“Yes. Where did you get it from?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t even know it was in here. Why, Lew? Why so much interest?”
“I have reason to know that’s the folder I found in Sheppey’s luggage. Later someone ransacked my room, found it and substituted another folder for it. Now it turns up in your bag.”
“Are you quite sure it’s the same folder? I’ve seen dozens like this in the club.”
“Look at it. On the back of the matches you’ll find a row of numbers. They are the same numbers that were on the matches in Sheppey’s folder.”
She opened the folder and bent back the matches and frowned at the numbers.
“It’s odd, isn’t it? Perhaps all the matches in all the folders have these numbers on them.”
“They haven’t. I checked that. Where did you get that folder from?”
“I must have got it from the club last night. I was dining there.” She thought for a moment, frowning. “Yes, that’s right. I remember I had forgotten to bring my lighter with me. I never use matches unless I forget my lighter. I suppose I must have picked up the folder from the tray on the hat-check counter.”
I shook my head.
“You didn’t do that. This is a special folder, Margot. Someone committed a murder for it. It wouldn’t be in any tray.”
She was beginning to look worried.
“I don’t know then. Unless I asked someone for a light, and they gave me the folder.”
“I can’t imagine anyone doing that. Who did you dine with?”
“There was a party: there were five people and myself. Bridgette and Thrisby, a man called Donaghue, Harry Lucas, who I play tennis with sometimes, and Doris Little, a friend of mine.”
“Any of these people could have put the match folder absent-mindedly on the table and you could have picked it up?”
“I suppose so. I just can’t remember picking it up, but, of course, it’s the sort of thing one could do without thinking.”
“I don’t like it a lot. This folder is worth money. I can’t imagine anyone laying it on the table for you to pick up.”
“They might have been under the impression it was an ordinary match folder. The waiters leave them on every table.”
“Maybe. Well, okay. I want the folder, Margot. I’ll have to show it to Lieutenant Rankin.”
Her eyes widened.
“But, Lew, if you do that you’ll mix me up in this,” she said. “I mustn’t get mixed up with the police, darling. Daddy would be livid.”
“I’ll have to tell Rankin. He’ll want to know where I got it from. You don’t have to worry. He’s far too scared of your father to involve you.”
“But, darling, suppose he does? You mustn’t do it. Don’t you see that? He’ll want to know how you found the folder in my bag. You’re not going to tell him what happened last night for heaven’s sake!”
I thought for a moment.
“Okay, I’ll handle it myself. I’ll go and talk to Thrisby before I see Rankin. Maybe I can get a line on it from Thrisby.”
She handed me the match folder.
“Please don’t involve me, Lew. If the newspapers thought I was mixed up in this...”
I patted her hand.
“Relax. I’ll keep you out of it. Between now and the next time I see you, will you think very hard and try to remember how you did get hold of the folder? If you do remember, will you call me, Margot? It’s important.”
“Of course.” She looked at her watch. “I must fly. I’m late already.” She got to her feet. “Are you going to see Thrisby now?”
“I think so. It might be a good time to catch him in.”
“You know how to get there? Take Franklyn Boulevard, go right to the top and turn right on to the mountain road. It’s about five miles up. You’ll see a signpost saying The Crest.” She gave me her small smile. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Lew.”
“You bet.”
I watched her hurry across the bar lounge, and mine weren’t the only eyes that stared after her. Her long brown legs were the focal point of every male eye in the bar.
I snapped my fingers at the waiter and, after the inevitable wait, he came over and gave me the check. I paid, waited for my change, then got up and went out into the sunshine where the Buick stood.
I drove up Franklyn Boulevard, not hurrying and enjoying the hot sunshine while my mind turned over the bits and pieces of information I had collected. At the moment the problem was in a state of flux. It was like when you begin to work out the bits and pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. At the moment there was no picture, but I did have a number of pieces that I felt pretty sure would make up into a picture reasonably soon.
At the top of the wide boulevard I turned right and came immediately to a very steep mountain road. A mile further on I came to a signpost which pointed encouragingly upwards and said, “The Crest”.
Half-way up the road which had climbed steeply all the way, I pulled into a lay-by to look at the view.
Far below me I could see St. Raphael City. To my right was the big Casino, the miles of glittering sands, the palm trees, the luxury hotels and the swarms of people on the beach. I could see Creedy’s estate with the blur of red, yellow and white of the massed rose beds, and along the drive I could see a Rolls moving swiftly towards the barrier where two ant-like figures stood guard.
My eyes shifted to the snake-back road below me: the road on which I had come up, leading from Franklyn Boulevard.
In the mid-morning heat of the sun the white road was deserted of traffic. I seemed to be the only one using the road, and it gave me a feeling of isolation to be up here, looking down at this rich, gangster-ridden town.
I hunched my shoulders, then started the engine, shifted into drive and continued on my way up the twisting road.
II
The White Château was at the end of a side road that cut sharply away from the mountain road and went down three hundred yards to an open tarmac just wide enough for a car to turn. There was a freshly painted sign at the head of the road announcing this was a private road and parking was forbidden.
There was a convertible Cadillac standing on the tarmac; a glossy thing of pale blue with dark blue nylon upholstery and glittering chromium. I parked the Buick beside it, got out and looked towards the house. It was screened by flowering shrubs and palm trees. I could just see the overhanging roof of green tiles but no more.
I walked to the wooden gate on which was written the name of the house. I pushed open the gate and walked up a path bordered on either side by a neatly clipped hedge, then I came to a stretch of lawn and to the house.
It was a small, chalet type of building with green shutters, white walls, a wide verandah, window-boxes with begonias in them under each window and a bright creeper climbing over the front entrance with a red-and-white, bell-shaped flower I had never seen before.
French doors stood open on to the verandah. A Siamese cat lay in the sun on the balustrade of the terrace. It lifted its head and its blue eyes stared without interest in my direction, then it laid its head once more on the hot stone and went off into its Valhalla of dreams.
I walked across the lawn and up on to the verandah. The front door was to my left: a green, neat affair with chromium fitments and a pull-down bell.
As I moved towards it, a man’s voice, coming from the open french doors said, “Well, if you don’t want a drink, I do.”
I paused.
“For heaven’s sake, don’t start drinking now, Jacques,” a woman said. “I want to talk to you.”
“And that, darling, is exactly why I must have a drink. Do you imagine I can sit here listening to you unless I do have a drink? Be reasonable, please.”