The Riviera Connection

by John Creasey

  “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.”

  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.

  20

  Advice

  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.”

  “Flam
baud’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 wa
nted 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.

  21

  Dead End

  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.