I made one attempt to shake off the Renault, but I wasn’t successful. The driver was a lot smarter at manoeuvring in congested traffic than I was, and when I made my bid I only achieved frenzied curses from the drivers of cars either side of me and wild hooting from the on-coming traffic.
I drove to the Vesuvius hotel, swung the Lincoln into the only available space before the hotel, told the porter to keep an eye on it and went quickly into the lobby.
I paused then to look through the revolving doors to see if I could spot the Renault, but there was no sign of it.
I went into the bar, ordered a Scotch and soda and then took the Paillard Bolex camera from its case. I opened’ the camera. Both the film spool and the take-up spool were missing. When I slid the catch of the film gate release, a strip of torn film about three inches long dropped into my hand.
This confirmed what I had thought had happened. Someone had opened the camera, taken out
the two spools with the film wound on to them and yanked the film clear of the gate.
I replaced the strip of film and locked the gate into position. Then I put the camera back into its case. I lit a cigarette and did some thinking.
It seemed likely that X had ripped out the film. The only reason why he had done so was because Helen had photographed something he didn’t want anyone to see. The chances were that he had come on her while she was on the cliff head and, as he approached her, she had turned the camera on him. He had realized the danger of leaving such a record in the camera. After he had disposed of her, he had ripped out the film and destroyed it.
After he had disposed of her.
I realized now that since I had discovered the film was missing from the camera and that the films had been taken from the villa I had known that Helen hadn’t died accidentally. It was something I was loath to admit, but now I had to admit it.
Chalmers’s wild guess had been right. Helen hadn’t died accidentally. She hadn’t committed suicide.
I was now in a far worse jam that I had imagined. Helen had been murdered, and if I wasn’t careful, the finger of guilt would soon be pointing at me.
PART SIX
I
“It’s Mr. Dawson, isn’t it?”
I snapped out of my nightmare, nearly dropping the camera, end looked up.
June Chalmers was standing before me. She had on a grey linen dress, ornamented with a red belt and buttons; red, spike-heeled shoes, and a red skull-cap with a white goose-feather in it.
I got to my feet.
“That’s right, Mrs. Chalmers.”
“Were you looking for my husband?”
“I was hoping to catch him before he left.”
“He won’t be long.”
She sat down in a lounging chair near to the one I had been sitting in, crossed her legs, and let me see her knees.
“Please sit down, Mr. Dawson, I want to talk to you.”
“Can I get you a drink?”
She shook her head.
“No, thank you, I’ve only just finished lunch. We are hoping to catch the three-forty plane. Mr. Chalmers is supervising the packing right now. He loves to do that sort of tiling himself.”
I sat down and looked at her.
“Mr. Dawson, I haven’t much time,” she said. “Please don’t misunderstand me if I seem harsh towards Helen, but I must speak to you about her. My husband is a very ruthless and hard man but, like so many hard men, he has a sentimental side. All his affection and love were lavished on his daughter. It may be difficult for you to believe this, but he worshipped her.”
I moved restlessly. I couldn’t see where this was leading to. I remembered what Helen had said about her father, and how bitter she had been. She had said he had no interest in her, and he only thought of himself and finding a new woman to amuse him. What June Chalmers was telling me didn’t add up.
“I’ve heard that he didn’t give that impression,” I said cautiously. “Most people think he had no time for her.”
“I know. That was the impression he did give, but in actual fact he was ridiculously fond of her. He was anxious not to be thought an indulgent father, and he very stupidly kept her short of money. He thought too much money would spoil her, and he gave her only a very small allowance.”
I sank a little lower in my chair. I can’t say I was particularly interested in all this.
“I believe you are anxious to return to New York and take up your new appointment: it’s the foreign desk, isn’t it?” she said abruptly.
That stiffened me to attention.
“Yes.”
“The job means a lot to you?”
“Why, of course…”
“My husband has a very high opinion of you,” she went on. “He has told me what he wants you to do. I mean about Helen. He is sure she has been murdered. He gets these fixed ideas from time to time, and nothing anyone can say will make him think otherwise. The police and the coroner are satisfied it was an accident. I am sure you think so too.”
She looked inquiringly at me.
For no reason I could think of I felt suddenly uneasy in her presence. Maybe it was because I had an idea that her smiling calmness was phoney. There was a suppressed tension about her I could sense rather than see.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s something I’m going to investigate.”
“Yes, and that brings me to why I want to talk to you. Mr. Dawson. I want to warn you to be careful how deeply you probe into this business. My husband was crazy about Helen. I don’t like speaking badly about anyone who can’t defend themselves, but in this case I haven’t any choice. He thought she was a good, decent, studious girl, but she wasn’t. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for money: nothing at all. She lived for money. My husband only gave her an allowance of sixty dollars a week. I know for a fact she spent as much as two or three hundred dollars a week when she was living in New York. She had absolutely no scruples how she got money so long as she got it. She was perhaps one of the most worldly, undisciplined, immoral and unpleasant women I have ever met.”
The rasp in her voice as she said this shocked me.
“I know it is a dreadful thing to say,” she went on, “but it is the truth. If you probe into her past you will find this out for yourself. She was utterly rotten. This wasn’t the first time she was pregnant: a thing like that wouldn’t have worried her. She knew what to do and who to go to. The men she went around with were degenerates and criminals. If anyone deserved to be murdered, she did!”
I drew in a long, slow breath.
“And yet you don’t think she was murdered?” I said.
“I don’t know.” She stared at me. “All I do know is that the police are satisfied she died accidentally. Why can’t you be satisfied?”
“Your husband has told me to make an investigation. That’s an order.”
“If you investigate her death as a murder, you are certain to uncover a whole series of unpleasant facts about her. I am sure she behaved in Rome as she has behaved in New York. It will be impossible to conceal these facts from my husband. He is completely convinced that Helen was a decent, clean-living girl. The facts you will have to tell him will shock him. He won’t forgive you for shattering his illusions about his daughter, nor is he likely to employ a man in the most important position on his newspaper who has shown him how completely fooled he has been about such a worthless degenerate as his daughter was. Now do you understand why I am asking you not to probe too deeply into this business?”