thank you for the money, monsieur. It will be a rather expensive journey, because the children will be disappointed if I don’t bring them each a little something back, and they won’t be satisfied with a toffee-stick, as we were when we were little, I can assure you. Good day, sir, and madame.”
“Let me help you up with the chair.”
Littlejohn carried the chair up two flights of stairs and put it down in front of the door indicated by Madame Bonjour. Behind the door Fonsine’s voice was raised at one of her offspring. Then slaps and wailings.
On the way down, Littlejohn found the whole staircase blocked by a huge gendarme who was ascending. The policeman looked at him suspiciously, grunted, and drew in his breath and hugged the wall to let the Chief Inspector pass. It was like struggling with a feather bed and in the middle of the scrimmage, the officer blew a great blast of alcohol over Littlejohn... He must have been Fonsine’s husband, for he halted on the floor above and as he opened the door, his wife started to nag him.
“You’re half an hour late... Dinner’s been ready... Here am I... You don’t care how hard I work.”
The words floated intermittently down the well of the stairs until the door banged and cut them off.
The Listener at The Door
Littlejohn felt there was one thing he could do in Digne which it was not safe to do in St. Marcellin. He must telephone to Spencer Lovell in London for information. The Post Office on the Boulevard Gassendi was only a stone’s throw from Madame Bonjour’s home.
It did not take long to get through to London, but it cost a lot. The name of Spencer Lovell, Minister of Commerce, seemed to open many doors. Half an hour after registering his call, Littlejohn was speaking to Lovell himself.
“I expected to hear from you, Littlejohn.”
“Nothing has happened until quite recently. Now, everything seems to be taking shape at once, sir.”
“Was it murder or an accident?”
“I rang you to ask one or two questions which might help me to answer yours. Did you ever hear your brother speak of a Captain Sylvestre Barge?”
“No. Can’t say I did. Why?”
“Or do the names Mengali or Latour, one a doctor, the other a Colonel in the French Army, strike any chord of memory?”
“Latour... Colonel Latour, did you say? I knew of him. As a matter of fact, he died a few days before my brother. Chris was almost at his death-bed.”
“Do you know the circumstances?”
“Rather. It was I who put Chris in touch with Latour. It seems the Colonel came here with the Free French. He went back to France at the time of the liberation. He’d been badly wounded in an air-raid on London and was a shattered wreck when he returned home to France. A few days before Chris met his death, the British Embassy in Paris rang me up... Can you hear?”
“Yes, sir. Please continue.”
“It seems the Embassy had been asked if they could find a Christopher Lovell in England. Latour was on his deathbed and couldn’t die comfortably unless he saw my brother. He had something or other he wished to tell him. Something to do with the war, I guess. Anyway, Paris rang me up and asked if Christopher Lovell was a relative of mine. I said he was my brother. That set things in motion... Chris and Elise went to France right away. Latour’s home was at Mélun, I believe. I heard later that he’d died. I never saw Chris again after he left for Mélun. He must have gone right on to the Riviera and then to St. Marcellin. Is what I tell you of any use, Littlejohn?”
“Of great use, sir. I’m sure now, that your brother’s accident was engineered.”
“Are you, by gad! Who did it? Let me know and I’ll...”
“I can’t tell you, sir. It may be any one of three people.”
“Who are they? Tell me their names.”
“I can’t do that yet, sir. Especially over the telephone. I shall call in the French police as soon as I’m sure of my case. Meanwhile...”
“Write to me at once. Send for me as soon as you have some definite information.”
Littlejohn left the telephone-box with the old feeling he always had when, at last, the case was beginning to unfold itself and the end of the road seemed in sight, however far distant.
“You look pleased about something, Tom.”
A wave of gratitude for his wife’s company, encouragement and untiring patience surged over him. He kissed her lightly on the cheek in front of all the passers-by. An old gentleman in a panama and cream alpaca suit smiled upon them and, kissing the tips of his own bunched fingers, he wafted the kiss skywards, and smiled at them again.
Digne seemed brighter and the way back to St. Marcellin less hot and tedious. They ate a late lunch picnicking in the valley of the Bléone.
“I’m so glad Marie packed us some lunch, Tom. I couldn’t have eaten a thing in Digne... Whilst you were telephoning, I looked up one of the hotel menus in the Boulevard. Do you know what the speciality is in Digne? Thrush pie!”
“It would be!”
“Yes... Thrush pie with truffles... How utterly abominable! When are we going home, Tom? I don’t like it here.”
“Only another day or two, dear.”
They got back to St. Marcellin at the same old time. The heat of the day just breaking, the priest asleep in his garden, his face under the same grubby handkerchief, the cool splash of the fountain, the shadows of the trees beginning to lengthen across the parched road... And, of course, Marie Alivon with the menu for dinner. Hors d’œuvre of crawfish, fresh trout from the Verdon, strawberries in red wine. And to drink, a Clairette de Mouans, sent by a cousin of the Alivons from his vineyard somewhere or other.
“Thank goodness, there’s no pâté de grives truffé, Marie. In England we love thrushes for their singing, not in pies.”
Mrs. Littlejohn hadn’t got over the menu at Digne.
“Monsieur and Madame have been to Digne, then?”
It seemed impossible to keep a secret in St. Marcellin! One way or another, it always came out and found its way to the château.
“Yes... We heard that the valley of the Bléone was well worth seeing and, as we were then so near Digne, we visited the town. We were not very impressed... We had our picnic on the banks of the Bléone. It was very charming there.”
“Perhaps madame would like a bath before dinner, to take the dust of the journey away. Then, later, we may be able to heat enough water for monsieur.”
“If it won’t be too much trouble.”
“Of course not. My brother will look after it. He is here. He came home early to do the books. He enters them up once a week and pays the bills for me. I was never much good at book-keeping.”
She left the room to pass on their orders and again Littlejohn became aware of a faint gust of French pipe tobacco. He spoke in English to his wife.
“Alivon has been listening behind the door again. It’s surprising how the château set-up seems to keep abreast of all that we do. I wonder if César has guessed what we were doing in Digne.”
As if in answer to his name, Alivon appeared with the bath on his head, his face not visible, but the smoke from the pipe he still held in his mouth, trickling from under his grotesque headgear.
“Monsieur... ‘dame...” came the greeting from the bath, and then the feet beneath found their way accurately through the door of the dining-room and up the stairs.
Mrs. Littlejohn retired early with a book and Littlejohn played bowls again with his friends, which included the mayor this time. Monsieur Savini was all smiles and compliments, as they sat drinking after the game.
“We don’t have the pleasure of madame’s company, sir. All the same, we hope to see her to-morrow evening. I am invited to dinner at the château... It should be quite a party... Monsieur le Marquis, his friend Monsieur de Barge, you and madame, the curé, myself, and, I understand, to keep your wife company, Madame Ferté de Bormes, a friend of Monsieur le Marquis, is coming from Peyrolles... I am looking forward very much to it. You will also see our friend César acting as a waiter. Claudius is getting on in years and can’t cope with a large party any more. So César lends a hand.”
Littlejohn had been watching Alivon, who didn’t quite seem himself. Instead of, as usual, filling the glasses as the men emptied them, he stood by the zinc counter lost in thought and they had to thump on the tables to attract his attention.
“César... César... More wine... You’re neglecting us. One would think you had fallen in love.”
“So César often goes to the château in the evenings when the Marquis gives a dinner?”
“Eh? You were saying, Mister Littlejohn...?”
Savini also seemed lost in thought. Littlejohn repeated his question.
“Now and then. They don’t entertain much at the château nowadays, sir. Money is scarce, you see, and also since the death of Madame la Marquise, mother of Monsieur Arnaud, there have been no women there to take a hand. I wonder why Monsieur Arnaud never married... In spite of the state of the château and his own finances, he would be a good catch. But it’s said he loved and lost someone and, although he seeks feminine company now and then, his thoughts never turn to marriage.”
One by one the customers departed, and finally Littlejohn was left alone with Savini. He took the mayor to the door to see him off. Another hot, starry night, with frogs croaking in their hundreds and in the far distance, the noise of a train whistling and rattling on its way on the main line from Grenoble to Marseilles. Almost as soon as the mayor had said good night and gone, a dark form came from behind the hotel and crossed the road. There was no mistaking the long, loping stride. It was César Alivon. He opened the gate of the presbytery and vanished in the curé’s garden. A small light shining through the trees showed that the abbé was at home.
Indoors, Marie Alivon was washing glasses and putting them on the shelves behind the bar.
“A nice night, madame.”
“Yes, monsieur. It is like this for weeks at this part of year. It is a nice time to stay in Provence.”
“We are dining with Monsieur le Marquis to-morrow evening, so we won’t trouble you for a meal.”
“My brother told me. He will be there, too, helping Claudius at table. Claudius is ageing and is not so nimble as he used to be. He needs assistance when there are guests at the château.”
“Does César often help him, then?”
“Only when there is a dinner-party. They are few enough these days.”
“Was he attending at table the night Mr. and Mrs. Lovell were there? The night they met their accident?”
Marie looked at him with a timid, puzzled air.
“I don’t understand.”
“I was with the Marquis last night and he mentioned that the Lovells had dined at the château the night they met their death. I wondered if César saw them there.”
“Oh, if Monsieur le Marquis told you, I can speak. Since the sad accident, my brother has not wished to mention it. It upset us all... You see, my brother attended at table that night. There was a little party there. Monsieur Lovell and his wife, Monsieur de Barge, the curé. With the misfortune coming so quickly afterwards, it gave him a shock. He was stunned for a long time. He knew Monsieur Lovell and his wife very well. Working at the château as César does, he gets to know all the friends of the family. I think he liked Monsieur Lovell.”
“I see. It must have upset him very much, as you say.”
“Do you want anything more, sir? I am just going to put out the lights and retire.”
“No, thank you, madame. I’m just off myself... Good night...”
“Your bath is ready... My brother has taken up the water and you will find three cans of it at your bedroom door.”
His wife was still reading when he fell asleep. After what seemed a few minutes, but which was really half an hour, she gently shook him.
“Someone’s crossed the road and entered the hotel from the back. I heard him.”
“Him?”
“The steps were too heavy for a woman.”
“It is probably César returning from the presbytery. I saw him going across. Perhaps he’s been to confession.”
He felt so tired that he went off again in the middle of talking to his wife and he slept like a log until she shook him again.
“Somebody else crossing the road, Letty?”
“No... It’s daylight; about five o’clock... Someone has gone off in a car from behind the hotel again. Sorry to wake you, but I thought it might be important.”
“I feel guilty using you as a watchdog whilst I lie snoring here! Which direction did the car go?”
“Manosque. Who could it be?”
“Perhaps they had another guest last night, although we saw nothing of him, did we? Have the Alivons a car?”
“I saw an old Citroën in the shed in the yard.”
“I wonder if it’s César on another of his mysterious jaunts. We’ll see when we get up.”
As they took breakfast on the balcony of their room at just after nine, the tumbledown car returned, with Alivon driving and without even looking up at them, César turned into the yard behind the inn, parked the vehicle, and went indoors with his usual solemn, unhasting tread. He must have eaten a quick meal, for before the Littlejohns had finished their second cup of coffee, César was out again, this time on his way to work, still without hurry. Presumably he walked to the château. His double-barrelled shotgun was over the crook of his arm. Nothing strange about that, as he was a part-time gamekeeper as well as other things. In fact, general factotum to Monsieur le Marquis.
Littlejohn and his wife spent the morning writing letters. The Chief Inspector concentrated on giving a long but reserved report on his work hitherto to Spenser Lovell. This finished, they told Marie Alivon they would be back for lunch at one, and motored over to Mirabeau to post their mail. Littlejohn was not running the risk of his letter to the Minister falling in the hands of Léonidas.
From noon, things grew busier in the village. It was Saturday and a few motorists kept passing through on excursions into the interior and at the Restaurant Pascal a few strangers dropped in to dine.
The church, too, was in a state of great ferment. The curé was occupied with a number of young boys and girls about to take First Communion very shortly and their parents, dressed in their best and looking stiff and solemn in it, were making arrangements and bossing their offspring around. The women were particularly active and their husbands hung about, wondering why they had been brought there and thirstily eyeing the inn.
The Abbé Chambeyron appeared at the church entrance with his young charges and seeing Littlejohn smoking at the door of the inn and lazily watching what was going on, waved a hand at him and indicated that he would like to speak to him. Littlejohn crossed the road. The eyes of all the people round the church door turned on him and some of the men who had seen Littlejohn in the Hôtel Pascal,even spoke to him or saluted him. Then, they whispered to their wives and explained who he was.
The curé gently pushed the children before him.
“Excuse me, my little ones, I wish to speak to this gentleman.”
The abbé took Littlejohn in church, closed the door, and faced him. He looked to have been awake all night. Dark pouched rings under his bloodshot eyes. His lips moved nervously and his breath was like great sighs.
“I wanted to see you, Inspector. I am worried about César Alivon. I fear he might do you an injury. Late last night, he called here. He is always a calm man, never angry, never showing his emotions. Last night, however, he seemed to be under some great strain and, although he did not say it in so many words, I gathered that he was angry with you... extremely angry... for prying into his family affairs.”
