Читать книгу Death on the Riviera - Ernest Elmore - Страница 10

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Since Paul had gone to see the hunchback, Dilys got no answer when she knocked on the door of his studio. She’d planned a visit that morning to L’Exposition de Peinture Méditerranéene and, thinking his professional criticism might prove instructive, she wanted Paul to escort her. Dilys knew very little about painting, but being at heart a serious-minded young woman she was determined to seize every opportunity to widen her knowledge. Just because her aunt insisted on keeping her in idleness there was no reason why she shouldn’t attempt to improve her mind.

The galleries, which looked out over the trim and exotic public gardens, were not particularly crowded. A few holidaymakers were trailing around with that sanctimonious look that is usually reserved for churches, museums and places of historic interest. An official was sitting on a Louis Quinze chair, viewing their progress round the place with the lynx-eyed apprehension of a private detective presiding over a valuable collection of wedding-presents. Dilys couldn’t imagine why, because most of the canvases couldn’t have been filched from the building without the aid of a hand-cart.

She bought a catalogue and, with typical conscientiousness, began to study the pictures in their proper numerical order. A few names were familiar to her—Matisse, Bonnard, Dufy and Utrillo, for example. These were the star performers, and before their work she stood earnestly and solemnly impressed. But what was she to make of the lesser lights? Was she to display amusement, scorn, horror or delight? It was all very difficult and she wished Paul could have been there to guide her safely through this aesthetic maze. In particular she would have valued his comments on a vast and vivid canvas labelled Fiesta, whereon a bevy of magenta-faced gargoyles were drinking and dancing in a grove of monstrous emerald cabbages against a savage purple sky. Arriving opposite this picture, she was suddenly aware of a tall, square-shouldered young man staring blankly at it over her left shoulder. And it was he who put into words, with admirable and virile brevity, her own instinctive reactions to the work.

“My God!”

Just that—clearly and vigorously articulated in what is usually referred to as “educated English”. She swung round, delighted.

“Oh I’m so glad you agree with me! I’m always terrified of making up my mind about a picture in case it’s by somebody I ought to like. I’m dreadfully ignorant of all this sort of thing.”

“Same here. Mind you, I wouldn’t have let fly like that if I’d known you were English.”

“Oh, that’s all right. Are you an artist?”

The young man flushed.

“Good lord, no! Do I look like one?”

Dilys eyed the broad-shouldered, tweed-jacketed, flannel-bagged six feet of manhood.

“Well, not exactly. But these days it’s so difficult to tell. I know a dress-designer who looks like a professional boxer. Are you down here on holiday?”

“Er... more or less. Are you?”

“No. I live here with my aunt.”

“Live here? Heavens! Some people have all the luck. Wonderful spot, this. I just can’t believe it’s real.”

“A lot of it isn’t. Just paste and cardboard and tinsel, like most of my aunt’s insufferable friends. Actually I find it rather boring. It gets that way after a time.” Dilys accepted a proffered cigarette with a nod of thanks and went on with the devastating curiosity of an uninhibited and charming young woman of nineteen. “If you’re not an artist what is your job in life? I hope you’ve got one.”

“Oh yes. I’m a... er... I work in a sort of office.”

“You mean you’re a sort of clerk?”

“Well, yes... sort of,” he said lamely.

Conscious of the inanity of this cross-talk they looked at each other and laughed.

“In London?” persisted Dilys.

“Er... yes. In London.”

“Pardon, Madame! Pardon, M’sieur!” They swung round to face the agitated attendant. “Je regrette, mais il est defense de fumer ici.”

“Oh, sorry old boy,” said the young man cheerfully, stubbing out his cigarette against his heel. “Bad show, eh? Un mal spectacle. Comprenez-vous?” He turned to Dilys. “He says he’s sorry but we mustn’t smoke in here. I learnt that bit off railway carriages.” Then aware of his inexcusable assumption he slapped his thigh and added apologetically: “But good heavens! I was forgetting you lived here. You must speak French like a native.”

“Just about,” smiled Dilys. “An aborigine. Adequate, shall we say? but not idiomatic. Now what about taking a look at the rest of the pictures?”

“Yes—rather. Far more fun now I’ve met you.”

They wandered on round the gallery, chattering like magpies, occasionally recalling where they were and pausing a moment to study one of the pictures. Within ten minutes they’d learnt quite a lot about each other. They agreed that it might be a sound idea to meet on the Casino terrace the next morning for an apéritif.

“Can’t be absolutely sure about it,” said the young man regretfully. “You see, I’m not exactly a free agent. I’m sort of stooging around here with another bloke. But you bet I’ll make it if I can.”

“Well, if you can’t,” pointed out Dilys after a moment’s swift reflection, “you could telephone.”

“Whacko! We simply can’t afford to lose sight of each other after this morning. It’s been—” He broke off and added anxiously: “I say—what’s up? Anything wrong?”

“This painting—it’s by a friend of mine,” said Dilys, adding hastily: “Well, not exactly a friend. He’s rather unbearable really. My aunt has very decently fitted him up with a studio at the villa.”

The young man noted the number-disc on the frame and flicked over the pages of his catalogue.

“Yes, here we are. Le Filou... what the devil’s a ‘filou’?”

“A pickpocket, I think. Does it give the artist’s name?”

“Yes... Jacques Dufil.”

“Jacques Dufil!” echoed Dilys in amazement. “But it must be a mistake. It’s so exactly like Paul’s work. It’s quite uncanny. They must have got the names mixed in the catalogue or something.”

“I shouldn’t let it worry you.”

“I won’t!” declared Dilys, glancing at her watch. “I’ve only got one worry on my mind at the moment. If I don’t leave at once I’m going to be dreadfully late for lunch.”

“Can I... er... see you home?”

Dilys hesitated.

“No—I think it would be more discreet if you didn’t. So if you don’t mind I think we’d better say ‘Good-bye’ here.” Adding with a friendly smile: “Until tomorrow, I hope.”

“Sure thing... until tomorrow.” He thrust out a strong, sizeable hand and gripped hers so enthusiastically that she winced. “Slice of luck that I ducked in here to have a squint at these painter johnnies, Miss... By the way, what is your name?”

“Dilys Westmacott. And yours?”

The young man gulped.

“Mine? Oh, I’m... I’m plain John Smith. Pretty duff, I admit, but it’s the best I can do for you.”

Dilys threw him a suspicious glance.

“It sounds horribly like an alias. You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”

“Heaven forbid!”

“Well... good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Miss Westmacott.”

As he watched her pass through the swing-doors into the brilliant sunshine, the young man experienced a pang of remorse. He hated having to deceive a charming girl like that, but what else could he do in the circumstances? What had Meredith been drumming into his head ever since they’d arrived in this playboys’ paradise?

“No matter where you go or what you do, remember, m’lad, you’re always on duty.”

Exactly! And Acting-Sergeant Freddy Strang wasn’t the sort of fellow to slip up on his instructions. No matter what happened he had to preserve his incognito!