Held At Bay

by John Creasey

  “We shall be ‘appy always to see you, M’sieu. “

  “Et moi aussi,” said La Supreme. “A frien’ of Benedicte, M’sieu, is always welcome.”

  “For me,” said Benedicte Labolle, “I can be found here, M’sieu Baron, at most times.”

  Mannering shook hands all round, an odd feeling of mingled relief and disbelief warring in him, before Gussi showed him to the main hall. On the small floor a crowd was dancing to hot rhythm, and a few people noticed Mannering as he threaded his way between the tables. But the pert little gamine appeared at the door, and Mannering thrust a twenty franc note into her hand.

  A moment later he sat back in his cab in deep satisfaction.

  As he entered the foyer of the Hotel Bristol, the night-porter moved from his counter. Mannering did not notice the man’s expression until he was halfway to the lift. Then he saw the uncertainty and the question in the man’s eyes.

  He frowned. “What is it?”

  “M’sieu, there is a gentleman to see you.”

  “To see me? At this time of night? What name, Jean?”

  “M’sieu!” There was a message in the porter’s eyes, but none on his lips. Mannering’s guard went up instinctively. “He is in the lounge, M’sieu, and requests me to give no name. A thousand pardons, M’sieu!”

  Mannering had a mental picture of a black Peugeot and a heavy-jowled Frenchman.

  “That’s all right.” He turned towards the lounge, knowing the door was open and that the man in there could hear every word. Moreover, Jean was not the type to be nervous without good reason, and to Mannering that spelled two words.

  The police.

  Only the police would have prevented him from passing on a message.

  The police; and he had the Crown of Castile in his pocket!

  Mannering’s lips were curved as he passed into the lounge. He hesitated on the threshold as a short, clean-shaven man stood up from a settee. He was well-dressed, heavy about the chin, with a pair of keen, grey eyes that swept Mannering up and down. His lips were red and full, and he did not look at all like an agent.

  “Good evening,” said Mannering. “What can I do for you?”

  “My apologies, M’sieu.” The Frenchman bowed. “A small inquiry that I am compelled to make.”

  “It’s rather late for inquiries,” Mannering said good-humouredly, not at all like a man on guard. Actually he hardly knew what the man was saying. The Crown of Castile seemed like fire in his pocket although his tools and equipment were under the seat of a Renault taxi. He had never found it more difficult to keep his smile bright. His heart was thumping, and there was an odd, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. For French police methods were different from English. There would be no formality of a search warrant, and if the diamond was found the Baron was finished. He knew he should have left the Crown with Labolle. Confidence and satisfaction had made him careless. The little Frenchman’s eyes seemed to be probing for the truth, and seconds dragged.

  If Mannering had to run, it would be the end of life as John Mannering.

  Odd thoughts flashed through his mind. The unexpectedness of this had startled him so much that he had not been able to see the full significance. Now he saw them, and was ready for trouble.

  The Frenchman lifted his hands deprecatingly, and then slipped his fingers into his vest pocket.

  “I agree that it is late, M’sieu. But my authority, you will understand, is correct.”

  He showed the card of the Sûrété Nationale, and Mannering frowned as he eyed it.

  “The police, M’sieu Robierre? My room’s all right, isn’t it?”

  The other’s eyes flickered, and Mannering knew that he had made a good impression. The doubt that had seemed to show in the other’s face faded.

  “But yes, M’sieu. It is not anything that has happened at the hotel.”

  “Then what is it?” demanded Mannering. “And is it going to take long? If so, a drink—”

  “I shall be happy to join you,” said the detective, and Mannering knew that this was not going to be easy. He called for the porter, waving Robierre to a seat.

  “Jean, some special Courvoisier. That is to your liking, M’sieu Robierre?”

  “Admirable.” Robierre seemed in no great hurry.

  Jean brought the brandy and half filled two glasses, bowed and went out, closing the door behind him. Mannering’s eyes were gleaming as he regarded the Frenchman and inhaled the bouquet.

  “Your very good health, M’sieu. And now – what can I do for you?”

  “It is my duty, you understand? Tonight, at the house of M’sieu Pierre Panneraude, on the Champs-Elysees, there was a very daring robbery. You understand?”

  So it was the Panneraude job, and his position was acutely dangerous. Damn Bristow!

  “I do and I don’t, M’sieu Robierre. How can I help you?”

  “M’sieu Mannering, I will be frank.” Robierre’s hands were no longer moving, his body seemed tense. “Were you at the house of M’sieu Panneraude tonight?”

  Mannering stared, apparently so surprised that he could find no words. And then to Robierre’s surprise, he chuckled.

  “I certainly was not! I know the place, of course. Anyhow, what made you come to me?”

  Robierre’s hands spread out again. What would he have done, thought Mannering, had he been able to see the diamond in Mannering’s vest pocket?

  “It is difficult to explain, M’sieu Mannering. Let me endeavour. You have heard of a big English jewel thief, by name the Baron?”

  “I certainly have.”

  “Bon. Then you will know why we are anxious to make an arrest, when you learn that the Baron was at M’sieu Panneraude’s house. The description, the method of entry, everything was characteristic of him.”

  “I still don’t see where I can help,” said Mannering.

  “You will understand that we had information from Scotland Yard about the Baron. And you will understand my surprise, M’sieu, when I learned that you might be the man for whom I search.” Robierre’s voice had hardened.

  “That is absurd,” Mannering said shortly.

  “Perhaps, M’sieu. But I am informed that you are in Paris and at this hotel. Also, le Baron, he is in Paris. And I discover that you left your hotel an hour before the robbery is committed. My man, he loses you.”

  Mannering moved back from Robierre, taking a cigarette and lighting it without moving his gaze from the Frenchman.

  “So you are accusing me, M’sieu Robierre, of visiting M’sieu Panneraude’s house as the Baron. And you had the impertinence to have me followed?”

  “Reluctantly, M’sieu. I must ask you to explain your movements for this night.”

  “I see. M’sieu Robierre, I don’t wish it to be known where I have spent the evening. I do not think that the matter need interest you.”

  Robierre took half a step forward.

  “It is a matter of great interest! Particularly now. M’sieu Mannering, I must ask you to allow me to search—”

  “Don’t be a fool!” snapped Mannering. “Must I remind you that I am a British subject, under the protection of the British Consul?”

  “And I must inform you that I have this information from the English police, and that it is a matter of time only before the Consul will give me permission to do just what I wish! Meanwhile, I shall if necessary, make sure that you are locked in a room at le Commissariat de Police. My powers, they are considerable, M’sieu.”

  “Your powers would be nothing like so considerable if you make a mistake on this,” said Mannering. “It isn’t always wise to arrest an Englishman, and to be forced to admit a mistake.”

  “And I warn you, M’sieu!” Mannering knew that Robierre was feeling exactly as Bill Bristow had felt on several occasions; he believed that he had cornered the Baron, and to arrest the Baron was the dream of practically every policeman on the Continent or in England. “You will kindly permit me—”

  Mannering laughed a
gain, and Robierre stopped abruptly, hands waving quickly.

  “You are prepared to joke, perhaps.”

  “It’s funny, M’sieu! I was anxious to see just how far you would go, and I’ll have a word with the Commissioner of Scotland Yard, for it is very annoying. Does anyone but your department know you are here?”

  Robierre’s voice was sharp.

  “Only the porter. But understand, M’sieu, that—”

  “I’m not threatening to cause you trouble,” said Mannering easily. His voice became confidential. “I’m anxious that this evening’s interview shouldn’t be broadcast. You will understand, M’sieu, that I do not want it known that since twelve o’clock, until half an hour ago, I was at the Cabaret des Belles Femmes. I can offer good evidence of an intimate kind, and I am prepared to give it. But—no word to the Press, M’sieu!”

  Robierre’s eyes were narrowed now, but with a smile. Mannering had appealed to the romantic who lurked in every Frenchman.

  “I understand. No word shall pass, if you can prove this.”

  “Go to the place and inquire,” said Mannering.

  “You understand, you will not leave the hotel until I return?”

  “Of course,” said the Baron.

  Robierre bowed, and turned away. Even as he left the lounge, the Baron’s sixth sense of danger was highly sensitive. Were there others nearby? Was the surveillance as thorough as it had been in London, with the added disadvantage that he did not know the man he was dealing with, nor the powers of the Paris police?

  He followed Robierre, meeting Jean in the foyer.

  “M’sieu, c’est terrible! M’sieu L’lnspecteur, he has left others to watch. What has happened, M’sieu Mannering?”

  “We all make mistakes,” smiled the Baron, “and Robierre has made a big one. Jean, there’s to be no mention of this to anyone else.”

  “I am silent, M’sieu, as always.”

  “I’ll go up myself, Jean, and when M’sieu Robierre calls again, I’ll be in my room. He has gone to make sure that I was at the Cabaret des Belles Femmes.”

  Understanding flooded through the porter’s mind, and his smile was more free.

  “Mais oui, M’sieu, it is understood! I will telephone when M’sieu Robierre is on the way.”

  “Thanks,” said the Baron, and he reached the automate lift. He went up to the second floor and unlocked the door, relocked it and turned round.

  Facing him was Anita de Castilla, a gaily-coloured wrap thrown loosely over primrose yellow pyjamas. Fear was vivid in her eyes.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Complications

  The Baron could hardly believe the fact that Anita was here. He stood still for a few seconds. She seemed afraid to speak, and Mannering forced words out. The Crown of Castile had to be safely hidden before Robierre’s return, but he had to know what had happened to Anita.

  “Do you always call as late as this?” he said.

  Anita’s body seemed to melt and before he realised it she was in front of him, her arms about him tightly and her lovely face upturned.

  “John, something terrible has happened. You—you must help, you must!”

  “If anyone can help,” said the Baron, easing her arms away and moving towards a settee.

  She refused to release him altogether, and Mannering could feel her slim, soft limbs pressed close to his. Her imperiousness and coquettishness were gone, and Mannering knew she trusted him implicitly. It was pleasant to be trusted, but she was temptingly lovely.

  He pushed the thought aside as he offered her cigarettes.

  “What is it, then?” he asked.

  She took a cigarette, and broke it in half between her twitching fingers.

  “John – you will not be angry if I tell you?”

  “I’ll start the story. I came over today because Juan told me that you had come to try to steal the Crown, with young Lenville. I’ve been watching you, just to make sure that you didn’t do anything too foolish. So you see, you weren’t neglected.”

  “So you know!” She was wildly excited. “Then it is easier for you to understand! Teddy went to Panneraude’s house and tried to get the Crown—oh, fool that I was! I rang him again and again, but there has been trouble. Teddy is in such trouble. The police know of the burglary and are seeking him. John – it was I, not Teddy. I sent him there.

  He must not go to prison or—”

  “Steady on,” interrupted Mannering. He stood up, a dozen conflicting thoughts in his mind. He looked down on her pale cheeks thrown into vivid relief by her dark hair, her red lips open a little, glistening, white teeth just showing. The flawless lines of her throat, the provocative swell of her breasts, could easily go to a man’s head. Mannering made himself concentrate on the entreaty in her eyes.

  There was one leading question: who had telephoned her, telling her that Lenville was in trouble?

  Unless Granette had been lying all the time, Lenville had not been near Panneraude’s place. But Granette had tried once to compromise Anita, and he would probably try again. In fact Granette had telephoned her, getting her into this frenzy; there would have to be a showdown before long.

  For the moment the urgent need was to get Anita back to her room.

  “You don’t know who phoned you?”

  “No, he gave no name. It was a friend—”

  “It was a liar,” said Mannering. “I’ve had a man watching Panneraude’s house all the evening and although there was trouble, Lenville wasn’t concerned.”

  “Dios! Someone lied to me? John, are you sure?”

  “I tell you that I had a private detective watching the house, to stop Lenville trying to get in.”

  “Then this man, your detective, he stopped Teddy?”

  “I expect so.” Mannering could not disillusion Anita just then, for Lenville obviously meant more to her than anyone had thought.

  “Then where is Teddy? And why should a man tell me—”

  “I promise you there’s no need to worry about Lenville, and that the police will never know he was anywhere near Panneraude’s place. I don’t know that you deserve it—”

  “And why?” She was up in arms at once.

  “Because it was a foolish thing to do, Anita. If anything had happened to make the police charge you, what would Juan and your father have felt? What made you do it?”

  She shrugged those slim shoulders, her eyes smouldering.

  “The Crown, it is ours—mine! All my life I have loved that stone, and when I knew the Baron, he was after it, I was angry. And I would do it again!”

  The Baron bent down and took her wrists in his fingers. He lifted her slowly towards him from the settee.

  “I daresay you would, whether Lenville went to prison for it and the others suffered hell. It’s time to grow up, Anita!”

  “You deliberately insult me!” All her pride was in her voice, and she strained away from him.

  “It’s just the truth,” said Mannering, “but I love you for it.” Love? She was utterly desirable, and he had to force himself to go on: “If you’re not back in your room quickly there’ll be trouble. I’ve some friends coming up. If they find the daughter of Don Manuel y Alvarez de Castilla in a bachelor’s Paris room at two-thirty in the morning—”

  “What do I care?” she flashed. She squeezed his hand. “All right, I will hurry back.”

  “Where’s your room?”

  “On the next floor.”

  “I’ll come as far as the stairs,” said Mannering. “Pull that wrap closer.”

  For the first time she realised that her dressing-gown had been gaping. She coloured as Mannering opened the door, and was still flushed when she reached the stairs and sped upwards. At her landing she waved back.

  Mannering turned, glancing down the two flights of stairs near his rooms, and the lift shaft. There was no one in sight, which meant that Robierre’s men were concentrating on preventing him from leaving the Bristol, not watching his room. Half an hour had passed sinc
e Robierre had gone, and he would want no more than an hour. The Crown of Castile was still burning a hole in Mannering’s pocket, but his lips curved as he thought of what Anita might have said had she realised that her heart had been so close to the diamond.

  There was nowhere in the hotel rooms where he could safely leave the stone. He thought of the bathroom fittings and dismissed them as impracticable. The police here were as expert as Scotland Yard at searching, and the grilles would be the first places to be examined.

  A glance round his rooms as he entered them again made him scowl. It was obvious that they had been searched already; that Robierre had paid a visit before Mannering had returned. That probably explained the porter’s anxiety. Was it worth assuming that Robierre, with the alibi confirmed, would not trouble to search again?

  A soft breeze coming through the partly-open window changed the trend of his thoughts. He reached the window in two strides and pulled it wide open. The shutters and the frames were of the conventional French type, and there was a small verandah outside little more than a yard wide. He stepped out, looking down over the narrow street below. Dingy buildings, dark and shadowy, yet with a silver sky above them, were opposite.

  The Baron had asked for a back room, knowing that it would be quieter than one facing a main boulevard, and it was going to serve him in good stead. Upwards, the building stretched for another five storeys, with small verandahs jutting out from the wall. These were directly beneath each other, and shaped masonry ran in parallel, vertical lines from roof to foundation: the verandahs were built between each pile.

  The Baron glanced quickly right and left, satisfying himself that the only light was coming from the street lamps. No one was likely to see him. He stepped to the edge of his verandah, stretching his arms towards the jutting pillars.

  He could touch them with the palms of his hands and get a good hold. His heart was racing, but with exhilaration.

  This kind of danger was like heady wine. He gripped the pillars and swung from the verandah. His whole weight came on to his arms and shoulders, but he was prepared for it. For a moment he hung swinging over the street, with a sheer drop of sixty feet to the concrete below.