The Riviera Connection (13 page)

 

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.

“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.”

“I almost believe you are right.” The Count looked very old as he sat back in the chair, his frail hands moving on the polished surface of the desk; but he was admiring, and he mattered. “I almost believe that we have made a mistake, that you know nothing about the murder.”

“Don't let him make a fool of you,” Philippe growled.

“Either the two murders were connected, and one was the consequence of the other, or Stella was killed for a completely different reason from Bernard,” Mannering said. “If we could find the motive, we could probably find the killer. I want to find Bernard Dale's killer because an innocent man might be hanged for the murder. The reason for Dale's murder looked obvious at the time – robbery with violence. The killer stole the Gramercy jewels, remember. Who did you buy them from, M. le Comte?”

“An associate in Paris,” the old man said frankly. “Neither he nor I worries
how
we get the jewels, provided we get them. Yes, I am quite shameless. I did not kill. But I think it is a waste of time trying to prove that the two murders had connected motives. If you did not kill Stella—” he looked from one nephew to the other, spread his hands over the desk. “All I know is that I did not.”

Finding out from whom he had bought the jewels was vital for Tony; but making him talk would have to come later.

After a long pause, Raoul said: “Philippe, have you talked to Lucille about this?”

“No, and I will not!”

Raoul shrugged.

Mannering said: “Philippe and Lucille were the only two of you here on the night that Stella was killed, if you're satisfied that none of the servants was concerned.”

“The police are fully satisfied that they knew nothing about it,” de Chalon said.

“You are the great detective, Mannering,” Philippe jeered.
“You
find out. You find a way of proving that it wasn't you.”

“That's exactly what I mean to do,” Mannering said.

“One of you killed her. Or Lucille. Or an unknown. I'll find out who it was before I've finished.” He swung round and went towards the door, unlocked it, and went out.

He was half-way across the hall when the front door opened. The maid glanced over her shoulder at him, as Flambaud stepped through.

Mannering had heard no ringing, had not dreamed that the policeman was here. He stood quite still. Flambaud moved in slowly, and there were two policemen with him. He held his hands clasped together just in front of his stomach, and there was a glint in his half-closed eyes.

“Ah, M. Mannering, so we meet again!” he said, and strode past him into the library.

One of the gendarmes stopped, and Mannering turned and went back. Flambaud waited until the two gendarmes were in the room, then moved briskly across to Philippe.

“So,” he said. “M. le Comte, I am sorry to cause you such distress. M. Raoul, I could wish that my duty was much more pleasant.” He slid his hand into and out of his pocket; handcuffs glinted. “It is my duty to arrest M. Philippe Bidot. A passing motorist, of his acquaintance, has just come forward to say he saw him leaving these grounds late on the night of the murder. I have checked at his garage, and his car was out till two o'clock. Yet he lied and said he had never left home. He sometimes uses a motor-cycle, which was seen here, also. Take him away,” he said to the gendarmes.

They took Philippe by the arms and started for the door.

He thrust them aside, a swift movement which caught them by surprise. Even Flambaud was startled. Philippe made for the door, as a gendarme out there yelled: “Stop, there, stop!”

The other two were rushing towards the door, Flambaud after them. There was a thud in the hall, then the crash of breaking glass.

Mannering didn't move, but Raoul and the old man ran towards the door.

Through the window, Mannering saw Philippe racing across the garden, with police streaming after him. Flambaud made a bad fourth. Philippe disappeared behind an outcrop of rock, and the sound of thudding footsteps faded.

Mannering waited for the old man and Raoul to come back.

Raoul said: “We shall have to tell the police everything, Uncle, if they do not release Philippe, if there should appear to be any danger that he will be convicted.” Hatred smouldered in his eyes. “I do not think you have much time, Mannering. Whatever it costs us, even if my uncle's freedom and the family's good name are lost, we shall save Philippe's life.”