Tomfoolery Read online

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Thank you.’

  Fox picked up the phone and ordered coffee before sitting down opposite Benson. ‘What have you to tell me, Mr Benson?’

  ‘I don’t really know where to begin, Mr Fox, but, to put it bluntly, I’ve been a fool. A damned old fool.’

  ‘How so, may I ask?’

  For a few moments, Benson stared at his feet as if hoping that he might find the answer to his problems there. ‘She wasn’t my wife,’ he said eventually, looking up at Fox.

  ‘I see. But she called herself Mrs Benson?’

  ‘Yes. The fact of the matter is that I was convinced that she would consent to marry me. I suggested that to use my name was merely anticipating events and she was happy to go along with it.’

  ‘How did you meet her?’ Fox realised that Benson needed some help to formulate his thoughts.

  ‘There’s a weekly column in The Times,’ said Benson. ‘I think it’s called Saturday Rendezvous, or something like that.’ Fox nodded. ‘I put an advert in there some seven or eight months ago.’

  ‘What sort of advert?’

  ‘It was a damned silly thing to do. I realise that now. Asking for trouble really. But I was lonely. My wife died a couple of years ago, you see.’

  ‘What did you say … in the advert?’

  ‘I’ve got it here.’ Benson took out his wallet and produced a cutting. ‘I wanted a holiday companion.’

  Fox skimmed through it and tutted. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, and handed it back. ‘Bit silly, that. You should never tell them that you’ve got money. I take it that your Jane answered this advert?’

  Benson stared miserably at Fox. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she gave her name as Jane Meadows, did she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did she send the photograph you asked for?’

  ‘Oh yes. I was amazed at my good fortune when I got it. She seemed to be the answer to a prayer. Thirty years old, really good looking. And when I met her she said that she preferred the company of older men. She was a marvellous girl.’

  ‘And did she move in with you?’

  Benson was clearly embarrassed by the question. ‘Not straight away. We went on holiday together … Well, of course that’s what I’d advertised for.’

  ‘But she moved in with you when you got back?’

  Benson hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘It was only a tentative suggestion on my part, but she agreed eventually. I must say she appeared a little reluctant.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Fox drily. He knew from previous experience that play-acting formed a part of this sort of scam. ‘And presumably she was willing to go to bed with you?’

  Benson nodded without looking up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was too good to be true.’

  ‘Yes, I think that goes without saying. Incidentally, where did you go for this holiday? South of France?’

  ‘Yes. She adored Nice. That’s why I went back there, but it was no good.’

  ‘What was no good?’

  ‘I couldn’t find her, you see.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Fox, silently directing Swann to put the coffee on the table between them, ‘but I’m afraid you’ve lost me there.’

  ‘After she left me, I mean.’

  ‘And when did that happen?’

  Benson, surprisingly for a man who seemed to have been so emotionally attached to this wonderful woman, pulled out his diary. ‘The nineteenth of July,’ he said.

  ‘Did she tell you she was going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Leave a letter? Anything like that?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Benson spoke the word savagely.

  ‘So you had no idea that she was going to leave you.’

  ‘Not an inkling. Everything between us had been idyllic. Just like a dream. Then suddenly she’d gone.’

  Fox stirred his coffee and took a sip. ‘How much of your property did she take with her, Mr Benson?’ he asked resignedly.

  ‘How did you know that?’ Benson looked up sharply.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a familiar pattern. Especially when one knows as much as I do about this particular young lady.’

  ‘I’ve been a damned fool,’ said Benson, shaking his head wearily.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fox, ‘but you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘She took all my late wife’s jewellery.’ Benson had a sad expression on his face. ‘I was going to give it to her anyway, when we were married.’

  ‘I think the French police may have recovered that for you.’

  ‘Really?’ For the first time, Benson looked a little more cheerful.

  ‘Did she take anything else?’

  ‘She took money as well.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘About twenty thousand pounds.’

  ‘As you say, Mr Benson,’ Fox said, ‘you’ve been a damned fool, but how did she get her hands on it? Surely you didn’t keep that much cash in the flat.’

  ‘I’m afraid I was foolish enough to allow her access to my bank account.’

  ‘You mean that you changed it into a joint account?’

  ‘Yes.’ Benson looked directly at Fox, pleading to be understood. ‘I was convinced that we were going to be married, you see.’

  ‘And presumably the arrangement was that either of you could draw on that account?’

  Benson nodded miserably. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I thought I could trust her.’ He put his cup and saucer down on the table and looked up. ‘But I was wrong,’ he added.

  ‘Why didn’t you go to the police about it … or tell me when I saw you in Nice?’

  ‘Because I didn’t really want anyone else to know what an idiot I’d been.’

  ‘That’s how people like her get away with it, Mr Benson … time after time,’ said Fox.

  ‘I realise that now,’ said Benson, ‘but I suppose I didn’t want to face up to what had happened.’

  ‘So you packed up here and went to stay in Nice?’

  ‘Yes, but there was a method in my madness. I was still hoping to get her back, you see.’

  ‘You went there to look for her, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘Well, as I said, she loved the South of France. We went to Nice three times in the short time we were together. She absolutely adored it. I went hoping that I could find her and persuade her to come back to me.’

  ‘She worked, I think you said, when we spoke before.’

  ‘Yes. I wanted her to give it up, but she said it was an interest for her. I didn’t argue.’

  ‘You say you went on holiday on three occasions?’

  Benson paused only briefly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did she get that much time off from work?’

  ‘Oh, that was no problem. As I said, she was a partner in this business and could take time off whenever she wanted it. As a matter of fact, she said that sometimes she was combining business with pleasure. She had people to see on the Côte d’Azur. Sometimes she would be away all day. A couple of times she was away overnight.’

  ‘And she described this business to you as something to do with the hotel trade, yes?’

  ‘Well, I was never quite sure. I didn’t really go into it with her, but yes, something to do with the hotel business.’ Benson bowed his head so that his chin touched his chest.

  ‘And the man Dixon was her partner. That’s what you said before.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t happen to know what their business was called, I suppose?’

  Benson thought about that. Then he looked up. ‘Yes,’ he said suddenly. ‘Marloes. I remember now because she said to me once that if I answered the phone and it was for Marloes, it was for her.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine,’ murmured Fox. ‘However, you didn’t find her when you went looking?’

  ‘Not to speak to.’

  ‘You mean you saw her?’

  ‘Oh yes. I was walking along the Promenade d
es Anglais one day. That’s that marvellous road along the seafront.’

  Fox nodded. ‘Yes, I know it.’

  ‘And I was just about to cross the road when I saw her go past in a car. I waved, but she didn’t see me.’

  ‘Was she with anyone?’

  ‘A man,’ said Benson in a downcast voice. ‘A younger man. Younger than me, I mean.’

  ‘And you’re sure that it was her? There are a lot of pretty girls in Nice, Mr Benson.’

  ‘I’m absolutely certain. When you’ve been living with a girl you don’t forget what she looks like.’

  ‘And what about the man? Did you recognise him?’

  ‘No. Never seen him before.’

  ‘D’you think you might recognise him again?’

  Benson shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’

  Fox stood up and walked across to his desk. ‘Have a look at this,’ he said, handing Benson a copy of the golf club photograph of Harley. ‘I showed it to you when I came to see you in Nice and you said you didn’t recognise him.’

  ‘But that was before I saw her … and him.’ Benson looked at the photograph and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, handing it back. ‘It could be, I suppose, but I’m not certain. You see, Jane was sitting in the passenger seat, and I was on that side of the road. I didn’t get a very good view of the driver.’

  ‘But enough to tell you that he was younger than you?’

  For the first time since coming into Fox’s office, Benson smiled. ‘I think that’s what I expected,’ he said. ‘So that’s what I saw.’

  ‘And I suppose you didn’t get the number of the car?’

  Benson shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry.’

  Fox leaned back in his chair and tossed the photograph on to his desk. ‘Mr Benson,’ he said, turning back, ‘would you have any objection to police examining your bank account?’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘It is possible, in view of the fact that it was a joint account with Jane Meadows, that it might give us some indication as to her movements. We know that she told a neighbour that she was going to Morocco —’

  ‘Morocco?’

  ‘That’s what she said, but of course she may not have done.’

  ‘I didn’t know anything about that. When was this?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. But the chauffeur was taking her luggage out one morning when this neighbour met her. Jane told her she was going on holiday to Morocco … alone. Perhaps it was the day she left you.’

  ‘Chauffeur? I didn’t have a chauffeur. I wonder what made this neighbour think it was a chauffeur. Perhaps it was a hire-car. A mini-cab, maybe.’ Benson paused. ‘Was it Lady Morton, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact it was.’

  ‘Yes, it would be.’ Benson smiled. ‘Well, yes, you can have access to my account if you think it will help. D’you think that Jane’s mixed up in something else, then?’

  ‘I’m afraid we think that she may have been concerned in a murder, Mr Benson.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Benson ran a hand through his thinning hair and then looked up. ‘The murder of the man Dixon, d’you mean?’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ said Fox. ‘Incidentally, Mr Benson, when was this that you saw Jane Meadows in Nice?’

  Benson did not hesitate. ‘Last week,’ he said. ‘After you’d been to see me.’

  *

  ‘That circulation in Police Gazette, Jack. The one on Jane Meadows,’ said Fox. ‘You might throw in that she could have made a habit of fleecing lonely old gentlemen who’ve got lots of money. Somehow, I don’t think that our friend Benson was the first.’

  ‘Might not be necessary now, sir.’ Gilroy looked quite excited. ‘Just had a phone call from Pierre Ronsard, sir.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ronsard, the French policeman we did business with in Nice.’

  ‘Oh, him. What about it?’

  ‘He’s got a lead on Jane Meadows, sir. The jeweller she unloaded that gear on spotted her in the town apparently.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Fox folded his newspaper untidily and dropped it in the waste-paper basket.

  ‘Went racing down to the nick, and Ronsard put a couple of his blokes on it. They’ve got an address for her, but he hasn’t nicked her. Reckons it might spoil our murder enquiry.’

  ‘How very civil of him,’ said Fox. ‘Have to buy him a plate of frogs’ legs when I see him again.’ For a moment he looked thoughtful. ‘Crozier speaks French, doesn’t he, Jack?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ said Fox. ‘Get hold of him. I’ve got a job for him.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Ron, they tell me you speak French.’

  Detective Sergeant Crozier returned Fox’s gaze with a bland expression. ‘Not exactly, sir. I can find my way through a French menu … and perhaps order a couple of beers.’

  ‘Good enough,’ said Fox. For a moment or two, he gazed thoughtfully at Crozier. ‘You know all about extradition treaties, don’t you, Ron?’

  Crozier looked doubtful. ‘Well, a bit, sir.’ It was always the same with Fox’s enigmatic questions. Before you knew where you were you’d been lumbered with something complicated. And usually a bit dodgy.

  ‘Enough to know that it’s a long and complicated business to get someone extradited to this country?’ continued Fox. ‘Particularly when the bloody French are involved,’ he added darkly. ‘And particularly when you haven’t got a shred of evidence.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Crozier did not feel any happier. He could sense what was coming next.

  ‘Right. How d’you fancy a little holiday? All expenses paid by the Commissioner?’

  ‘Where, sir?’

  ‘South of France, dear boy. Place called Nice, as a matter of fact. The weather’s superb at this time of year they tell me.’

  Crozier held his hands up. Metaphorically. ‘What’s this all about, guv?’ he asked warily.

  ‘Sit down, Ron.’ Fox smiled. ‘Fancy a Scotch?’ he asked, moving towards his drinks cabinet.

  *

  ‘Pierre? It’s Tommy Fox. In London.’ Fox shouted into the telephone.

  ‘Sacrebleu!’ said Inspecteur Principal Ronsard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said it is a bad line, M’sieur Fox. How are you?’ Ronsard was beginning to realise that Scotland Yard’s senior officers were no different from his own and that when Fox telephoned it was not to enquire after Ronsard’s health.

  ‘Look, Pierre, I’m sending one of my lads over to hijack this Jane Meadows —’

  ‘Hijack?’

  Fox thought better of it. ‘To talk to her, Pierre. Assist with our enquiries. Bit of a holiday for him, really.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Ronsard was not happy. Suddenly he knew why Jack Gilroy so often had a downtrodden look about him.

  *

  The holiday season was still in full swing and Nice Airport was crowded with people wandering in that aimless and lost way that so often marks out the inexperienced international traveller. Detective Sergeant Ron Crozier walked on to the concourse, pushing his way between little groups of passengers, and looked around. With an instinct possessed by detectives the world over, he identified the well-dressed man standing near the bookstall as being in the same trade as himself.

  ‘M’sieur Ronsard?’

  ‘Ah! M’sieur Crozier, yes?’

  Crozier dropped his bag on the floor and shook hands. ‘Ron Crozier, from Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Of course. I am called Pierre. Your Mr Fox telephoned to say that you would be coming. He said he was sending you on holiday. That is not right, surely? It would not happen here in France.’

  ‘It doesn’t bloody well happen in London either,’ said Crozier.

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘Can we get a drink somewhere?’ asked Crozier.

  ‘Of course.’ Ronsard picked up Crozier’s bag and led him into a bar just off the concourse.

  Crozier gazed r
eflectively at his beer and offered Ronsard a cigarette. ‘It’s like this,’ he began. ‘My guv’nor, Fox, wants me to have a chat with this Jane Meadows. See if she knows anything.’ He took a sip of beer. Fox’s briefing had tasked Crozier with more than a chat. ‘We know she unloaded some of the proceeds over here in Nice, but quite frankly, Pierre, we haven’t got any real evidence to tie her in with this heist —’

  ‘Heist?’ said the French detective. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Crozier. ‘It means robbery. A theft. The one Fox was talking about when he was here. At the hotel in London.’

  ‘Ah, the one he talked to the man Benson about. But a murder also, yes?’

  ‘Yes, quite possibly.’

  ‘OK,’ said Ronsard. ‘Just tell me what I can do.’ He took a sip of pastis. ‘If you want her arrested, just say the word. It is no problem, but I thought it better if we waited, yes?’

  ‘I’d rather we did.’ Crozier stubbed out his cigarette. ‘As I said, there’s hardly any evidence at this stage.’

  ‘Ah well, I suppose you know what you are doing, Ron, but it seems a little strange to me.’ Ronsard picked up his glass again and then paused. ‘I hope there’s nothing illegal about all this,’ he said, ‘but your Mr Tommy Fox is a little, what … unorthodox?’

  ‘You’re dead right there,’ said Crozier with a grin, ‘but believe me, this is dead straight. I’ve got my pension to worry about.’

  Ronsard laughed. ‘Me too,’ he said.

  *

  ‘Have we heard from Ron Crozier yet, Jack?’ asked Fox.

  ‘Bloody hell, guv’nor,’ said Gilroy. ‘He’s only been there an hour.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fox gazed at the clock over the doorway of his office. ‘Time enough to have made a start.’

  ‘You did tell him it was a holiday, guv.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fox, ‘but I was only joking.’

  *

  Ronsard’s information was that Jane Meadows, now calling herself Jane Spencer, was living in a small villa on the outskirts of Nice. The rental agreement was in the name of a Mr Spencer, but no one had seen him.

  Whether Ronsard had located the girl in the way he had described didn’t matter. Crozier thought that it was probably one of the French detective’s string of informants who had tracked her down. Ronsard did not say. And he certainly would not have been prepared to reveal such an informant so that Crozier could talk to him … or her. But that was understood. No detective in the world will reveal his sources of information. Even to other detectives. Particularly to other detectives.