The Riviera Connection (4 page)

 

They met in Wandsworth Gaol, the following morning. Tony was already in the condemned cell. He wasn't dressed in prison garb. He didn't look ill – pale, perhaps, and thoughtful, but neither ill nor worried. His handshake was firm.

“Very good of you to come, John.” They knew each other fairly well as fellow dealers. Tony and his murdered partner had called at Quinns once or twice most weeks. “I know you've been trying to work this thing out, but . . .” he gave a curious little laugh. “It's so silly. I didn't kill Bernard, you know. I can hardly believe that anyone in their right senses can think that I did. Silly is the word. Or – unreal.” There was a moment's pause, and then it seemed as if a glimmering of the real truth, of the coming horror, appeared before those blue eyes.

He gripped Mannering's hand fiercely.

“I can't believe they'll hang me!”

Mannering said very quietly: “Not if I can stop them, Tony. Now, listen. We
must
find out who Bernard bought those Gramercy jewels for.”

“But I don't know!” cried Tony. “He didn't tell me everything – you know that. I was just the junior partner. He did a lot of work privately – secretly. Some of the biggest jobs went through without me knowing a thing about them until I saw the entries in the books. Even then, names weren't always mentioned.
You
should know how it is in the trade.”

“I know,” Mannering said.

He had felt a fierce surge, less of hope than of determination to find that missing proof. The surge died before this further proof of Tony's obvious ignorance.

“Of course, after Stella left, Bernard wasn't really himself, was he?”

“No. He was absolutely devoted to her. John, I can't believe any of it, you know. I don't just mean about the hanging.” He moistened his lips. “I mean about Bernard. It's hard to believe he's dead. He was such a wonderful chap. I remember he came back from Chalon, after trying to get Stella to return to him. He talked to Hilda and me about it. I can almost see his face. He said: ‘The trouble is, the fellow she's gone off with seems such a damned nice chap.' I mean, can you imagine anyone talking like that?”

“No,” said Mannering. “No, I can't. Wasn't it—isn't it—a little-known dealer on the Riviera, named Bidot?”

“That's right. Raoul Bidot.”

“He might be worth seeing,” Mannering said.

That was less because he felt hopeful than because he had to give some slender hope.

 

 

Mannering told no one except Lorna that he was going to the Riviera. He was talking to Raoul and Stella Bidot at a hotel in Chalon, a Riviera resort, late the following evening.

He soon felt that it was a wasted journey. Bernard's ex-wife did not seem happy, but Raoul Bidot was a gay, smiling, handsome man with an air which would be likely to attract any woman.

Mannering felt, as Bernard Dale had, that Bidot was a ‘damned nice chap.' But what about Stella? Now that her first husband was dead, did she regret having caused him so much misery? It was difficult to be sure, but there was no doubt about her beauty.

Mannering flew back, still rejecting what seemed to be inevitable. But the day of the execution drew nearer.

He had never felt worse about a case; or felt that he had not really started on it. From the beginning it had been one damnable dead-end. Inwardly he was convinced that the police were going to hang an innocent man.

He discovered that Bristow and the Watford police were still making inquiries, that the dealer who was said to have called Tony to Watford was still being watched. So the police weren't really satisfied.

After a while, Mannering felt as Dick Britten had done – he must shake it out of his system.

Ten days before the date of the execution, he took Lorna out for the evening. His gaiety was brittle. Lorna knew why, and did everything she could to help. But the evening had hardly warmed up before he seemed to forget that he was dancing with her.

“Darling,” Lorna Mannering said.

“Yes, my sweet?”

“You're dancing with me.”

“Oh, so I am,” said Mannering. He moved his head forward and brushed her cheek with his lips. “The belle of the ball, or the despair of all debutantes!”

They were waltzing. It was not a ball but a night club which had become respectable and yet retained most of its patrons. In fact it was a pleasant place, where the food was good and the wine excellent and the service superb. Once a month, or even less frequently, the Mannerings came here. It was in Mayfair, where they could be sure of seeing someone they knew, and the purpose was to make Mannering forget a certain condemned cell.

“Who is she?” asked Lorna.

“Who?”

“The jezebel you're looking at whenever you can sneak a glance.”

“Just a hag,” Mannering said. “Whenever I really see you properly, I marvel that I ever look at another woman.” He tightened his hold on her hand, and they laughed as they whirled about. He was very tense, all the same.

The dance stopped.

At their table, in a corner, Mannering lit a cigarette and murmured: “Tall, red-haired, green-eyed, with the gilt dress.”Lorna looked about the room, at thirty or forty beautifully dressed women, their men in black and white. She saw the only red-haired woman there.

“I
see,”
she said. “I suppose I shouldn't complain, provided you continue to have such taste. She's really lovely.”

“Thus speaks the artist in you,” Mannering said. “Before long you'll be asking me to introduce you, so that you can suggest that she comes to Chelsea to sit for you. You'd do her justice, too.”

“Darling,” Lorna said, “is it my imagination, or do you lack a certain enthusiasm for her?”

“It's not your imagination.”

“Who is she?”

Mannering hesitated.

Lorna saw something in his expression which she hadn't seen for two months or more, and would be quite happy if she didn't see for years. The last time, it had been when he had learned of Bernard Dale's murder; the same change came over his face, the familiar curiously brilliant look in his eyes, the eagle sharpness, were all there.

“Bernard Dale's ex-wife,” he said. “Stella Bidot.”

“No!”

“Without her French husband,” Mannering murmured.

Lorna didn't speak.

“But with an elderly gentleman who hugs her tightly as if he dare not let her go,” said Mannering. “Poor Bernard!”

Stella seemed to evade his eyes.

For Lorna, the evening had been ruined. Yet when the band struck up a quick-step, Mannering forced a grin, and asked: “Care to dance?”They danced, but it wasn't the same.

An hour later, Mannering opened the door of the cream-coloured Jaguar for Lorna, shut her in, then took the wheel. As he drove off, a couple appeared at the lighted doorway of the club, and he recognised Stella Bidot, once Dale, and her elderly escort. Lorna saw his lips tighten; they said little on the way to Chelsea. The evening had heightened, not eased the tension. They garaged the car and walked the hundred yards to the flat, in Green Street, near London's river. The stars were out, but it was late and there was little noise. That came from traffic on the roads somewhere far off.

Mannering opened the flat door and Lorna entered the spacious, carpeted lounge-hall. The other rooms led off this, and from one end of the hall a loft-ladder led up to the studio, where she spent much of her time.

“Nightcap?” asked Mannering.

“I think I'll have tea.”

“In bed?”

“No, thanks,” said Lorna.

She took off her wrap and put on slippers, then brought Mannering's from the bedroom to the study. This was a small room, with each piece of furniture old and valuable – and here only because Mannering liked it. Against one wall was an old oak settle, which deceived every visitor, for in fact it had been transformed into a modern, electrically operated safe.

Whenever Mannering kept jewels at the flat, he kept them there.

He brought in tea.

“Funny we should see the ex-Mrs. Dale,” he said, and proved that the Dale murder was right on top of his mind. “There was a rumour that the Gramercy rubies had turned up a few days ago. Bristow asked me to have a look at them.”

“And they weren't?”

“No. Slightly different dimensions and weights, but they were remarkably like them. I—”

The front door bell rang.

Mannering paused in pouring out tea. Lorna looked round. Mannering put the teapot down, carefully, and moved towards the door.

“Odd,” he said.

“It's been so peaceful lately,” Lorna said, almost sadly. “I knew it couldn't last.”

The bell rang again.

Mannering left the study door open, so that Lorna could see across the hall. He heard nothing as he turned the handle and opened the door. He was cautious, possessed an instinct nothing ever really killed. He kept his foot against the door, and could have slammed it in the face of the caller at the slightest threat.

A woman stood there.

He didn't speak, and that puzzled Lorna, for it told her how much he was surprised.

“Good—good evening,” the woman said.

“Good evening,” said Mannering at last, and stood aside. “Please come in.”

A call from anyone would have surprised him at nearly one o'clock in the morning; a call from the ex-Mrs. Dale startled and puzzled him very much. But when he ushered her into the study, where Lorna was standing, he was poised again.

“Darling,” he said, “I don't think you know Mrs. Bidot.”

There was a strange tension in the room. The women were antagonistic, from the first instant. There was no doubt of Stella Bidot's loveliness, and her hair had a sheen which made it superbly beautiful. She was young, too; hardly more than thirty. Over the golden coloured dress she wore a black cape; over her head, a filmy scarf. She looked from one to the other, as if she didn't know what to say – as if she expected to find them hostile.

“Will you have a drink?” Mannering asked. “Or even tea?” He smiled.

She glanced down at the tea tray.

“No. No, thanks. I—Mr. Mannering, you
were
a friend of Bernard's, weren't you?” The words burst out, and she put a hand forward, as if in desperate appeal.

As if she didn't know.

“Yes.”

“And—and when you came to France you did say that the police consulted you just after the murder, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Mannering said again.

“Didn't you find
any
clue?”

Mannering said: “No. Does that really matter to you?” There was cruelty in the question. It hurt. He meant it to, not because she had antagonised him, but because he wanted to break down her tension, to find out quickly what had brought her.

“It matters a lot,” she said, quite steadily. She paused, and sat down slowly. “I should never have left him. I blame myself for what happened afterwards.” She stared at Mannering, seemed to forget that Lorna was there. “If I'd been there with him, then—”

“I shouldn't let yourself think that way,” Mannering said, more gently. “It never helps to wonder what would have happened if you'd done this instead of that.” He turned to the cocktail cabinet which was really a Jacobean court-cupboard, and poured her out a whisky-and-soda.

She took it without protest or comment, and sipped.

“Do you want to find the murderer?” she asked abruptly.

Mannering didn't speak.

“I think . . .” began the ex-Mrs. Dale, and then swallowed the rest of her drink. “Oh, I may be crazy but I think I know who it was!”

Mannering said, very softly: “Just guessing, Stella?”

It surprised Lorna that he knew her well enough to use her Christian name; perhaps he used it now, just to try to ease that tension.

“Yes,” Stella said, and caught her breath. “Yes, I'm just guessing.” There was a wild look in her eyes. “Do you know the man I was with tonight?”

“No.”

“He is the Count de Chalon,” said Stella Bidot and caught her breath again. “An uncle of my—my present husband. You met Raoul. He's in Paris, his uncle had some business to do in London. I came to see my daughter, who is staying with Bernard's people. They've been very kind.” The last words seemed to hurt her.

“People are,” Mannering murmured. He didn't prompt her again, and Lorna poured out more tea, as if determined not to be affected by anyone's emotion.

“I think . . .” the woman began, and stopped. She fumbled with her handbag; Mannering thrust his open cigarette-case in front of her. “Thank you.” She took a cigarette and then a light, and drew fiercely. “I'm only guessing, but I've got to tell someone! I believe Raoul's uncle has the Gramercy jewels!” Her eyes blazed suddenly, and colour burned in her cheeks.
“Do you see what I mean?”
she cried.

Mannering said: “Yes, I think I do.” His voice was very gentle. “What makes you think he has them?”

“I heard him talking to Raoul's brother, Philippe. It was after you'd been to see Raoul and me. They seemed to think you might suspect that they had the Gramercys.”

She looked distracted; as if she were suddenly assailed with doubts about the wisdom of talking. But she talked.

“Raoul's uncle, the Count de Chalon, has a big collection, and Raoul is a dealer. That's how we met. Two years ago, Raoul wanted some stones from Bernard. He said that they were for his principal. Bernard took me to the Riviera for a few days for a holiday while he did the business. That's when—that's when things went wrong between us.” She caught her breath again, looked as if she were in torment. “I knew that Bernard was on the look-out for the Gramercy jewels at that time. He'd met the Count. The Count mentioned that he wanted them. You know—you know how a casual thing like that is said in the trade, don't you?”

Mannering said: “Yes, of course.”

“I think Bernard bought them for him,” the woman said in a choky voice, “but I can't be sure. I—I can't make up my mind what to think. Could Raoul have known anything about—about the killing? He—”

She broke off.

“Tell us everything, Stella,” Mannering said, prompting her for the first time.

She bit her lips.

“I—I don't know whether I ought to say all this, I hardly know what I'm doing. Raoul was in England at the time of the murder. He'd left Chalon two days before, said that he had some urgent business to attend in Paris. He came back two days afterwards. I didn't think anything about it then, because he often went to Paris. But I found a London hotel bill in his pocket for those days! I was pressing his suit.” She held the heel of her thumb tightly against her head. “I just don't know what I'm saying. I'm haunted by the thought that Raoul might have—might have done this. How can I—how can I go on living with him, if—”

She broke off.

“Why did you come here tonight?” Lorna asked in a brisk practical voice.

That was the tone that the other woman needed. She straightened up, looked into Lorna's eyes, and spoke more steadily.

“I've thought of going to the police – I had to do something. Then I recognised your husband at the nightclub. I was feeling dreadful. If I were right, then the man I was dancing with has the jewels that Bernard was killed for. Can't you see what a dreadful position it is? I can't
rest
—” she broke off, and closed her eyes. Then: “I'm sorry. I'm not often as bad as this. When I saw you, Mr. Mannering, I decided to ask for your help. I thought if you knew all this, you might think of a way of finding out the truth.” She glanced at Lorna, as if she realised that Lorna's answer meant as much as Mannering's. “Will you try? Will you?”