Search for a Sultan, page 11
By the time two hours had elapsed, Tommy had not only carried out this programme to the letter but he had also hired a smart Renault Dauphine to drive himself around in.
For he had had enough of public service vehicles after his train journey the night before.
“And now for the Lebouchons,” he murmured, as he slipped the car into gear and drove through the narrow streets towards the old port.
Entering the Quai St. Catherine he did not for a moment recognise the café and then, as he approached it, he realised why. The little tables with their gay umbrellas had disappeared from the pavement in front of it, and there was a rather bleak and desolate air about its big plate glass window, and closed front door.
“Hullo,” he muttered, as he drew up outside. “Have they shut up for the clay or something?” He glanced towards the front door again and his heart sank—it was not only closed, it was shuttered and on it was pinned a notice :—‘TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN’
‘THE PATRON REGRETS’ he read, coming closer, THAT THIS CAFE MUST BE CLOSED FOR A FEW DAYS AS A RESULT OF A BEREAVEMENT.’
That was all! No apologies to Mr. T. Hambledon, brought back there on a fool’s errand. No instructions for getting in touch with the Patron, nothing …
Of course they might be still there, it occurred to Tommy, but he knocked on the heavy shutters without much conviction. The whole place looked, and obviously was, empty, and it didn’t need the well-meant intervention of a neighbouring café proprietor to confirm what he already instinctively knew—that the Lebouchons had given him the slip. “They’re away” said the lady from next door.
“Thank you,” said Tommy, “you don’t happen to know where they’ve gone, I suppose?”
The neighbour shrugged her shoulders.
“We weren’t on speaking terms,” she said. “They didn’t tell me anything—they went off in their car about an hour ago, in a hurry, too. If you ask me, they are in some kind of trouble. Not that it surprises me—they were always a funny couple, strangers you know, foreigners practically. Came from Paris or the South of France as like as not.”
“Had they been here long?” asked Tommy.
“A few years,” said the other, noncommittally. “I don’t know why they ever came here in the first place, taking the bread out of honest Norman mouths!”
She began to sweep the terrace of her own cafe with short, angry strokes of an ancient bass broom, and Tommy retired hurriedly to protect his new suit from the cloud of dust she stirred up!
He drove off aimlessly, wondering what to do next. Perhaps the Police Station, he wondered. In France they know more about people’s families and movements, the police, than we are used to in Britain, and they might easily be able to tip him off. But as he turned the corner, he had another idea. He saw that there was a narrow lane leading down behind the ancient houses of the quai, from which back entrances presumably led into the buildings.
“H’m—I might just as well have a look round,” Tommy reflected, parking the car—“you never know.”
The back door of the cafe put up no defence at all against his skeleton key and a moment later he found himself in the Lebouchons’ kitchen. Quickly, expertly, he pulled open drawers and cupboards and then, climbing the steep and narrow staircase, did the same in the upper rooms. There was nothing whatever of interest to him, however, apart from two patches on the wall which showed that pictures had evidently been removed from there quite recently, and he made his way back into the café itself, without much hope, for it was unlikely that the Lebouchons would have kept any private papers there.
In this he was right, the drawers of the desk contained nothing but bills and receipts, menu cards and other such trivia, but on the top by the cash register was a piece of cardboard with an inscription on it which made him whistle.
“To Police, Firemen, etc.,” it said. “In case of emergency, apply to the Chalet St. Philibert, Bois de St. Gatien.”
Thank you, grinned Tommy. In the emergency case of the Prince’s possible offspring, I will do just that thing.
Pleased with himself, he dashed back to the car, leaving the back door ajar in his hurry. He knew roughly where the Bois de St. Gatien was, just by the Deauville airport in fact, and decided the best thing to do would be to hurry there and ask directions when he arrived. This proved less simple than he had supposed, but in the end a postman put him right.
“It is a hunting lodge, right in the middle of the woods, monsieur,” he said. “You go down that stright road there, take the third little lane to the right and go on until you see the chalet. You can’t miss it, there’s only one such there, it is built of logs, like something out of the Far West.”
Tommy thanked him and, following his directions, turned on to a rough cart track which wound its way among the trees until, sure enough, the little cabin came in sight. There was no name on the door, but it seemed unlikely he could have made a mistake, for as the postman had said, there was no other building in sight.
“Is this the Chalet St. Philibert?” he asked, as the door opened in answer to his knock.
“Yes, come in,” said the man who had opened it, standing aside to let him pass. “Come in, my dear Mr. Hambledon, I have been expecting you. You have met my colleagues, I believe? They told me you would be coming. I am La Rose Bleue, you know.”
And Tommy, before he could turn round, felt something hard and rubbery hit him on the base of the skull, and from that moment until sometime to come, he knew no more.
Chapter IX. Insects
THE occupants of the little black car who had observed Hambledon’s arrival in Honfleur and his entrance and exit from the Lebouchons’ café, drove over to the Quai St. Catherine as soon as he was safely out of sight, and one of them, a tall, sepulchral-looking figure, got out and made his way into the still-crowded cafe.
Here, he got as short shrift as Tommy himself, but he did learn two facts, which he recounted to his companion on his return, (and said something to the Lebouchons which Hambledon only learnt about later).
“Hambledon is going back there about four,” said the Gravedigger (for of course it was none other than he). “But I overheard the old girl saying they would get away in time to give him the slip.”
“So they’re going away?” asked La Cigale.
“Apparently. I heard them speaking about it before they realised I was standing there. I didn’t get much of it, but I gather it’s something to do with the Prince’s death.”
“Fine,” said La Cigale. “You have done well for once—that is, if all that you say is true.”
“What do you mean?” said La Fossoyeur, angrily.
The other shrugged.
“Only that you might be mistaken, mon cher, you often are, you know. It is a source of great worry to myself and the Blue Rose.”
The Gravedigger began to protest, but La Cigale cut him short.
“This is no time for recriminations,” he said. “We must act, and quickly. Just keep quiet for a minute, if you can, and let me think things out.”
He sat plunged in thought, while the Gravedigger, who had climbed in beside him, fumed silently at the other’s continual slights against him. There was no love lost between the two of them, but the Gravedigger was frightened of La Cigale, whom he suspected of having ‘shopped’ his friend Gregoire, the ex-member of the gang, now in prison. “But I’ll get even with him one day,” he muttered to himself. “See if I don’t!”
“Stop grumbling to yourself there,” snapped La Cigale. “I’ve worked things out now, so listen carefully to what you have to do and try not to bungle things this time.”
“Oh, get on with it!” snarled La Fossoyeur. “Cut out the nonsense and tell me what the plan is.”
“It is this,” said the other. “I will station myself in the car over on the other side of the dock there and watch for the Lebouchons’ departure. If it is by car, I will follow them. If they go by train, I can still catch the same train as them, since they do not already know me. With any luck, they may be going straight to some connection of the Prince’s, to his wife or son even—and we shall learn all we want to know.”
“What do I do then?” asked the Gravedigger.
“Your job is simple, but important. Hambledon must be got out of the way effectively, and you are to do it.”
“How? Shoot him, push him in the dock?”
La Cigale sighed.
“Heaven grant me patience!” he said. “Yes, shoot him in broad daylight and kick him in the dock—we don’t want to do anything conspicuous do we, that might draw attention to ourselves! No, my dear Gravedigger, no shooting and no drowning. For one thing, I may learn nothing from following the Lebouchons. They may just be going to stay with relations who have nothing to do with the Prince, and Hambledon may have all sorts of information which, mainly due to your idiocy, we haven’t been able to get hold of yet.”
“Well, what have Ito do then? Cut the cackle and tell me, for the Lord’s sake.”
“You have to do two very simple things. One, break into the cafe as soon as the Lcbouchons have left and leave a note on the desk which Hambledon is bound to find—for when he goes there and discovers the Lebouchons have hopped it, he’s sure to look round inside. And, two, as soon as Hambledon comes out again you must go back and take the note away. That is the most important thing of all, for the note will lure him chez our colleague in the woods, and we don’t want it left behind to direct anybody else there afterwards.”
He took some cardboard from the glove compartment and made out the notice which Hambledon duly found, directing Police, Firemen, etc. to St. Gatien.
“There,” he said. “That is all you have to do, don’t fail me, and when you’ve finished, you’d better make your way up to St. Gatien yourself. I’ll go and park over there in the corner now and I’ll have a chat with La Rose Bleue over the transmitter to warn him to prepare for company. You’d better stand at the end of the quai and as soon as the Lebouchons leave, nip down the back lane and plant your message. All clear?”
“Of course!” snapped La Fossoyeur. “I’m not an idiot!”
“Maybe,” said La Cigale, “but sometimes you act like one.”
“That fellow is too clever by half,” muttered the Gravedigger, between clenched teeth, as he made his way to the corner. “Him and that Blue Rose merchant have got too high opinions of themselves. I wish I could take them down a peg or two… .”
If La Cigale was right in not overestimating the Gravedigger’s intelligence, he was wrong, as it turned out, in not remembering that even the stupidest people have their bright moments. Le Fossoyeur had one when, after planting the note for Hambledon, he had a quick look round the premises. For here he found not only two excellent pictures of Prince Achmed and what looked like an affectionate wife and son with him, but also, hidden beneath the mattress amongst a lot of other family papers and documents, a copy of a marriage certificate of one, Achmed Hussein bin Haroun-al-Raschid (citizen of Qathusn), with Marie Dubois, spinster, 29 Rue des Alpes, Paris 20ieme.
“When thieves fall out”… The adage is well-known and La Cigale would have done well to remember it. If only he had restrained his jibes the Gravedigger would probably have taken this important evidence to his colleague the Blue Rose, and the gang would have been well ahead of Hambledon. But as it was, he saw in it a heavensent opportunity to get even with La Cigale and the others, and what was more, line his own pockets at their expense. For what was to stop him, he reflected, from selling this valuable property direct to Boukhba, and then clearing out?
Being Norman, the thought of easy money pleased him, and being spiteful, the thought of doing his colleagues in the eye pleased him almost as much. He helped himself liberally to Calvados from the cafe shelves, put a bottle in his pocket for future use and set off, there and then, towards the station with his prize. “I will show them,” he muttered as he went, “I will teach them to regard me as little better than a stooge—”
In the log cabin, deep in the woods above Deauville, the atmosphere was stifling and the thick-set Spaniard, known as La Rose Bleue was dripping with sweat as he towered over Hambledon, who lay bound and helpless, stripped to the waist on a couch-like bed.
“Now, Monsieur Hambledon,” he growled. “Let me repeat my question once more. I can go on like this all night, if necessary, you know, I shall not weary, and in any case my colleague the Gravedigger will be here shortly to lend me a hand. I repeat—Where is Prince Achmed’s Will?”
Tommy clenched his teeth in silence, and braced himself for the blow across his shoulders which he knew would follow.
For almost an hour since he had come to and found himself at the mercy of the Spaniard, he had endured a long succession of shattering blows from the rubber truncheon, skilfully wielded by La Rose Bleue, and by now all he could do was to cling desperately on to what vestige of consciousness remaining to him.
“Once more—Where is the Will?” cried La Rose Bleue, and once more Hambledon winced as the truncheon smashed into the bruised and swollen flesh of his bare back. “Where is the Will, Where is the Will …?”
The interrogation and the blows followed each other remorselessly, endlessly, until he was scarcely aware of an interval between them, scarcely aware, even, that they had stopped suddenly, as a heavy knocking began on the door behind him.
“Ah, that must be the Fossoyeur,” muttered the Blue Rose. “He comes just in time, my dear Hambledon, I am tiring a trifle. Besides you are beginning to look as though you will need his professional services soon!”
He peered out through the curtains and then swore: “Sancta Maria,” he muttered. “A policeman.”
Quickly he glanced round the room and then, rushing to the radio transmitter, tore out a handful of wires from its interior. From the drawer beneath it, he slipped a gun into his pocket, and finally he took from the table the picture of Prince Achmed on the cruise steamer he had already removed from Tommy’s pocket.
The policeman was now knocking louder than ever and La Rose called “Coming, wait a minute, can’t you?” and throwing open the back window he jumped through it and disappeared.
To Hambledon, dazed as he was, the next few minutes scarcely made sense. He realised vaguely that the knocking continued and that La Rose Bleue had gone, but what was happening, he had no idea. Then there were two shots close at hand, shouts, and the sound of a motor car being started. And finally, he found his bonds were being cut and he was being raised gently from the bed by a man in uniform. “Sucre bleu!” muttered the gendarme. “You are in a poor way, mon cher.”
If the Gravedigger had obeyed his instructions to remove the note from the cafe, or if Hambledon had closed the back door properly, things would have been very different. When, however, a patrolling policeman found the cafe’s back door ajar and every evidence of an intruder having disturbed the Lebouchons’ effects, he acted promptly on the instructions he discovered by the cash register.
“In case of Emergency …” he read. Well this looked like an emergency all right. Evidently a burglar had been at work and the café proprietor had better be informed at once, as instructed.
He tried first to telephone, but the Chalet St. Philibert turned out to have no telephone, so he decided that the next best thing would be to inform the police station at Trouville. They in turn notified St. Gatien, and ultimately a mobile policeman was sent to the log cabin, whose knocking disturbed La Rose Bleue.
“Don’t bother about me,” groaned Hambledon. “Get after that devil. Don’t let him go.”
“Too late, I’m afraid,” said the policeman. “He’s gone and what’s more he’s shot a hole in both my front tyres to make sure I can’t follow him.”
“Take my car,” gasped Tommy, “the Renault.”
“Your friend has taken it already,” said the other, “but don’t worry, he won’t get far. My radio’s still working. Do you know the number of your car, by the way?”
“No,” said Hambledon. “It was hired, sorry.” He was trying desperately to cling on to consciousness but the gendarme’s voice sounded farther and farther away, and his eyelids seemed heavier and heavier.
“You take it easy for a minute, mon pauvre ami,” said the policeman, “while I send a message back to the station.”
“Well at least I know they haven’t got the Will,” muttered Tommy, inconsequentially, and promptly fainted.
For the next fifteen hours Hambledon was in another world, a world of red-eyed monsters, battering him with shapeless weapons, digging graves for him and screaming at him that he must make his Will, and then, suddenly, at close on midday the next day, he sat up, fully conscious in his hospital bed, looked at the policeman sitting patiently beside it, and said:
“Where the hell am I?”
The gendarme smiled at him.
“It is good to hear monsieur speak again normally,” he said. “Until now I have not known what to make of your remarks, I fear you have been delirious.”
Hambledon blinked at him, and then down at the bandages wrapped round him like a cocoon. He tried to twist .his head to look over his shoulder and let out a yell of pain.
“Ouch!” he said. “I feel as if I’d been through a mincing machine! Just what has happened?”
The policeman told him briefly and added that they had communicated with Letord at the Sûreté, after finding his card amongst Tommy’s papers.
“He has asked us to inform him as soon as monsieur regains consciousness,” he went on, “that is why the Inspector sent me to wait at monsieur’s bedside. Is there any message I can give him?” he asked, rising.
“Yes. Tell him I’ll be with him just as soon as I can get,” said Hambledon.
“But monsieur, it’s impossible,” protested the gendarme. “You do not understand—you are badly injured. It may be weeks before you can be moved.”
“I’ve been knocked about I grant you,” said Tommy, “and I’ve got a beastly headache, but that’s about as bad as it is. Now, be a good lad and get somebody to bring me some clothes and then get on to that Inspector of yours and tell him I want an aeroplane ordered to take me to Paris, soonest.”
