The Riviera Connection

by John Creasey

  “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?”

  5

  Mannering Advises

  The woman’s eyes burned and her cheeks were flushed; she gripped Mannering’s arm so tightly that her fingers hurt.

  “Will you try to find out?” she repeated hoarsely.

  “I’d like to think about it,” Mannering said quietly. He freed his arm and moved further away, poured her out another drink and mixed one for himself.

  “It’s very hard to believe that if your uncle—”

  “He’s not my uncle, I detest the sight of him!”

  “All right, if your husband’s uncle had these particular stones,” Mannering amended, “he would talk about them so carelessly.”

  “It wasn’t careless. He and Philippe didn’t know I was near. I crept away.”

  “I see. Did Bernard know that this Count who wanted the Gramercys was Raoul’s uncle?”

  “I don’t think so. I didn’t know myself until after I’d left Bernard.”

  Mannering said gently: “Why did you leave Bernard?”

  “Don’t ask me that!” she cried. “Don’t ask me to explain why I was such a fool.” She turned her tortured eyes to Lorna. “He seemed so dull, so prosaic. There was never any excitement, it was all work by day and quiet evenings, the radio, slippers, his pipe – oh, I revolted against it! Raoul was everything Bernard wasn’t. The Riviera fascinated me, I hadn’t been there before. It was a different world.”

  “How long was it before you started to regret it?” asked Mannering gently.

  He ignored the glance which Lorna shot at him; the ‘don’t make it worse for her’ appeal.

  Dale’s ex-wife said: “Not very long. Three or four months. It isn’t that Raoul turned against me, either, as soon as—as Bernard divorced me, we were married. I think he’s still in love with me. It’s just that I—I’m so hopelessly mixed up. Perhaps I’m dreaming that the Count has these jewels. But it’s in my mind, like a constant nightmare. If I don’t find out the truth I think I’ll go mad! I can’t help it!” she cried. “I can’t sleep for thinking about it, I just can’t rest. Raoul will soon know that something’s wrong, and—”

  “Hide it from him,” Mannering broke in sharply. “Unde
rstand? If you want to find out the truth, hide your suspicions from him.”

  “That’s easy to say, but—”

  Mannering took her hands, and held them tightly.

  “Listen to me,” he said very quietly. “If you want me to help, you must hide your suspicions from your husband and his uncle. You must explain your nervousness away, feign illness, do anything you like but don’t let either of them suspect that you think like this.”

  She didn’t speak, but as she looked into his eyes, he thought that she realised what he really meant.

  “I—I’ll try.”

  “You must do it. How long is de Chalon going to stay in London?”

  “Another few days. My husband is coming tomorrow, for two days. They want to see some jewels at Christie’s,” she added hoarsely.

  “I see. How did you get here tonight?” Mannering wanted to know.

  “By taxi. The Count took me to the hotel, and as soon as he’d gone to his room, I came here. I just felt that I had to. I knew I shouldn’t have the courage to see you in the morning. Will you help?”

  “I will if I can find a way,” Mannering promised. “What will happen if the Count discovers that you’re not in your room?”

  “Why should he find out?” Stella Bidot shrugged her shoulders. “I should tell him I went out for a walk, because I couldn’t sleep. He—” her eyes filmed with tears. “I wish I could explain it all clearly. Until—until I began to suspect this, I quite liked him. He’s fond of me, too. Now I hate the very sight of him. Whenever I see him I feel like shouting out about the jewels. It’s almost the same with Raoul. If you can find out, tell me soon. I can’t stand living like this, I just can’t stand it.”

  Mannering said roundly: “I’m going to find out, but I can’t tell you how long it will take. If you let them guess what’s in your mind, I might never be able to do it.” He gripped her hands again. “If they did kill Bernard, they might kill again. Do you understand, Stella? They might kill you.”

  She breathed: “Yes, yes. I understand.”

  Her taxi was still downstairs. Mannering paid it off, walked with her to his garage, and took the Jaguar out again. There was a chance, no matter how remote, that she had been followed.

  He saw no sign of it as he drove her back to the Hotel Grand. He dropped her twenty yards from the entrance, so as not to be seen with her, and watched her go in.

  No one appeared to take any interest in her.

  He drove back swiftly through the dark streets. At the flat, Lorna was in the bedroom, in a dressing-gown.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said lightly.

  “I thought you might go with her,” Lorna said. “What happened?”

  “No further incidents!” Mannering lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at her. “What do you make of the story and the lady?”

  “She won’t stand the strain for a week.”

  “No. It doesn’t give me much time,” Mannering said. “I’d better nip over to Chalon and see what I can find out.” He sounded almost flippant.

  Lorna said: “I suppose there’s no point in saying ‘Must you?’” She hung up her dress. “All right, darling, I know you must. But what do you really think?”

  “That if she’s right she’s in a lot of danger,” Mannering said, “and if she’s wrong she’s probably heading for a mental breakdown. She believes it against her inclinations, against her will. She doesn’t want to believe the Count and her husband or this Philippe are bad. It could be a form of self-deception, of course. Neurosis. Remorse at having deserted Bernard might have put the idea into her mind. Once it got there—” he broke off.

  “We’ll see.”

  “You mean—”

  “I mean,” said Mannering carefully, “that I have suddenly discovered urgent business reasons why I should go to the Riviera! Face it, darling. Bristow couldn’t do a thing about this even if Chalon lived in England. Getting help from the French police on the strength of a hysterical woman’s story is out. But we’ve friends with francs in France!” He stood up, stubbed out the cigarette, and began to undress. “Coming?”

  “Who are you going to tell?” asked Lorna slowly.

  “Chiefly my wife,” said Mannering. “Shall we fly or go by car?”

  “We’ll fly, and hire a car while we’re there,” Lorna said, “the Jaguar will be too noticeable.” She moved across to him; quite suddenly they were in each other’s arms. “But be careful, darling, be desperately careful.”

  He could feel the beating of her heart as she pressed against him.

  Mannering felt more light-hearted, next morning, than he had for weeks. He could laugh at the idea of telling Bristow he was going, but he decided to tell Dick Britten.

  Obviously there was nothing to tell Tony yet, and it would be cruelty itself to suggest to Hilda Bennett that there might after all be cause for hope.

  He rang Britten, at his office, early next morning.

  “Hallo, John,” Britten said briskly. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Dick, I think I’ve a line on the Gramercys. I’m going to try to follow it. Can you stand a shock?”

  Britten didn’t answer.

  “You still there?” Mannering asked sharply.

  “I—I—yes,” Britten said, and there was a harsh note in his voice. “John, find those jewels. Find the swine who killed Bernard. If you can—if you can help Hilda—” he broke off, seemed to swallow his words, and then added with a brittle laugh: “That’s the devil of it! It’s not Tony I’m sorry for, it’s Hilda. Tony’s only thought is for her, too.”

  “Help the one, help the other,” Mannering said tritely. “About Stella—”

  “She doesn’t come into this,” Britten said abruptly.

  “Good lord, no! But her new husband is a dealer on the Riviera, and he has an uncle who possesses – or who might possess – the Gramercy jewels. That’s who I’m going to see. I’m prepared to take a lot of chances to make sure.”

  “Good! But John, I must see you first. I’ll come round—”

  “I haven’t ten minutes to squeeze in,” Mannering said. “I’ve got to make emergency arrangements about French currency, tidy a lot of things up and be generally at pressure.”

  “But I must talk to you about this! The very thought that there might be a chance—”

  “Why don’t you behave more like a solicitor?” Mannering chided. “Be dispassionate, unemotional!”

  Britten said abruptly: “Damn it, you ought to know why.”

  “That’s a much better tone of voice,” Mannering said. “I don’t want Hilda or Tony to know, of course, but I’m telling you because I might get myself into a jam with the French police. If I do, tell Bristow what I’ve done and why, will you?”

  “Yes. John, you know you don’t have to take risks—”

  Britten’s voice trailed off.

  “Of course not,” Mannering said dryly. “What is one more silken rope to me? I’d rather like that Bennett baby to have a father when it grows up, too. Not a word to anyone, but be ready for emergencies. I’ll telephone or wire you as soon as I’ve settled a hotel at Chalon.’

  “Try the Mirage,” Britten said. “There’ll be room at this time of the year. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume that’s where you are.”

  “All right, the Mirage,” Mannering agreed. “There’s another thing. I don’t know anything about French law, but I may want French legal aid. Do you know anything about it?”

  “I’ve some clients with property on the Riviera, and I’m often dealing with lawyers in Nice and Cannes and along the coast,” said Britten. “I’ll put you right. Wouldn’t it be a good idea if I were to come over, too?”

  “Not yet,” Mannering said.

  “I could easily drop things here for
a few days.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Oh, all right,” Britten said.

  Mannering rang off, then called his bank and was told that it was impossible to get a business allowance of francs at such short notice. The manager also promised to try to do the impossible.

  Meanwhile Larraby, Mannering’s cherub-like manager, had obtained tickets for the afternoon plane to Nice. With Larraby and Carmichael, Mannering went into work for the next week; discussed sales which had to be visited, offers which should be made. But he was clear by the time Lorna arrived, with their bags packed, in time to get to London airport.

  The weather was perfect. The flight was so calm that there was hardly a quiver. The channel was a blue mirror. They crossed the deep heart of rural France, and after four hours, were within sight of the Mediterranean. In a little over four, they landed at Nice. It didn’t take them long to find a Renault taxi with a fierce-looking driver.

  He appeared to take the hairpin bends in the beautiful corniche road to Chalon as a personal insult. He wrenched the wheel round, kept a finger on his horn, and tore along at fifty miles an hour when half the speed would have been too fast.

  Lorna clutched Mannering’s arm.

  They caught glimpses of beauty. Below them, the blue of the Mediterranean, clear in the late evening air, the beach fringed with gay umbrellas, the white villas built into the hillside, but there were only glimpses. The stone wall, built to prevent the rock and rubble from falling across the road, was colourful with geraniums and bougainvillea, bright in the evening sun.

  There was little traffic.

  The driver turned a corner, and for a moment slowed down to show them the full magnificence of the sweeping bay, the white fringe against the beach, the hotels, the stately palms. Then he swooped downwards, as if he couldn’t reach the promenade fast enough. When he reached it, there seemed no way in which he could avoid driving into the sea.

  Instead, he pulled up outside a large hotel with a magnificent terrace. It was the Hotel Mirage.

  “M’sieu,” he declared, “zis is ze best ‘otel in all of France!”