The Riviera Connection (7 page)

 

Mannering peered down at the diamonds.

Their beauty made his breath come in short, sharp gasps. He had felt like that when he had first seen these small but exquisite stones. He could remember holding them in the callipers, while Bernard Dale had studied each one closely. Dale had felt the same about all good diamonds; they could take possession of him.

Mannering forced himself to close the case, and to open the next. These were the emeralds and the sapphires together; in the third case were the rubies. So this part of the chase was over.

He felt a sense of anti-climax.

His forehead was wet, and he drew his sleeve across it. Yet the strong-room was cool. There were a dozen jewel cases over there on the crates, and if some stolen jewels were here, the others might be stolen too.

He looked round the spacious strong-room, with the bright light shining mercilessly in every corner. There was a dark brown leather valise. He went across and picked it up, finding it empty. He went back to the crate and put all the jewels into the valise; there was plenty of room after all were inside.

He looked at the other safes.

This was always the temptation, always the danger. Here was a fortune, ready for the taking, but the other safes seemed to beckon him to stay.

He felt the sweat beading his forehead again.

“Don't be a
fool,”
he breathed.

He picked up the valise and stepped towards the door. The jewels were heavy. He stopped in the big room, with the bookcase entrance to the strong-room open. He put the valise down, pressed the switch, and watched the doors close one after the other. Then he pushed the bookcases flush with the wall. Only the bullet holes were left to show that there had been a burglary. They were deep in wood panelling beneath a picture, and would only be noticed if someone looked at that section of the wall.

He went to the desk, forced the middle drawer open, took out a cash box and stuffed the contents in his pocket, then hurried into the dining-room, which was across the passage. He pushed several pieces of silver into the valise, and hurried along the hall towards the front door. When the burglary was first discovered, the stolen trifles might be thought to be the thief's only loot. Resident servants might not know how to get into the strong-room.

He felt fear creeping into him – that at the last moment he would run into trouble.

There was no sound.

He disconnected the alarm, opened the front door and stepped on to the porch. Welcome darkness met him. The night air stung his forehead and his lips. He closed the door very softly; there was hardly a sound.

He put the valise down and flashed the torch.

“I'm on my way,” he said
sotto voce.

He waited for the responding flash; none came.

He flicked his torch on again, and waited, his breath coming more sharply. Only darkness lay below him, there was no flash of light.

He picked up the valise and walked towards the head of the drive. His footsteps made a slight sound, but there was none other, and no light behind him. He flashed the torch again, without response.

It was warm, and he felt coldness gripping him.

He turned and looked at the house, with its ghostly whiteness vague and eerie in the starlight. He felt a strange heaviness within him, as if this were a house of ill-omen. He went further along the drive, and the case seemed too heavy to carry far.

Every now and again he stopped, listening intently.

Lorna must have come up to meet him. She hadn't been able to stand the strain. Now rocks hid the torch from her. What other explanation could there be?

Mannering shone the torch again, but no longer really expected to see the responding light.

It didn't come.

There was no sound, and had Lorna been coming up the drive or even scrambling across the grounds, he would have heard her.

The road and the drive gates were only thirty yards away.

Car headlights appeared a long way off, brightening the gloom with a misty brilliance. The light grew brighter and Mannering could hear the beat of the engine. Soon the light carved through the darkness near the drive gates and by the wall which protected the road from the sheer fall to the rocks and the bay. Great, dark shadows formed, but there was no sign of Lorna.

The car swept past, and darkness followed it.

Mannering reached the road, and then began to run towards the gap in the wall, and the Renault. He had to fight against the urge to shout. Her name was on his lips and he forced it back.

He reached the gap.

The car was there.

“Lorna!” he called.

There was no answer.

He took the torch from his pocket and swept the light round. It was reflected from the shiny paintwork and the windows. He peered inside, but Lorna wasn't there. The despairing hope that she might have sat inside and fallen asleep, died in him.

“Lorna!”

From far below there was the rustle of the sea. Apart from that, the only sound was his own breathing.

He turned and looked towards the villa, but there was no light; no light anywhere. The whole night was dark and had swallowed her up.

“Lorna, Lorna, Lorna!”

The name echoed back at him, mockingly.

“This—won't—do,” he said. His voice wasn't steady but at least he didn't shout. The silent darkness put ill-formed fears into his mind. He dared hardly think. He went towards the wall, peering downwards; the stars reflected on the dark bosom of the water. He remembered the drive from the airfield, and the sharp, angry rocks below at this point in the corniche.

Had Lorna walked, slipped, and fallen? What else
could
have happened?

Had she walked, slipped, fallen?

He knew that the fall on to the hungry rocks was sheer in places; that she might have fallen and been killed instantaneously; or that she might be lying down there now, her body broken but conscious, and in pain. The demons tore at his nerves.

There had been hours of tension at the villa, hours of a physical and mental strain; now that he needed to relax he could not – there was that dark dread.

“Lorna! Lorna!”

Only the echo and the whispering sea came back to him.

He moved again, and was surprised at the difficulty of movement; it was as if his muscles and his joints were locked. He shone his torch and saw other tyre-tracks – but there was more. He could see the gravel, scuffed up as it would be if there had been a struggle. He reached the car again and opened the door with clumsy fingers, put the valise inside, slammed the door, and then got into the driving seat. He felt quite sure that there had been a struggle before Lorna had been overpowered. He switched on the headlights. They were yellow and dim; disappointing. The other cars had had brighter lights; they were English, these were French.

He saw a shadowy movement.

He started the engine, as if he had noticed nothing. The shadow appeared again; he thought it was of a man, crouching by the wall.

He jammed on the brakes, suddenly.

There was a man, who jumped up and became clear in the headlamps; he carried a gun. His face was masked, but his eyes glittered.

“You! Put up your hands!” He spoke softly, clearly, as Mannering opened the door.

The man came close.

Mannering stepped out, alarm for Lorna tormenting him. The man was very close. Mannering raised his hands, slowly, as if meaning to obey, and then jumped. The risk was between life and death.

The gun went off, with a roar; the flash was vivid, but Mannering crashed into the man, feeling no hurt. He caught the other's wrist, and twisted; after a moment's vicious struggling, the gun dropped. Mannering smashed at the masked face, but the other brought up his knee, and drove the wind out of his stomach. Mannering staggered back, but the light showed the other as well as the gun.

Mannering grabbed it.

The man turned and ran, and leapt over the wall out of the range of the headlamps.

Gasping for breath, Mannering turned back to the car as he heard the stutter of a motor-cycle.

He saw the machine moving down the road; its lights went out, and there was no sign of it, only the noise. Almost without thinking, he got into the car, started the engine, and moved off. At heart, he knew there was little hope of catching up with the motor-cyclist, but he had to try in desperate hope.

Facts forced themselves into his mind.

Lorna had been kidnapped, and a man had been waiting here, probably for the jewels. He didn't try to think beyond that as he drove, but he saw nothing, no sign of the motor-cycle.

He reached the Hotel Mirage without seeing anyone else on the road, and he hadn't been followed.

But Lorna—

The night porter stood up from his chair by the steps.

“Any message for me?” Mannering asked abruptly. “For Mannering.”

“Non, m'sieu, zere ees none.” The porter looked at the valise.

Mannering said: “Take me up, quickly.”

“Oui, m'sieu.”

The porter was slow; it seemed an age before they reached the floor. Mannering strode towards his room, the porter following leisurely.

The room was empty.

“M'sieu,” murmured the porter, and put the valise down.

 

There was no message; nothing.

Mannering made himself open the valise. He saw Lorna's face on the jewel cases – everywhere – but it wouldn't help Lorna if he ran into more trouble, and the jewels could damn him.

Where should he put them?

He looked about the room, tensely. There were a dozen obvious hiding places, but he wanted one that was almost foolproof. There might be little time.

He stood on the bed and examined the centre light-fitting, of gilded metal, big, and hollow. He unfastened it from the ceiling, and lifted it down carefully. He took the metal parts to pieces, without trouble, and put jewels in wherever there was room. Most were in the large main stem which hung down from the ceiling.

He heard people stirring, outside.

One or two people walked in the hotel.

He worked feverishly, until the fitting was back in position, only a few small pieces of plaster and a light powdering of the plaster showed that anything had been disturbed.

The jewel-cases remained with the silver oddments.

He put all of these into a valise, then took it out. He had to get rid of them, quickly; the best place, for now, would be in the old Citroen car.

He slipped out of the bedroom without being seen, found an alcove and watched for five minutes.

No one appeared or approached his door. He wasn't followed.

It was warm outside, the first glow of daylight was in the sky and touching the sea. With Lorna, this would have been perfect.

He reached the Citroen, put the contents of the valise into the tiny boot, then drove the little car to a different parking place. He went back to the hotel, quite sure that he had not been followed.

But the room might have been searched.

He unlocked the door and stepped into the little hall. Darkness greeted him. He opened the bedroom door. The curtains were drawn, so the room was also in darkness.

Before the door closed, he called impulsively: “Lorna!”

There was a sound, as of someone stirring in bed.

No, no, this was impossible, she hadn't come back! If she had come back, she would have left a message somehow.

He took out the motor-cyclist's gun, then thrust the inner door open and switched on the light – stopped quite still.

A girl, not Lorna, lay on his bed.

She was young, and easy to look at. Her auburn hair, glinting under the light, was wavy and unruly. Her cheeks were flushed, and she had honey-coloured eyes and a dimple; she was impossibly country-maidish, had Mannering been in the mood to realise it. She wore a strapless dress, which revealed her lovely shoulders.

She blinked at him.

“No,” said Mannering, in a taut voice. “I can't have come to the wrong room.” He felt as if he were losing his wits, as he turned towards the door. He pulled open the other door, reached the passage, and stopped abruptly.

His
key had opened the door.

He swung back into the bedroom. The girl was sitting up, and punching a big, square pillow behind her back. In spite of her youth, she had a figure that was little short of voluptuous, and her smile was lazily seductive. There was no doubt that she had been asleep. She yawned and stretched her arms, as if drawing his attention to her figure with feline cunning and grace.

“Hallo,” she said. The word told him that she was French, the ‘H' hardly sounded at all, the ‘o' was uttered on a high, musical note.

“What—” Mannering gulped. Shock, anxiety, urgency, suspense and now this baggage, combined to bemuse him. He became earnest. “What the devil are you doing here?”

She smiled, delightfully.

“You
are M. Mannering? If you are M. Mannering, I ‘ave a message for you.”

He wanted to grab her creamy shoulders and shake her until the truth was forced out, and she seemed to know that. Her tawny eyes, flecked with green, mocked him.

“I am—Mannering,” he made himself say.

“That is good.” She smiled again; her teeth were very white, her lipstick was as thick as if she were going out to the shops or the promenade. “I am Lucille Riviere.”

Mannering couldn't keep still any longer. He went forward, clutched at her shoulders, felt his fingers bury themselves deep in her warm flesh.

“Where is my wife?”

“Your wife is quite safe, m'sieu,” said the girl who called herself Lucille, “she will remain so”—laughter and malice gleamed in her eyes—”if you do what you are told. Do you understand, m'sieu?”

 

 

Mannering's fingers were still imbedded deeply in the girl's shoulders. He leaned over her; their faces were very close together. She must be hurting, but she gave that lazy smile – insolence and mockery and malice were all combined.

“And the first thing I tell you to do is to release me,” she said.

Mannering moved away, and stood at the side of the bed, looking down at her. The marks of his fingers showed. Two things warred in his mind; the desire to hurt, to make her tell the truth, to lead him to Lorna; and fear, that if he did the wrong thing he might not be able to help Lorna.

“Do not be so worried,” the girl said lightly. “All will be ‘appy for you. I think your wife is most charming.”

“Have you—seen her?”

“Oh, yes,” said Lucille. She sat upright and began to rub her shoulders gingerly, arms folded across her breasts in order to do so. “I was there when she was taken away.”

Mannering moistened his lips.

“She was a little frightened but she was not hurt,” said Lucille reassuringly. “I had to wait here to give you the message, and I was very tired. You do not mind me sleeping on your bed?” There was as much mischief as malice in her eyes. “Sit down, m'sieu. Perhaps you would like a drink.”

“Who is working with you?” he asked abruptly.

“Oh, a friend. You saw him, I believe – on his motorcycle.” She beamed. “He was to take the jewels, but a gun did not frighten you, so—we try this way.”

Mannering didn't sit down, but moved across to the wardrobe, opened it, took out a bottle of whisky and a glass, and poured a finger.

“That will make you feel better,” Lucille approved. “I do not like it when there is such a wild look in your eyes. You are a most handsome man! Such courage, also. You impressed my friend.”

Her eyes glistened.

“Lucille,” said Mannering, and was glad, almost grateful, that he could keep his voice steady. “Get up.”

“But it is so late, and the chair is quite comfortable for you.”

He contemplated her for a few moments, then said: “I'll be back.” He moved across to the door.

“Stop! Where are you going?” Lucille asked quickly.

He didn't speak or look round at her, but made his way out of the room, locking the door behind him. He thought that she was alarmed; she hadn't expected him to leave. He went into the passage; he wanted to collect his thoughts, to fight back the temptation to shake the truth out of her.

The fact that she had mentioned the motor-cyclist almost certainly proved that she was the man's accomplice. She might be there to search the room, or simply as a messenger.

Just above the bed she lay on, were the jewels.

Steadier, he went back to the room.

The girl was standing by the window, a fur cape over her shoulders. All trace of tiredness had vanished. She smiled, but he thought that she was less confident than she had been when he had first arrived, and he was sure she was relieved to see him back.

“Don't do any more foolish things, m'sieu.”

“Not now, not any time,” Mannering said. “What do you want? Where's my wife?”

“What would I want but the jewels?” she asked. “You give me them, and your wife will be quite all right.”

He could easily say the wrong thing and jump into trouble. He was doubly glad, now, that he had gone out to get a grip on himself.

“I don't know what jewels you're talking about. If I did, you wouldn't get one, my beauty, until my wife is back. Go and find your boyfriend. Tell him my wife must be here by . . .” he looked at his watch; it was a little after five-thirty. “Nine o'clock sharp.”

“M. Mannering—”

Now he could let himself go.

“Get to hell out of here and tell him!” Mannering took the girl's shoulders and bundled her out of the room. He heard her gasp for breath as she staggered away from the door, but he didn't wait to listen. He flung himself across the room and snatched up the telephone.

“Hall porter, please.”

“A moment, m'sieu.”

Mannering waited, feverishly impatient; then the porter answered, and Mannering spoke in fluent French.

“There is a young lady coming downstairs, in a brown dress and wearing a fur wrap.”

“Yes, m'sieu.”

“Stop her, talk to her, ask her what she is doing in the hotel,” Mannering said. “Delay her for at least five minutes. It will be worth five thousand francs to you.”

“Merci
, m'sieu. And what shall I do
after
the five minutes?”

“Let her go.”

“I understand,” said the porter, almost as if he meant it. “Ah, she is here.”

Mannering rang off.

He jumped across the room, opened a case, and took a small make-up case from it. He stood in front of the mirror, using greasepaint, working cheek-pads into his mouth, broadening his nostrils with plastic pieces. There was no time at all for fineness. He snatched a blue polo sweater from the case, slipped into it, ruffled his hair, and pulled on a blue beret. Then he hurried downstairs.

“Mam'selle, I am so sorry,” the night porter was saying, “but I must know—”

The girl was hemmed in by his desk, looking frantically right and left. Mannering dodged back out of sight, and went to the nearest telephone.

In a moment, the hall porter said: “'Allo?”

“Let her go in a few seconds,” Mannering said.

He went out by a side door, and hurried across the road to the wide promenade. Several other people were there in the warmth of the brightening dawn.

Lucille came running out.

She hurried to the kerb, and flung her leg over a little green velocipede, dozens of which buzzed along every street by day. The engine stuttered as Mannering went quickly towards his Citroen. He was at the wheel when the girl was a few hundred yards ahead, going fast.

She turned away from the sea, into a side street. Mannering raced round the corner, in time to see her disappear round another. That was into the narrow main road, where trams already clattered along the rails which stood up like welts in the cobbled road.

There were several cars and four velocipedes. Mannering kept the girl in sight, until, a hundred yards ahead, she turned left. This was into a wide street of tall houses, mostly in need of paint.

The girl was disappearing into a court-yard approached through green gates. Mannering drove straight past, but caught the number of the house from the corner of his eye. It was 27, painted white on a black circle on the drab green wall.

At the end of the road, he saw the name – rue de l'Arbre; at that end the sea shimmered peacefully and the sky was blue delight.

Mannering turned the corner, and stopped.

If he went into the house now, he would probably run into serious trouble. Until he had Lorna safe, he couldn't hand the Gramercys over to the police; they were his chief barter. He had to play this with agonising care, although it was like playing with Tony Bennett's life as well as with Lorna.

If he watched the house, he would know if she were taken away. But he couldn't watch all the time.

The temptation to break in was almost overwhelming, but Mannering fought it back. He was too tired, might do the wrong thing simply through lack of sleep.

A few hours' rest would make a new man of him.

There was always the chance that the man who had sent Lucille would take Lorna to the Mirage, hoping for a direct exchange with the jewels. He was much more likely to visit Mannering in person.

Mannering kept arguing with himself. He knew where to find the girl, if not Lorna, and Lorna was safe while he had the jewels.

The wise thing was to go back to the Mirage, rest, and wait until nine o'clock and word from Lucille's boyfriend.

He made himself go back . . .

He parked the little car some distance from the hotel, rubbed off the greasepaint, walked to the hotel, entered by a side-door, paid the porter the promised five thousand francs, and soon reached his room. He glanced up at the light-fitting; it hadn't been touched. Everything was as he had left it.

He kicked off his shoes and took off his coat, then lay on the bed. The faint smell of an unfamiliar perfume teased him. He could picture the girl when she had first blinked up at him, pink and sleepy. Mocking, tantalising . . . malicious?

He made himself breathe regularly and deeply. If he could drop off even for half an hour, it would do him a world of good. All his life he had taught himself to sleep when he had a chance; a tired man was always at a disadvantage.

And Lorna had insisted on being with him!

There was nothing but irony. He could fix the Comte de Chalon easily, now; could find out the truth because his hand was so strong against the Count – or would have been, but for Lorna.

And the auburn-haired girl.

And her boyfriend.

Mannering felt his eyes getting heavier. He heard sounds about the hotel and others in the street; cars, horses, bicycles, motor-bicycles, then people talking.

He dozed.

When he woke, bright sunlight shone on to the curtains. He lay quite still, but awake on the instant, fully alert.

Someone was tapping at the door.

He called: “Come in,” but the tapping was repeated. He got off the bed, reached the outer door, and hesitated.

He glanced up at the light-fitting.

The burglary at the villa had probably been discovered by now; possibly the servants knew that the strong-room had been raided. The Count de Chalon and his nephew in London might already know.

The tapping came again.

He opened the door.

The girl who called herself Lucille stood there. She wore a lemon-coloured dress without sleeves, and a tiny lemon-coloured hat, little more than a patch on the back of her glorious hair, which fell in a gleaming, waving mass to her shoulders. She was lovely and she was young.

She smiled, almost timidly.

“Hallo,” she said. “You are still here.”

“And waiting for you,” Mannering said grimly. “Come in.”

She led the way into the bedroom, glancing about her, as if desperately anxious to spot the hiding place. Mannering rasped his fingers over his stubble, went to the balcony and stepped out, looking over the sea and the faint haze which dulled its blue brilliance. Some people were already bathing and there was a constant flow of traffic. Over on the headland, the haze hid the white shapes of the villas.

He turned to face Lucille.

“Where is my wife?”

“She has written you a letter.” Lucille opened a large, bright green handbag, and took out a sealed envelope. Mannering just managed to prevent himself from snatching it. The girl was laughing at him; the girl could easily make him feel a fool.

But she didn't know that he had followed her to 27, rue de l'Arbre.

Did she?

He glanced down at the written
John Mannering.
That was Lorna's clear, bold handwriting; no one in the world would be able to deceive him about that.

“Have you seen her?”

“Not since last night.”

“Who gave you this?”

Her eyes spilled over with merriment.

“My good friend, m'sieu!”

He put his head on one side, and looked at her, then opened the letter. It was to his eternal credit that he didn't rip it open.

Lorna hadn't wasted words.

 

Darling, I can't understand it. They shanghaied me last night, but I wasn't hurt. The only man I've seen is delightful. I
think
I'm in a villa but don't know where. The man says that I shall hear from you soon.

Darling, I
am
perfectly all right. This isn't written under dictation, with a man standing over me with a whip.

He tells me you're back at the hotel.

 

Be careful,

Lorna.

 

P.S. I haven't the faintest idea what he wants me to do. He had a telephone call from a girl – woman? – named Lucille.

 

Mannering read the letter twice. The weight lifted. He could look into Lucille's tawny eyes and feel almost free from fear. He didn't look at her. He knew that she was watching him carefully, anxious to judge his reactions. He folded the letter, slipped it into his pocket, turned and looked out to sea.

“Are you satisfied?” Lucille asked.

Mannering grinned. “Not yet!”

He moved swiftly, shot out a hand, pulled her hair lightly, and then went into the bedroom. She hurried after him, and he thought that she was alarmed, in case he ran off. He stripped off his shirt, singlet and trousers, and she stood with her back to the balcony, eyes rounded, lips parted.

Wearing just his running short pants, Mannering went into the bathroom. “Lucille!” he called.

She appeared at the door.

“If you're not very careful,” Mannering said, splashing hot water into the hand-basin, “you'll get yourself into a lot of trouble. What's the name of this boyfriend of yours?”

“Philippe,” she said with nervous promptness.

“Philippe what?”

Raoul, Stella's husband, had a brother Philippe.

“I am not allowed to tell you.”

“I could find ways of making you tell me.”

“Could you?” asked the girl, and seemed to become more confident; her eyes had that gleam of mockery again. “Perhaps Philippe would then find a way of making your wife do things she does not want to do.”

“The cat puts out her claws.”

“What is that?”

“Never mind.” Mannering began to lather his face, vigorously. He finished, then shaved; he had never been watched so closely while shaving in his life. He turned and shooed her out. Relief had excited him; he was almost light-hearted.

“I'm going to have a bath. Order my breakfast, please.”

“Very well. Bacon and eggs?”

“Continental breakfast,” Mannering said. “Coffee, not tea.”