The Riviera Connection (15 page)

 

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.

He hadn't much time left.

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.

A few shops were lighted, but there was little brightness. People sat in the shadows outside the
bistros
and the restaurants in the soft light of lanterns or subdued, coloured electric lamps. The traffic was silent. It was a little after nine o'clock, and Mannering walked along the narrow sidewalk towards the back of the Hotel Mirage, without any fear of being recognised.

Flambaud might expect him back at the hotel; the danger would come when he began to break in.

He had spent the last lingering hour of daylight and the past hour of darkness thinking about Britten, arguing with himself, saying that he couldn't be right; but was there another explanation? He recalled Britten's odd manner on the telephone, his nervousness, the gun he carried. He remembered that Britten hadn't been able to face Hilda Bennett with the news of Tony's conviction.

There were other things.

Motive?

If Britten had killed Bernard Dale, and his sister had found out, or even suspected, that would be motive enough. Stella had probably gone to see her brother while in London.

Britten knew the Riviera well, had recommended the Mirage, knew estate agents, and also knew the Count and his nephews. He could have come here and sold the Gramercys to the Comte de Chalon, feeling quite secure. Stella might have found out that they had bought those jewels from her brother. Her tension when she had visited the Mannerings might have been due to a sense of guilt – because she knew the truth, and yet admitted only part of it.

Had she told her husband and her brother what she thought, then rushed back to Chalon to be free from the mental torment she suffered in London?

Britten could have followed, killed and silenced her – and pretended to arrive on the Riviera later, to ‘help' Mannering. When Mannering had telephoned him, he had been away from home.

From the moment he had arrived, he had worked on Mannering's fears. Looking back, it was easy to believe that was deliberate.

Lorna had never been so frightened; perhaps Britten had set out to break her nerve, to convince her Mannering hadn't a hope.

Was
it Britten?

Not far along, the crowd had gathered outside the Hotel Mirage; Mannering could hear the orchestra playing. He did not mix with the crowd, but watched from the other side of the road.

At least seven gendarmes were among the throng outside the hotel, or on the terrace, or on the boulevard near here. Mannering walked past one of them. The man saw him, but obviously did not recognise him.

Mannering crossed the road to the side street; it was very dark.

Two gendarmes were by the side entrance. Once Mannering was inside, the staff of the hotel might recognise him, he would have no chance of brazening it out.

Beyond the entrance, the street was pitch dark, and not far above Mannering's head was a balcony. If he could get on to that, he could climb up to the fourth floor.

He paused in the shadows, listening to the music, measuring the distance between the ground and that first balcony.

All would go well if the policemen kept looking the other way.

 

 

The two gendarmes were dark silhouettes against the lights of the promenade, but Mannering was against the darkness, at most a shadowy figure. He watched the pair closely, waited until he thought they were facing the other way, then stretched up and gripped the balcony.

He hauled himself up and over.

The window was dark; no one was in the room beyond.

Mannering watched the gendarmes, tensely; they showed no sign that they had seen him.

He looked upwards, at the next balcony. He could reach it by stepping on to a ledge jutting from the wall. It would take more time than the first stage, but it could be done; it was much easier than the house in the rue de l'Arbre.

A little noise wouldn't matter; orchestral music came clearly along the street. The crowd had swelled so much that Mannering could see some of them at the end of the road.

Mannering started up.

In five minutes, he was below the balcony on the fourth floor. He paused. He had nothing to fear from the watching police, little to fear from anyone until he forced his way into Britten's room.

Would Britten be there?

He stretched up, gripped the bottom edge of the balcony, and drew himself up. A minute later, he stepped into a fourth floor bedroom; in a few seconds he was at the door. He listened, heard no one outside, and opened the door.

The lift gates clanged as he stepped outside.

The liftman stepped on to the landing, but didn't glance his way. Two women, smartly dressed, came hurrying towards Mannering. They passed him, one with a half smile.

He reached Britten's room, and listened again; he heard no sound. He took out the picklock, and forced the door.

There was no light.

He closed the door and waited in the little lobby; there was a possibility that he had been seen by a maid, even the liftman. No one approached, no alarm was raised. He didn't lock the door, but stepped into the bedroom, closed that door, and switched on the light.

Everything was as he might expect it to be.

Mannering went to the wardrobe and began to go through Britten's pockets. He found nothing that supported the suspicion which had become almost a certainty – but certainty built on reasoning which might fall down.

He went through all the clothes; two suit-cases; a briefcase. He still found nothing that helped. He stopped, and lit a cigarette. He had taken the wild chance of getting here, and simply lost time. He should have gone to the villa, challenged the Count, Philippe, any of them.

He heard footsteps and moved swiftly towards the balcony.

The footsteps stopped.

If Britten came in, what would be the right thing to do? Question him? Let him know of the suspicions? That would be crazy; Mannering needed proof, had to have proof.

There was a sharp tap at the door; another; a third.

The man outside did not go away.

Mannering stood close to the French windows, listening. Although the sound of music floated up from the street, he heard a different sound – of metal on metal at the door. Someone was picking the lock.

He heard it click back.

On the balcony he peered into the room, ready to dodge back out of sight at any moment. The light of the passage showed, and against it, the silhouette of a man. The man came in quickly, closed the door, and then whispered in French: “Now I have simply to wait.”

It was Philippe Bidot.

 

Mannering heard the scrape of a match; there was a flash, then a red glow as Philippe lit his cigarette. He hadn't come on any friendly errand, or he wouldn't have broken in, and most certainly would not have waited in the darkness.

Why should he lie in wait for Britten?

Mannering could find out why, or he could wait until Britten came, listen, perhaps have everything he needed.

He waited.

Smoke from Philippe's cigarette drifted tantalisingly towards him. The orchestra seldom stopped playing, then only for a few minutes.

Philippe put out his cigarette and lit another.

Mannering kept easing his legs, moving cautiously, alert all the time.

In a lull in the music, he heard a key scrape in the lock of the outer door. The door opened wide. Britten came in briskly, and put on the fight at once. It flashed out, through the open French window and past Mannering, then lost itself against the darkness.

Britten gave a startled gasp: then: “What—what are you doing? Put—put that gun away!”

“Oh, no, my friend,” said Philippe softly. “I am likely to shoot you with it, if you try to run, or even”—Mannering could imagine the shrug—”even if you lie to me. Just move back against the wall.”

“I don't understand! Why are you here? How did—”

“Oh, I broke in because I wanted a little talk with you,” said Philippe. “The answers to one or two questions are important. How long have you and my uncle, M. le Comte, been working together – you as thief, he as buyer of stolen jewels?”

“You must be crazy!” Britten grated.

“Oh, I am not crazy. I know what has happened this time. I know you stole the Gramercys and killed Dale. I know that you framed your friend, Tony Bennett, and would let him hang for you. I know that my uncle was angry because you brought the stones to him so quickly – but you had to, didn't you, because it was not safe for you to keep them in England, especially with the clever John Mannering likely to look for them.”

“Mannering—Mannering must have—” Britten began weakly.

“We will have no lies,” said Philippe. “These things I know, because I heard you and my uncle discussing them, an hour or two ago. I was hiding in the room where you talked. I drove here ahead of you – the police were in the grounds of the villa, so I could not wait there to discuss this. I do not know which of you killed Stella – my uncle, or you.”

“I—I didn't kill her!” denied Britten tautly. “Why—why should I? It was your uncle, he—”

“Go on,” said Philippe softly. “Be very careful what you say.”

“He must have flown from London without letting anyone know, he—”

“Oh, my poor, foolish friend,” said Philippe, and there was mockery in his voice. “He did not fly to Chalon before you – you were here first. I am quite sure that you actually used the knife on Stella. I did not know whether you and my uncle worked together – but had you done so, would you have suggested that he actually
used
the knife?”

Britten said breathlessly: “You're guessing. I didn't—”

“Oh, come,” mocked Philippe. “Why don't you admit the truth – that you killed her? You flew on the next plane after her, didn't you? You have accomplices here, besides the Count. One sent a telegram in Mannering's name, saying that Stella must return to Chalon at once. The police found the telegram in her handbag,” Philippe went on. “Lucille wheedled
that
information out of a sergeant. Also I heard you say to the Count that the telegram couldn't fail to make the police suspect Mannering. It didn't fail in one sense. Stella came, and you killed her. Afterwards, you were busy trying to frame your own friend, Mannering – the man whom you feared would discover the truth if he were allowed to work without interruption.

“Not knowing what I know about him now, I hindered him, but the truth has come out,” Philippe went on gently. “When I saw you and my uncle together yesterday, I began to suspect the truth. You had to discuss this with him because you did not know what he was likely to say to the police. You were afraid that he might not be able to deceive Flambaud.”

“You're making all this up! You—”

“Oh, no,” said Philippe. “One of your accomplices here in Chalon is a man who would work for a thief but not for a murderer. He and Lucille have talked. He told her that you were informing the police that Mannering was also le Brun, and that he was at a certain hotel. That told me how you were betraying a friend. Could I need more proof that you were a rogue?”

Britten didn't speak.

“Only a little while ago, one of your men tried to kill Mannering, by running him down,” said Philippe. “I have been told about that, too. But things did not go your way, did they?”

“Philippe, listen,” said Britten in a different, eager voice. “Your uncle is wealthy. He knows what happened but he daren't say so, because he has so many stolen things in the strong-room. All of us can work together. Raoul will get over it. He—”

“Raoul will not get over it,” corrected Philippe. “He is—he has always been an honest man. He had no idea that you and my uncle were dealing in stolen jewels and
objets d'art.
He would never countenance villainy. He is keeping quiet now only because he thinks he can find out who killed Stella best that way. Once he knows, he will tell the whole truth about the Count. And my uncle – he has salved his conscience for years by giving paltry alms to the poor. I've tried to do more, but—no matter!” Philippe became brusque. “Tell me how Stella discovered that you were the murderer. What made her so certain that you were compelled to murder her?”

Britten didn't speak.

“It is so little to answer,” Philippe said softly. “How did she find out?”

Britten said savagely: “When I went to see your uncle at the hotel in London, Stella heard us talking about it. It was after the Count had made her tell him that she had been to see Mannering. Afterwards the Count told Mannering that Stella had told him that there was a risk of Mannering finding the strong-room, although Mannering, the fool, told me everything—”

It was easy to imagine the dread in Britten's mind, understand his viciousness, but Mannering kept on the balcony, without making a sound.

“We—we must make a deal, Philippe,” Britten went on in a shrill voice. “Where are the jewels? Did Mannering take them? Or who—”

“It must have been someone else,” Philippe said easily. “I could certainly never tell the police that I suspected Mannering. He is just a detective, and this time did not have so much luck. But he will agree, I think, that in the end he had enough. I—”

He broke off.

Mannering felt the sudden pitch of tension, then heard the roar of a shot. A dark shadow appeared on the balcony; then Britten came, staggering. Behind him was Philippe, gun posed.

“Hold it!” Mannering shouted. “Don't shoot!”

He struck Britten as he went forward, and the man slumped back, then crumpled up. He fell almost at Philippe's feet. Philippe stood by the French windows, gun slowly drooping, mouth agape.

Then: “You—with
Mannering's
voice. You
are
one and the same. And you were there all the time! But the police will come because of the shooting. Hurry! I shall tell Flambaud about Britten, all will be well, but get rid of that disguise. Hurry!”

Philippe was already rushing to open the door.

 

“You understand, m'sieu,” said Flambaud, two days later, “that we do not all work like your Scotland Yard., I was aware that an Englishman had killed Mme. Bidot because a servant heard her talking to an Englishman. There was also the telegram. I did not know then that Britten was already in Chalon. He pretended to come much later, and—” Flambaud shrugged. “I did not check that, in time.

“Now, I know everything,” he boasted. “Some I can prove, some I guess, some—what is your phrase?” he asked, and gave a little grin. “Ah, I remember – off the record! For what a policeman knows but cannot prove does not go before the courts, does it?”

Mannering murmured: “No.”

“When Britten learned you were coming to Chalon, he had a warning sent to Philippe Bidot to be especially careful because there might be a visitor to the villa. Philippe heeded the warning; now, he says that he hoped to catch the thief red-handed. When he failed, he thought that you were the thief, and was foolish enough to persuade your wife to go with him, hoping you would admit the truth to get her back. Is that so?” Flambaud flashed.

“Philippe?” asked Mannering, as if shocked. “Impossible. You must be guessing!”

“So you do not intend to give evidence,” grumbled Flambaud. “What can a policeman do without evidence? But there is a grave matter not yet settled. Many of the Count's jewels have been stolen – including the Gramercys. However, the Count remains wealthy, and Philippe will inherit much of his money one day, so he will have plenty with which to help his poor. Raoul will remain in business.” Flambaud paused, then flashed again: “Do you know where those jewels are, m'sieu?”

“I wish I did,” said Mannering sadly.

Flambaud shrugged non-committally, and left the hotel room a few minutes afterwards.

Mannering lit a cigarette, and strolled out on to the balcony. He looked down at the terrace. Lorna and Lucille were sitting in the shade. He saw Lorna laugh, as if nothing had happened.

It was easy to laugh.

Tony Bennett had been reprieved at the last minute; there would be a re-trial.

The Count had made a full statement, and was under arrest.

Britten had also made a statement, when he had come round. He swore that he had not meant to kill Bernard Dale. But undoubtedly he had meant to take the Gramercys and to have Tony framed for the burglary. He had phoned Tony and attacked him, to destroy his alibi. Mannering wasn't sure how far that was true, but it hardly mattered.

Even Bristow had sent a telegram of congratulations.

Now, Mannering was alone in the room, taking the jewels out of the light-fitting. He parcelled up the jewels, addressed them to Flambaud, carried them downstairs and out by a side door. He posted them at the nearest post office, then strolled towards the sea road and the hotel terrace.

He was thinking of Philippe and Lucille, wondering whether Philippe would take chances to help others, remembering how once Philippe's eyes had shown laughter instead of fear – when Mannering had made it clear that he thought Philippe would be scared by the threat of telling the police about his uncle's strong-room.