by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
The Riviera Connection
First published in 1953
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1953-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Creaseyto be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
0755130162 9780755130160 Print
0755133986 9780755133987 Mobi
0755134389 9780755134380 Epub
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.
Creasy wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the British Crime Writers' Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.
1
The Murder
The man at the safe worked swiftly but without haste. His hands, the fingers tipped with adhesive plaster, manipulated the tools deftly, easily. It was an old safe. It would have been quicker to blow it, but that would have roused everyone in the flat and most people in the building.
The burglar worked on . . .
Light from a torch with a large broad beam shone on the black safe and the gilt lettering on it. The shadows of the man’s fingers showed against it sometimes; or the exaggerated shape of a tool. The burglar made little noise.
A clock struck. One . . . two . . . three.
The man paused and stood up, looking at his hands. The palms were creased with sweat; the plaster at the tips of the fingers was dirty. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead, then walked across the room towards the window.
This flat was high up, on the third floor of the building – an old house on the outskirts of London, converted into three flats. The dark shape of a car showed just inside the gateway; so did the lawns and the flower beds.
Everywhere was quiet.
The man took out a hip flask, unscrewed the cap, and swallowed; swallowed again, and screwed the cap on firmly.
He took out cigarettes, lit one from a lighter, and then went back to the safe. As he bent down on one knee, the shadows of his hands appeared.
Metal scraped on metal; the dexterous twists of his fingers grew more rapid. The cigarette burned down and ash curled and then fell to the floor. Sweat beaded the man’s forehead.
There was a sharp click at the lock of the safe.
He exclaimed aloud, in satisfaction; his eyes glowed.
He turned the handle and pulled; the door began to open.
He had worn a scarf over his nose and mouth at first, but that had dropped round his neck. He didn’t pull it up, even now that he had finished smoking. He opened the door wide, and looked inside.
There were several jewel-cases, some wads of pound notes, bundles of papers, oddments. He took the notes and stuffed them into his pocket, then took out one of the cases and opened it.
The light seemed to increase tenfold; brilliance leapt into the room, fiery darts shooting out from the diamonds which lay against black velvet.
The man’s eyes were aglow with excitement. He knelt there, staring as if the diamonds numbed him. The scintillating beauty blinded him to everything else until, suddenly, he closed the case – and it snapped.
He looked round at the door; the snap of the case had been too loud. But he did not need to worry. There was only the man and his daughter in the flat, and there was the whole width of the hall between the bedrooms and this room.
Only a fool would keep jewels like this in his own flat and in a safe made fifty years ago. Dealers were fools.
The burglar was grinning; nervous tension gripped him.
He opened four more cases; there were rubies, emeralds and sapphires, but no more diamonds. He did not linger over the other stones, but slipped each case into a pocket; all his pockets bulged.
He began to collect the tools and stuff them into a canvas roll, lying unrolled on the floor in front of him.
The clock struck the half-hour as he picked up the roll and began to fasten it round his waist.
The door opened.
In that swift, bewildering moment, light flooded the room, shone on to the burglar’s face, showing every feature clearly – good features in a pale, startled face. In the doorway stood a man, wearing pyjamas, carrying a poker.
The tool-kit dropped to the floor.
“That’s stopped your little game,” the newcomer said. His voice was hoarse, his hair dishevelled; his grey eyes looked very bright. “Stand up!”
The burglar stood up by the side of the open safe, his foot touching the tool-kit. The other man moved forward, raising the poker.
“Turn round, and—”
The burglar dropped his right hand to his pocket, and snatched out a gun. Some jewels fell as he did so. The man in the doorway leapt forward with poker raised. The gun roared twice. Bullets tore into the chest of the man with the poker. A foot away from the burglar, he stopped, reared upwards, and clutched at his chest. He made funny little sounds deep in his throat. Blood appeared between his fingers.
He pitched forward.
The burglar moved back, to avoid his victim’s body. He thrust the gun into his pocket, snatched up the kit, and peered round. He ignored the small jewels on the floor. His eyes looked different, his manner was different; there was fear in him. He saw nothing that he’d dropped, and tried to think. Now, he’d tidied everything up. He could—
A girl screamed.
The sound tore through the burglar’s body much as the bullets had torn through flesh and bone. His heart gave a wild leap.
The girl was in the hall. Obviously she
had just crept there from her bedroom. She was small, and very young; twelve, he knew. She had long fair hair and wore green pyjamas which were too small for her. Her enormous eyes looked like pools of blue flame.
She screamed again.
The man snatched at his gun, but fumbled. His movement, perhaps his expression, galvanised the child into action. She sprang towards another door – the door of the flat which led to the staircase – and disappeared.
The man leapt forward, but kicked against the outstretched hand of the man he had shot. He tripped. He was frightened and had lost his nerve. He banged against the room door, and hurt his knee and his hand.
Another door slammed.
The man rushed forward, swearing viciously. The landing door was closed. He hurried forward and opened it, and heard the girl running down the stairs and screaming: “Help! Help! Help!” The man thought he heard another sound, of a male voice. He stopped, swung back into the room, and closed and locked the door. Then he went to the window out of which he had looked at three o’clock. Nothing had changed; the dark shape of the car, of the lawns and flower beds, all were there.
He flung open the window, and began to climb out. There was a rope, hanging down, and nearby were drainpipes and window sills. He went down, holding on to the rope, which he had fastened on to a drain-pipe earlier, to meet such an emergency as this. He held on to the rope with both hands, and kept his feet against the wall.
Half-way down, a light flashed on from a window near him.
It fell on to his face, and there was nothing he could do about it. He actually saw into a room. A man was getting out of bed, naked except for a pair of pyjama trousers. A woman, her dark hair tousled, was leaning up on one elbow. Her mouth was open.
The man went out of the room.
“Fred!” the woman cried.
The burglar did not think she had seen him. He went on down as swiftly as he could, and reached the ground. He stood quite still for a moment, fighting for breath.
Lights appeared at other windows.
The burglar took out his gun and held it tightly as he went towards the little car, which was pointing towards the road. He made no sound as he got in, and didn’t close the door properly; it needed slamming. He started the engine. Then he thought he heard a shot, but couldn’t be sure. He eased off the brake, the car nosed towards the road. Once on it, he trod on the accelerator, and swung towards the right, the main road, and London; the easiest city in the world to get lost in. The engine roared. He didn’t look out or upwards, or he would have seen faces at the windows of the flats.
Inside, the man wearing pyjama trousers was on the second floor landing, with a neighbour from the bottom floor, and the girl. She had stopped screaming, but was shivering uncontrollably. The men couldn’t get a word out of her.
The tousled woman reached the landing, took the girl in her arms, and said: “Betty, don’t worry, tell me what it is.”
The girl shivered and shook, and there was horror in her eyes. She did not attempt to speak.
“I don’t like this,” one of the men said.
“Go and find out!” screeched the woman. “Go on, Fred!”
The two men, one with a dressing-gown on, started upstairs. On the top landing was the closed door, and nothing to guide them. They put their shoulders to the door, and it creaked; at the third attempt, it swung open.
Lights were on, and the shot man lay crumpled up on the floor, lying in his own blood.
“Look . . . at that,” Fred said huskily.
“He looks—”
“Better dial 999,” said Fred, hitching up his pyjama trousers. “I’ll see if I can do anything for him.”
He went towards the fallen man, and knelt beside him. He touched the outflung arm and hand, but it wasn’t necessary to move the victim. Death spoke silently. He heard the ting of the telephone bell, and the dialling sound, and then his neighbour giving the address – Old Manor, Rickham, Surrey. The bell tinged again. The neighbour turned towards him.
“They’re coming. Is there—” he broke off.
“Not a hope,” muttered the man named Fred. “Must have been instantaneous. Ghastly business. Ghastly for that kid downstairs.”
Downstairs, Betty was still shivering, although now she lay in the neighbour’s bed, with clothes piled on her. The distracted woman with tousled hair tried to make her talk, tried to drive horror away.
2
John Mannering
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 tu
ne; 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.
