by John Creasey
The time for the visit had come at last, and he had to work alone.
13
Vanishing Trick
Mannering walked through the crowd listening to the orchestra, took a narrow turning, and sauntered along. He did not seem to be followed. He made several detours, watching all the time; neither police nor Philippe’s men appeared to be following.
He hurried back to his room. He could put on a disguise, go out, take the Citroen, and at last get to the rue de l’Arbre.
The telephone bell rang.
Mannering swung round towards it, pushing aside the balcony curtains. It rang again before he reached it. He snatched up the receiver.
“Hallo?”
“Good evening, Mr. Mannering,” said a man with an English voice; a laughing English voice. “I trust I find you well.”
Mannering breathed: “Good Lord. Chitty!” Here was the help he needed desperately.
“Chittering, at your service,” said the London newspaper man. “And downstairs. Where’s the best food in Chalon, John? I’m hungry. I don’t eat with my ears, though, I could bear to hear all that’s been happening.”
“Who knows you’re talking to me?” Mannering asked sharply.
“No one, except the operator. The porter was busy, so I helped myself to the house ‘phone.”
“Good,” said Mannering. “Turn left out of the hotel, take the second left after that, and you’ll find a restaurant called Baccarat. It’s just the name, not a game. I’ll meet you there.”
“Very secretive, aren’t you?” observed Chittering. “You wouldn’t be on the run by any chance, would you?”
“Take a table by the wall, so that I can sit with my back to everyone else.”
“The mysterious Mr. Mannering,” murmured Chittering. “Okay, John.”
He rang off.
Mannering went out, and still wasn’t followed.
Chittering sat in a far corner of a small, homely restaurant, his curly, silky hair plastered down for once, round face beaming; he was something of a gourmet, and seemed delighted with the food.
“Hallo, John! You certainly know where to eat.” They shook hands. “What’s for you? On me; I’ve plenty of francs, being on business!”
A waiter hovered.
“Something simple—” Mannering looked down the menu, and ordered a single meat course. “What business, Chitty?”
“Stella Bidot.”
“When did you get the news?”
“On the tape about midday,” said Chittering. “I told my purblind editor that this was remarkable – ex-wife of murdered jewel-dealer herself murdered in South of France where a certain well-known dealer from London had flown – to wit, John Mannering.”
“Who told you that?”
“There was a personage being seen off at the airport, and our hounds were there,” said Chittering. “You were spotted. I didn’t think it was just a holiday, or you would have said you were going. I was due for a nice soft job, anyhow, and so I managed to get myself sent here. You know the line. Scotland Yard Fails to Find Killer, Daily Record Starts Own Hunt In Public Interest.” He grinned. “How’s Lorna, and what have you been up to?”
Mannering told him, quietly.
For three minutes, Chittering stopped eating. The patron, who had shot an occasional benign look towards him, grew anxious and drew nearer. Chittering began to eat slowly, but it was obvious that he was no longer relishing the food.
Mannering finished.
“Well, well,” breathed Chittering. He put down his knife and fork. “Not another word from Lorna?”
“No.”
“It’s just as well I came,” Chittering said. “What can I do?”
“Try to find out what’s happening to Philippe Bidot. The first thing – find out where he lives, and whether the police know about a house he has in the rue de l’Arbre. The police may have held him. I wouldn’t mind knowing more about Lucille Riviere, too,” added Mannering.
“Which is most urgent?”
“Whether the police know about rue de l’Arbre.”
“O.K.,” Chittering said. “I’m staying at the Mirage, too. I’ll call you when I’ve had a chat with the Reuters man here.”
“Don’t be surprised if I’m away for a night, it won’t mean I’m missing.”
“What’s in your mind?”
“I might have to vanish,” Mannering murmured. “I’ve a make-up kit with me. I’ll daub my face and book a room at a smaller hotel somewhere at the back of the town. If I should have to run for cover, I’ll have a safe spot ready for myself.”
“Right,” said Chittering quietly.
The hotel, the room, everywhere here, seemed empty to Mannering. Perhaps because he had talked to Chittering and brought normal life nearer, the fact that Lorna was missing hit harder. The night was darkened by the shadows of menace.
He opened the largest case that they had brought with them. Inside was the make-up box, which would not have shamed any star of the London stage. He locked the door, then placed the box on the dressing-table, and adjusted the lights. Satisfied that he couldn’t see his reflection more clearly anywhere else, he began to use the makeup.
It changed his looks.
With the lilting strains of the music floating up from the terrace, the noise of passing cars, the knowledge of the listening, watching people, he worked swiftly, expertly. Greasepaint altered his expression and seemed to change the shape of his nose, his eyes. An older man began to peer at that same reflection.
He was completely absorbed in the task, oblivious of sounds, of fears.
He thrust tiny pellets into his nostrils, thickening his nose; worked thin rubber over his teeth, so that their gleaming whiteness was hidden. They looked yellow, and several of them appeared to be stopped with silver. He rubbed oil into his hair then brushed it straight back from his forehead, so that there was no parting, and when he had finished, sat for several seconds, turning his face this way and that.
“Not bad,” he said, and glanced at his watch. “Twenty-five minutes. I’ll have to make it quicker.”
The telephone bell rang. He lifted the receiver quickly. It was Chittering.
“Philippe lives at the Villa Chalon. No one seems to know about the rue de l’Arbre,” he said.
“Fine,” said Mannering.
He rang off, picked up a small case which he had packed earlier, and went down by the stairs.
Soon he was walking along the narrow street quickly enough, but limping slightly. No one, behind him, would have realised that it was Mannering. The habit of disguise, the knowledge that it went much further than altered features, was part of his life. The way he walked, the way he sat down, even the way in which he put his hands into his pockets or lit a cigarette, were all different.
He had to have a hideaway ready, took the Citroen, and drove along narrow turnings towards the back of the town, where he knew there were small hotels. He chose one called les Trois Couronnes with poor lighting outside and with a dowdy-looking front hall. Madame herself was at the desk, large, powdered, amiable. Mannering’s French deceived her. He signed in as Maurice le Brun, and was taken by a small boy to a room on the third floor; there was no lift, and the stairs were steep.
The room had a high ceiling, but was slightly fusty. It had a curiously attractive quality which was hard to place. It was as if he had stepped out of the twentieth century and entered the nineteenth, yet there was a bathroom of sorts. The bed was large, and with a canopy over it; the chairs were like museum pieces. There was a telephone in a corner, by way of further contrast.
The boy went off.
Mannering left, soon afterwards, for the rue de l’Arbre.
14
Philippe
Mannering drove through the back of the
town, struck the sea road and found the rue de l’Arbre. A lamp was alight at one corner, but little light along the rest of it. The houses were terraced, tall, narrow. They opened straight on to the pavement, and there were few places for the police to hide, and only three ways of getting in – from the front, the back or the roof.
Mannering drove slowly along the road.
The yellow headlights showed the houses on either side, the closed shutters, here and there boxes of geraniums at the windows. No one moved, all was quiet.
He saw a man standing in a doorway, some distance along the street; was that a watching policeman or one of Philippe’s men? The man was within twenty yards of Number 27, but on the other side of the street. Not far away from him a small light glowed from a wall bracket.
Mannering studied Number 27, seeing the sharply pointed gable, distinguishing it from its neighbours. He drove past, slowed down some distance along, and turned his head. He couldn’t see the man, so assumed that he was still in the doorway. It would be wise to assume that he was Flambaud’s agent and that the house was being watched.
What about the back?
He knew the planning of these French houses and streets. Each block enclosed a large garden, split into little grass or flowered patches, each owned and tended by the owners of one house. Entry to the gardens was made through courtyards which were deceptive; from the street there were just big wooden doors and, even when opened, only cobbles leading to staircases, both to the right and the left. But beyond these cobbled paths were the gardens.
Round the corner, he saw large wooden doors which were open. Lucille had gone in there.
Round the next corner he left the car and walked back towards the wooden gates. He stepped cautiously over the cobbles, making very little sound. He couldn’t see far, although a dim light burned from a bracket on the wall.
He stopped moving abruptly.
A match scraped, then flamed. He saw a face in outline, as the man lit a cigarette.
Flambaud was having Philippe watched, or Philippe had posted guards.
Mannering went back to the car, waited by it until he felt sure that he hadn’t been noticed. Then he drove off, until he reached the sea road again. He could hear the now familiar whisper of the sea against the beach. The stars were brilliant and reflected on the bay. Some way out, a pleasure boat was ablaze with colour, and he fancied that he could just hear the strains of music. By the side of the car, he fastened the tool-kit round his waist and wound a length of rope above it.
Finished, he walked to the street, leaving the car pointing towards Chalon.
Another car, with yellow headlights, came from the direction of Cannes, travelling at speed. Eddies of dust curled about Mannering’s feet.
He turned the corner and peered along. He couldn’t see the man in the doorway, but made sure that no one was approaching before he turned to the outside of the house round the corner. Had Lorna been here, she would have seen the change she knew so well, yet hated. He was transformed – Mannering died away, the Baron took his place. Even his thinking was different. Here was the need to break into a house, and it brought excitement because it meant danger.
The shutters were all closed; there were small iron balconies and stone window ledges to help him.
He stood on a ledge close to the ground, stretched up for the first balcony, and pulled himself up.
That was easy.
He stood on it for a moment, peering along the road; then he started up again. Here a ledge, there the ironwork of a balcony, there the handle of window shutters, gave him the hold he wanted.
He didn’t look down.
The houses were tall. Half-way up, clinging to the wall like a fly, he heard the hum of a car engine. He stopped moving. The car was coming from Chalon at high speed. He could just make out the yellow glow of the headlights. Unless it turned into the street, there wasn’t a chance that he would be seen.
He heard the tyres squeal. The car swung round the corner, almost without slackening speed. The light touched Mannering’s legs. If driver or passenger happened to glance up, he would be seen.
The car scorched past, and turned a corner.
Mannering started to climb up again.
It was more difficult as he got nearer the top. The balconies were smaller up here, and the iron work less sturdy; once he put a hand on one and a grating noise came loudly, the steel began to pull away from the wall.
He eased his weight off it.
He held on to the guttering above his head, and had the toe of his right foot on a ledge: there was no room for his left foot. If he slipped, he would fall a hundred feet, with nothing to break the fall.
He groped cautiously along the guttering. If that cracked or came away, his chances would be negligible.
He forgot everything but the need for getting on to the roof; he was the Baron.
He put his weight on his arms and the guttering, gradually. He felt it sag a little, and heard a groan.
Would it hold?
He hung for a moment, with all his weight on the guttering; the moment when disaster could come. But it held. He hauled himself up, grunting with the effort, until he could get an arm on the roof and swing his right leg on to it.
He heaved himself over.
Then he lay spread-eagled on the thick tiles of the sloping roof, breathing heavily, his heart thumping. He felt more fear, now, than when he had been climbing. He lay like that for several minutes, until his breath came more easily. Then he began to climb towards the crown of the roof. He was less nervous of being seen from the street, now; the only danger would come from windows opposite.
He moved cautiously from one roof to another.
On the other side, he could see the gardens, some walled, some serving several of the houses in the four streets which made the square. A light glowed at one of the archways leading into the garden. He thought he saw the red glow of a cigarette, but couldn’t be sure.
The light on the wall of the house near Number 27 was getting nearer.
From below, the pointed gable of Number 27 had seemed easy to identify; now, the roofs all looked alike. Mannering tried to picture the scene from below. He had passed the doorway where the man lurked; then the light; then Number 27. And remembered, it had that pointed gable – more sharply pointed than any others he had noticed.
In order to judge, he needed to be further away.
He climbed slowly towards the far side of the roof, and then looked across. The gables showed against the dark sky, and one was sharper than the others.
He smiled freely, elatedly.
Then he looked over the edge of the roof near the garden. The windows on that side were not shuttered, as they were on the street side. So this was his way down. Over the guttering, down to the first balcony, and in through the window. If it opened easily he would get through. If he had to force it, he might be seen by any watching men.
He couldn’t see anyone now.
15
The House
Mannering leaned against a square chimney stack, looking down into the garden. He could just make out the shapes of the ground floor windows of the other houses and the doorways which led through to the streets, but at this end there was no light. He waited patiently. Now and again he thought he heard a movement, but couldn’t be sure.
Then a door opened, creaking noisily.
Mannering stared down.
A glow of light appeared for a moment, and then faded. The door closed. A moment later, he heard a voice. He couldn’t hear the words but it was a man’s voice, and there was nothing urgent in the tone.
Another man answered.
Mannering heard no sound, but a match flared, and a moment later two red glows appeared in the darkness.
Angled against the sky, they could see him if they looked
up, and there was no way in which he could make sure that they didn’t. But they were more likely to be watching the ground floor, not the roof.
Suddenly, footsteps sounded again. The door squeaked, light appeared and faded again, and the door closed for a second time. There was only one man down there now.
The balcony he wanted to reach was just visible. Getting to it would be fairly easy; getting there without alarming the watching man would be a different matter.
Mannering uncoiled the rope round his waist, looped one end round a chimney stack, tied it securely, and then tested his weight against it. Next he crawled towards the edge of the roof, and let down the rope till the slack lay coiled on the balcony. He turned his back on the waiting man, the garden and his fears. He lowered himself slowly. Soon his feet were pressing against the wall, above the balcony and a little to one side. Most of his weight was taken by the rope.
He went down inch by inch.
Soon he was far enough down to touch the edge of the balcony with his right foot. He moved crabwise so that he could rest his weight on the rail. As he did that cautiously, there was a faint squeaking noise but nothing else, nothing that would reach the ears of the man below.
He lowered himself further, then stood on the balcony.
The glass of the window looked dark and shiny; stars were reflected on it.
The rope would provide a means of escape without giving a clue to the identity of the burglar if it were found. He turned and peered down into the garden. He could see nothing now; the man wasn’t smoking.
The danger wasn’t past, although he was no longer visible against the sky.
He turned his back on the watcher, and groped about the window, until he touched the handle. This was a French window, opening straight into the room beyond; probably into a bedroom. There might be someone sleeping there; one, two or three people. A single shout would ruin his chances.
