They chatted easily for some moments and then French thinking that some information about the other’s former movements might be useful, turned the conversation to travel.
“You had a pleasant trip to the south of France with your late cousin, I understand?” he remarked. “I wonder if you’d tell me something about it? I’ve just done enough traveling myself to whet my appetite for more, and the idea of the south of France absolutely fascinates me. What part did you go to?”
“The Riviera and Provence,” Pyke answered, with a subtle change of manner. Up to the present he had been polite; now he was interested. “I can tell you, Inspector, that if you’re fond of travelling you should try those districts. You’d enjoy every moment of it.”
“It’s not doubt of that which keeps me away. Money and time are my trouble. Did you get as far as Italy?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you our itinerary if you care to hear it. We went round to Marseilles by long sea. A jolly sail, that. Then——”
“Good weather?” French interposed. He wanted plenty of detail so that he could check the statements up.
“It was dirty when we left Birkenhead and choppy in the Irish Sea. But it quieted down as we got across the Bay, and from St. Vincent to Gata the sea was like a mirror—an absolute flat calm without a ripple showing. Glorious! Then after Gata we ran into fog, which wasn’t so nice. But we got into Marseilles on time.”
“Birkenhead? That’s the Bibby Line, isn’t it?”
“Yes, we went on the Flintshire. Fine boat of 16,000 tons.”
“I’ve heard those boats well spoken of. I envy you, Mr. Pyke. Then from Marseilles?”