Free Death on the Riviera by John Bude

Luckily Meredith could understand French far better than he could speak it so that he was able to grasp at least the salient points of the Sergeant’s evidence.
    Mais oui! The Villa Valdeblore—he knew it well. It was in the Avenue de la Palisse and was owned by a certain Colonel Malloy.
    â€œA compatriot of yours, Inspector, and very much respected in the town. I think he bought the villa in 1946.”
    As far as the Sergeant knew he lived there with his wife. Mais oui, save for the domestic staff, alone with his wife. Was there not a Dutchman or German in the household? The Sergeant smiled.
    â€œAh, you are thinking, perhaps, of his chauffeur, Nikolai Bourmin. He is a White Russian. All this I learn because as an alien he has to report to us here at regular intervals. No—I know little of him. He behave himself. He does not get drunk or steal or commit a murder. That is all I care. Yes—it is about six months now since he first came to Beaulieu. I trust you have not discovered something about him that I should have found out for myself. If he is up to no good, it would not look well if I failed to comprehend it, Inspector. But I cannot believe that a man like Colonel Malloy would be easily deceived. It would not be like him to employ a rogue. If you think this Nikolai Bourmin to be a rascal…” The sergeant shrugged and added hopefully. “ Eh bien, then perhaps you are wrong, M’sieur. You agree it is possible?”
    Meredith could have expounded at length on the fallibility of assumptions that were not founded on proven facts, but playing for safety he said simply and conclusively:
    â€œ Peut-être, mon ami. ”
    Strang gazed at his superior in blank admiration.
    IV
    On their more leisurely drive back along the Littoral road to Menton Meredith fell silent. Aware that he’d dropped into one of his “broody moods”, as Freddy called them, the Sergeant sensibly made no attempt to start up a conversation. As a matter of fact, Meredith was thinking fast and furious. He was analysing the evidence that had come his way during the course of that eventful evening.
    So this fellow Bourmin was not the owner of the Rolls-Royce—he was merely chauffeur to this retired army bloke, Malloy. Now it was simple to explain away the fact that Bourmin only “worked” the Monte Carlo bars on a Thursday. It was, undoubtedly, his half-day off. It seemed equally certain that on these occasions his employer allowed him to make use of the car. This argued, of course, a pretty friendly and trustworthy relationship between the two men. But accepting this premise was it reasonable to assume that Malloy himself was tied up with the racket? Umph—difficult to say without having had the opportunity to make a personal assessment of the man’s character. The Beaulieu Sergeant spoke of him as being “highly respected in the town”, but that was just a general opinion. Somehow or other they must get a more definite line on Malloy’s past record and present behaviour.
    For the moment it might be as well to make no move where the Russian was concerned. Strang could well take on the job of “tailing” the fellow on his Thursdays off in the hope that he might make contact with other members of the gang. As an alien, faced with the necessity of reporting regularly at the police-station, there was little chance of Bourmin slipping through their fingers even if his suspicions were aroused. Somehow the chauffeur had to collect the spurious notes as they came off the illicit printing-press. It was Bourmin, in fact, who might well lead them to “Chalky’s” hide-out.
    As for this Colonel Malloy, Meredith determined to get in touch with the Yard without delay. They, in turn, could make contact with the Records Department at the War Office and cable the relevant information concerning the fellow’s bona fides and past history in the Service. If he appeared to be