The Riviera Connection

by John Creasey

  There were a dozen people about the villa, including several policemen.

  The car jolted to a standstill.

  “M. Mannering,” Flambaud said, “you are not compelled to come with me. I request it. I cannot make you come.”

  He didn’t smile, just looked at Mannering from beneath those lazy-looking lashes.

  “I’ll help where I can,” Mannering said.

  “Have you been here before?”

  “No.”

  “We will get out,” Flambaud said.

  Duval opened his door and jumped out, opened the back door and waited for them to get out. Two or three men came towards Flambaud, and he waved them away, testily. They came on and tossed questions at him. To Mannering’s surprise, he answered. Two men turned to Mannering; the Press was much the same here as in England.

  “You come to help M. l’inspecteur?” asked one.

  “Enough!” exclaimed Flambaud. He took Mannering’s arm again, thrust his way through the crowd, and approached the back of the villa.

  The sun blazed and burned; nothing looked as it had done the night before.

  They turned a corner. Two gendarmes stood by the side of the French windows which Mannering had forced. There was no attempt to hide the damage. The pieces of frame which he had cut out were piled against the wall. Sawdust had been brushed up carefully, and was in a small dustpan.

  The door was open.

  Flambaud looked at the forced window, then at Mannering. His eyes might have been open a fraction more than they had in the car. Mannering looked at him, hoping he seemed puzzled, fighting back the fears which throbbed in his mind. Could he have left anything behind? He hadn’t smoked, it couldn’t be an English cigarette. He hadn’t left prints.

  “It looks as if you’ve a burglary on your hands,” he said, and hoped that he sounded casual.

  “Yes.” Flambaud gave a quick, wintry smile. “A burglary. Come with me, please.” He led the way into the passage, then into the front, hall. He looked as if he was heading for the library, but instead he turned towards the stairs. Mannering glanced round. Duval and the other uniformed policemen were just behind; he had exchanged the two watchers sent by Philippe for the police.

  They went up the stairs.

  At the landing, Flambaud stopped. For the first time he gripped Mannering’s forearm, instead of touching it lightly. It would be easy to scream at him. The two men halted at the head of the stairs. Two others stood by a closed door.

  “M’sieu, you have spent holidays in Chalon before.”

  “I have not.”

  “Have you been here?”

  “I have driven through several times.”

  “When you have come to the South of France, m’sieu, where have you stayed?”

  “In Nice or Cannes or Juin les Pins, at the Cap—” Mannering shrugged. “Never at Chalon.”

  “Have you been to this villa before?”

  “No.”

  “You are a friend of the M. le Comte.”

  “No.”

  The eyes, half hidden by those drooping lids, were very bright. This wasn’t a question of needing help. Flambaud was suspicious, he must have some reasons for that, but the questions gave Mannering no clue.

  “You have a friend in England, a Mr. Bernard Dale?” The question came very flatly. Flambaud used the English ‘Mr.’ and the present tense.

  “I knew Bernard Dale,” Mannering said, “but he was murdered, M. l’inspecteur.”

  “Murdered,” echoed Flambaud, and seemed to relish the word. “So I am told.” He waved his plump white hand, and the gendarmes by the closed door moved, one to open the door, the other to salute smartly.

  “Enter,” said Flambaud.

  They went in.

  Stella Bidot lay on a single bed, with a sheet covering her as far as her neck. Her throat had been cut, and the sheet and pillow were stained with blood which had dried and turned brown.

  Flambaud peered at Mannering, had a hand raised, a finger pointing.

  12

  The Hideous Threat

  The finger stabbed.

  “You came here, you killed her!” Flambaud accused, and his voice was like a lash. “You came, you killed her!”

  Mannering looked at the beauty of the woman who had been Bernard Dale’s wife.

  “You came, you killed her – you!” The finger stabbed again, was close to Mannering’s face.

  He turned his head and looked at Flambaud almost contemptuously. Then he moved slowly towards the bed.

  She had been lovely indeed. It looked as if she had been sleeping here when someone had stolen upon her and slashed; as swiftly, more swiftly, than Flambaud was now stabbing his finger. She was dressed, wearing a cream linen frock.

  “Confess it, Mannering. You came, you killed her. Your name was on a slip of paper in her handbag. She came here to see you. She telephoned you last night, you came here to see her, you—”

  “I wasn’t here and I didn’t kill her.” Mannering pushed past the inspector, and went across to the window, looking out upon the bay and the town and, nearer, the grounds with all their beauty, the rioting colours and the restful green of the grass. Not far off a stream trickled down rocks towards the bay, and the sun danced upon the water.

  “Why did you do it?” screeched Flambaud.

  His voice wasn’t so shrill. His bluff had failed, and he knew it. But where shock tactics did not serve the police, routine might. If Flambaud searched the hotel room—

  Other police might be searching the room now.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Mannering said quietly. “I wasn’t here last night. I’d no reason to kill Stella. She was once the wife of a friend of mine.” It helped to talk, and he could talk rationally. “Her parents ought to be informed, and she had a daughter.” He pictured little Betty, who had once screamed and then shivered in silent horror.

  He saw Tony Bennett in his mind’s eye – within a few days of being hanged for a murder he hadn’t committed.

  It would be easy for the wrong man to pay for this murder, too. If the police could prove that he had been here—

  �Philippe had.

  If Philippe were a murderer, and Lorna was in his hands . . .

  “Have you talked to Scotland Yard about this yet?” he asked abruptly.

  Flambaud hesitated, looked as if he wanted to fling another accusation, then changed his mind. His little shrug suggested that he was in a foul temper.

  “Not yet.”

  “Ask them about me,” Mannering said.

  “I know about you. The dealer, the detective.” That was almost a sneer. “Why did you kill her?”

  Mannering said: “I’m not going through that nonsense again.”

  “Come with me,” the Frenchman said. He gripped Mannering’s arm tightly, and the grip did not suggest that he had given up hope. They went outside. A gendarme closed the door and locked it. Flambaud led the way downstairs and Duval and the other man followed; it was like a procession. Others stared from the spacious hall, with its one wide window overlooking the bay; it seemed as if every window in this house overlooked some part of the bay.

  They went into the library.

  The bookcases were in their normal position.

  Flambaud picked up a telephone, and barked: “Give me l’Hotel Mirage.” He wanted Mannering to know to whom he was speaking. His eyes were wide open now, and he glared.

  Outside, two or three of the newspapermen were at the window, doing and saying nothing.

  “L’Hotel Mirage!” roared Flambaud. “This is Flambaud. I wish to speak to Inspector Michel. Quickly, please!” His glare was on Mannering all the time. Then: “Michel, this is Flambaud. What did you find in the room?”

  Mannering had fought
against believing the worst. Of course, Flambaud had left a man to search the room. If he were good, he would take that light-fitting down. If he had . . .

  There was an agony of waiting.

  “You are sure?” Flambaud demanded shrilly. He wasn’t pleased; Mannering felt his worst fears fading. Flambaud banged down the receiver, and his glare switched to Mannering. “Wait here, please.” He jumped up and stalked off, leaving Mannering with two gendarmes and with the newspapermen at the window.

  Flambaud might try again; might feel sure the jewels were in the room. But did they know about the jewel theft? Why should they? He was getting confused, jumping to conclusions. Jewels hadn’t yet been mentioned.

  If the police looked, they could see the marks in the wall made by the bullets fired when he had opened the safe. No one had seen them yet, apparently. There was certainly no evidence that anyone had discovered that the strong-room had been entered.

  Flambaud appeared at the window, talking to the newspapermen, waving his arms about. His voice rumbled through into the room but Mannering didn’t catch what he said. Then all of the men disappeared and there was only the beauty of the grounds and the sea.

  Mannering lit a cigarette and it was half smoked when Flambaud returned. He was smiling; this was only his second smile for Mannering’s benefit, and he appeared to be doing his best to look really genial.

  “I am sorry to have brought you here and kept you so long, M. Mannering. You have been very helpful.” He made no reference at all to his accusation. “Do you wish to return to your hotel?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  “There is a reporter, from Ce Soir. The tall man without any hair,” Flambaud said casually. “He is returning to Chalon, and will take you, if it is convenient. You see, I have work to do here.” He smiled again. His eyes were half closed. “You will not leave Chalon, I may want to see you again.” He looked like a fox who knew that one chicken had escaped him and was peering round for another.

  His smile faded, and he moved towards the door with Mannering, looking as if he had almost forgotten that Mannering existed.

  Mannering reached the front terrace.

  A small Citroen came bustling up the drive, as a tall, youthful-looking man, who was absolutely bald, sauntered across from the driveway.

  “M. Mannering, I will be happy to drive you into Chalon. Or anywhere you wish to go.”

  “Chalon, thanks.” Mannering smiled at him, and looked at the driver of the bustling Citroen. One glance was enough. This was Lucille’s Philippe.

  Philippe looked swarthy, angry, vigorous. He jumped out of the car and slammed the door and then strode towards Flambaud, who was by the front door with a group of gendarmes and other plain-clothes men.

  “Philippe Bidot,” remarked the reporter from Ce Soir. “It will be a shock for him, or it will not surprise him at all!” He smiled. “My name is Monet, M. Mannering.”

  “You’re very good, M. Monet,” Mannering said.

  Monet was naturally very curious. He knew a little but not much about Mannering’s record in England, and about Quinns. He tried to make Mannering ‘admit’ that he had come to Chalon on business, especially to see M. le Comte and his family. He was nonetheless charming because he failed. He drove with care and showed proper respect for every hair-pin bend.

  The car drew up outside the Hotel Mirage.

  Lucille was sitting on the terrace. She didn’t move when she saw Mannering, but he was quite sure that she was relieved. The two men were also on the terrace, sharing a table.

  “Will you come and have a drink?” Mannering asked Monet.

  “You are very kind. Later, perhaps, but now I have to telephone to Paris.” Monet bowed and shook hands, and went back to the car. Mannering waited until it had driven off, then approached the hotel entrance. Lucille started to get up, but quickly sat down again.

  Mannering waited for the lift. Lucille didn’t appear.

  He got out at the fourth floor, and looked about him. No one was in sight. He caught a glimpse of himself in a long gilt mirror; his expression didn’t suggest that he was enjoying life.

  He bolted his door when he went inside the room. Then he stared up at the light-fitting. There was nothing to suggest that it had been touched since he had left.

  There was a tap at the door.

  “Who’s there?”

  “John, this is Lucille, I would like to see you.”

  Mannering went to the door and opened it. Lucille looked scared as she slipped past him.

  A maid was walking along the passage, saw him, and smiled; was it imagination or was there something strained about that smile?

  Lucille now wore dark green; a linen suit.

  “What happened, please tell me?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “First, the police took you away and I was terrified. Then Philippe went rushing off to the villa.”

  “I saw him, looking as if he were terrified of being hanged. Or is it guillotined here?”

  She looked frightened all right; had been frightened for some time. Did she know of Stella’s death? Was Philippe the killer – here, and in London?

  “You’re in bad trouble,” Mannering said roughly. The girl’s fingers were cool against the back of his hand. “I warned you to be careful from the beginning, didn’t I?” He lit a cigarette, striking the match savagely. “Do you know why Philippe went?”

  “He got a telephone message and hurried away, looking – as if he could kill.”

  “As if he could kill,” Mannering gripped her arms, tightly, shook her. “As if he could or as if he had killed? It’s time you talked. What’s going on here? Do you want to be hanged for murder?”

  She breathed: “Who was killed?”

  “Stella Bidot.”

  “Oh, no,” Lucille sighed. She seemed to sag, and he let her go. She dropped on to the end of the bed and looked up at him helplessly. “Oh, no, no,” she repeated. “Stella was so charming, so kind to me. Not Stella.”

  “I saw her, with her throat cut.”

  “No,” breathed Lucille. It was not so much fear as dread, horror, which crept into the tawny depths of her eyes.

  “No,” she repeated in the same tone of horror, and shrank away from him. “You did not kill—Stella.”

  Silence came between them. It went on and on, as Lucille looked at him with deepening horror. There was no doubt that, knowing he had raided the Villa Chalon, she thought he had murdered Stella. Her breathing grew short and laboured.

  If Philippe talked, fearful of his own danger . . .

  Mannering said: “No, I didn’t, Lucille. One of your friends did.”

  She stood up and squeezed past him as if she were afraid to touch him. She went to the door and opened it, went out without looking back. The door closed quietly. Mannering didn’t go towards it. He did not know whether she had gone to her own room or not.

  He was sure that the news of Stella’s murder had taken her completely by surprise. Yet Philippe might have killed the woman. A new field of possibilities was opened up, new dreads, new questions came.

  Tony was in deadly danger; the same danger now came close to Mannering. Add the threat to Lorna; add the inevitable questions – who had killed Stella, and why?

  Why had Stella come back so quickly?

  Mannering felt sick with apprehension, greater now because the police might also be watching him. He could try to make Lucille talk only at the risk of having Philippe tell the police about his visit to the villa. He felt as if he were in a vice.

  He sent for a snack in his room; it was three o’clock. Darkness seemed as far away as ever, and he could not go to the rue de l’Arbre until after dark.

  He was tired, too; he needed sleep. He dozed in an armchair, then got up in a fury of impatie
nce and went to Lucille’s room. There was no answer when he tapped; when he banged. He returned to his own, leaving the door ajar, but did not see or hear Lucille go to hers.

  A little after seven o’clock, when dusk was falling, he went again. The passage was empty. He used a picklock, a blade of his knife, and had the door open in a trice. He stepped inside quickly. The room was in darkness and he stretched out a hand to put on the light. Then he stopped, and his arm seemed to go numb.

  Horror had already piled on horror. Would there be more?

  He pressed the light down, holding his breath.

  The room was empty.

  He could tell at a glance that Lucille had packed up and left. There was a screwed up cigarette packet; oddments; a sprinkling of face powder on the glass top of the dressing-table, a dozen little indications to show that she had been here; and there was the perfume he had noticed the previous night.

  Mannering swung round and went out, slamming the door, hurried downstairs and on to the terrace, which was filled with diners. The orchestra was playing and a crowd had gathered to watch and listen.

  Men watched.

  Some might be policemen.

  In London a man was within a few days of the gallows, and his wife was in despair. Here, Lorna was in the hands of crooks who might be, who probably were killers. Flambaud was hostile.

  Facts were facts, and one which faced him was that he couldn’t go on by himself.

  Whom could he send for?

  He put in a telephone call to Britten’s London flat. It came through quickly, but Britten wasn’t in. His wife, who sounded as if she were in the next room, promised to tell him at once that Mannering wanted him at Chalon, but would that help in time? At best, Britten couldn’t get here until the next day.

  Mannering went downstairs, across the terrace and along the street. He had to make sure whether he was followed before he went to the rue de l’Arbre.