The Riviera Connection

The Riviera Connection

 

First published in 1953

© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1953-2012

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

 

The right of John Creaseyto be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

 

This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

 

Typeset by House of Stratus.

 

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

 

 

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

 

www.houseofstratus.com

 

 

 

John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as
Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron
.

Creasy wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

 

Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

 

Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the
One Party Alliance
which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

He also founded the
British Crime Writers' Association
, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing.
The Mystery Writers of America
bestowed upon him the
Edgar Award
for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate
Grand Master Award
. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

 

 

The man at the safe worked swiftly but without haste. His hands, the fingers tipped with adhesive plaster, manipulated the tools deftly, easily. It was an old safe. It would have been quicker to blow it, but that would have roused everyone in the flat and most people in the building.

The burglar worked on . . .

Light from a torch with a large broad beam shone on the black safe and the gilt lettering on it. The shadows of the man's fingers showed against it sometimes; or the exaggerated shape of a tool. The burglar made little noise.

A clock struck. One . . . two . . . three.

The man paused and stood up, looking at his hands. The palms were creased with sweat; the plaster at the tips of the fingers was dirty. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead, then walked across the room towards the window.

This flat was high up, on the third floor of the building – an old house on the outskirts of London, converted into three flats. The dark shape of a car showed just inside the gateway; so did the lawns and the flower beds.

Everywhere was quiet.

The man took out a hip flask, unscrewed the cap, and swallowed; swallowed again, and screwed the cap on firmly.

He took out cigarettes, lit one from a lighter, and then went back to the safe. As he bent down on one knee, the shadows of his hands appeared.

Metal scraped on metal; the dexterous twists of his fingers grew more rapid. The cigarette burned down and ash curled and then fell to the floor. Sweat beaded the man's forehead.

There was a sharp click at the lock of the safe.

He exclaimed aloud, in satisfaction; his eyes glowed.

He turned the handle and pulled; the door began to open.

He had worn a scarf over his nose and mouth at first, but that had dropped round his neck. He didn't pull it up, even now that he had finished smoking. He opened the door wide, and looked inside.

There were several jewel-cases, some wads of pound notes, bundles of papers, oddments. He took the notes and stuffed them into his pocket, then took out one of the cases and opened it.

The light seemed to increase tenfold; brilliance leapt into the room, fiery darts shooting out from the diamonds which lay against black velvet.

The man's eyes were aglow with excitement. He knelt there, staring as if the diamonds numbed him. The scintillating beauty blinded him to everything else until, suddenly, he closed the case – and it snapped.

He looked round at the door; the snap of the case had been too loud. But he did not need to worry. There was only the man and his daughter in the flat, and there was the whole width of the hall between the bedrooms and this room.

Only a fool would keep jewels like this in his own flat and in a safe made fifty years ago. Dealers
were
fools.

The burglar was grinning; nervous tension gripped him.

He opened four more cases; there were rubies, emeralds and sapphires, but no more diamonds. He did not linger over the other stones, but slipped each case into a pocket; all his pockets bulged.

He began to collect the tools and stuff them into a canvas roll, lying unrolled on the floor in front of him.

The clock struck the half-hour as he picked up the roll and began to fasten it round his waist.

The door opened.

In that swift, bewildering moment, light flooded the room, shone on to the burglar's face, showing every feature clearly – good features in a pale, startled face. In the doorway stood a man, wearing pyjamas, carrying a poker.

The tool-kit dropped to the floor.

“That's stopped your little game,” the newcomer said. His voice was hoarse, his hair dishevelled; his grey eyes looked very bright. “Stand up!”

The burglar stood up by the side of the open safe, his foot touching the tool-kit. The other man moved forward, raising the poker.

“Turn round, and—”

The burglar dropped his right hand to his pocket, and snatched out a gun. Some jewels fell as he did so. The man in the doorway leapt forward with poker raised. The gun roared twice. Bullets tore into the chest of the man with the poker. A foot away from the burglar, he stopped, reared upwards, and clutched at his chest. He made funny little sounds deep in his throat. Blood appeared between his fingers.

He pitched forward.

The burglar moved back, to avoid his victim's body. He thrust the gun into his pocket, snatched up the kit, and peered round. He ignored the small jewels on the floor. His eyes looked different, his manner was different; there was fear in him. He saw nothing that he'd dropped, and tried to think. Now, he'd tidied everything up. He could—

A girl screamed.

The sound tore through the burglar's body much as the bullets had torn through flesh and bone. His heart gave a wild leap.

The girl was in the hall. Obviously she had just crept there from her bedroom. She was small, and very young; twelve, he knew. She had long fair hair and wore green pyjamas which were too small for her. Her enormous eyes looked like pools of blue flame.

She screamed again.

The man snatched at his gun, but fumbled. His movement, perhaps his expression, galvanised the child into action. She sprang towards another door – the door of the flat which led to the staircase – and disappeared.

The man leapt forward, but kicked against the outstretched hand of the man he had shot. He tripped. He was frightened and had lost his nerve. He banged against the room door, and hurt his knee and his hand.

Another door slammed.

The man rushed forward, swearing viciously. The landing door was closed. He hurried forward and opened it, and heard the girl running down the stairs and screaming: “Help! Help! Help!” The man thought he heard another sound, of a male voice. He stopped, swung back into the room, and closed and locked the door. Then he went to the window out of which he had looked at three o'clock. Nothing had changed; the dark shape of the car, of the lawns and flower beds, all were there.

He flung open the window, and began to climb out. There was a rope, hanging down, and nearby were drainpipes and window sills. He went down, holding on to the rope, which he had fastened on to a drain-pipe earlier, to meet such an emergency as this. He held on to the rope with both hands, and kept his feet against the wall.

Half-way down, a light flashed on from a window near him.

It fell on to his face, and there was nothing he could do about it. He actually saw into a room. A man was getting out of bed, naked except for a pair of pyjama trousers. A woman, her dark hair tousled, was leaning up on one elbow. Her mouth was open.

The man went out of the room.

“Fred!” the woman cried.

The burglar did not think she had seen him. He went on down as swiftly as he could, and reached the ground. He stood quite still for a moment, fighting for breath.

Lights appeared at other windows.

The burglar took out his gun and held it tightly as he went towards the little car, which was pointing towards the road. He made no sound as he got in, and didn't close the door properly; it needed slamming. He started the engine. Then he thought he heard a shot, but couldn't be sure. He eased off the brake, the car nosed towards the road. Once on it, he trod on the accelerator, and swung towards the right, the main road, and London; the easiest city in the world to get lost in. The engine roared. He didn't look out or upwards, or he would have seen faces at the windows of the flats.

Inside, the man wearing pyjama trousers was on the second floor landing, with a neighbour from the bottom floor, and the girl. She had stopped screaming, but was shivering uncontrollably. The men couldn't get a word out of her.

The tousled woman reached the landing, took the girl in her arms, and said: “Betty, don't worry, tell me what it is.”

The girl shivered and shook, and there was horror in her eyes. She did not attempt to speak.

“I don't like this,” one of the men said.

“Go and find out!” screeched the woman. “Go on, Fred!”

The two men, one with a dressing-gown on, started upstairs. On the top landing was the closed door, and nothing to guide them. They put their shoulders to the door, and it creaked; at the third attempt, it swung open.

Lights were on, and the shot man lay crumpled up on the floor, lying in his own blood.

“Look . . . at
that,”
Fred said huskily.

“He looks—”

“Better dial 999,” said Fred, hitching up his pyjama trousers. “I'll see if I can do anything for him.”

He went towards the fallen man, and knelt beside him. He touched the outflung arm and hand, but it wasn't necessary to move the victim. Death spoke silently. He heard the ting of the telephone bell, and the dialling sound, and then his neighbour giving the address – Old Manor, Rickham, Surrey. The bell tinged again. The neighbour turned towards him.

“They're coming. Is there—” he broke off.

“Not a hope,” muttered the man named Fred. “Must have been instantaneous. Ghastly business. Ghastly for that kid downstairs.”

Downstairs, Betty was still shivering, although now she lay in the neighbour's bed, with clothes piled on her. The distracted woman with tousled hair tried to make her talk, tried to drive horror away.