Death on the Riviera Read Free

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.”
    â€œBut ‘Chalky’ Cobbett,” asked Strang still groping, “where does he come in? I don’t get it.”
    Meredith chuckled.
    â€œO.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.”
    â€œBut how the heck did the French cops know that ‘Chalky’ was responsible for the faked notes, sir?”
    â€œThey 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:
    â€œI’ll do my best not to let you down, sir.”
    â€œSure 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.
    â€œQuite a lot on our plate, eh, sir?”
    Meredith nodded.
    â€œEnough to keep you out of mischief anyway, young fellow. What’s your particular weakness—wine, women or song?”
    â€œSong, 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.”
    â€œGod forbid!” breathed Meredith fervently.

Chapter II
    The Villa Paloma
    I
    Nesta Hedderwick, in a faded pink kimono, was sprawling in a wicker chaise-longue on the terrace of the Villa Paloma, sipping a tomato-juice. Behind her the walls of the villa, also a faded pink, were patterned with the fronded shadows of