Читать книгу Death on the Riviera - Ernest Elmore - Страница 5

Table of Contents

Detective-Inspector Meredith of the C.I.D. turned to his companion and observed sardonically:

“For Pete’s sake relax, m’lad. I’m not going to hit anything.”

“It’s this right-of the-road rule, sir. Can’t get used to it.”

“You will... after another eight hundred miles.”

“By the way, sir—what was the idea of telling that bloke we were heading for Paris?”

“Professional discretion, Strang. We’re over here on a job, remember. No point in advertising our destination.”

“But damn it all, sir, he’s also making for the Riviera. We’ll probably run against him. Look a bit fishy, won’t it?”

Meredith laughed.

“There’s about fifty miles of that gilded coastline, Strang. Devil of a coincidence if we did meet again. In any case I doubt if he’d recognize us.”

“Decent sort of bloke, sir. Useful in a Rugger scrum, eh? I wager I’d recognize him in a Derby Day crowd.”

“You’d be out on your ear if you couldn’t,” retorted Meredith bluntly. “Don’t forget, you’ve been trained to observe. I may be wrong but I’ve an idea that you’ve more than an average eye for faces. That’s why the A.C. let you off the leash.”

“Thanks, sir. But I wish the deuce you’d—”

Meredith broke in:

“You’re wondering what it’s all about, eh? O.K., Sergeant. I reckon it’s time that I put you wise.” Meredith took one hand from the driving-wheel, yanked a wallet from the inside pocket of his sports jacket and slapped it down on Strang’s knee. “There’s a photo in the first flap. Take it out and have a good look at it.” His curiosity aroused, Strang did as he was told and studied the print closely. He recognized it at once as an official photograph from the Rogues’ Gallery at the Yard—the regulation two profiles and a full-face. “Know who it is?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, that uninspiring phiz belongs to a little runt of a chap called Tommy Cobbett—‘Chalky’ Cobbett to his friends, on account of his dead white complexion. One of the world’s great artists, Strang.”

“He’s a painter, sir?”

“Not exactly. He’s an engraver, m’lad—an engraver of notes.”

“You mean he’s a forger?”

“I do. And one of the finest we’ve ever come against. He was pulled in just before the War after flooding the West End with spurious fivers. He got a six year stretch and came out about four years back. For a time he hung around his old haunts in the East End and, with our usual professional optimism, we thought he’d gone straight. Then eighteen months ago he vanished.” Meredith clicked his fingers. “Phut! Like that. Well, we knew darn well that ‘Chalky’ hadn’t gone into purdah for nothing. We felt absolutely certain that somewhere or other he was ‘working’ again. But the point was where and for whom?”

“And now you’ve got the answer, eh, sir?”

“Six weeks back we had information from the police at Nice that a top-line currency racket was being worked along the Riviera towns. You know the set-up? English visitors anxious to exceed their hundred quid travel allowance. Obliging Wide Boys equally anxious to help ’em out. Normal rate of exchange about 980 francs to the pound. Black Market rate, say, 780. Profit to the Wide Boys about 200 francs for every pound changed. Easy money, Strang, even if you don’t consider the profits spectacular.”

“But ‘Chalky’ Cobbett,” asked Strang still groping, “where does he come in? I don’t get it.”

Meredith chuckled.

“O.K. I’m coming to him. But there are a few other details I want you to cotton on to first. These currency blokes accept cheques on London banks, see? They’re forced to because, as you know, you can only take five quid’s worth of English notes out of the country. The Wide Boys have a grape-vine method of getting these cheques smuggled over to London and cashed as quickly as possible. So much for that. But the French police recently spotted a further complication in this racket. A flood of counterfeit thousand franc notes was appearing along the Riviera, and they soon traced some of these notes to our benighted countrymen who’d been diddling the Exchequer by their purchase of Black Market francs. In brief, the currency racketeers had been paying out their 780 francs to the pound in dud notes. Result, 980 francs to the pound profit, less overheads and, presumably, a rake-off for ‘Chalky’ Cobbett.”

“But how the heck did the French cops know that ‘Chalky’ was responsible for the faked notes, sir?”

“They didn’t. Nor did we at the start. As a matter of routine we got our forgery experts on to one of the specimen notes. And the experts recognized ‘Chalky’s’ touch at once—microscopic details of craftsmanship that had turned up in all his previous work. That’s why we’re heading south on this cold and frosty morning, m’lad. We’re going to snoop around and keep our eyes skinned and our ears wide open until we get a line on ‘Chalky’s’ hide-out. We’re over here at the request of the French police. So take a good look at that photo and keep on looking at it. I want you to get the details of ‘Chalky’s’ dial fixed firmly in your mind, Strang. It’s easier for me. I’ve seen ‘Chalky’ several times. Matter of fact I was responsible for pulling him in in ’39.”

Acting-Sergeant Freddy Strang carefully replaced the photo in his superior’s wallet. So this was the mysterious assignment that had miraculously whipped him out of the London murk and was now speeding him south to the warmth and glitter of the Mediterranean. Damned decent of the Inspector to pick on him as his assistant. There wasn’t another bloke in the C.I.D. he’d rather be working for. He said earnestly:

“I’ll do my best not to let you down, sir.”

“Sure of it, Sergeant. But I haven’t quite filled in all the gaps. ‘Chalky’s’ not our only concern. The French dicks have a very shrewd suspicion that the currency racket is being worked by an English gang or, at least, under English supervision. Point is these men may be known to us at the Yard. That’s the second reason why we’ve been called in to help.”

Freddy whistled.

“Quite a lot on our plate, eh, sir?”

Meredith nodded.

“Enough to keep you out of mischief anyway, young fellow. What’s your particular weakness—wine, women or song?”

“Song, sir. It’s the only vice I can run to on my present pay. Like to hear my rendering of ‘Night and Day’, sir? It was a smash-hit at the last Police Concert.”

“God forbid!” breathed Meredith fervently.