The Riviera Connection (14 page)

He looked out of the window.

Not far away, Mannering saw Philippe being hustled along the drive between two gendarmes. He was cut off by a police car for a moment, then pushed into it. Flambaud climbed in beside him, and the car moved off.

“You have very little time,” Raoul said. “If you did not kill her, find out who did. To save the life of their adored Philippe, all the servants here will swear that they saw you. And Philippe”—he shrugged—”he will now be eager to tell them everything he knows.”

The old man said: “Your word would not carry against ours and that of our servants, Mannering. Nothing you can
say
will help you. Not even the jewels, which you have somewhere. I agree with Raoul. To save Philippe, I will tell the whole truth. If you did
not
kill Stella—”

“He killed her,” Raoul said bitterly. Mannering turned towards the door.

 

 

No one followed Mannering as he drove down the corniche towards Chalon. No one had taken any interest in him when he had left the house.

There was a parking space near the hotel. He pulled the Renault in beneath a tree which would keep it cool for the next two or three hours, lit a cigarette, and stared at the sea. Still no one took any notice of him, except the head waiter of the Mirage, who saw and recognised him.

Mannering got out.

“I am very glad to see you again, m'sieu,” beamed the head waiter.

“Thanks,” said Mannering. “Had to go away for a day. Urgent business.” He smiled, vaguely, and went into the hotel. The porters looked as pleased as the waiter. The lift man smiled widely, and hoped that he had had a good journey. “Very,” said Mannering.

He went along to his room, and tapped. There was no answer. He picked the lock, with as little trouble as if he had a key, and went in.

Lorna was saying from the balcony: “We're bound to hear soon.”

“Of course,” said Britten, “and starving yourself won't help him.”

Mannering reached the window.

The linen shade was down, and it was cool. The table was between the two, and Lorna's plate was hardly touched, while Britten's was empty. Lorna looked pale, and she was frowning. Otherwise she showed no sign of the ordeal. If Mannering hadn't driven so close to the hotel, she would have seen him arrive, for she was looking down at the road; hoping.

“Eating would help me, too,” Mannering murmured.

Lorna swung round in her chair. Britten half rose from his. Mannering forced gaiety into his eyes as he went forward.

He could feel the thumping of Lorna's heart; the warm softness of her body.

He heard Britten's chair scrape, and thought that Britten went off the balcony.

They stayed like that for a long time; then Lorna's body relaxed. Mannering straightened up, and leaned against the edge of the balcony. There was a film of tears in Lorna's eyes, but she had more colour now. The traffic kept up its continual dirge of sound, and beneath them there was constant movement, but up here there was only the silence and the bond which had always held them together.

“Getting hungrier?” Mannering asked dryly. He bent down and kissed her forehead. “I'm famished. What's the gloom about?”

“Don't pretend that it isn't deadly,” Lorna said. But her eyes were brighter. “I can't believe that it will go too far, but—Dick's really worried.”

“Flambaud's scared him. There wasn't any need to be scared, Flambaud isn't the man to be scared of,” Mannering went on mildly. “He's arrested Philippe. Has Dick told you about Philippe?”

Lorna said: “Yes.” But her expression answered for her. “Has Philippe—”

“He's kept quiet as far as I know,” said Mannering. “It seems to be a kind of family agreement. All for one and one for all. Did you hear that, Dick?”

Britten appeared at the windows.

“Yes, and it's serious. If they've arrested Philippe, he'll spill everything to save his own neck. You must get away, John, and leave me to sort this out.”

“Disguise myself again and disappear?” said Mannering. “Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, until it blows over.”

“There's a big snag.”

“What's that?”

“Tony's still under sentence of death. I'm now more sure than ever that he didn't steal the Gramercys. The only way out is to find the murderer. It might be wise for me to do a vanishing trick while I'm looking for him, there isn't much time.”

Britten said: “John, you were the one who decided to start this thing, you know. The moment you broke into that strong-room, you weighted the scales against yourself. It's no use crying over spilt milk, and no use blaming anyone else. The situation exists, and you've got to meet it. Your position is nearly as bad as Tony's. If Philippe swears that you were at the villa, that's it. The whole story can be pretty well substantiated. Flambaud knows you were near, on the night of the murder. Not fools, these police!” Britten didn't smile; his eyes were bleak. “I tell you that if the French police once get their maulers on you, you're going to have a bad time. They don't work our way, you know – over here you're assumed guilty until you're proved innocent. Don't let them catch you. And even when you become le Brun, don't stick your neck out. Keep away from Lorna. Work very quietly.”

Mannering said: “Where would you start working?”

Britten shrugged.

“This is a gospel of gloom,” Mannering said, and tried in vain to make himself sound flippant. “And I'm still hungry! I'll eat first and decide what to do afterwards. I'm still a long way from sure that Philippe will talk.”

“Are you?” Lorna asked. It was difficult to meet her eyes.

“Yes.”

“You know that sooner or later he'll talk,” Lorna said, almost impatiently. “The only hope is to find the murderer quickly – or hide.”

He knew just how much she hated saying that.

“And we'll move mountains to help,” Britten said.

 

Lorna lay on the bed, two square pillows behind her back, her legs drawn up. She watched Mannering as he sat at the mirror, with the make-up box on the dressing-table. He was changing in front of her eyes; changing more swiftly and in some ways more effectively than he had when he had been by himself.

It was nearly four o'clock.

Now and again, Mannering looked across at her, seeing the fear and the distress in her eyes. She hated the need for going to earth as much as he, but she was desperately afraid, and every time a car drew up outside the hotel, she glanced towards the balcony as if wondering if this were Flambaud.

Mannering worked the rubber covering over his teeth.

“Every time I see you do that, I think you're quicker.” Lorna forced herself to speak brightly. “Is the Trois Couronnes comfortable?”

“Homely's the word.”

“Darling—”

“Hm-hm.”

“I know what you feel. I've never known you say so little. It's almost as if—” she broke off.

“I've a premonition,” Mannering grinned. “Not quite as bad as that, my sweet!” But it was surprisingly near it; he felt more despondent than he could remember.

“I feel hellish about Tony. I can't just show the Gramercys to the police – it would put the rope round my neck too. So I have to find out who took them from Bernard. It might have been any of the trio at the villa, although I don't think Raoul's likely. The old man certainly is. He's one of the ruthless, amoral type, and loves jewels as if they were beautiful women. He knows himself, and he knows who killed Bernard. Stella heard him and Philippe quarrelling over the Gramercys, and that might mean—”

He broke off.

“He sounds pretty cold-blooded,” Lorna said.

“That's the Count,” agreed Mannering.

He forced a smile, finished off the disguise, and began to put the greasepaint away.

“I'll do that,” Lorna said, getting off the bed. “I want you to get off, darling, I—”

Footsteps sounded in the passage – those of two or three men. Lorna lost all her colour. Her fingers bit so deeply into Mannering's hand that they hurt.

The men passed.

“I just feel that you haven't a second to spare,” she said abruptly. “Telephone when you can, and I'll get messages to you. Don't—”

The telephone bell jarred out, making Lorna start violently. Mannering went to the bedside table, affected by her tension much more than he liked.

“Hallo?”

“Hurry,” Britten said sharply. “Flambaud and several gendarmes have just arrived. Philippe's free – some sort of alibi for the time Stella was killed.”

He rang off.

Mannering put the receiver down. Lorna seemed to sense what the news was. Mannering took her in his arms, held her for a tumultuous moment, then pushed past her. He didn't look back.

He stepped into the passage, fighting to convince himself that he was safe in the disguise. He didn't. From the moment he had left the Villa Chalon, he had felt like this – as if disaster were at his heels. There seemed no way out; no clue. If there were one, he had missed it. The obvious things, that one of the Bidots or even Lucille had killed Stella, crowded other thoughts out of his mind. He couldn't see any hope of proving that one of them had.

He knew as little about the true motives now as he had when he had left England.

He hurried down the stairs. The police were crowding into the lift when he reached the ground floor. His heart thumped as he saw Flambaud. The detective's mouth was set tightly, his chin thrust forward aggressively.

Britten was at one of the tables on the terrace. He didn't move or show any sign of recognition; it was as if he were afraid of someone penetrating the disguise. A waiter looked intently at Mannering, then away.

Two gendarmes were near Mannering's Renault; near enough to pounce if Mannering or anyone else should approach it. Mannering walked past them, fighting down the temptation to run. He gave the Citroen a miss, too. He reached the corner. No one looked after him. He walked as far as the main street, then entered a small hotel and went straight to the telephone and called the house in the rue de l'Arbre.

Lucille wasn't in.

There was a possibility, just an outside possibility, that she would be able to help; she might know something which, if disclosed, could point to the truth. But the release of Philippe worsened the situation. As he walked towards the Trois Couronnes, he found himself thinking of Raoul's obvious suspicion about his brother.
Had
there been an affair between Philippe and Stella? Was Philippe fighting desperately for his own life? Had he killed Stella? Or had Raoul? The old man?

Even Lucille killed—

Mannering reached the hotel. Madame, behind the little desk, smiled at him graciously. He went up the steep stairs. The room had been tidied, and there was a smell of lavender; some had been burnt in here recently. He dropped down into one of the old-fashioned but comfortable armchairs.

What could he do?

The one relief was that he had found this hiding place in good time. He could relax without fear that the police were on his heels. But he wanted to do more than relax, he wanted to work, to search—

He fit a cigarette.

The first thing to do was let this settle in his mind. There was still time to save Tony, but no reason for believing that he could. In the morning, he might see angles which he'd missed. Britten might see others. Lorna – the chief anxiety was Lorna. She had seemed almost too worried; desperately afraid. They had been up against it before; the shadow of death and of the gallows had loomed over him. She had never given him the impression of being so deeply afraid, almost convinced that this would be fatal.

 

 

Mannering hesitated before he went across to the telephone. Only Lorna and Britten knew that he was here. He hadn't expected a call from either of them as quickly as this. He lifted the receiver, and used the voice of le Brun to answer.

“Hallo? This is Maurice le Brun.”

“So it is Maurice le Brun,” a man said, and rang off.

There was no doubt of the sneer in the voice; no doubt that he hung up. He had a French accent, smooth, natural.

Mannering looked at the receiver stupidly, then put it down and moved away.

So someone else knew he was here.

The afternoon street was much quieter from this window. He saw two gendarmes with the white batons of traffic police, walking leisurely along the road towards the cinema; a policeman was on duty at these crossroads by day. They disappeared. There was a possibility that they were coming here, but he didn't think about it; he thought only about that man's sneering:
“So it is Maurice le Brun.”

Lucille or Philippe might have seen through the disguise, or at least guessed. Either might have set someone to watch him. It was never possible to be absolutely sure that he hadn't been followed.

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.