by John Creasey
His man pushed at it gently.
The Baron heard a second heavy breath, almost a sigh of satisfaction, and although he could see nothing he knew that the door was opening.
The shadowy figure moved forward into the strong room, but the Baron went after him quickly. He took the pressure of the door lightly on his fingers, hearing the soft shuffle of the other’s footsteps across the floor as he did so.
He pushed gently on the door, and two things met his eyes in a flash.
A beam of light was stabbing towards a big safe by the left-hand wall; and the man’s silhouette was sharper against the dim glow.
It was not Granette.
The shoulders were too broad, sloping to very slim hips, and no trick of light could have explained away the dissimilarity. There was a third man after Panneraude’s jewels.
The Baron entered the room stealthily, making no squeak on the polished parquet floor. With his right hand outstretched and holding the gas-pistol, he pushed at the heavy door with his left. As it closed, leaving no gap through which the light could be seen by anyone outside, he stood waiting.
His lips were curving with wry humour as he wondered what this man’s reaction would be when he discovered he had company. Gradually, admiration filled the Baron’s mind. He had seen the lock of the safe several times, and had been prepared to spend fifteen minutes in opening it. The man by the safe took five.
Again the Baron heard a sigh of satisfaction as the clicking of the tools stopped. The safe door was open! He took another step forward, but this time his foot squeaked a little on the parquet floor. He spoke suddenly in French, softly and gutturally.
“Stop right there!”
The words must have sent the other’s heart rocketing. For a split second there was no move, the silence seemed deeper. Then the man turned about with a speed that startled the Baron, but did not make him lose his presence of mind.
“Nom de Dieu! Je—”
“And don’t talk!” snapped the Baron, his gun glinting in the light from the other’s torch. “Do as I tell you, or this will go off.”
He could see the man clearly now, and respected the size of those shoulders. He could not see the expression on the face behind the mask, but he saw the convulsive movement of the other’s right hand; this would be no walk-over. As the thought entered his head, the other leapt, heedless of the gun. He came straight at the Baron, who touched the trigger of the pistol.
Labolle’s knife flashed, and missed Mannering’s face by inches.
The Frenchman gasped, reared up, and reeled backwards as the gas caught him. Mannering made a quick move to stop him from falling heavily, but he was too late. The other cracksman went to the floor with a thud that seemed to shake the walls. The Baron bent over the man, and dragged him quickly away from the door of the safe, listening intently, for the alarm might start at any minute. He hardly thought of the simplicity of his task – no open sesame could have been easier – as he pulled the safe door wide. He would stop at the slightest sound from outside or below stairs, but he worked swiftly, confidently, while the chance was there.
He took the cases of gems and forced the locks with a screwdriver, then ran his eyes over the stones. Most of them were diamonds, Panneraude’s speciality, their lambent fires sparkling beneath the light of the torch.
The Baron put them aside, one after the other, searching for the Crown. He knew that he would recognise it at once, but he was gnawing with impatience, for he wanted to be away with the jewel in his pocket and the danger behind him.
He had to force a dozen cases before finding his objective.
The Crown of Castile, resting against dark velvet, shone with a fiery splendour that almost took his breath away. He stared transfixed for a moment: then his lips curved and the tension relaxed, as he pocketed it quickly.
The raid was nearly over.
But to take only one stone would be to focus all the publicity and police investigation on it. He slipped half a dozen others into his pocket, and turned to the outstretched man on the floor, practically in one movement.
He had been prepared for the gas to put the other right out for ten minutes. Five had gone when he shone his torch into the heavy, ugly face of the French cracksman. Frowning, he pulled the eyelids back with his fingertips, and then he scowled.
The man would be unconscious for much longer than five minutes.
The other had burgled Panneraude’s house, and must have known the consequences of discovery and capture; yet he could not have allowed for the Baron’s presence, and there were things the Baron could not do. To leave the man here, a sitting bird for anyone who came, was one of them. But the prospect of getting outside burdened by an unconscious man, was a grim one. All the same, he reached his decision quickly. The man’s heavy shoulders suggested great weight, but he was shorter than the average and with surprisingly thin hips. Mannering hoisted him to his feet, bent down and slung him over his shoulder, fireman fashion. He was heavy, but not cumbersome.
The Baron left the strong room, closing the door behind him quietly. By the time he reached the head of the stairs the unconscious crook seemed twice as heavy, and Mannering supported him against the floor, to take the strain off his shoulders.
Still there was no sound, no suggestion that anyone had heard the noise. The Baron’s smile was set behind his mask as he bent to take the strain again, and there was a buoyancy in his heart.
Then, with a suddenness that dazzled him, the lights of the landing and the hall came on!
Standing there half-blinded, with the burglar over his shoulders and his right hand tight about the gas-pistol, Mannering felt a sudden rush of fear. That had been no accident: someone had heard him.
If he could only see …
He narrowed his eyes against the glare, hearing and seeing nothing until the voice came from below stairs. It was the harsh voice of Pierre Panneraude, a big, top-heavy Parisian, whose short, waxed moustache seemed absurd on his round, flaccid face. Mannering saw him in a blur at first, shapeless and monstrous, but as his eyes grew more normal he saw the revolver in Panneraude’s fat hand.
The collector was dressed in a drab dressing-gown flung over bright yellow pyjamas, and his sparse hair was ruffled to an absurd peak above his forehead. But he looked and sounded wide awake, speaking very deliberately in French.
“Drop that man, and put your hands up.”
The Baron did not move, but stood there, his face expressionless behind his mask, his ears alert for the slightest other sound or threat of danger. Perhaps only Panneraude had been disturbed. As tension eased a little, Panneraude’s voice came again, harsh and menacing.
“Obey me! Unless you do—” He motioned his gun, and the Baron believed he would shoot without a second warning. The Baron drew a deep breath and bent forward, as though about to obey. But the idea was coursing through his mind even then, the one gamble that might yet save him.
He brought every muscle in his body to play as he straightened up. The unfortunate crook on his shoulders went hurtling over his head, towards Panneraude.
Panneraude saw his danger.
He bellowed at the top of his voice, the cry echoing about the hall and landing, and at the same moment he touched the trigger of his gun.
The report was like a thunder-clap. Mannering saw the flash of yellow flame and heard the dull thud as the bullet met the flying man’s body; then the two crashed.
Panneraude went staggering backwards, the gun dropping from his fingers. Mannering saw them both thud to the floor, as he was going downwards.
He was halfway down the stairs when Panneraude reached his knees. The big man’s eyes were glittering, but he was too winded by the impact to do much. The Baron’s victim was lying very still and quiet on the carpeted floor. Mannering saw the ominous red on the man’s chest, but could not be sure how serious the wound was.
He was sure that the rest of the household had been roused now. Excited voices, pitched on a higher key than usual, were
getting rapidly nearer. A woman was shrieking: “Sacré Dieu!” at the top of her voice, time and time again, a man with a shrill falsetto was shouting at her to be quiet as he rushed down the upper flight of stairs.
All of this came to the Baron’s ears as he reached Panneraude. The jewel-collector was still on his knees, but this was no moment for observing the Queensberry rules.
Mannering swung a savage right to Panneraude’s jaw, all that was needed to send the man backwards.
There was no danger now from Panneraude, but were the others too many for him? The Baron was sweating, yet he felt very cold.
He swung round, the thudding of footsteps close behind him. He saw the man with the squeaky voice, a wispy fellow in a long nightgown. He leapt in, rapping a left to the man’s stomach and bringing his face forward, the bright eyes suddenly wide with fear. A touch of the gas-pistol trigger fired the second charge, and the man crumpled up.
At the head of the stairs the fat woman, her nightdress stretched taut over mighty breasts, stared downwards in terror. Mannering could see her quivering, her eyes dilating. He took two jumps towards the stairs. As he went the woman turned shrieking towards the passages above. From them came the sound of other men’s voices, and the stamping of feet.
The Baron was more worried about the outside now.
He moved towards the front door, seeing that he could unchain and unlock it in a few seconds. His fingers were steady as he pulled the door open.
And then he stepped back, aghast.
Not a yard from him was a little gendarme, a white truncheon swinging, bright eyes ablaze.
“What is it, M’sieu? What is it?”
The Baron regained the control that he had almost lost. That urgent question saved him, for obviously the gendarme would not expect trouble from a man who opened the front door.
“A thief!” the Baron cried. “He ran upstairs, upstairs! You will be in time, the servants are after him!”
The gendarme, with no reason for doubt, rushed into the hall. Mannering clipped him sharply and precisely behind the ear as he passed. Another victim of the Baron’s that night pitched forward on his face, thudding into Panneraude, while the Baron swung round towards the wounded thief.
The idea in his mind was madness, but there were times when the Baron was mad. After this shambles, anyone who was caught would have a crushing sentence; the man who had opened the safe for him deserved a better fate.
The crowd of servants were at the head of the stairs, but the gun in Mannering’s hand held them back.
“Keep quiet!” He still spoke in fluent French. “If anyone moves, I’ll shoot to kill.”
No one knew that only one charge of gas was in the pistol and that was useless at a distance of more than three or four feet. Still training it on them, Mannering bent down. He managed to lift the Frenchman to his shoulder with one arm, straightened up, swore at the servants, then took the only chance. But the odds were heavily against him.
He swung round, disregarding the possibility that any of the servants carried guns, and dashed for the front door. Only the light of the moon, lovely and translucent over the Champs-Elysees was ahead, so no one else had been disturbed. The grounds outside were extensive, thank God!
Mannering slammed the door behind him, haste his only concern now. The bang shattered the silence, but Mannering hardly heard it as he moved as fast as he could. He turned right, towards the side gate, for along the Champs-Elysees there was a greater risk of running into other gendarmes and passers-by.
Mannering opened the gate, and then he stopped dead still, his mind a strange medley of fear and hope.
He had entered by that gate twenty minutes before, and there had been no car nearby. Now a Renault taxi was standing there and the driver near it, a smallish man in drab grey. The Baron saw his eyes widen at sight of the body over his shoulder, and he dived for his gas-pistol.
Before he drew it out the driver spoke in sharp, streaming French, his hands moving expressively.
“Nom de Dieu, what happened? Is he dead?”
The vital importance of the words flashed through Mannering’s mind as they tumbled upon each other. This was an accomplice of the unconscious thief ’s. He must have hired a French cabby to get him away when the burglary was over, or else he always worked with an accomplice. Relief flooded through him as he answered breathlessly. “I don’t think so. Hurry!”
“Mais oui, mais oui!” The cabby asked no questions, but climbed into his seat as Mannering opened the door of the back and bundled the unconscious thief inside. Mannering followed quickly, banging the door behind him.
As its tinny echo rang up and down the Rue de Balzac the side door of Panneraude’s house opened, and light streamed from it, yellow against the darkness. High and clear through the night shrilled the imperative blast of the gendarme’s whistle.
“Sacré Dieu!” muttered the driver, in a sudden panic.
Mannering bumped back against the roof, his foot catching the unconscious man’s head. The driver let in the clutch, found his gears with a rasp, and trod on the accelerator so heavily that the car lurched forward in a series of short jerks. But it steadied, and Mannering’s tension eased. He had no love for reckless driving, but for once in his life he was glad of the Paris cabby’s indifference to danger. No one would think twice about a taxi squealing round corners and ignoring the speed limit.
The Renault raced along the Rue de Balzac towards the Chateaubriand, and then turned right, rattling all the time. For the first five minutes Mannering did not notice their direction, he was busy first easing his victim to a seat, and then trying to find out how badly hurt he was.
The man was still breathing, and the Baron saw quickly the wound was too high up to be fatal. Now he had a choice; he could force the cabby to stop, and jump off near to the Bristol; or he could follow the affair of the wounded cracksman to its end.
The cab was travelling fast and the driver obviously meant to get as far away from the scene of the robbery as he could; there was a lot to be said for staying. Also, there were plenty of night haunts in the Bastille quarter—
Where he now knew they were heading – of a kind which would come in useful. He knew several of them, and he could slip into one, tidy himself up, and mix with the crowd. He would be recognised, and it would give him something of an alibi.
He decided to wait to the end of the journey, but it passed through his mind that with the jemmy and his other tools he would look stiff and awkward when he moved.
He had the folding jemmy in his pocket, and his tool-belt about his waist. His first temptation was to throw them out of the window, but they might be picked up quickly and give a clue to the route that the car had taken.
The alternative was obvious. It was awkward in the darkness and with the unconscious crook there, but he squeezed over to one side and raised one end of the leather-covered seat. There was a tray beneath, with two or three oily rags. The Baron undid his waistband, and dropped it with the jemmy into the tray. When the cabby found them he would drop them into the Seine as though they were red hot.
The terminus of the journey could not have suited him better.
He saw the name Cabaret des Belles Femmes in neon lighting outside a small building, with narrow passages running along either side. A dozen people were idling outside, and several taxis were waiting. As his cab pulled into one of the alleys, a man and woman in evening dress came from the Cabaret.
The taxi jolted to a standstill, and the driver jumped out and pulled open Mannering’s door. His rapid French was difficult to follow, but Mannering managed it.
“Quickly,” he snapped. “We will carry him together.”
Here was an alibi ready-made if it should be needed. The other cracksman had obviously taken a lot of trouble to prepare one – that savoured of Granette – and there was no reason why Mannering should not take advantage of it.
“All right,” he said.
He went through a small door at the side of th
e hall, supporting the unconscious man’s shoulders, with the cabby holding the feet. Another narrow passage, probably behind the stage, stopped at a closed door. The cabby butted it with his head, and a moment later Mannering was putting the body on a couch in an empty room.
The taxi man was smiling now, full of gestures and self-satisfaction. He was also waiting for something. Mannering slipped his fingers into his wallet and he rustled a hundred franc note. The cabby’s beam proved that it was more than he had expected, and with a low bow and an expressive “Merci, M’sieu!” he went out. Crime was cheap in Paris.
Mannering sat down, feeling suddenly tired.
There he was, perched on a rickety chair in one of the dressing-rooms of the Cabaret des Belles Femmes, with an unconscious French criminal next to him, and without the slightest idea of who was expecting the man – unless it was Granette.
Well, his French and his wits would have to see him through, but he wished the thief would come round.
The wish was granted, for soon the broad-shouldered Frenchman grunted and opened his eyes; they were dark blue and expressive. He was still wearing his mask, but Mannering’s had been off some time. Mannering saw the other’s eyes wide, saw him draw back on the couch and glance swiftly round the room. Then in expressive bastard French he said: “Sapristi! You are still here!”
“I’m here,” agreed the Baron, watching for a single false move. He would have been paying particular attention to the man’s right hand had he known it was Labolle, and had he an inkling of Labolle’s reputation with a knife.
But the next words set his pulse racing, and he hardly noticed the glitter in the Frenchman’s eyes. The words seemed loaded with venom, but not a venom directed towards the Baron.
“And Granette – he send vous aussi. Yes?”
Chapter Fifteen
Labolle Talks
Mannering hardly knew why the words came as such a surprise. He had been convinced Granette had inspired the other’s burglary, yet the confirmation came in such an odd way. Had Granette sent the Baron to Panneraude’s house?