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  “Nom de Dieu!” exclaimed Granette. “What a fool you are. I have told you already, two, three times. We wanted her to buy the stone, she would have been easier to rob than Panneraude. Instead, we shall have to try his strong room. Tomorrow night, Lenville. Leave her tonight sometime, return an hour later and say you have failed, that the guard is too strong. You will have her sympathy, and you stand to lose nothing.”

  “If I could believe you I’d feel better,” said Lenville miserably. “All right, I’ll do it, but if anything should happen to her I’ll get you.”

  He has some guts after all, thought Mannering.

  “Am I a fool to waste my time?” demanded Granette angrily. “Go to your room, and wait!”

  Mannering slipped out of the room before Granette or Lenville opened the communicating door, and neither of them dreamed he had overheard them.

  Nor did the Baron hear Lenville’s exclamation as he reached the door. Lenville turned round, his sullen face animated for once, and Granette’s sharp eyes were questioning.

  “I meant to tell you, a friend of Anita’s arrived at the Bristol tonight. It won’t matter now, of course. A man named Mannering.”

  Lenville had never seen the man look so vicious or so malevolent. He flinched backwards, but Granette’s eyes seemed to burn into him as he stood there with his fingers bunching, as though he wanted them about a man’s throat. Slowly the Frenchman’s tension eased although Lenville still felt alarmed – as well as puzzled.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Panneraude’s House

  “Where is Mannering staying, Lenville?” demanded Granette.

  “At—at the Bristol, but—” Lenville faltered.

  “Just behave exactly as I told you,” ordered Granette softly. “Say nothing to Anita, nor to Mannering. I need not warn you.” Granette was smiling again now, but there was a glitter in his eyes. “Behave very naturally, and remember that if you make any mistakes, it will be very unfortunate for you. Also remember that Mannering is dangerous. Dangerous. Be very careful indeed.”

  Lenville swallowed hard.

  “I—I will, of course. But I thought that Mannering—”

  “He is a meddlesome fool,” said Granette. “A very lucky fool, Lenville, it would not be good for you to know what I know about him. Your information is very valuable. Go now, watch Mannering, make sure he and Anita have little opportunity to talk together. And do not so much as mention my name.”

  Lenville nodded and went out, standing for a moment and staring out of the windows overlooking the Tuileries Gardens, a mass of vari-coloured early tulips. But Lenville had no eyes for their beauty. He felt miserable and worried, sensible enough to realise that if Granette was nervous about Mannering, then Mannering was really dangerous. Lenville could not understand it, but the prospect of an evening spent with Anita and Mannering appalled him.

  Jules Granette left the Hotel Rivol soon afterwards and made for the Bastille district. A little ferrety-faced Frenchman in a side street off the Rue de Charonne greeted him with a start of surprise, grimy hands raised upwards.

  “M’sieu Granette, je ne—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Granette brusquely. “Is Labolle here?”

  The little man’s eyes narrowed.

  “Labolle! He is always here. You have work for him?”

  “I have,” said Granette. He was ushered into a tall, narrow, forbidding house, grimacing at the smell of garbage that rose towards him, heedless of the little Frenchwoman in a shapeless grey frock and a pair of backless slippers who peered up at him from the open front room.

  He found Labolle on the second floor.

  A broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, bright-eyed man with a two-days’ stubble on his chin and cheeks, Labolle had three distinctions that recommended him to Granette. He was the most expert safe-breaker in Paris. He was completely without physical fear. And he possessed a little toy, a thin-bladed, razor-sharp knife that he could use effectively without worrying whether it was for murder or wounding. He was the most feared man in the Bastille underworld.

  Labolle was exactly the man Granette wanted for John Mannering. Labolle listened intently to Granette’s proposition. Yes, perhaps. The price would be high, like the risk, but—

  “Five thousand new francs,” said Granette, and Labolle lifted his hands in a gesture of contempt.

  “Five t’ousand! This is not a watch to be stolen, Granette. Feefty t’ousand an’ you talk!”

  Granette argued and haggled; bargaining was inevitable. Finally Labolle agreed on twenty thousand francs, and his long, nervous fingers closed about ten mille notes before he clinched the bargain.

  Mannering had several things to do before he rejoined Anita at the Bristol. He slipped into a Bureau de Poste and sent a telegram to Juan, reading simply: “All’s well.” If the old Don got hold of it by mistake it could do no harm to Anita.

  Then he called one of the innumerable taxis, a Renault painted red and yellow, and told the driver in fluent French to drive to the Place de la Bastille. It was still light as the cab went recklessly along the boulevards and avenues, heedless of other traffic. The only time the driver stopped was at cross roads where a gendarme controlled the traffic, and his brake was off the moment, the whistle shrilled out for the line to move. The noise and confusion was of a different world from London.

  The road surface along the Boulevard Beaumarchais was poor, but the Renault bumped over it without disturbing Mannering.

  As far as he could see he had a clear run at Panneraude’s place tonight. Granette had said that he would not attempt to get the Crown until the following day, and there was no reason why Mannering should not be back in London with the jewel before Granette started.

  He knew nothing of the talk Granette was having just then with the gentleman named Labolle, and he had no idea of the telegram in Inspecteur Georges Robierre’s pocket. Nor did he realise that the big Peugeot behind him was being driven by an agent of the Sûrété, who was swearing that Mannering, whoever he was, was leading him a chase that M’sieu Robierre would like very much to learn.

  Mannering had seen the black Peugeot several times, and as they neared the wide stretch of the Place de la Republique, passed the grey stone walls of the Military establishment, he wondered whether ii was accidental that the car had been on his heels all the way. He decided suddenly to try it out, and pulled open the glass window behind the driver.

  “Pull up at a tobacconist,” he ordered, and the bare-headed driver jammed on the brakes, shooting Mannering forward. Mannering smiled as he saw a tobacconist opposite them, in the Boulevard Beaumarchais, but he did not smile when he saw the black Peugeot pull up, twenty yards ahead. He bought cigarettes and went on again; the black car started at once.

  “So Bristow’s been busy,” Mannering mused softly. “The Sûrété’s been warned, unless it’s one of Granette’s men.”

  He saw the heavily-built man driving the car, a sharp-eyed man who glanced at the passing cab. Mannering made a mental note of the face, then gave a second order to the cabby.

  “Rue de Chemin, s’il vous plait.”

  The cabby nodded, knowing his fare was an Englishman and prepared to accept any contradictory order that came. The black Peugeot was held up in a stream of cars and could not make a turn. Mannering had ten francs ready, did not wait for change as he left the cab at the corner of the Rue de Chemin, making for a back seat in a garishly lighted café.

  Hidden by the passing crowds and the men and women seated in front of him, he saw the black Peugeot plodding back, the heavy-jowled man looking glowering. Mannering walked towards the Place de la Bastille, knowing one danger was past yet feeling the chill of apprehension.

  It took only a few minutes to find the Rue de Platte, and he discovered the shop of M’sieu Grionde near the corner. He introduced himself as Miller. Grionde, a small, grey-haired, grey-bearded man, made it plain that a friend of Leverson’s was a friend of his.

  In twenty minutes Manne
ring had all the tools he needed, including a jemmy, gelignite and an electric torch, and he made his way back to the Bristol. He was on the alert for trouble, sensing uncertainty and danger.

  One of the first men he saw, in the foyer, was the heavy-jowled Sûrété agent.

  Mannering passed him without a sign of recognition, and the other played his part well, looking towards the door and past the Englishman. Any doubt the Baron had had of the other’s connection with the Sûrété disappeared, for Granette would not have posted a man in the hotel lobby.

  “Bristow’s after blood, and the Sûrété will be only too pleased to catch the Baron. I’ll have a job to dodge the man tonight, but it will have to be done.” Soon, he was wondering if Anita was looking forward to Lenville’s ‘burglary’, and what she would think if she had overheard him talking to Granette.

  Ted Lenville played his part well that evening. Mannering spent most of the time until eleven o’clock with the couple, when Anita feigned a yawn, and declared she was tired out. Knowing she was anxious for Lenville to get off, Mannering promised to join her at lunch the next day.

  She left with Lenville, who was broad-shouldered and flaxen-haired, while Anita was petite and raven-haired. Mannering followed them soon afterwards and made his way back to the Bristol. He was carrying his tools; the French police would not hesitate to search his room while he was out, but he wanted to try a simple trick with his watcher.

  Again he walked past the man without a sign of recognition; again Robierre’s agent looked past him. Mannering saw that the man was looking tired. He went upstairs, but returned within two minutes, and he knew that his ruse had succeeded.

  The heavy-jowled man was out of sight, and Mannering knew he had slipped away for five minutes, confident that his quarry was upstairs. Bristow, in London, could have warned Robierre that it was never safe to leave the Baron for five seconds; but Paris had not yet met the Baron.

  They would have that pleasure soon.

  Night had fallen over Paris as Mannering left the boulevard café, where he had been sitting for the past two hours, but there was nothing unusual in the sight of an Englishman about at that time. A crescent moon bathed the city with a translucent mellowing light. Mannering was in the Madelein Boulevard, and he walked briskly towards the Place de la Concorde. That wide stretch, teeming with traffic by day, was brilliantly lighted, but only an occasional cab moved swiftly and noisily about its roads. In the near distance the moon showed the giant skeleton outlines of the Eiffel Tower and the four towering landmarks of the Exhibition. Keeping to the north, Mannering went towards the Champs-Elysees for he knew exactly where Panneraude’s house was situated. Above him the leaves of the plane trees rustled, soft and mysterious, in a light wind, and the moon cast shadows of the trees on the broad sidewalk, a dark massing of dancing silhouettes.

  There was no sign at all of a trailer. Bristow, knowing nothing of the five jewels, could not have known the Baron was interested in Panneraude, and Mannering reasoned that the police were not likely to be watching the place.

  The house was built on a corner site, with the Rue de Balzac striking from it to the right. A hundred yards along the Rue de Balzac were turnings to the right and the left: a further hundred yards took him to the Chateaubriand, and he knew that from there were a dozen avenues of escape.

  Mannering had been to more than one of Panneraude’s renowned cocktail parties, and knew the layout of the house well. He had talked occasionally of jewels with Panneraude, a big, spreading Frenchman who was a fanatic on diamonds: Mannering had seen his collection, and he had been startled by its variety.

  There had been a time when the Baron would have planned the entry with a much bigger haul in mind than the theft of a single stone, but nothing seemed to matter but the Crown of Castile.

  The strong room at Panneraude’s house was different from any other Mannering had visited: it was on the second floor. In some ways that was an advantage, for an intruder could not be seen from the ground level. More people walked about Paris late at night than in London, and the danger of being seen was greater.

  Only a breath of wind blew, and the occasional hooting of a horn came clearly. Mannering was thankful for the moon, and for the tall planes that hid Panneraude’s house from the Champs-Elysees and the Rue de Balzac. There was a side door to the gardens of the house and he used it, slipping through the shadows unobserved.

  The gate closed softly behind him, and as it did so there was a subtle change in Mannering’s manner. His eyes narrowed, his lips tightened, and yet smiled, and his expression grew tense, expectant.

  The Baron was taking over …

  He reached the walls of the house, still in the shadows that fell dark and hardly moving over a small window on the ground floor, near the hall. He had had no previous opportunity of examining it, but he had often contemplated the difficulty of opening those long, slatted shutters. He ran his fingers along the edges, finding plenty of room to insert a screwdriver. It would be easy unless the window was bolted. He found the latch with the steel, and eased it upwards.

  There was a sharp click! as the catch went back, and the shutters sagged outwards. The Baron stood still, waiting for any sound of alarm. None came. He breathed more freely.

  He slipped on his mask, hiding his nose, mouth and chin, as he examined the latch of the window. It was of the usual French type, opening inwards, and he could just see through a gap between the two sections.

  The Baron inserted the screwdriver again, and the window catch lifted without a sound, even as it dropped back in its socket.

  The window was unfastened!

  He felt tense and expectant, a surge of excitement running through him.

  “Take it easy,” he murmured, but only the echoes of his whisper answered him. He slipped a narrow steel rule the whole length of the gap. As it reached the top he felt a slight jar; he had found an alarm wire.

  He pushed a thin-mawed pair of wire cutters, almost as flexible as the steel measure, slowly through the gap, then took the wire between the pincers and pressed. The wire snapped with hardly a sound, and he heard its ends dropping down either side of the window.

  He worked fast now, pushing the windows back and climbing through. A thick carpet was under his feet as he touched the floor, there was little risk of making a noise. He climbed over the low sill, closing the windows and latching them, without locking the catch. The darkness was like a tomb, for the drawn blinds shut out the moon. He used his torch for the first time.

  He was in the small library, and that told him the position of the stairs leading to the strong room. He stepped to the door, without needing his torch once he had found his position. His gloved hand touched the handle, probed the keyhole, and found the key in the lock on the far side.

  The Baron took a piece of folded brown paper and a tube of secotine from his pocket, smearing secotine over most of the paper and pushing it underneath the door beneath the keyhole. Next he probed at the key again. It slid backwards without a sound, and he heard it drop dully to the floor of the passage. He pulled the paper back, shining his torch, and felt grim satisfaction when he saw the key, held fast by the secotine.

  Using another piece of paper to prevent the secotine from sticking to his gloves, he took the key in his fingers. It was easy to manoeuvre it into the lock, and to turn it noiselessly.

  The Baron opened the door slowly and stepped into the dark, silent passage. He pulled the door to, letting the lock click home, for a slight breeze might bang an open door and raise an alarm. Then he turned towards the wide staircase on his right for he knew that the strong room was at the head of the stairs.

  There was the silence of death in Panneraude’s house.

  The thick carpets deadened every sound of his approach, and his dark clothes and blue mask and gloves merged with the gloom. No one could see or hear him, although the chances of anyone being near were remote. Panneraude had often talked as though he relied on his mechanical system of burglar alarms and
the strength of the strong room to keep out intruders, and he was reputed to dislike night watchmen.

  The Baron reached the landing, his eyes growing accustomed to the gloom. He could make out two pale marble statues on either side of the stair-head. Ahead were two passages, leading from the stairs at a right angle, and the corner of the wall that faced him was also the corner of the strong room.

  Mannering had a plan of the layout of the first floor in his mind, and could almost ‘see’ the walls.

  He took the left-hand passage, knowing the strong room door opened from it, his footsteps still muffled by the thick carpet. Two yards from the door, he stood still, and his heart seemed to turn over. Very slowly he put his hand to his pocket to grip his gas-pistol, for against the gloom ahead of him was the figure of a man – a man bending over the lock of the strong room door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Open Sesame

  It was obvious that the man by the strong room had no idea that the Baron was near him. Mannering could see a faint white blur almost level with the lock, and he realised that the man was wearing a mask from chin to nose. Mannering’s thoughts were chaotic, but the most obvious possibility was that Granette had lied to Lenville, that the French member of the syndicate had started work.

  Through the silence the Baron could hear the faint clicking as the other’s tools twisted in the lock. The door would be open very soon. The Baron drew out his gas-pistol, without making a sound. His breathing was hardly audible, his eyes were narrow. Once the other man realised he was present – and the Baron knew from experience that working in the darkness and silence somehow enabled one to sense danger – he would have to work fast with his ether-gas.

  The Baron was smiling at the irony of this situation. Of course, Panneraude’s collection might have lured a third party, but the coincidence would surely be too great. He wondered which window the other had forced, then he heard the other breathing more heavily. The clicking at the door stopped.

  The Baron, on tiptoe, took a half-step forward as the other straightened up. He could see the dark blue of an arm stretching towards the door.