He looked at me blankly for a moment or two.
Then he said, ‘You are not Monsieur Martin Freeman?’
‘No.’ I took out one of my cards and flipped it to him.
He looked at it and his face fell.
‘Carvay,’ he said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Not Freeman?’
‘No.’
‘Merde!’ he said. ‘Why do I always get things cocked up?’ I really felt sorry for him. In disappointment he had a warm, collapsed human appeal.’
‘It was a natural mistake,’ I said. ‘I am in Freeman’s cottage, drinking his whisky. I could have made the same mistake. Tell me—when did Freeman pinch these coins?’
‘About two weeks ago. No, a little less.’ He smiled suddenly and leaned forward and held out a big hand across the table to me. ‘Monsieur,’ he said as I took it, ‘it is a pleasure to meet someone of my own profession on this side of the Channel. Enchante. And what was it he has stolen from your client?’
He had a grip like a vice. I rescued my hand and shook it to ease the numbness. ‘He lifted five thousand pounds and a piece of jewellery from his sister. You understand, I tell you this in confidence.’ I could feel the old Gallic protocol taking over in me too.
‘But naturally, monsieur.’
‘How,’ I asked, ‘did you trace this cottage? Freeman never advertised it.’
‘Haaaaaa!’ It was a great gust of a knowing sigh and then he did something I hadn’t seen done for years. He laid the index finger of his right hand against the side of his big nose and winked. I knew better than to probe a professional man further. Then he stood up and said, ‘You have found many clues in this place?’
I waved my hand around and said, ‘You’re welcome to what there is. I’ll have another drink while you look round.’
‘Merci, monsieur.’
Ignoring me, he took a leisurely look around the room and then disappeared upstairs. I lit a cigarette and waited, and wondered what there was in Freeman that made him go for antique stuff, jewellery and coins. Nothing that sprang from a genuine love of the past and its craftsmanship I was sure. He was just after cash. And then I thought about François Paulet. He was a likeable number. But in my profession to keep an overdraft down you had to have more than likeableness. There was a touch of music-hall about Paulet and a self-confessed habit of getting things cocked up that marked him out for the lower rungs of the hierarchy.
He came downstairs after a while, looking shocked, and shaking his head.
‘Mon Dieu!’ he said. ‘It is incredible. To have affairs of the heart is natural. But to leave the evidence lying on the floor at the side of the bed for the world to see. No Frenchman would do such a thing.’
‘Nor many Englishmen.’
‘But some of them were clearly married women. Why—’ his face cleared suddenly—‘there is enough material there to keep a blackmailer happy for life.’ Then he frowned. ‘It is a good thing that you and I are honourable men.’
‘Personally,’ I said, ‘I’ve never ceased congratulating myself about it.’
I stood up.
‘You are going?’ he asked.
‘Back to London.’
‘You could give me a lift?’
‘How did you get here?’
‘I am by train to Ashford. Then a bus. Then I walk.’ He smiled and my heart went out to him as he went on, ‘Monsieur Duchêne is not generous in the matter of expenses.’
‘I’ll give you a lift back to London.’
‘Thank you.’
He followed me into the kitchen and then paused and nodded to a door at the far end. ‘What is in there?’
‘I haven’t examined it because I know. It is the chemical closet.’
‘The toilet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah—then I will use it before our journey.’
He went over and opened the door. I must say that for a big man he was quick on his feet. As he pulled the door towards him something large and bulky fell out, and François did a backward jump of three feet.
I went to his side and looked down.
‘Merde!’ he said. ‘Is it Freeman?’
‘No.’
‘Who is it then?’
‘I don’t know. Freeman is in his thirties. This man is much older.’
‘He was propped on the seat, his head against the door. So when I open it—out he comes, bim!’ Paulet sounded a bit scared.
I didn’t think I had to make any comment. I knelt down by the man. I’m no expert but it was clear from the markings on the neck that he had been strangled manually. Rigor mortis had set in completely, so he had been dead for anything between twelve and twenty-four hours—after this rigor begins to pass away. I went through his pockets, but either he carried nothing on him or someone had cleared them after his death.
Behind me, Paulet said, ‘What is to do? I am in a strange country and do not wish to be involved in this kind of thing.’
‘Nor me,’ I said, standing up. ‘We’ll just go quietly away, and I’ll phone the police anonymously on the way back to London.’
I looked at Paulet. He was very much shaken.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘with an effort I shall not be sick.’
I went to the back door and opened it, letting him pass me.
‘For a man who carries a gun around, I should have thought this kind of thing meant nothing to you.’
He glanced back at me indignantly. ‘But that is for show. It is never loaded.’
We slithered down the muddy path in darkness and a thin drizzle to my car. All the way I was thinking of the man lying back in the kitchen. He wore a London-Scottish tie, a shabby grey suit and well-rubbed suede shoes. Even in death he maintained his beaten-spaniel look.
CHAPTER 3
Neanderthal Man with Azalea
I phoned the Ashford police at a call box just outside Maidstone. Later, I dropped Paulet at the Strand Palace Hotel where he was staying.
He hadn’t said a great deal on the drive to
