by John Creasey
His smile flashed, his teeth gleamed.
Mannering said very softly: “Yes, we agree about that, too. Don’t go too far, I can get vicious.”
“But my friend, I have the gun! You know,” went on the Frenchman, changing his tone and becoming almost conspiratorial, “I can see much in you that is in me. You snap your fingers at the law – they are fools, you say. I shall break into a house to prove them wrong. A very fine attitude. Who is to blame you for choosing the wrong house at the wrong time? But let me return to your natural generosity, m’sieu. Those people who are in need, the hungry and the sick who get no help from la belle France – do they deserve their misery, m’sieu?”
Mannering didn’t speak.
“Somehow I do not think you would condemn them, like so many others, as hopeless fools, the cattle or the fodder for clever men like you and me. They need help, M. Mannering. I can tell you something about that. My good uncle, M. le Comte de Chalon, is a great collector of precious stones. He is also a great benefactor to the poor.”
“Indeed,” Mannering said heavily.
“I will tell you something more. In this part of the world, this beautiful coast line, there are thousands of fat pigs guzzling their expensive food, gloating over their jewels, squandering their money at Monte Carlo and the other casinos. All that is true, m’sieu. They come from all parts of the world, as well as from France. But there are millions in need. My uncle helps these. If he sometimes has jewels which do not belong to him—” Philippe shrugged. “Is it so great a crime? He needs them to sell for the poor, m’sieu.”
Mannering didn’t speak.
“And for his good work he wants all the jewels you stole. In return for them, you shall have your wife back. To make sure you do not go to the police, we point out that we can prove you robbed the villa, and you will be able to prove nothing. The jewels, m’sieu. I want them, now.”
“When my wife—” began Mannering, and stopped.
Philippe stood quite still, his eyes very bright; there was a different tone in his voice. Something in him changed, too; for the first time Mannering was able to believe that this man could be deadly. The pleasantness, the flippancy and the courtesy were all part of him, but underneath there was a different man – a dangerous man.
“I make the terms, Mannering. Remember this: you sold the Gramercy jewels to Dale,” he said, “and cleared the cheque at once. Early next morning an expert safe-breaker stole those jewels from Dale, and killed Dale. Suppose I tell the police that you came to me yesterday and offered to sell me the Gramercy and other doubtful jewels, but I refused because I recognised them as stolen property.”
“No one would believe you,” said Mannering, but his heart was thumping.
“No? Where were you on the night of the murder?”
“At home with my wife.”
“Not a good alibi, m’sieu. And when you are found with the stolen jewels in your possession, and the Gramercys – I don’t know what you’ve done with them, but they can’t be far away – are traced to you . . .”
Mannering took out cigarettes, lit one, and let the smoke drift towards the balcony. He said softly: “Has it ever occurred to you, Philippe, how easy it would be for me to break your neck?”
Philippe said sharply: “We will be serious.”
“I’m quite serious. Dale was murdered for the Gramercys. I’m going to get his murderer.”
“He is about to die, he has been tried, found guilty, and—”
“A little mistake,” Mannering said softly. “You’ve made one, too—” He moved suddenly, swiftly, and Philippe backed away, but didn’t shoot. Mannering had an odd conviction that he did not mean to use the gun. Mannering pushed it aside, and cracked a blow on the Frenchman’s chin. Philippe fell backwards against the wall – holding the gun, not shooting.
“My wife,” said Mannering, “where is she?”
Philippe stood up, rubbing his jaw. His eyes were cold. “You go too far, Mannering.”
“If my wife isn’t returned, quickly, I shall go to the police, and—”
“I do not think you will,” Philippe said. “Your wife has not been hurt – yet. She will remain as our guest hostage to your good behaviour.” He glanced down at the pistol, then slipped it back into his pocket. “We are nice people, Mannering, and we enjoy life, but . . . we can be cruel. Sometimes it is necessary to be cruel. We should not wish to hurt your wife. We simply want the jewels back, and a way of ensuring your silence. Shall we give ourselves a little time to think?”
He smiled, and his teeth were brilliant white against his swarthy skin.
He turned round slowly, opened the door, and went out.
10
Lucille
Mannering stepped out on to the balcony.
He looked down at the terrace, which was almost deserted, but Lucille sat at a table not far from the orchestra platform. The sun caught her yellow dress and the absurd little hat, and turned her hair to gleaming brilliance. She was sipping an aperitif. A waiter stood near, looking at her, as if her charms affected him.
She looked up, then stood up.
Philippe appeared. Mannering could not see his face, but saw his gesture. The girl smiled. They both sat down, and the waiter approached, then went off quickly. Philippe leaned forward; his dark head hid Lucille’s face but not her glorious hair.
The waiter came up again, with a glass.
Lucille looked grave.
Mannering turned and went into the bedroom. It seemed desolate. He lit another cigarette, frowning. Emotions warred in him; fresh fears for Lorna, anxiety for Tony, who was within a few days of the gallows. Up there in the light-fitting were the Gramercys; if he gave them to the police, told them where he had found them—
He was losing his wit. No one would believe him; he had to find proof that Tony wasn’t the murderer. Possession of the jewels, and the knowledge that they’d been at the Villa Chalon, would help. But with Lorna in danger, he was hamstrung.
There was the house in rue de l’Arbre, but he would have to go there after dark. At least Philippe could not suspect that he knew the house.
Could he?
Was Lorna still there?
He ought to disguise himself and keep watch. He needed a helper badly.
He took out Lorna’s letter and read it again.
She had not seen Philippe take out the gun, or seen his expression or heard his voice when he had said: “Sometimes it is necessary to be cruel. We should not like to hurt your wife.”
Lorna knew only the smiling side.
There was another angle; did the police yet know anything?
The police of Chalon, Nice and Cannes – in fact along the whole length of the Riviera, might soon be hunting for a thief. Philippe and the others might not be able to keep the robbery secret.
Mannering felt suffocated.
He went out, thinking of Philippe. He might be Raoul Bidot’s brother, but that wasn’t certain. The only certainties were that the jewels had been at the villa, Philippe wanted them, and had kidnapped Lorna.
There was another certainty: he dare not go to the police, had to handle this by himself. He couldn’t wait for darkness and a visit to 27, rue de l’Arbre.
He went out.
Half a dozen more people were on the terrace, now, and Lucille was alone at the table where he had seen her. He showed no sign that he recognised her, but walked out, and crossed to the promenade. The little Citroen was in sight, one of dozens of parked cars, now. The Renault was also in sight. He wanted to get the Citroen away as soon as he could, and dump the jewel cases and the silver.
A slight wind was rustling the fringes of the gay umbrellas. The haze had gone. The headland showed up, vivid green, and the villas showed clearly, too; he picked out Villa Chalon.
He t
urned right, away from the town. A few people sat watching the sea, a few bathed, and children clambered about the pebbles. He didn’t look behind, but thought that Lucille was following. After ten minutes, he made sure. She was thirty or forty yards behind.
He quickened his pace. The made-up promenade came to an end. Along here was hard sand, a few tufts of grass and a steep bank to the pebbly beach.
Mannering looked round again.
Lucille, still behind him, looked very hot. She waved. He climbed down to the beach, heard her coming, and saw her slide down the last few feet.
“’Allo,” she said, and was almost reproachful. “Must you walk so fast?”
“I wanted to make you tired.”
“M’sieu,” said Lucille, “you have succeeded!” She was flushed, breathing rather hard. She sank down gracefully on the pebbles, legs bent beneath her, flared skirt making a canopy. “Please give me a cigarette.”
He gave her one; lit up for them both.
“Thank you. If you are wise, M. Mannering, there will be no trouble for you or for your wife. She will have a very happy time. But tell me where the jewels are.”
Mannering didn’t speak.
“You see, m’sieu,” Lucille went on very earnestly, “there is little else you can do. Philippe can be cruel. We understand that it will take a little time for you to see the wisdom of taking our advice.” She leaned back on her hands and blew smoke towards the sea, and he did not doubt that she knew quite well what a magnificent picture she made. “We shall not lose our patience, m’sieu. A day, two days – what difference will it make?”
“Tell Philippe I’ll think about it—when my wife is back.”
“But, m’sieu,” went on Lucille, with even greater earnestness, “he will not send her back until he has the jewels. You can make it very difficult or very pleasant for your wife. It is up to you.”
Mannering looked away.
After a long pause, Lucille went on: “The differences in men are strange, John.” She slurred the J attractively, using his Christian name with obvious intent. “Some are miserable without their wives, others”—he didn’t look at her, but could imagine her shrug—”they are overjoyed! You are one of the miserable ones, I can see.”
“Am I?” he asked mildly.
She laughed at him.
“Most certainly! But I am to make sure that you do not run away, John!” She leaned forward and took his hands. “Help me up, please.”
He pulled her up. She leaned against him longer than was necessary. They walked along, feet crunching the pebbles.
Mannering helped her climb the bank to the promenade.
“Of course,” she said, “I have others to help me watch you.”
He glanced at two men who stood against the wall of a house, across the road. They didn’t look this way. He had seen them outside the Hotel Mirage, without really noticing them.
Lucille took his arm and they walked back towards the town. The two men followed.
“You see,” said Lucille, “we are very thorough. Just tell me when you are ready to give us the jewels. I have a room at the hotel, next door to yours. It is all arranged and it is all very simple.” They were walking very slowly; ambling. “You must not make mistakes, like trying to find out where your wife is or anything like that. Do you see what I mean?”
“I see,” said Mannering.
It was not until he was alone in his room that he felt that he could breathe freely; not until then that the last of the chains were off his mind. The trap had been set so cleverly and the doors behind him seemed tightly closed. But his only trump was the jewels, and they could be used against him, if they were found.
The same thoughts went through his mind, over and over again.
First get Lorna; then bluff the rest out. With Lorna safe, he could visit the Villa Chalon, challenge the Count, Raoul, Philippe . . . was it the same Philippe?
He went to the balcony. The two men whom Lucille had pointed out were on the promenade, ready to follow him. He had been right to wait until darkness before going to the rue de l’Arbre. He couldn’t move the Citroen yet – but must, soon.
He went over the make-up case and everything he would need for a disguise; sooner or later, disguise would be vital.
He went downstairs for lunch, then came to an abrupt halt in the hall.
Two policemen in uniform and a man in plain-clothes stood by the desk. When the head porter sighted Mannering, he pointed, and the three men turned around quickly.
11
Police
As he looked into the pale face of the man in plain-clothes, a dozen fears flashed through Mannering’s mind. Among them was the fact that he had talked to the night porter; that he and Lorna had been seen to leave, late at night; that only he had been seen to come back. There were a dozen ways in which the police might have traced him.
The man in plain-clothes, flanked by the uniformed police, had a big face, a heavy jowl and heavily-lidded eyes. He looked as if he had great difficulty in keeping awake – until one got close enough, and noticed the bright shrewdness of those sharp eyes.
“M. Mannering?”
“Yes.”
“I am Inspector Flambaud, from the Commissariat de Police.”
“My pleasure, m’sieu.” Mannering bowed.
“M’sieu,” echoed Flambaud. “You are, I understand, the owner of a shop in London and an expert in jewels and other precious things.”
“An expert?” Mannering shrugged, deprecatingly. “A dealer, m’sieu.”
“You arrived yesterday?”
“That’s right.”
“M. Mannering, would it be possible for you to extend to me and my colleagues a little assistance?”
“If I can, m’sieu.”
“It will be necessary for you to come with us,” Flambaud said. “Is it possible for you to come now?”
“As you wish.” Mannering was smiling, mechanical.
“You are very kind,” said Flambaud. “We shall go, then.” He put a hand on Mannering’s forearm. It might have been a gesture of friendliness; it might have been a warning.
With Mannering, Flambaud led the way to the front door. One man whom Philippe had sent to watch him sat as if frozen to his chair. Another, across the road, was standing up.
Mannering wished he could enjoy their consternation.
His heart was hammering; fear stormed. But at least Flambaud hadn’t gone up to his room, wasn’t proposing to search – yet.
Flambaud was cold, aloof, formal. The French police could be unpleasant. Flambaud might know a great deal, might have found something which had proved that Mannering had been to the Villa Chalon, although the villa had not been mentioned. That might simply be to play on Mannering’s nerves.
A large Renault was parked outside.
One of the uniformed policemen took the wheel, the other sat by his side. There was good room for Mannering and Flambaud at the back.
Mannering glanced up as he got into the car. Lucille was on the balcony, gripping the rail with both hands, the wrap falling back from her shoulders. It was possible even then to see and to notice the beauty of her figure.
Lucille looked dumbfounded.
She and Philippe would be dismayed; frightened.
And how would this affect Lorna?
“You will smoke, m’sieu?” Flambaud thrust an open packet of dark-looking cigarettes in front of Mannering’s chest. Mannering found most French cigarettes nauseating, but he took one.
Flambaud had a lighter with a flame which looked as if it would make a beacon by itself, and the black smoke suggested that it had been filled with petrol from the car. Flambaud settled back in his corner and folded his plump hands on his large stomach. Standing, his stomach hadn’t seemed so massive; now, it pr
oved to be huge.
“Will this take long?” Mannering asked.
“I cannot tell, m’sieu.”
Could disaster have come so swiftly? Mannering tried to think back to the time he had spent at the villa. Had he left something behind which had brought the police straight to him? Some clue, some absurd little thing he hadn’t noticed.
They turned off towards the headland, and started to climb.
Mannering fought back fears, looked casually about him. Flambaud gazed out to sea as if nothing interested him more. His hands, the fingers interlaced, laid flat on his stomach. A diamond ring on a finger of his right hand and it sparkled in the sun.
Once out of the town, they drove very fast.
Mannering remembered the wild drive down here the previous evening; the taxi-driver; the quiet beauty; and Lorna’s hand on his. Now, he had Flambaud’s arm pressing against him. They swung round corners, climbing all the time, until Mannering recognised the corner just before the viewpoint. They swerved round, tyres squealed, drove off the road and on to the parking place, jolting to a stop a few inches from the wall.
“You have been here before, m’sieu?” asked Flambaud.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“At what time?”
Mannering said slowly: “I’m not sure. I suppose it was a little after eleven o’clock. Between then and half-past eleven.”
“What did you see?”
“What is there to see?” asked Mannering mildly.
Unexpectedly, Flambaud smiled; he showed small, yellow teeth with wide gaps between them.
“The lights, yes, and what else, m’sieu? Did you meet anyone else here?”
“No.”
“So,” said Flambaud. He still gave no clue as to his thoughts, but sat with his hands folded loosely, looking out towards the sea. “We will go on, Duval,” he said suddenly, and the driver started the engine, swung violently back on to the road, reversed as far as the gates leading to the Villa Chalon, and then drove up – twice as fast as the twisting road justified.
