by John Creasey
“Remember that I know that Philippe was at the Villa Chalon.” Mannering paused. “Lucille, what would you say if you knew that Philippe had killed Stella?”
“Don’t say it!” she exclaimed.
“You’re beginning to think that he did, aren’t you?” Mannering watched her intently, seeing the fear filling her eyes. He was sure that she was in love with Philippe; as sure that she was beginning to think it possible that Philippe had murdered Stella. “Do you know that he is a thief? That he deals in stolen goods, jewels which”— he was going to add—”have blood on them,” thinking of the Gramercys, but she didn’t give him a chance to finish.
“Oh, that,” she said abruptly, and waved her hands as if it could not matter less. “He takes from fat pigs of men and fat pigs of women – what do they matter? I will tell you something, m’sieu. He takes from those who have too much and gives to those who have too little. He is a good man, but—”
Mannering didn’t speak, but his change of expression stopped her. He saw part of the truth, so obvious now that it was hard to believe that he hadn’t seen it before.
“Did Philippe plan to rob the villa?”
Lucille didn’t answer.
“Is that it? Or when he saw a thief there, did he mean to collar the jewels for his precious poor? Come on, let’s have the truth.”
“I do not have to—”
“I’ll find proof that he was at the villa. You’re playing with his life.”
She said slowly, almost proudly: “Yes, m’sieu, you are right. His rich uncle with his paltry gifts to charity, is a thief. At the Villa Chalon there is a hoard of stolen jewels, other stolen valuables, objets d’art. There was a great opportunity to get some of these on the night Mannering arrived. It was thought that Mannering might break in seeking some special jewels. Then Philippe—” she broke off.
“Who warned Philippe that Mannering was coming and might break in?” Mannering asked abruptly.
“I do not know.”
“Who was it?”
“I tell you I don’t know!”
He found himself believing her, but he would soon find out the answer. He would have to; meanwhile, he could guess.
Who could it have been but Stella? But why should Stella—
Lucille went on: “Philippe was going to steal the jewels – some of which he knows are stolen – and Mannering, or an unknown, would have been blamed. It did not go as Philippe planned – Mannering saved the jewels. But Philippe had taken away his wife, and—” she broke off.
“So it didn’t work out,” Mannering interrupted, as if talk of Lorna didn’t matter. “And now Philippe’s at the villa, under suspicion of murder.”
“He did not kill her!”
“I hope that’s true,” Mannering said. “When he comes back, tell him to expect a visit from me.”
He stood up, and left her.
No one followed him.
She watched from the table. He walked briskly to the other side of the road and past the Hotel Mirage; nothing had changed there, he saw no police about. He crossed the road again, entered the foyer and went straight to the lift. The liftman who knew him well as Mannering, showed no sign of recognition.
“Fourth floor, please.” Mannering stood on one side, and the lift crawled upwards.
The door of Mannering’s room was locked. He tapped, but there was no answer; so Lorna wasn’t conscious. He went to the room next door, but there was no answer from Britten. He returned to his own door, took his penknife out of his pocket, opened the picklock blade, and a few seconds later was inside the bedroom, looking down at Lorna.
She was sleeping peacefully, and had lost much of the night’s pallor. Someone had brushed her hair and washed her face, so that it was free from lipstick and make-up. She looked so restful, so far from fear, that it was almost hurtful to stand and look down at her.
He heard a sound at the door. It might be Britten, might be the maid. He swung towards the balcony and reached it before the door opened.
He watched—
Britten came in, his fair hair almost white, his face slightly red with sunburn. He wore a light grey linen suit, just right for the weather.
He approached the bed, glanced at Lorna, and said quietly: “Waking up yet, old girl?” Lorna didn’t move. “Won’t do you any harm to sleep a bit longer,” Britten said to himself, and lit a cigarette. “I wonder how you’ll take it, if anything should go wrong with—”
He stopped abruptly.
Mannering heard his voice but didn’t see him. Britten’s abrupt silence made him realise that he had been seen. He moved forward, grinning – and found himself looking into the muzzle of a gun.
“All right, Dick,” Mannering said in his natural voice.
“What the hell—” began Britten, and then gulped. “Good lord! You put the wind up me.” He gulped, and dropped the gun into his pocket, came forward quickly. “You’re asking for trouble. Flambaud—”
“Won’t recognise me,” Mannering said.
“I shouldn’t take too much for granted.” Britten offered cigarettes, and added with a grin which was more tense than usual: “You’d better have a drink, too, you’ll need it.” He turned back to the room, and Mannering followed. “I’ve just come from the Villa Chalon. As Stella’s brother, I was able to get in. Not that I know any of the others well. God! I’d like to strangle the man who—”
Mannering said quietly: “I can guess how you feel. But the only thing we can do for Stella is to avenge her. We can still save Tony.”
“How?” Britten’s voice was sharp. “What do you mean? John, you haven’t—”
“I haven’t proved a thing,” Mannering said, “but it’s easy to believe that the same man killed Bernard and Stella. If we can find him, Tony’s safe. If we could only find a motive, we’d be nearly home.”
“The man killed Dale, of course, because he caught him at the safe,” said Britten. “But I can’t see any reason for killing Stella.”
“Possibly she discovered who Dale’s murderer was.”
“How could she, she wasn’t even in England at the time?”
Mannering shrugged his shoulders.
“We’d better stop guessing. Who’s at the villa now?” he asked.
“The Count and Raoul are back. Philippe’s there, too, and Flambaud joined them. If we could really make that trio talk we’d probably get somewhere.” Britten scowled at the blue mirror of the sea. “John, I’m scared. It was bad enough before. But today Philippe threw your name into the conversation. He said Flambaud ought to get you, you’re the killer.”
Mannering didn’t speak.
“I’m pretty sure that one of those three killed Stella,” Britten went on, “and may have killed Bernard, too. But think of the danger. Tony’s already condemned, remember, they’ll hang him. If they get you too—” he broke off.
“They haven’t a chance,” Mannering said, but he felt the cold wind of fear.
After a long pause, Britten said: “Well, you’ll beat the odds if anyone can, but don’t underrate the risk. Flam- baud’s reckoned to be a brilliant detective, and the Count is such a big-wig that Flambaud wants quick results. They’ll do their damnedest to switch the thing on to you – Philippe’s already had a good try. If Flambaud could put his hands on John Mannering at the moment, take it from me he’d arrest him first and ask the questions afterwards.”
“Probably. You try to keep the police away from Lorna,” Mannering said dryly. He took some things out of his make-up box and put them into his pockets.
“Be careful,” Britten said. “Anything I can do?”
“Just stand by,” said Mannering.
He went down to the street and got into the Renault. Parked in the sun, it was baking hot. He wound down the windows and drove fast,
cooling the car down. Soon he was on the way towards the headland, but he didn’t go at once to the Villa Chalon. He turned off a narrow road, parked the car, then walked some distance over the rough ground, until he came to a small quarry with heaps of sandy soil in it.
He took out Philippe Bidot’s gun, wrapped rag from the car round it to muffle the reports, then fired it twice into a heap of sand. He strolled to the sand and began to sieve it through his fingers, searching for the bullets. When he found them, he took out a magnifying glass and studied the marking on them. Now and again he looked at the ballistics report from Scotland Yard.
This wasn’t the gun with which Bernard Dale had been shot.
19
Lions’ Den
Mannering went back to the car.
The reports had been well muffled, he doubted if anyone had heard them. No one appeared, except on the road which he could see a long way below him. Cars passed, most of them crawling, several stopping at the viewpoint which showed them the glowing beauty of the bay.
Mannering took the car further up this road.
Before long, he was able to see the Villa Chalon, although there was no motor road to it, from here. He took out the oddments he had brought from his make-up box, tipped down the driving mirror, removed the nose pads and teeth-coverings and began to clean off the make-up. He used spirit daubed on with a small sponge; after two or three applications, the greasepaint was gone. He took out a tube of shaving cream, and shaved, combed his hair. Then he got out of the car, and started to climb towards the Villa Chalon.
He soon reached the grounds.
A gendarme stood at the gate, looking bored with life; there didn’t appear to be one at the front door. Mannering cut across the drive, and saw a man repairing the window which he had forced.
A maid answered his ring.
“I am sorry, m’sieu,” she said earnestly, “M. le Comte is not at home.”
“Tell him that John Mannering would like to see him,” Mannering said.
“But, m’sieu—”
“All right,” Mannering said, “I’ll tell him myself.”
He moved past the maid, and into the now familiar hall. He saw open doors, and heard voices in the big book-lined room. He heard the maid following him, but she wasn’t sure what to do. She let him go ahead, without calling out.
He reached the doorway.
Philippe stood against a window, erect, handsome, eyes glittering – obviously furious. His brother Raoul sat at a corner of the large desk. He was fairer than Philippe, handsome but in a less vigorous and dashing way – just a good-looking man who might well be stricken with grief.
Behind the desk sat M. le Comte de Chalon. In morning coat and striped trousers, he appeared more distinguished, less of an old roué, than he had at the London night-club. There was an almost sinister look about him.
Raoul was saying: “What is there we can do? If we betray this Mannering, we shall have to tell Flambaud everything. Now that we know that Uncle has stolen jewels here—”
“What runs in your veins?” demanded Philippe. “Is it blood or is it water? Stella was murdered, do you understand? A man drove a knife—”
“For God’s sake, stop talking like that!” Raoul cried.
“It is the only way to talk, to make you understand what we have to do.” Philippe strode towards the desk. “Uncle, you can surely understand—”
“You know,” said Mannering apologetically, “I seem to have come at a delicate moment.”
He moved into the room.
The maid rushed after him.
“I told him that you were not to be disturbed, M. le Comte. He would not listen to me!”
None of the Frenchmen moved; they seemed petrified.
After a moment, the Count murmured: “It is all right, Lisette,” and the maid went out.
Mannering closed the door after her, and then turned the key in it. He strolled towards the desk, keeping his hands in sight.
Philippe moved, flashed towards him, hands raised and clenched.
“You have the impudence to come here! You, who killed Stella, who—” words seemed to choke him. For a moment it looked as if he would be able to keep back his rage, but it was too much for him. He smashed a blow at Mannering’s chin, swung another as Mannering swayed away from the first. The second blow caught Mannering on the shoulder.
“Philippe!” roared the old man.
Raoul jumped to his feet.
Mannering said: “You’re always asking for trouble, Philippe.” He caught the Frenchman’s wrist, twisted, and held it tightly. Philippe was locked in a grip from which he couldn’t escape; his body was bent almost double, and the rage blazing from his eyes didn’t help him.
Mannering let him go.
“The room seems to be full of people who didn’t kill Madame Bidot,” he said dryly.
Raoul, approaching him slowly, looked as if he would be more deadly than Philippe; that he would prefer to use a knife than fists. He had altered since Mannering had met him on that first hurried trip here; he looked older. There was hatred in his eyes, and it reflected in the eyes of the man at the desk.
Philippe moved abruptly, getting between Mannering and the door.
“Why have you come here?” Raoul demanded softly.
Mannering said: “I thought we might try to find out what’s been happening,” He took a cigarette from a box on the desk. “I don’t know what you have in your strong-room, M. le Comte, but apparently it would give the police a shock.” His tone hardly changed. “I did not kill Stella. Why should I?”
None of the others spoke.
“I felt pretty sure that Philippe did, as he was the only one of the party present at the time,” Mannering went on.
Even Philippe said nothing.
“I suppose,” Mannering continued very softly, “there was no jealousy between your nephews, M. le Comte. I understand that there appeared to be some weakening of Stella’s devotion to Raoul. If it were possible—”
“Throw him out of here!” rasped Philippe.
“After all,” Mannering said, “if the brothers were jealous, it could explain murder. Or if someone else were jealous of Philippe, that would serve. Obviously this could have been a crime passionel.” His smile seemed lazy, his manner nonchalant but he didn’t miss a single movement or expression in any of the other men. “Who would be jealous of an affair between Philippe and Stella, I wonder?”
Philippe raised a clenched hand – then dropped it and spoke quickly, urgently, to his brother.
“It is not true, Raoul.” There was appeal in his voice; pleading that he should be believed. It seemed to Mannering that the suspicion must have been voiced before, that he had struck a line which was not new to them.
Raoul said: “The very idea is absurd.”
“Very brotherly,” murmured Mannering. “I hope it’s true. But even if there wasn’t anything between Philippe and Stella, someone else might have imagined an affair. Perhaps there were grounds for suspicion, and someone was persuaded. Who would you think of, Philippe? Not little Lucille, of course.”
Philippe spun round.
“Only a dog would suggest it!”
“You killed my wife,” Raoul Bidot said, very quietly. There was no anger or rage in his eyes but there was a glow as of hatred. “And one day I shall kill you, Mannering, but not now. When you are considering other things, when you think that there is no danger, then—”
“Tell me why you think I killed her,” Mannering invited. “Explain my motive.”
“You are a thief, and she discovered it,” Raoul said coldly. “You broke into this house—”
“Or she discovered that your uncle owned stolen jewels,” Mannering interrupted. “Did you know that?”
Raoul didn’t speak.
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“No,” said the Count quietly. “Raoul did not know until today, that I collect precious stones as a miser collects gold, M. Mannering. A man like you will understand the passion, the mania for them. I can say to you, for no one would believe it if you repeated the story, that I acquire jewels in any way I can. I will buy, I will gladly buy stolen gems, if the price is right.” The old man smiled faintly; he had increased in stature, was a character few could match. “You heard as much when you came in. You will know, however, that the mania stops at acquiring precious stones. I had the Gramercys, but Philippe discovered it, and—”
“Did Stella?” snapped Mannering.
“I do not think so,” the Count said.
But Stella had, and she had been afraid that Raoul was a thief; she need not have worried.
Here was the wealthy old man who bought stolen jewels – as many did – and was quite self-possessed and unashamed about it. Here was Raoul, the nephew who knew nothing of that, and Philippe, the fiery, daring knight-errant. If Lucille could be believed, he had been standing by and waiting his chance to get into the strong-room – so as to sell the gems and give them away as alms!
Mannering said: “Philippe, who told you I was coming here?”
“My uncle telephoned me from London.”
Mannering swung round to de Chalon.
“How did you know?”
“Stella told me it was likely, when she came back from seeing you in Chelsea.” The old man smiled faintly. “I knew she had been out, and persuaded her to tell me the truth. So I warned Philippe to keep a most careful watch here. He was not careful enough. Where are my jewels, Mannering?”
Raoul burst out: “Does it matter now? Who killed Stella? Who—”
“Steady,” murmured Mannering. “Losing our heads won’t help. Finding Stella’s murderer without causing a lot of other trouble is our job, isn’t it? Can’t we work together on that and argue the rest out later? I liked Stella, I liked her first husband. The same person may have killed both. Possibly Lucille is still a suspect. Philippe certainly is. If it comes to that, Raoul would have had time to fly here, kill Stella, and fly back to London. So would you, M. le Comte. That’s how the police will be thinking, anyhow. The more you let them think it, the greater the chance that they will want to find out what you keep at this house. If you’d work together and with me, to find the killer, we might get somewhere and preserve your reputations.”
