The Riviera Connection

by John Creasey

  A porter and two waiters were at the imposing entrance, looking as if they were anxious to vindicate the taxi driver’s claim. The Mannerings went in, and two boys and an old porter took their luggage from the boot of the taxi. Soon, they had a fourth floor room at the front corner of the hotel. A balcony overlooked the bay on one side, and on the other, the headland which they had just driven down. From here, it looked peaceful.

  Tips were distributed, everything signed and settled, and Lorna and Mannering stepped on to the balcony and looked towards the headland.

  “I wonder which is Chalon’s villa,” Lorna said, without enthusiasm.

  “It’s that large white one high up on the headland – Stella pointed it out to me when I was over here before. It’s floodlit at night.”

  “You haven’t any second thoughts, or anything like that?” Lorna asked.

  Mannering said with forced lightness: “Not yet, my sweet, but you never know.”

  He knew what was in her mind, knew that she almost certainly repented her mood of the night before. She would soon be asking herself why he should take wild and dangerous steps for people whom he knew only slightly.

  If she had asked him, he could not have answered or explained the driving force which compelled him.

  “John,” Lorna said, after a pause.

  “Hm-hm?”

  “You could have found out a lot about the villa if you’d asked Stella Dale.”

  “And told her that I was coming here.”

  “She’ll guess, anyway.”

  “She won’t have the faintest idea that I propose to burgle the place,” Mannering said calmly. “Her husband is due to join her in London tonight, remember, and with the Count they’re planning to stay there for two or three days. There are only servants and Raoul’s brother Philippe at the house. I wouldn’t rate it the biggest risk I’ve taken.”

  “You’ve no idea where they keep the jewels, what precautions they take, whether there’s a strong-room.”

  “I’m going to find out,” Mannering said, and kissed her lightly. “Stop worrying, my sweet.”

  It was like telling her to stop breathing.

  The head waiter, subtly prompted, was eager to talk about the Comte de Chalon. There was no better position near Chalon than M. le Comte’s villa. After all, it was at the highest spot of the corniche. One reached the spot where all the coaches and sightseers stopped, and close by was the private road leading to the villa. He was a wonderful man.

  The poor of Chalon, of Nice, of the whole coast and for many miles inland had cause to bless the name of M. le Comte. He was very rich and so generous – a prince of generosity. Thousands owed their lives to him, men, women and children. He was their saint.

  Mannering became very thoughtful.

  Dinner was superb . . .

  At half-past nine, a smart young man brought a smart new Renault to the door. Mannering signed a hire agreement, and the hotel was pleased to guarantee him, for he was not unknown on the Riviera.

  He drove into Nice, and stopped some distance from a garage, then sent Lorna to buy the cheapest small car there; she drove away with an old Citroen, and followed Mannering to a spot on the promenade, away from the big hotels.

  “We can park the little car here,” Mannering said. “We’ll find it useful.”

  “It cost most of our money.”

  “We’ll be all right,” Mannering said.

  They drove up to the corniche in the Renault. It was a wide, smooth road which climbed higher and higher and spread before them first the fairyland of Chalon and, further away, of Nice and Cannes. Lights appeared to dance on the water and dangle from the sky.

  Few other cars passed.

  They reached a spot where the road was very wide, and saw a notice-board with a sign in English and in French: Viewpoint. They drew close to the wall, switched off the lights, and stepped out.

  Below them, the headland fell sheer to the sea.Above them, not far away, were the floodlights of the Villa Chalon. Within fifty yards of them were the gates leading to the house, with a light on top of one of the posts.

  “Quite a spot,” Mannering said.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Let’s take a walk,” said Mannering. He slid his arm under hers. “Just to make sure that we can find our way about if we ever get into a jam.”

  No one appeared when they walked towards the Villa Chalon, Mannering making mental notes of the twists in the drive, and hiding places near the house itself. He was not greatly worried by the floodlighting; that would almost certainly be switched off before long.

  They walked back.

  There was a gap in the protecting wall, not far from the viewpoint, and a ledge just large enough to park the Renault. That would be useful, later.

  “I can get down from the house and into the car in five minutes,” Mannering said. “And back at the hotel before you realise I’ve been out at all.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” Lorna said. “I’m coming with you. I’ll be waiting in the car.”

  “Don’t expect to surprise me,” Mannering said, and tucked her arm under his. “There shouldn’t be much to worry about. You can wait for me, my sweet!”

  As they drove back to the town, Lorna knew that he was beginning to feel that kind of excitement which had driven the Baron into such wild adventure. The fierce thrill would not subside until he had faced and overcome the challenge of the Villa. The desire to rescue Tony Bennett was not the only compelling factor now.

  They left the hotel again at half-past twelve, took the Renault from its parking spot in a side street, and drove through a silent night.

  6

  The Villa

  The floodlights were off. There were no lights on the headland, few down in the bay.

  The Mannerings had passed no one on the road.

  They stood by the side of the Renault, in the darkness which was relieved only by a powdering of light from the stars. No one approached. They had been here for half an hour, and if anyone had seen them stop, inquiries would have been made by now.

  A car approached, as they moved towards the gap in the wall through which Mannering had driven the car. Headlights blazed. They shrank back, until the car hummed past; the darkness seemed greater after that.

  “How long shall I give you?” Lorna asked.

  “Two hours or so,” he said. “I’ll flash a torch to you from the front door every thirty minutes. Give me five minutes grace!”

  “All right,” she said. He felt the tight clutch of her fingers. “Don’t—don’t ask for trouble.”

  Mannering caught her close, kissed her fiercely, and then moved swiftly away. The darkness swallowed him, and his voice came out of it. “I’ll be back.”

  He reached the gates, walked up the drive, taking short cuts here and there over stony ground, sure that what stones he dislodged would not be noticed.

  When he reached the lawns which surrounded the villa, he stood still. His heart was beating fast, and it wasn’t from exertion. He waited until it steadied, then walked towards the back of the house. There, the windows and doors were hidden by trees and rocks, and there was little chance of the torchlight being seen. Anyone on the road would notice a light at the front.

  He reached the back door.

  He opened his coat and rubbed the palms of his hands together. Like those of the thief who had murdered Bernard Dale, the tops of his fingers were covered with adhesive plaster. It was a warm night, and his palms felt greasy. The tool-kit, fashioned as a waistband round his waist, seemed very hot at the small of his back.

  He dried his hands on a piece of towelling, put that back in his pocket, and turned to the door. He shone a pocket torch on to it, examined the lock, decided that it would not be easy to force. He looked at the windows, goi
ng very close, and shining the torch against the side. His breathing was hushed.

  He saw a cable close to the window, inside.

  “It’s wired for alarm,” he murmured to himself. “I suppose that was inevitable.”

  But it hadn’t been, and it would slow him down. With the windows and doors wired to raise an alarm once entry was forced, even more caution was necessary. Mannering formed his lips into a soundless whistle as he backed away.

  Would the first-floor windows be wired?

  There was a spot where he could climb up to one, and he climbed swiftly, making little noise. Pressing against the window, he shone the torch and saw the now familiar electric cable.

  The Count de Chalon being a collector, it wasn’t surprising that he took precautions against burglary. But these were extreme precautions.

  Mannering still whistled, silently.

  He climbed down, and went round to the front, shone his torch for a moment, and saw an answering flash from Lorna’s. He went to a side window, and set to work.

  In the days of the Baron all of this had been familiar; there was no real strangeness now. He damped thick, gummed brown paper with a sponge from a small rubber bag, pressed it close to a pane of glass, and when it was stuck, rapped at the glass sharply. There was a dull thud as it broke. He tapped half a dozen times, then pulled the paper away; pieces of glass stuck to it.

  Old-fashioned methods were often best.

  He pulled the splinters of glass from the side of the window frame and then shone the torch inside. The alarm wire stretched across the bottom of the window. How delicate was it? Some would start the wailing alarm the moment they were touched; others would stand a lot of pressure before the alarm was raised.

  He studied this closely, his head inside the house, his shoulders outside. It looked new, and if it was new it was probably very sensitive.

  He studied the window again.

  The small wooden frames were about eight inches by ten. With four of them out, he would probably be able to squeeze through without touching the alarm wire at all, but it would take a lot of time.

  He took a small saw from the kit, pressed it into a rubber handle, and began to work. The noise of the saw sounded very loud.

  He stopped; the silence was complete. He waited several minutes, heard nothing, and started again.

  He sawed through one strut of the frame.

  Now that he had started, the work was almost monotonous, and it seemed to take longer than it needed.

  Twenty minutes’ work made a hole large enough to climb through. He stopped, and rested against the wall. He was sweating freely, and there seemed to be no air, no breath of wind from the sea. He strolled round to the front of the house and flashed the torch again. Lorna’s came at once; a sign that she was on edge, looking this way all the time.

  He put his tools back in the waistband, then began to climb through the hole in the window, putting his right leg in first, finding the floor on the other side, then crouching until he could get his head and shoulders through.

  Soon, he stood upright in the room.

  He shone the torch, found the door and went across.

  Beyond was a passage; beyond that, the spacious hall and the front door. It was locked and bolted, and the alarm wire stretched tightly across. He needed to find the electric main switch, and walked along several passages until he found the kitchen.

  The meters and switches were in a cupboard in the big, tiled room. The light from his torch reflected eerily from the shiny white tiles and the chromium taps.

  He found the main switch and pressed it up, then went to the door and pressed down an ordinary light switch. Nothing happened. To make quite sure that all was safe, he pulled the alarm wire across the back door. There was no sound. He pushed back the bolts and unlocked the door, leaving it latched; that was a way of escape open. He went to the front door and shone the torch three times. Lorna would not expect another signal for a while after that.

  Then he began to prowl . . .

  Until then, he had been thinking only of the immediate task; forcing entry, cutting off the current, sending word to Lorna, finding his way about the house. Now that was over, more urgent questions thrust at him. Where would the Count de Chalon keep his jewels? Hiding places, safes and strong-rooms were usually in the same kind of position in different houses; find the study, find the safe. But Chalon was a collector with a valuable collection somewhere here. He would probably have a strong-room.

  The villa was built against the rock; rock had been hewn out for its foundations. The best place for a strong-room, obviously, was deep inside the rock. He need waste no time looking in those rooms with outside walls.

  He found a book-lined room on the ground floor, judged from the position of the windows that it overlooked the bay, and from the position of the opposite wall, that it was built close against the rock. He opened a window and looked out, to make sure. There was the face of the rock, quite close.

  Mannering went to the wall which backed on the rock, used the torch and studied the books and the shelves, running his hand up and down, seeking a catch which might make shelves swing open.

  He found nothing.

  He stood back, studying the books which showed up clearly where the torch struck them, and faded away at the sides, then he went forward and knelt down. He pulled back the carpet, which was flush with the bottom of the book-cases. There were polished boards beneath, and in one of them a recess had been carved; in the middle of the recess was a tiny plastic button.

  He took a thin, asbestos glove from his pocket, put it on his right hand, and pressed the button. There might be an independent supply of electricity which he hadn’t yet found.

  He heard a click, then a sliding sound. He glanced up and saw part of the bookshelves opening. He moved back, waiting until all movement stopped. His heart was beating very fast.

  There was a dark cavity beyond the bookcases.

  Mannering stepped forward, with the torch beam shining on an iron door.

  Needing more light, he took a larger torch from the kit, and shone it on the door. It was built into the rock, and looked to be steel. There was no keyhole, but a round steel handle jutted out. If this were electrically controlled, he would need the power on again.

  He pulled, and nothing happened.

  With the brighter light, he examined the door and the rock wall which surrounded it. He found a switch inside the rock where it had been hollowed out, and pressed; nothing happened. He turned away, hurried back to the kitchen, and switched the current on at the main again. Within two minutes he was back at the steel door. He used the asbestos glove, taking no chances, and pressed the switch.

  He heard a click, followed by a momentary humming sound; that stopped.

  He gripped the handle and pulled – and the door began to open. He stood to one side, watching tensely, his heart pounding. The door was open wide enough for him to squeeze through; he made no move, just stood behind the door and continued pulling.

  He heard a sneeze of sound; another, and fast upon each, a thud, as of a bullet going into the wall opposite. He still pulled at the door.

  Nothing else happened.

  When it was wide open, he stepped in front of it, and shone the torch against another door – a door of steel bars this time. Fastened to it, carefully balanced on a spring so that it would fire when the door was opened, was an automatic pistol. The muzzle pointed at Mannering’s stomach. He did not need more telling that those two thuds had been from bullets, or that the Count de Chalon took remarkable steps to make sure that he wasn’t burgled.

  He went to the front door, disconnected the alarm wire, opened the door cautiously, and shone the torch.

  Lorna’s flashed back at him.

  He went back, fighting against the temptation to hurry. There wa
s still the barred door. He reached it and examined it cautiously, found the switch and pressed. He pushed the door open cautiously; there were no more surprises. He stepped forward into the strong-room, and for the first time, pressed down a light switch.

  Light flooded the room.

  This was large – long and narrow, and much more spacious than any room in the Chelsea flat. There were three safes, and a number of crates and, hanging from wires stretched across the ceiling, a dozen paintings. One glimpse told Mannering that the pictures were worth a fortune. He was near one, and caught his breath in surprise. It was a Corot, stolen some months ago.

  He recognised a dozen different paintings and objets d’art, some large and difficult to move freely – and all were stolen. The Count, perhaps with the knowledge of his nephews, was a collector of stolen goods, and hoarded them as a miser hoarded gold.

  Mannering went to the nearest safe.

  His heart was thumping with tension and anxiety. There was no time to force the locks of three safes, if each was as modern as the strong-room. He might have succeeded thus far, and still fail.

  The tension reached a screaming point in his mind.

  Slowly, he relaxed.

  He could open the safes; compared with the strong-room door, they were old. The Baron had opened many like them, and saw no difficulty – needed just a little time. He took out the tools he needed, knelt down, and began.

  He could think more freely now.

  He had been in the villa more than an hour and a half. It was half-past two. He must be away from here by five at the latest. He wished that Lorna had not waited with the car. He kept picturing her face, and imagining her brushing her hair as she had on the morning when he had heard of Bernard Dale’s death.

  He could picture Dale’s face, too; the ready smile and the warm nature of the man. He remembered how desperately Dale had been hurt when Stella had left him.

  He saw Tony Bennett, staring incredulously at the judge’s black cap.

  He could think of those things while he worked.