The Riviera Connection (2 page)

 

John Mannering lay in bed . . .

He felt lazy and disinclined to stir. He had good reason. His wife sat at the dressing-table, combing her hair. It was long, lovely hair, black and with a sheen which made it beautiful. Here and there were grey strands, but they were lost in the mass of black.

She sat sideways to Mannering.

She wore just a wrap; it covered her creamy shoulders but fell away from her breasts, and she was not disturbed although she knew that Mannering was studying her. The slow, steady movements of her arms and hands fascinated him. So did her face. Her features were smooth and regular; her skin was a little dark, not quite sallow; her smile was almost sultry. There were those, who did not know her well, who called Lorna Mannering aloof.

“Darling,” Mannering said.

“You should be up.”

“Impossible,” said Mannering, and grinned. “You should be here.”

“It's after eight.”

“What makes that a crime?”

“You have to go to a sale.”

“Larraby can go,” said Mannering. “Why should I pay out huge salaries and do the chores myself? Darling, I can't be quite sure, but I think you're the most beautiful woman in the world.”

She stopped brushing, and made a face at him. “Of course if you'd prefer me to
make
sure . . .” he said hopefully.

The telephone bell rang.

They both glanced at it, on the bedside table. Lorna stood up. Mannering watched her, and the telephone rang again. She pulled the wrap round her shoulders and held it together in front. He grinned, turned and stretched out for the telephone.

There was no reason in the world why this should be bad news. The thought did not enter their heads.

“John Mannering here.”

He listened, and frowned. Lorna's expression changed, because of something that happened to him. All sign of laziness had gone. He looked younger, different, somehow sharper. She knew that she was married to two men in one; John Mannering her husband and her lover, and John Mannering whom the world had once known as the Baron, and who at times was still the Baron and all the things that meant.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, I'll come. At once.”

He rang off, and looked at Lorna. The change was complete. His hazel eyes had been laughing at her just now, filled with the gaiety which was part of him; all laughter had gone. Lorna knew what it was like to see an eagle, swooping. He often reminded her of the eagle.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Bernard Dale was shot and killed last night,” Mannering said. “His safe was emptied. His daughter's in hospital, suffering from shock.” He was already at the door. “He was with me yesterday afternoon, probably had the Gramercy jewels in his safe.”

Mannering disappeared, into the bathroom.

His wife turned towards the mirror and looked at her reflection, and saw that she had changed too. The happiness faded from her eyes. Something like fear replaced it.

She had often known fear, because of Mannering.

In their early days, it had been because of the devilry in him; the streak that some had called bad. While police and press and public had screeched hatred for the Baron, that jewel-thief extraordinary, she had come to know that the man she loved was the Baron.

Press and public had gradually changed their tune; began to tolerate, then to admire, finally to turn him into a kind of hero.

Looking into that mirror was like looking at the years as they stood in marshalled array, ready for inspection. First a rich man had been robbed by the Baron; next a dozen poor men were dazed by gifts.

Even now, Lorna could hardly believe how the stories of the Baron had spread; how he had captured the imagination of the millions; how he had managed to appear to them almost as a public benefactor.

All that had changed in time, too.

She had helped to change him. Thanks to her, he had ‘settled' and bought Quinns, his shop – of its kind the most exclusive in the world. But the deep core of daring and courage, some quality which had always been in him, kept rising to the surface. He could have set up a brass plate at Quinns, reading:
John Mannering, Private Detective,
and been assured of more work in a month than he could handle in a year. As it was, he handled few cases, and was only moved to take one by some deep personal motive.

He knew Bernard Dale well.

Occasionally Mannering was consulted by the police; few men knew more about precious stones, especially the old and famous gems. There was even a Superintendent at Scotland Yard, Bill Bristow, who knew that Mannering was the Baron, had never been able to prove it – and whom circumstances sometimes turned into a fellow investigator.

Lorna knew that Mannering wouldn't be thinking about Bristow, now.

He would be seeing the greying hair and the pleasant face of the murdered man.

Lorna went into the kitchen. She put bread into the toaster, made tea, prepared a dish of cereal. Mannering liked a cooked breakfast but wouldn't wait for one that morning, even if Lorna cooked it herself. Their maid was away.

Lorna was quite sure what was in his mind; swift desire, sudden longing, to find the killer.

He came in, freshly shaved, fastening his collar, with his tie draped round his neck.

“Hallo, my sweet! I'm ready for a snack, too.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek as he sat down. “Thanks.”

“Who called you?” asked Lorna.

“Bristow.”

She didn't comment, but poured out tea. He took it, talked a little, mechanically, glanced through the letters which she brought from the front door of their Chelsea flat, but he was not really with her.

When he had gone she stood at the window of the large room on the top floor of this Chelsea house. He crossed the road, on the way to the garage not far off, but didn't turn and wave to her. Usually, he would have. Slowly she went back into the bedroom.

The watching years were heavy upon her.

 

A crowd surged about the house of murder when Mannering pulled up in his cream-coloured Jaguar. It was after nine o'clock, so there were no children. A uniformed policeman stood on duty at a white gate. The house itself was set in a large, well-tended garden, but was hardly a thing of beauty. Its grey walls and severe, late Georgian lines seemed to resent the sun which was shining from a cloudless sky.

Antirrhinums, asters, zinnias, all in a galaxy of colour, glowed in the flower beds; the lawns were trim; the gravel drive was neat. The front door stood open, and another policeman was on duty outside at the foot of the stairs.

As he approached, Mannering caught a glimpse of a man leaning out of an upstairs window.

The policeman on duty recognised him.

“Mr. Bristow's upstairs, sir,” the second man said. “As far up as you can go.”

“Thanks,” said Mannering.

The first people he saw were newspapermen, all hurrying down. They stopped at sight of him, and a dozen questions were fired, all meaning the same thing. They were amiable and friendly, and three hurried on. The fourth stayed on the second landing with Mannering. He was a short, curly-haired man with a face like a cherub, whose name was Chittering, who knew a great deal about Mannering and suspected much about the Baron. He had a pair of the most innocent-looking blue eyes in the world, and there was no one whom Mannering would more readily trust.

“Officially consulted, John?”

“Yes.”

“One thing about the old B, he doesn't let the grass grow under his feet,” said Chittering. “Mind if I mention you?”

“I don't see why you shouldn't.”

“Thanks. When did you see Dale last?”

Mannering's grin was taut. “I can't see any grass growing under your feet, either. Yesterday afternoon. Wait downstairs for ten minutes, and if Bristow doesn't object I'll give you a headline the others won't have.”

“On your best behaviour, are you,” Chittering murmured. “I wonder how long you'll be prepared to wait for Bristow's approval before doing what you want to do.” He grinned. “Hurry, John!”

Mannering went up the last flight of carpeted stairs three at a time.

Another uniformed constable stood at the open door of the flat. Several men were inside. Mannering saw them busy, with tape measures, fingerprint powder, all the routine of an investigation. If you were a policeman, you had to work by rule of thumb, and it often got quick results. Sometimes it took too long.

Two plain-clothes men nodded at him, no one else took any notice.

He reached the door of the room where the safe had been opened.

Bristow was bending over the safe, a man dressed in a light grey suit, very spruce, with grey hair brushed well back from a centre parting, his small, trimmed moustache stained yellow with nicotine. A cigarette drooped from his well-shaped lips. His grey eyes had an eager brightness; he was in the middle fifties but looked little more than forty.

He glanced round.

“Oh, you've arrived,” he said, without enthusiasm, which meant that he was preoccupied; having sent for Mannering he wouldn't mean to be offhand. “Won't be a minute.” He drew at the cigarette and it glowed very red. “I don't know what to say,” he said to the large, bulky man dressed in brown who stood by him. “Forget it for the time being.” He took the cigarette from his lips, then looked at Mannering, with his brows drawn together; a deep groove formed between them.

Beneath Bristow the detective was Bristow the man.

“Thanks for coming so quickly, John. We've moved the body. Have a look at these, will you?”

He turned from the safe towards a small table near the window. The sun shone through, here, and seemed to light a silvery fire at one side of the table. There was a little heap of diamonds, cut and polished but not set. Mannering saw these before he noticed anything else on the table, but there were various oddments including several legal documents, bank books, a small bundle of five pound notes, and some keys.

He did not touch the diamonds, but peered at them grimly. They were a fair size, and nicely cut, but there was nothing remarkable about them. Sold on the right market, they should fetch something like a thousand pounds each.

He took a pair of callipers from the pocket of his brown suit, and picked up a diamond, took it closer to the window, turned it this way and that, and fire seemed to strike from it as it caught the rays of the sun.

“Don't tell me that's a fake,” Bristow said.

“It's no more a fake than you are,” Mannering retorted, and gave the taut grin again. “Are you? These are new or recently cut and polished stones. If you really mean ‘could they be big, stolen stuff cut down for resale?' the answer is yes – except for one thing.”

“What's that?”

“They were found here.”

“Hmm,” said Bristow, and stretched out his hand for the callipers, picked up a diamond with them, and examined it in much the same way that Mannering had. “Not a hope of identifying them, anyhow. Are you particularly busy?”

“No.”

“Have a look round first, and then we'll have a chat,” Bristow said. “I'll want an inventory as soon as I can get it.”

“Have you sent for his partner?” Mannering asked.

“Bennett? Yes, he shouldn't be long,” Bristow said.

“Any objection to the Press knowing that Dale saw me yesterday afternoon, and took the Gramercy jewels away with him?” asked Mannering.

Bristow's eyes suddenly became frosty.

“Did
he?”

“Yes.”

“What are they worth?”

“Forty thousand pounds.”

Bristow said, very softly: “How often did he deal in big stuff like that?”

“Whenever he had a buyer.”

“How did he pay?”

“Cheque against delivery. I put it through his bank just before three yesterday.”

“Who was he going to sell the stuff to?” Bristow asked.

“It was the one thing he didn't tell me,” Mannering answered.

“Oh, was it.” Bristow's eyes were half-closed. He stared at Mannering as if trying to make up his mind what to say next. He didn't smile when at last he broke the long silence. “Listen, John, no tricks. If you know who he expected to sell these to, tell me.”

“He didn't say.”

“And you didn't ask?”

“There's etiquette even in my business,” Mannering said mildly.

“You'll have to teach me,” Bristow growled. His eyes were wide open, now, and his gaze very direct; almost hostile. “Don't go off on a lone wolf act. I didn't know Dale had been to see you yesterday. I just wanted a quick opinion on those diamonds and anything else we may find here.”

Mannering said: “I'll help where I can. What about this story for the Press?”

Bristow relaxed.

“You can go and unburden yourself to your friend Chittering,” he said.

Mannering found Chittering in the hall talking to a youngish woman with a pale but startlingly attractive face, dark eyes, black hair which looked as if it had resented the brush and comb that morning. Her fine, dark eyes were slightly bloodshot, and she looked tired out.

“I just can't tell you any more,” she was saying. “Betty's at the hospital. I didn't want her to go, but the doctor insisted. She doesn't remember a thing – it's the shock, he says.”

“You've been very good,” Chittering said. “Hallo, John. This is Mrs. Gorlay, Bernard Dale's neighbour from the flat below.”

There were murmured courtesies, then Mrs. Gorlay went up to her flat; she had easy grace of movement and a figure which drew Chittering's gaze.

But Chittering was first and last a newspaperman.

“Any luck?”

“I sold the Gramercy jewels – diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and rubies – to Dale yesterday afternoon,” Mannering said. “Their value, over the counter was at least forty thousand pounds. You could say that Dale bought them for a mysterious and unnamed collector who wanted them urgently, and who is going to be disappointed.”