Читать книгу Death on the Riviera - Ernest Elmore - Страница 16
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Caught up in the useless existence prescribed for her by her aunt, Dilys was bored. Her encounter the previous day with the young man at the exhibition had suddenly forced her to see with devastating clarity the emptiness of her life. For a few hours she’d been buoyed up by the thought of the meeting they’d arranged on the Casino terrace. Then, just before dinner, she’d received a ’phone-call to say that the meeting was off. The young man was terribly sorry but it rather looked as if they wouldn’t be able to get together at all for the next few days. It wasn’t his fault but circumstances made it impossible.
Just that. No real explanation for the let down. Nothing but a vague suggestion that he would ring again in the near future. Dilys’ high mood collapsed. She began to view the encounter at the galleries with a more calculating eye. Wasn’t there, after all, something rather fishy about this Mr. John Smith? Anyway she refused to believe that Smith was his real name. He’d obviously blurted out the first thing that came into his head. But why? Because he wanted to conceal his real identity. And why had he wanted to conceal his identity? Well, most people adopted an alias because they had something to hide—more often than not, something criminal.
Dilys shivered. Could she believe anything he’d told her? Was he really a clerk in a London office? And this friend he spoke of—was it really a man friend?
By the time Dilys arrived at the breakfast-table, after a broken, restless night, she was prepared to erase Mr. John Smith from her memory. If he did have the audacity to ring up again, then she’d inform him, politely but firmly, that she no longer wished to meet him.
With all these unhappy reflections in her mind, it wasn’t until she ran against Paul Latour on his belated way downstairs that Dilys remembered the picture.
“Oh hullo, Paul. You slipped out early yesterday. I wanted you to take me along to the exhibition and give me the benefits of your professional knowledge. As it was I had to go alone.”
“Not a very good show, I hear. Too recherché. You agree?”
“Well, I’m not really qualified to say. But I found it... interesting. There was one picture in particular called... now what on earth was it? Oh, I know—Le Filou.” Dilys watched closely for his reactions but Paul’s features remained more than usually impassive. “It had a very distinctive style, Paul.”
“Really? Who was the artist?”
“Well, quite frankly, I thought it was you.”
Paul looked at her in astonishment.
“Me? Me? Mon Dieu! I’d sooner cut my throat than exhibit my work in the company of such mediocre nitwits!”
“But it was so exactly like your painting, Paul. Uncannily like it.”
“But, ma petite, didn’t you buy a catalogue?”
“Yes, of course—but I thought perhaps you were showing the picture under an assumed name.”
“An assumed name? How do you mean? What name?”
“Oh Jacques somebody or other.”
“Jacques?”
“Yes—I remember now. Jacques Dufil.”
