The Riviera Connection (12 page)

 

Mannering went out on to the landing. Behind him both men were bound and gagged; helpless. The house was silent. He made his way to Lucille's door and listened, then unlocked the door and went in: Lucille was still sleeping, on her side, face towards him. He put on a light, sat down on the side of the bed and placed his left hand over her mouth.

She started violently; her eyes fluttered open.

“Keep quiet,” he said softly. “Don't move.” His voice was still harsh and rough; back in the past he had cultivated the trick of altering its timbre, so as to make a disguise foolproof.

Lucille lay very still; terrified, her great, tawny eyes turned towards him. He kept his hand on her mouth long enough to make her really frightened, then said: “I shall kill you if you make any noise.”

He took his hand away. Her lips were parted, and her teeth showed, giving some indication of her terror. She made no sound, except for her laboured breathing. He stood up and moved away.

“Get up.”

“Who—”

“Get up!”

She flung the bedclothes back. It reminded him of the way she had climbed out of his bed the first time he had seen her. She had been full of confidence then; now, she was quivering with fright. She wore a pair of pale, peach- coloured pyjamas, high at the neck.

“Get dressed,” he said sharply.

“What—”

“Do as you're told.”

She obeyed him hurriedly; he kept to one side of the room, his back towards her. Had she approached him he would have known. Presently she called to him nervously: “I'm—I'm—ready.”

Mannering turned round. “Can you drive a car?”

“I—yes, yes, of course.”

“You will go along this road till you get to the sea-front, there you will turn right, and under the first lamp post you will find an old Citroen. Here's the key.” He handed it to her. “You will drive the car straight back here. Is that clear?”

“Yes, but—”

“Now, listen.” He had to make sure of her obedience. “If you don't come back with that car, something will happen to Philippe, something that won't be pleasant.”

“I—I will do as you say.”

“Mind you do. And listen again – you may see someone outside. Take no notice of them.”

“Who—”

“Just take no notice.”

He went downstairs with her and opened the front door silently. Lucille slipped through, Mannering closed it again and hurried into a front room. He saw a man, undoubtedly a police watcher, come out from a doorway and stare up the street after Lucille. Evidently the man had been instructed not to go far from his post.

He walked across the road, shining his torch at the front door. In a moment Mannering was back in the hall. He unfastened the door, and let it swing slowly open, keeping well behind it. He heard the man come up the steps and call out: “Is anyone there?”

He entered the hall. As he did so, Mannering caught him a tremendous clip on the back of the head. He pitched forward, hitting the floor with a thud. Mannering was on him in a moment, but he was quite unconscious.

Mannering dragged him into the front room, and locked the door.

He hurried upstairs, collected Lorna's bag and then went to Lorna's room. He hoisted her over his shoulder, fireman fashion, and made his way slowly downstairs. In the hall he propped Lorna on a chair by a small table on which was a telephone. He noted the telephone number, then went to the door to listen. He could hear nothing, so he turned off the light and opened the door; as he did so, a car turned the corner. It might not be the Citroen, Mannering realised; it might be more police.

The car stopped and Lucille got out. She came up the steps. He swung the door wide open, and stood blocking her view of Lorna.

“Go straight up to Philippe,” he said. “You'll find him all right. No lights!” he added, as her hand went towards the switch.

He waited until she had turned the bend in the stairs, then picked Lorna up and carried her out to the car. No one was in sight. He drove round the block and out to the shore road again, where he pulled up by a telephone kiosk. There he telephoned the Hotel Mirage. The answer was prompt enough, but when he asked for Chittering he had a long wait. Then a brisk voice came on the line.

“M'sieu, I regret to inform you that M. Chittering has left. Is that M. Mannering?”

Mannering said heavily: “Yes.” He had been relying on the reporter, needing help desperately.

“He was recalled to his office,” the man said. “It was some big news in London. But your other friend is here, M. Mannering. I have been able to give him the room next to yours.”

Mannering said: “What other friend?”

“Surely you expected, M. Britten?”

Mannering gulped. He had forgotten Dick, who might be better even than Chittering. There was still hope.

“I—yes,” he said. “Yes, I was expecting him.”

Dick hadn't lost any time; was as anxious to find the killer as he. He would probably have news of Tony Bennett, and his wife.

“Would you like to speak to him, m'sieu?”

“Please.”

Britten was soon on the line, eager, even a little edgy.

“John, where are you?”

“Never mind. I—”

“I'm up-to-date, Chittering told me everything before he left. Have you found Lorna?”

“Yes,” said Mannering. “I think she's all right, except for dope. Listen, Dick. Get a taxi, and come to the second scat along the shore road, beyond a turning called the rue de l'Arbre. You can't miss it – it's a couple of turnings past a street with a white house at the corner. Got all that?”

“Yes.”

“Take Lorna away, and if you think she needs a doctor—”

“I'll do what's necessary,” Britten said. “'Bye.”

Mannering hung up, and walked back to the car. He drove into a side street, and waited. He had to make sure no more police arrived before Lorna was safe.

After ten minutes, he drove up to the seat, lifted Lorna out and settled her on it. Then he drove back to the side road, and watched. Other cars came near, on other roads; engines stopped suddenly, voices were carried on the quiet night.

The police were at 27, rue de l'Arbre in strength.

He didn't try to guess how they had discovered the house or why they were there. They'd gone from the heart of the town, not by the sea, or they would have seen him.

Should he take Lorna away before they started searching?

He saw a car; it slowed down, and stopped by the seat. Then in the street light he saw Britten and the driver lift Lorna into the taxi.

When the taxi had turned and disappeared, Mannering drove his car to a public parking place near the Trois Couronnes. Ten minutes later he was on the telephone to Britten.

“How is she, Dick?”

“She'll do. Sleeping off some dope, and I don't think she needs a doctor. But where
are
you, what—?”

“I'm all right,” Mannering said. “I'll be seeing you.” He rang off and hurried to the small hotel. A sleepy night-porter nodded to him. He went up to his room, with a dozen thoughts crowding his mind.

He wouldn't talk to Britten or to anyone yet. He had to get more rest. He could do the wrong thing too easily. Lorna was safe, he was beginning to have hopes that things would go well, and a man he was sure was innocent would be saved from the gallows. Philippe was a danger; the police offered as great a danger. But now he had those jewels and could use them as a bargaining weapon because Lorna was safe. Dick would look after her. Good old Dick! Bless his heart for coming so quickly.

It would be easy to become light-hearted.

Mannering took off his clothes, and flung them over a chair. He began to yawn, and couldn't stop. At last he dropped into bed, turned over and looked towards the window. He pictured Lorna's face. With luck she would hardly remember what had happened. Soon they would be able to laugh together.

Questions came, sharply.
Who
had killed Stella?

Who
had killed Bernard Dale?

Would Flambaud get proof that Mannering had been to the villa on the night of the murder?

He slept.

When he woke up, a gentle breeze was blowing in at the open window, and the cream lace curtains shivered a little in it. Unfamiliar sounds came in at the open window, from the street and the nearby market.

He yawned.

After ten minutes or so, when everything that had happened had come back to his mind, he got out of bed, and pressed a bell-push set in the wall by the fireplace. There was at least a chance that it wouldn't work.

A little maid with a look of the country about her tapped at the door and came in nervously.

Mannering ordered coffee and croissants, then went into the tiny bathroom, where the bath was little more than a tub. But the water ran hot. He couldn't shave and didn't want to until he knew how long it would be before he could safely reappear as Mannering.

The coffee was good and the rolls delicious.

It was half-past eleven when he went to the telephone, and called Britten.

Britten might be out.

He was in, and unexpectedly brusque.

“I've been sitting with my ear glued to the telephone for the past hour,” he growled. “You mustn't come back here.”

Mannering felt tension gripping him again.

“Why not?”

“This policeman Flambaud is on the rampage. He wants to see you again.”

“Any idea why?”

“No, John. Sorry. He does not look upon English solicitors with much favour. I told him you were out,” Britten went on briskly. “As far as I can judge, he doesn't think much of Englishmen anyhow! Lorna's not come round yet, but I didn't get a doctor. Her pulse is better, nothing to worry about.”

“Has Flambaud asked to see her?”

“He's seen her, and he'll worry her with questions as soon as he can. I'm being as difficult as I can with him, one of the reasons why I'm not too popular. Who are you at the moment, by the way? Mannering or this le Brun Chittering told me about?”

“Le Brun.”

“I should stay that way for a bit. Where are you?”

“The Trois Couronnes.” Mannering paused. “Any hope of finding out what Flambaud thinks he's got on me? Has he arrested Philippe Bidot or Lucille Riviere, do you know?”

“I'll find out, if I can. You stay where you are, but give me your telephone number.”

Mannering gave it and rang off, moved across to the window and looked down on the throng of people going towards the market. He hardly noticed them as they walked along with their laden baskets, with their long loaves under their arms, the women brisk and smart, the men casual. He hardly noticed the blaring horns and the snorting motor-cycles and the ringing of the cycle bells. He kept seeing a mind picture of Flambaud.

If Philippe had talked, it would explain a rampaging detective; but would Philippe dare to talk? Wasn't he far more likely to be terrified in case the police discovered what had been in the strong-room? Why had he laughed when Mannering had talked about that? Wasn't Philippe worried about what the police found there?

There was another possibility – that Lucille had cracked under police questioning.

Mannering took out a little notebook, found the telephone number of the house on the rue de l'Arbre, and called it. There was no answer for some time; then a frail voice answered – it might have belonged to an old man or an old woman.

“M. Philippe Bidot, please.”

“He is not here.”

“Then I will speak to Mam'selle Riviere.”

“A moment, please, sir.”

Mannering waited, and the moment proved a long one. Then he heard odd sounds at the other end of the telephone, and Lucille spoke quietly – so subdued that he wondered if it were the girl.

“Mam'selle Lucille Riviere?”

“Yes, m'sieu.'

“You will recall that we met last night,” said Mannering briskly. “You were good enough to fetch my car for me. Will you—”

“You
are the man who took—” she almost screamed.

“Yes, I am the man,” Mannering said. “I shall be at the Cafe d'Or in twenty minutes' time. You know where that is, of course. Meet me there by yourself – without being followed by the police.”

“I could, but—”

“Or I shall call Flambaud and tell him that Philippe was at the villa when Stella was killed,” Mannering said harshly.He rang off.

He couldn't be sure that the threat would bring Lucille. But until he knew more, until he could find the murderer, that danger hovered over Tony Bennett. With Lorna free, Mannering could act—

But he had the stolen jewels; a false move would put him in acute danger.

 

 

The sun gleamed on the gilt umbrellas of the Café d'Or. It was two hundred yards away from the Mirage, a small and exclusive restaurant and cafe. Chairs, tables, mirrors and doorways all had their share of gilt, and every waitress had hair so brightly yellow that it looked as if they had been trying to imitate the sun.

Mannering sat at a small cafe, two doors along, with a glass of beer in front of him.

He saw Lucille some way off, and something of his tension eased.

She wore the lemon-coloured sleeveless dress. It would be easy, watching her, to think only of her figure, her shapely arms, the ease of her graceful movements. Instead, he watched the pavement behind her. He did not think that she was followed, but he waited until she reached the cafe, making sure that no one came and sat nearby.

Lucille looked about her anxiously, and waved a waiter away. She lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply, still glancing swiftly right and left.

Mannering joined her.

She took the cigarette from her lips and looked at him agitatedly.

“What happened last night?” Mannering demanded.

“After—after you had gone, m'sieu?”

“I have some knowledge of what happened while I was there.” The sneer was intended to sting.

“Yes—yes, m'sieu.” She looked at him frankly, but there was fear in her eyes. When she had first come to him she had been brimful of confidence. It had been hard to see her as bad, in the sense of evil; but she had been very sure of herself. Danger to herself and Philippe had changed all that.

“There was a man who said our door was open and he had been knocked senseless in our hall and locked in the dining-room,” Lucille said. “When he came to, he climbed out of the window and fetched more police, who were watching at the back. Still more came. I said you had made me dress and forced me to fetch a car. I didn't know the number and didn't notice the make.”

“And did that satisfy them?”

“Satisfy
them?” She shook her head vigorously. “Not for one moment. It was not long before Flambaud arrived.” She looked out to sea, and Mannering could tell what she thought of Flambaud; he had terrified her. “He would not believe that anyone had broken into the house. I was not until he found the rope tied to the chimney that he believed us.”

“Us?”

“He talked also to Philippe,” Lucille went on. “I had released him. It was—it was a terrible time.”

Mannering said: “I can believe it.” His eyes, narrowed so that she would have less chance to recognise them, were on her all the time. There wasn't a blemish to her skin. “Did you tell them about Mrs. Mannering?”

“No.”

She was scared; so was Philippe.

“Did Philippe describe me to the police?”

“We both said that it was too dark in the room to see you properly.”

“And was Flambaud satisfied then?”

“I would not say that he was satisfied,” said Lucille, “but he could not prove that it was untrue. Finding the rope told him that you—you had come in from the roof. He switched his anger on the men who had been watching the house.” A glimmering of a smile curved her lips. “That was something to hear, m'sieu!”

“Where is Philippe Bidot now?”

“He has gone to the Villa Chalon,” Lucille said. “His uncle and his brother will be there soon.”

After a pause, Mannering said: “What is he to you, Lucille?”

A glow sprang to the tawny coloured eyes.

“We are lovers,” she said, and there was pride in her voice. “We shall soon be married.”

“Do you think he killed Stella Bidot?” he asked abruptly.

“No!”

“Then why are you frightened?”

She said slowly: “Because Philippe was at the Villa Chalon
when
she was murdered. It was Mannering who killed her, but Philippe—” she broke off, biting her lip.

“Who says that it was Mannering?”

She didn't answer.

“Philippe?” Mannering asked abruptly.

“It must have been Mannering!”

“What of his brother, Raoul?” said Mannering, changing the subject abruptly. “Do you know him well?”

“Very well.”

“Are you sure that he has been in England?”

“I am quite sure,” Lucille said. “Yesterday he telephoned from London. Philippe also telephoned to Raoul in London. It is so tragic for Raoul, he—” she closed her eyes. “He was so much in love with Stella.”

“Was she in love with him?”

“When she first came here they were very happy. Then she was not so happy, it was as if she was thinking about her first husband. But it was not until after he died that she—she alarmed Raoul. For the first time he began to fear that she was falling out of love with him.”

“Did he guess why?”

“No,” Lucille said gravely, “no.” She opened her handbag and took out another cigarette, then leaned forward for a light. “Why do you ask all these questions?”

“Remember that I know that Philippe was at the Villa Chalon.” Mannering paused. “Lucille, what would you say if you
knew
that Philippe had killed Stella?”

“Don't say it!” she exclaimed.

“You're beginning to think that he did, aren't you?” Mannering watched her intently, seeing the fear filling her eyes. He was sure that she was in love with Philippe; as sure that she was beginning to think it possible that Philippe had murdered Stella. “Do you know that he is a thief? That he deals in stolen goods, jewels which”— he was going to add—”have blood on them,” thinking of the Gramercys, but she didn't give him a chance to finish.

“Oh,
that,”
she said abruptly, and waved her hands as if it could not matter less. “He takes from fat pigs of men and fat pigs of women – what do they matter? I will tell you something, m'sieu. He takes from those who have too much and gives to those who have too little. He is a good man, but—”

Mannering didn't speak, but his change of expression stopped her. He saw part of the truth, so obvious now that it was hard to believe that he hadn't seen it before.

“Did Philippe plan to
rob
the villa?”

Lucille didn't answer.

“Is that it? Or when he saw a thief there, did he mean to collar the jewels for his precious poor? Come on, let's have the truth.”

“I do not have to—”

“I'll find proof that he was at the villa. You're playing with his life.”

She said slowly, almost proudly: “Yes, m'sieu, you are right. His rich uncle with his paltry gifts to charity, is a thief. At the Villa Chalon there is a hoard of stolen jewels, other stolen valuables,
objets d'art.
There was a great opportunity to get some of these on the night Mannering arrived. It was thought that Mannering might break in seeking some special jewels. Then Philippe—” she broke off.

“Who warned Philippe that Mannering was coming and might break in?” Mannering asked abruptly.

“I do not know.”

“Who was it?”

“I tell you I don't know!”

He found himself believing her, but he would soon find out the answer. He would have to; meanwhile, he could guess.

Who could it have been but Stella? But why should Stella—

Lucille went on: “Philippe was going to steal the jewels – some of which he
knows
are stolen – and Mannering, or an unknown, would have been blamed. It did not go as Philippe planned – Mannering saved the jewels. But Philippe had taken away his wife, and—” she broke off.

“So it didn't work out,” Mannering interrupted, as if talk of Lorna didn't matter. “And now Philippe's at the villa, under suspicion of murder.”

“He did not kill her!”

“I hope that's true,” Mannering said. “When he comes back, tell him to expect a visit from me.”

He stood up, and left her.

No one followed him.

She watched from the table. He walked briskly to the other side of the road and past the Hotel Mirage; nothing had changed there, he saw no police about. He crossed the road again, entered the foyer and went straight to the lift. The liftman who knew him well as Mannering, showed no sign of recognition.

“Fourth floor, please.” Mannering stood on one side, and the lift crawled upwards.

The door of Mannering's room was locked. He tapped, but there was no answer; so Lorna wasn't conscious. He went to the room next door, but there was no answer from Britten. He returned to his own door, took his penknife out of his pocket, opened the picklock blade, and a few seconds later was inside the bedroom, looking down at Lorna.

She was sleeping peacefully, and had lost much of the night's pallor. Someone had brushed her hair and washed her face, so that it was free from lipstick and make-up. She looked so restful, so far from fear, that it was almost hurtful to stand and look down at her.

He heard a sound at the door. It might be Britten, might be the maid. He swung towards the balcony and reached it before the door opened.

He watched—

Britten came in, his fair hair almost white, his face slightly red with sunburn. He wore a light grey linen suit, just right for the weather.

He approached the bed, glanced at Lorna, and said quietly: “Waking up yet, old girl?” Lorna didn't move. “Won't do you any harm to sleep a bit longer,” Britten said to himself, and lit a cigarette. “I wonder how you'll take it, if anything should go wrong with—”

He stopped abruptly.

Mannering heard his voice but didn't see him. Britten's abrupt silence made him realise that he had been seen. He moved forward, grinning – and found himself looking into the muzzle of a gun.

“All right, Dick,” Mannering said in his natural voice.

“What the hell—” began Britten, and then gulped. “Good lord! You put the wind up me.” He gulped, and dropped the gun into his pocket, came forward quickly. “You're asking for trouble. Flambaud—”

“Won't recognise me,” Mannering said.

“I shouldn't take too much for granted.” Britten offered cigarettes, and added with a grin which was more tense than usual: “You'd better have a drink, too, you'll need it.” He turned back to the room, and Mannering followed. “I've just come from the Villa Chalon. As Stella's brother, I was able to get in. Not that I know any of the others well. God! I'd like to strangle the man who—”

Mannering said quietly: “I can guess how you feel. But the only thing we can do for Stella is to avenge her. We can still save Tony.”

“How?” Britten's voice was sharp. “What do you mean? John, you haven't—”

“I haven't proved a thing,” Mannering said, “but it's easy to believe that the same man killed Bernard and Stella. If we can find him, Tony's safe. If we could only find a motive, we'd be nearly home.”

“The man killed Dale, of course, because he caught him at the safe,” said Britten. “But I can't see any reason for killing Stella.”

“Possibly she discovered who Dale's murderer was.”

“How could she, she wasn't even in England at the time?”

Mannering shrugged his shoulders.

“We'd better stop guessing. Who's at the villa now?” he asked.

“The Count and Raoul are back. Philippe's there, too, and Flambaud joined them. If we could really make that trio talk we'd probably get somewhere.” Britten scowled at the blue mirror of the sea. “John, I'm scared. It was bad enough before. But today Philippe threw
your
name into the conversation. He said Flambaud ought to get you, you're the killer.”

Mannering didn't speak.

“I'm pretty sure that one of those three killed Stella,” Britten went on, “and may have killed Bernard, too. But think of the danger. Tony's already condemned, remember, they'll hang him. If they get you too—” he broke off.

“They haven't a chance,” Mannering said, but he felt the cold wind of fear.

After a long pause, Britten said: “Well, you'll beat the odds if anyone can, but don't underrate the risk. Flam- baud's reckoned to be a brilliant detective, and the Count is such a big-wig that Flambaud wants quick results. They'll do their damnedest to switch the thing on to you – Philippe's already had a good try. If Flambaud could put his hands on John Mannering at the moment, take it from me he'd arrest him first and ask the questions afterwards.”

“Probably. You try to keep the police away from Lorna,” Mannering said dryly. He took some things out of his make-up box and put them into his pockets.

“Be careful,” Britten said. “Anything I can do?”

“Just stand by,” said Mannering.

He went down to the street and got into the Renault. Parked in the sun, it was baking hot. He wound down the windows and drove fast, cooling the car down. Soon he was on the way towards the headland, but he didn't go at once to the Villa Chalon. He turned off a narrow road, parked the car, then walked some distance over the rough ground, until he came to a small quarry with heaps of sandy soil in it.

He took out Philippe Bidot's gun, wrapped rag from the car round it to muffle the reports, then fired it twice into a heap of sand. He strolled to the sand and began to sieve it through his fingers, searching for the bullets. When he found them, he took out a magnifying glass and studied the marking on them. Now and again he looked at the ballistics report from Scotland Yard.

This wasn't the gun with which Bernard Dale had been shot.