Читать книгу Death on the Riviera - Ernest Elmore - Страница 13

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Twenty minutes later, after a brisk drive along the Moyenne Corniche, Meredith was back at the Hotel Louis where he’d arranged to meet Strang. As a change from hotel meals they often lunched out and they decided that morning to try their luck at Le Poisson D’Or, a nearby café that had been recommended by a fellow-guest at the Louis. It proved to be a casual, charming little place, with gaily-painted tables and chairs set out in a shady courtyard in the centre of which was an outsized aquarium stocked with goldfish. Meredith, who was beginning to find his way around the local menus, ordered a bottle of Château de Cremât and, later, over their bouillabaisse, brought the Sergeant up-to-date with the morning’s events.

“For the next day or two, m’lad, we’re going to hang around the more fashionable bars at Monte Carlo. Any objections?”

“No, sir, of course not,” said Freddy, glumly realizing that his assignation with Miss Westmacott had abruptly gone up the spout. “All in the day’s work, I guess.” He added tentatively: “Do we... er... get our evenings off?”

“We do not!” snapped Meredith.

“No, sir... quite, sir,” said Freddy hastily. “I only asked because—” He broke off and stared out across the sun-splashed courtyard as if he’d seen a ghost. “Well, of all the...!”

“What the devil’s wrong with you?” demanded Meredith irritably.

“Take a look there, sir—the table under that orange tree. Do you see who I see?”

Meredith took a cautious glance, hastily concealed his surprise, and admitted with a chuckle:

“O.K., Sergeant—you win! You said we’d bump into him again and, by one of those crazy coincidences that are always cropping up in this benighted existence, we have. What’s more he’s just spotted us. Leave the talking to me, m’lad. He’s coming over.”

“Well, well, well!” exclaimed Bill Dillon breezily. “I never expected to see you chaps again. I thought you were making for Paris.”

“We were... on business,” said Meredith glibly. “But now, due to an unexpected turn of events, our business has brought us down here.” He indicated an empty chair drawn up at the table. “Take a pew, Mr.—?”

“Dillon—Bill Dillon.” He looked at Meredith enquiringly. “Funny thing, but I can’t help feeling your face is familiar. It struck me that morning in Dunkirk. Are you the sort of chap who hits the headlines, by any chance?”

“Good heavens, no! Sales agent for an engineering firm—that’s me. Meredith’s the name. This is my assistant, Mr. Strang.”

“Engineering!” exclaimed Dillon. “I’m in the same sort of line myself. What’s your firm?”

“Er... Whitley-Pilbeams,” said Meredith, mentioning the first name that came into his head. “Maybe you know ’em?”

“I’ll say I do. Finest constructional engineers in the old country.”

“Thanks,” said Meredith drily. “And you... who do you—?”

Dillon broke in:

“Oh, since the War I’ve been working in the research department of the Hawland Aircraft Co. Not a bad job as jobs go. But not much chance of promotion. So I’ve just cut loose. Want to start up on my own when I get back. Garage or something. Don’t much care as long as I’m my own master.”

“And in the meantime you’re treating yourself to a slap up holiday down here, eh?”

“That’s about it,” nodded Dillon. “Couldn’t really afford it, of course. First time I’ve been abroad since I was demobbed in ’46.” He rose abruptly and thrust out a hand. “Glad to have met you chaps again. How long are you staying?”

“Well, that depends,” said Meredith vaguely, “...on business. A couple of weeks—perhaps more, perhaps less.”

“Maybe we’ll be able to get together for a pint some evening. I’m staying at the Bandol. If ever you’re at a loose end look me up.”

“O.K.,” nodded Meredith. “We will.”

“Well, cheerio.”

“Cheerio,” said Meredith.

“Cheerio,” said Strang, opening his mouth for the first time since Dillon had joined them.