The Riviera Mystery: A 1920s murder mystery by Anna Sayburn Lane

Author:Anna Sayburn Lane [Lane, Anna Sayburn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Starling Street Books
Published: 2024-09-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 24

After dinner, Mrs Jameson and I retreated to her sitting room to review the progress of our investigations. I had resolved to put my heartache on hold until I knew exactly what Hugh was playing at. I explained how I had seen the painter in the street, going towards his lodgings, moments before Hugh emerged from the apartment and claimed to have talked to him.

‘That’s why I went back. But I don’t understand why he lied,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

Mrs Jameson was especially interested in the landlady’s assertion that Antoine Rousseau was probably at Cagnes.

‘The home of the late M. Renoir – and, of course, of the Leclerc family. Marjorie, I’m finally getting a handle on this case. I think we should take a trip to Cagnes tomorrow.’

‘All right.’ I still felt despondent about Hugh’s behaviour. Was I such a terrible judge of character? And was it really possible that he had somehow arranged for the car that ran me off the road?

Mrs Jameson gave me a sharp look. ‘Don’t grouch, Marjorie. I’m sorry that Hugh disappointed you. But Miss Trent is dead, and I am beginning to understand why. When I sent you off with Hugh, I had hoped that you would learn more from M. Rousseau. It sounds to me as if we will need to look for him ourselves.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I was contrite. ‘I didn’t mean to be gloomy. But I feel very badly about the car. I don’t suppose Mr Rubin will let me drive it again, even if it is repairable.’

Mrs Jameson looked a little more kindly. ‘It was only thanks to your driving skills that either you or the car survived at all. Mr Rubin can always buy another car, but you are one of a kind. I can’t afford to lose you, Marjorie.’

‘Thank you.’ I felt a little better. At least someone appreciated me.

‘Meanwhile,’ said Mrs Jameson, ‘my inquiries into Miss Trent’s background are proving fruitful. I have a friend working at the Banque du Nord in Paris. She and I worked together during the War, and I telephoned her this afternoon from their branch in Nice. She was kind enough to take a look at some of the recent transactions on the account of M. Lejaby, of Rue Huysmans in Paris. Not strictly legal, but she was very understanding.’

She pulled out her pocket book and flipped the pages. I never ceased to be amazed by the useful connexions that Mrs Jameson was able to call on, even in a foreign country.

‘Here we are. A regular deposit of four hundred francs every month, drawn from the account of Hôtel Drouot. Not a great deal for two people to live on in Paris, but possible. During the past year, three additional deposits of cash, each of three hundred francs. Despite this extra money, the account is usually running close to empty. Large sums of cash are withdrawn shortly after deposits are made.’

She sat back and looked at me triumphantly. ‘What can we deduce from that, Marjorie?’

I forced myself to concentrate on the facts.

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