by John Creasey
He must move in a hurry. The police would soon be on the way, unless the caller simply wanted to wear at his nerves.
He kept looking at the silent telephone as he packed his bag, looking out of the window from time to time. If the police came, they would come that way. They might send others to watch the back, but they would come to the front entrance also.
No one arrived.
Finished, he hurried down the stairs, paid his bill, was give another benign smile by Madame, walked rapidly along the main street. He had seen a group of small holiday hotels nearer the headland; his luggage would get him a room, but he hadn’t much money left.
He would have to borrow from Britten, and see him again soon.
The buoyant, confident Britten had become frightened; the calm assurance of Lorna had been destroyed. Mannering’s own confidence in himself was at its lowest ebb.
He made himself hurry, although there was no hurry – he really had nowhere to go, no idea what to do next. It had been like that almost from the beginning of this case. A sudden spurt of action, temporary success – and a dead end. Dead end, dead end, dead end, and none so dead as this.
He walked along by the little hotels, opposite the smiling sea, within sight of the headland and Chalon’s villa. Children’s clothes hung at the windows of several of them, swimsuits and bathing caps at others. There were little front doors, most of them in need of paint, all of them closed. He chose a door with pink paint: l’Hotel Belle View.
There was no difficulty; he could have a second floor room at the front; en pension was very cheap. He booked for bed and breakfast, and stayed for half an hour, before leaving.
He found himself walking towards the Hotel Mirage; the last place he should go.
He went into a hotel foyer and used the telephone. The Mirage answered promptly enough.
“Mrs. Mannering, please, in Room 407.”
“Mrs. Mannering is not here, sir.”
Mannering just stopped himself from saying: “Don’t be silly.” Instead, he said: “Will you please ring her room.” She might have gone out, she might have gone anywhere.
“I am sorry, m’sieu, Mrs. Mannering is not here.”
“Do you know when she will be back?”
“I have no idea, m’sieu.”
Mannering didn’t hang up. Something in the tone of the operator’s voice worried him more than it should. The emphasis she put on the words, even the phrasing: not that Lorna had gone out, but that she was not there.
“It’s important that I should know,” Mannering said.
“In that case, m’sieu, I should telephone the police station,” the operator said. “She left with M. Flambaud.”
Mannering didn’t speak; just hung up.
He could see what had happened as clearly as if he had been there at the time. Flambaud had torn into the hotel, stormed up to the room, and, when he couldn’t find Mannering, had taken Lorna. Why was Flambaud so sure he was involved? Why had he been, from the beginning?
Mannering left the telephone.
He was a hundred yards away before he realised that he should have asked for Britten. Surely Britten would be able to do something with the police.
Mannering walked across the road, made himself stand against the railings of the promenade and look out to sea. The lovely scene was unchanged; the gently rolling waves and the swimmers and the splashing children, the gay umbrellas, the sun-bathers in their bikinis, the rustle of water against the grey pebbles. There was the headland, too, and the air so clear that he could pick out the Villa Chalon.
He knew that he could easily panic. He crossed the road again, called the hotel, and asked for Britten, who was in his room.
“Dick,” Mannering said in English, “I need some money urgently.”
“I’ve sent 25,000 francs to the Trois Couronnes,” Britten said. “Didn’t take it myself in case I’m followed. The police know that we’re acquainted. Better not telephone too often, and now—”
“Dick—” began Mannering.
“Let’s call it a day, John. I’ll be in touch—”
“What’s happened with Lorna?” Mannering exploded.
There was a short pause; then Britten seemed to sigh. He spoke again very slowly: “Flambaud took her off for questioning. I don’t think you need worry too much. He’s a tough customer, but with Lorna—” Britten broke off. “I’ve been to the British Consul, and he’s promised to get in touch with the Embassy in Paris if there should be anything to worry about. I’m on the spot, John. You keep out of the way for a bit. That’s vital, you know – in his present mood Flambaud mustn’t catch you.”
“No, I suppose not,” Mannering said heavily. “Is there anything—”
“For the love of Mike, ring off! The whole world might be listening in!” Britten almost shouted, and then immediately dropped his voice. “Sorry, John. I’m a bit on edge, too. They can listen in so easily. If Flambaud grabs me, we’ll all be in a worse mess than ever. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Yes,” said Mannering. “All right, Dick.” There was Tony Bennett, and his despairing wife Lorna, and his own fears.
He went into the sunlight again. There were a thousand people within sight, and he felt as if he were alone. Britten was right, he couldn’t be blamed for shouting, but it had brought the plight home sharply.
The world was full of Lorna – and she was at the Commissariat de Police, being questioned, brow-beaten, perhaps threatened by Flambaud.
The police didn’t know him as le Brun, but he couldn’t regard himself as safe, because Lucille and Philippe had seen him.
Why was he so barren of ideas? It had been like that from the beginning.
Until Stella had come to London, he hadn’t a clue. Why had Stella visited him? Had she told the truth? Why had she told the Count so much, and warned him of the danger?
Why had she come to Chalon?
Here he was, back at the old circle, the old questions.
If there were any connection between the two crimes, why had the second been necessary? What had changed?
He became rigid.
He saw only the shimmering sea and the distant headland, and, far beyond that, the faint line of the horizon. It took a long time to get to some things, but at last he was at this one. There had been a really significant thing happen for the first time since Bernard Dale’s death. Stella had visited London, and Stella had come to the Chelsea flat. Soon afterwards she had hurried to the Villa Chalon. She couldn’t have been sure, but she might have guessed that Mannering would go there. She might have gone there hoping to see him, with more to tell.
Guesswork?
It was all he had left, now.
The strongest possible motive for her murder was that she had known who had the Gramercys, unless she had found out who had killed Bernard.
He hadn’t yet tackled the old man on his own – or Raoul, who could look so deadly. Again, he had to wait for darkness. There was a risk that the police would still keep a close watch on the villa, but he had to take a chance. If they really thought that Philippe was their man, they might not worry much about the villa.
He would have to get in, tackle the Count and Raoul – and afterwards Lucille.
He needed another car but couldn’t get one; he doubted if Britten could provide enough money for that. The money at the Trois Couronnes had to be collected, and that meant a risk, because the unknown man had sneered on the telephone: “So it is M. le Brun.”
He began to walk in the direction of the headland; he would have to get a taxi out there, later on, unless there was a bus.
The hotel would tell him.
He began to walk along the narrow streets towards the Trois Couronnes. It was possible that the police had got on to him already, that the man who had sneered “So it is
Maurice le Brun” had told them. But if he had, why had he warned Mannering?
Was it safe to take a chance?
He reached the cinema where huge posters showed Betty Grable’s smiling face and dancing legs. No gendarmes were near the hotel. He strolled along the street towards it. He could see inside from the pavement, and would be able to tell if a gendarme were in the hall.
He saw no one.
He stepped into the roadway, fears flooding his mind again.
“M’sieu!” a woman shouted at him.
A child screamed.
A man roared.
Mannering looked round, and saw the car leaping at him. It was coming round the corner by the cinema, was only a few yards away. He couldn’t see the driver clearly.
He leapt.
He felt the car brush against him, then catch his coat. He was spun round, and flung against the window of a shop. He heard the boom as he thudded against the glass. He struck his head, but didn’t lose consciousness. He slid down the window to the pavement. He knew that men and women were hurrying towards him. He felt little pain, except an ache in his head, but panic surged until it was a screaming dread in his mind.
This might mean hospital – doctors, nurses – he could not get through all that with the disguise. He must get up, and convince them that he didn’t need any help. He felt men touch him, heard voices, managed to struggle to his feet and muttered in English: “I’m all right,” and then realised that he had given himself away as an Englishman.
Then he heard a woman say: “It was a crime. Did you see it, Leonida? The man in that car, he tried to kill the gentleman. That was no accident. Did you see it, Leonida?”
A gendarme was forcing his way through the crowd.
22
The Back Door
Even the sight of the gendarme did not rid Mannering of the shock of the woman’s cry: “That was no accident.” He heard her voice without distinguishing the words. Others chimed in, some agreeing, some refuting, some laughing. A fierce argument started, while two men helped Mannering to his feet. The gendarme, his white baton swinging, came up importantly.
“Have the goodness to tell me what happened, m’sieu.”
“Have the goodness to have some sense.” A new voice rasped in the gendarme’s ear. “Madame” of the Trois Couronnes arrived, large, purposeful. “M. le Brun is staying with me, he needs rest. Come and see him afterwards, if you must.” She hustled the helpful men aside and placed a large, flabby arm round Mannering’s waist. Her voice became soft, almost gentle. “Lean against me, m’sieu, it will not be long. We will get you to a couch.”
Mannering’s head was aching, and the shock was still on him; the near ‘accident’ and the arrival of the gendarme took some facing. The little policeman argued without much heart, as Madame and a man helped Mannering into the hotel.
He shied at the thought of the steep stairs.
“This way, m’sieu,” Madame said.
There was a room on the ground floor, dark because the Venetian blinds were drawn; it was a relief to be out of the bright sunlight. Madame helped him on to a soft couch, ushered the helpful man out, spoke sharply to the gendarme at the door, and closed the door in his face.
She approached Mannering, smiling.
“How do you feel now, m’sieu? Is there anything I can get for you?”
“If I could just rest, Madame.”
“But of course. I will bring you some coffee, afterwards you shall rest.”
She went out, skirts rustling.
Mannering lit a cigarette.
He could hear the clatter of the traffic and the chatter of the crowd outside. The gendarme was doubtless asking questions by the dozen. The woman was probably telling him that the car had deliberately tried to run Mannering down. Had it? He hadn’t been thinking, had probably been careless, but he thought that car had swung round the corner very swiftly. A reckless driver was just as likely as a would-be killer.
Who would want to run him down?
Madame brought in the coffee, stirred in plenty of sugar, put a luxurious down cushion beneath Mannering’s head, and left him again.
Could he take it for granted that Philippe, Lucille or Raoul knew where he was? If they did, would they tell the police? Would anyone try to run him down one moment, and betray him to the police the next?
He got up, pulled the couch towards the window, and drew the blinds so that he could see out without being seen. The crowd had thinned, but there were three gendarmes instead of one. They would soon be here. Probably only the fierce championship of Madame had kept them out. In the shade of the room he was much safer than outside.
He heard a tap at the door.
Madame peered in, saw where he was, and relaxed.
“It is all right, m’sieu, to put a telephone call through to you?”
Mannering said: “Yes. Yes, of course.” He stood up and went across to the telephone. He felt and looked much better. Madame beamed, and went out.
He could see two of the gendarmes, close to the windows, as he picked up the receiver.
“Hallo?”
“M. le Brun,” a man said in French. “You should get away from there as soon as you can. Flambaud is on his way.”
Mannering moved towards the window, reached it, and saw that there were six or seven gendarmes in sight, not all of them with their white batons. He felt the old, familiar feeling of suffocation.
The hotel was surrounded; Flambaud must have sent men ahead of him.
Mannering went to the door.
Madame was busy with a man and a woman at the desk. The porter was waiting to attend to them. Mannering slipped to one side, and was seen by none of them. He passed the foot of the stairs, then went through a doorway on the right.
There must be a back way out.
The door led into a spotless kitchen, where two elderly women and a middle-aged man were busy at the tables and the stoves.
One of the women glanced up and saw him, and said calmly: “M’sieu, I regret that you are not allowed in here.”
“I won’t stay a moment.” Mannering was apologetic. “Where is the other way out, madame?”
All three stopped what they were doing and looked at him.
“Voila, m’sieu,” the woman said, and pointed towards a door in the far corner of the room. “Why should m’sieu wish to go out the back way?”
“It is necessary to check the precautions you take against fire,” Mannering said. He smiled and bowed and hurried across to the door. It opened into a store-room; there were large refrigerators, shelves laden with wine, bins filled with vegetables. Beyond this he could see the narrow side street.
At the corner, a gendarme stood twirling his baton, and Mannering saw the revolver in his holster. Mannering turned in the other direction. He expected a shout, a whistle, running footsteps. He heard nothing. A few yards along an alley led to the courtyard of a house. He went in, quickly. It was like so many others – the courtyard served several houses in a block. He crossed this, and three minutes after he had left the hotel, he was in the street by the cinema.
Betty Grable beamed down at him.
A Renault swung along the road, and brakes squealed; the signal which heralded Flambaud. He didn’t see the detective, but in a few seconds, heard his voice. A policeman on the other side of the road disappeared; Flambaud had obviously called him.
So the messenger had known what he was talking about.
Mannering reached the corner, and glanced to the left. Flambaud and several gendarmes were entering the hotel. Other police stayed on guard. Mannering turned away and walked briskly towards the sea. Except for his aching head and a few bruises, he was all right, but he had come within a foot or two of being squashed beneath that car; within minutes of being caught by Flambaud.
Flambaud would get a description from Madame, if he hadn’t one already, and Flambaud would work furiously to catch him.
Mannering reached the boulevard; he was as safe among the holiday crowds as anywhere. He turned towards the small hotels, and half an hour after leaving the Trois Couronnes he was in his room at the Belle View Hotel, overlooking the bay.
He had the tool-kit round his waist; a few thousand francs that would last him for a day or two at most— there was no hope of collecting more from the Trois Couronnes, no certainty that he could get in touch with Britten for more money.
His only ally was the coming darkness, and the unknown man who had warned him. Who would do that?
With Flambaud in a ‘catch him at all costs’ mood, everywhere he might go would be closely guarded. He hadn’t the make-up box, and couldn’t vary the disguise.
If he could see any chance of proving that Philippe, Raoul, the Count or even Lucille had killed Stella, any wild risk to prove it would be justified – such as breaking into the strong-room again.
If the worst happened he could make Flambaud visit that strong-room.
How had Flambaud discovered where he was hiding?
Mannering sat at the window, watching the darkening sky, touched even then by the magic beauty of the purple dusk. That faded into grey, then darkness. Mannering sat there, forcing himself to go over everything that had happened.
The years had given him a quality that was almost a sixth sense. He knew when he was being followed. He might be fooled once, but not time after time, and he felt quite sure that he had not been followed since his first day here.
He was sure that he had not been followed to the Trois Couronnes.
Only Lorna and Britten had known where he was; could have told the police and the anonymous Frenchman.
Britten.
The thought stabbed.
The night was dark.
