Читать книгу Death on the Riviera - Ernest Elmore - Страница 14

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From Le Poisson D’Or Bill Dillon returned direct to the Bandol and went up to his room. There he lit his pipe and sat down at the table by the window to write a letter. For a whole week now he’d put off writing this letter, hoping he’d run into Kitty somewhere around the town. But although he’d kept a sharp look-out along the promenade and the more fashionable shopping streets so far he’d drawn a blank. On several occasions he’d even strolled up to the Villa Paloma and hung around in the vicinity on the offchance that Kitty would emerge. It would, he felt, have been better that way—a casual, unexpected meeting... alone. That’s why, even when he’d found out her address, he’d deliberately refrained from writing to her. But if it wasn’t to work out like that then he’d darn well have to storm the stronghold and be damned to the consequences.

After all it was Kitty who was chiefly responsible for this Mediterranean jaunt. Admittedly the mountainous country behind the town had something to do with it. He needed those mountains, but not as much as he needed Kitty. A casual conversation with a mutual friend in London had enabled him to pin-point her present whereabouts. It was a lucky chance that, when Kitty had decided to walk out of his life, she’d decided at the same time to walk into Nesta Hedderwick’s villa on the Riviera. Lucky because he knew Nesta Hedderwick; lucky because directly behind Menton reared the Alpes Maritimes. And since his future was inextricably bound up with Kitty and the presence of high mountains, he realized that in coming to Menton he’d very successfully brought off a right-and-left.

After a moment’s reflection, he took up his pen and wrote:

Dear Mrs. Hedderwick,

I don’t know if you remember me. I was one of the Airborne crowd stationed near Larkhill Manor who used to descend on you at week-ends during ’44. I shan’t forget in a hurry the grand time you gave us. Your hospitality was terrific and your patience inexhaustible! I expect you remember the crazy night when those Raff types showed up from Landsdown and we played an eight-aside rugger game with a cushion in your lounge-hall. At halftime you couldn’t see across the room for feathers!

I remember you telling me that you had a villa at Menton and that after the War you intended to give up Larkhill and live permanently on the Riviera. You kindly suggested that if ever I came that way I should look you up. Well, I’ve just taken the chance to slip down here for a short holiday. I’m staying at the Bandol. So if your offer still holds good perhaps you could give me a ring and let me know if and when it’s convenient for me to come along.

I look forward to seeing you again after all these years.

Yours sincerely,

Bill Dillon.

P.S.—I was the fair-haired, rather hefty three pipper who once had the misfortune to spill a glass of sherry down your dress.