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  “No, mon brave, he did not. But apparently he sent you, and failed to warn you I would be there.”

  Labolle was breathing heavily through his mouth; ugly, vicious-looking with his day’s old stubble, yet not so villainous as others whom the Baron had met.

  “Granette”—the word sounded like an oath—”’E knows you come?”

  “He certainly did,” said the Baron. It would help to antagonise the stranger towards Granette; obviously he was already thinking unpleasantly of the French member of Kelworthy’s syndicate. “How’re you feeling, Jules?”

  It was a ruse to learn the other’s name.

  “I am Labolle – Benedicte Labolle.” Those eyes narrowed as if the man was waiting for some sign of recognition, but none came, and Labolle went on slowly: “Et vous, M’sieu le Baron, vous êtes n’est ce pas?”

  “Right in one, M’sieu Labolle! And although we know each other, we don’t know Granette’s intentions.”

  “A t’ousand pardons, M’sieu le Baron. We will talk of ourselves. Yes?” There was more than a tinge of sarcasm in Labolle’s manner. “You veeseet Panneraude, an’ ze diamonds you have zem?”

  The Baron did not answer, and Labolle smiled thinly and without humour.

  “Cela ne fait rien! You come, in my taxi. The driver, ‘e is waiting?”

  “I’ve paid him,” said Mannering.

  “Bien! And you ‘ave ze—what you call ‘eem?—ze alibi ce soir!”

  “I will have,” said the Baron, gently. “That is, if you have one.”

  Labolle seemed to settle back more comfortably on the couch.

  “So. Veree clevaire, M’sieu le Baron. An’ now, my shoulder, eet ees not so good. You weell understan’? Who shot, M’sieu?”

  “No names, no pack-drill,” said the Baron “But you’ll want it treated. Who shall I send for?”

  “Gussi, ‘e will do eet,” Labolle said promptly. “Out of ze door, le premier passage right, and then you will see another door. You are so kind as to get heem?”

  “And how will Gussi take to me?” inquired the Baron.

  “Tell heem Labolle is in need,” said the Frenchman, moving his right hand towards his pocket.

  Mannering was on the half turn, and he missed the movement. A split second later he knew that he had made a big mistake, but there was nothing he could do now. Labolle’s voice was suddenly very harsh.

  “Your hands. Upwards! An’ you will turn zis way!”

  Mannering stopped dead still. Slowly his hands went as high as his shoulders, and he turned round. He found himself looking into dark blue eyes that glittered with more than suspicion, and at the hilt of a shining knife. The blade was between Labolle’s dirty fingers, poised and ready. A single false move, and the knife would fly.

  It was a moment when the Baron seemed face to face with disaster, and his heart was thumping painfully, his nerves on edge, that little pulse was beating fast in his temple.

  “Zat ees correct. Now, M’sieu le Baron, press ze bell, by ze door. In good time Gussi will arrive, have no fright. Et les diamants, M’sieu.” There was a heavy, mocking emphasis on the words.

  The Baron’s voice came quietly.

  “So we’re not playing trust. And your shoulder is not so bad after all? Supposing we talk?”

  “Ze bell, M’sieu.” Labolle’s face was expressionless.

  “It’s a pity that I didn’t leave you at Panneraude’s place,” the Baron said with mock anger. “Why, you nasty little swine, if I’d left you unconscious, you would be at a Commissariat de Police by now. I’m damned if I’ll press the bell. Throw the knife if you must.”

  The words echoed round the little room, and Mannering felt calm despite his fury. He was backing a belief that there was a streak of good in Labolle. Mannering knew his types well, and they split into two classes. The Granette type, who cared for nothing but his own success and his own neck, and the man who stole for a living, who regarded theft as a legitimate business, with the risks involved more than compensating for the fact that he dealt in other people’s property.

  There was something in the ugly face which made the Baron hope the man belonged to the latter type. As the blue eyes widened he was convinced of it. Now that he had a chance of studying Labolle he saw that the lips were full and generous. Labolle’s nose was badly broken, and his ears were oddly pointed at the lobes. A livid scar on his right cheek was not an aid to beauty, and it helped the villainous effect.

  “’Ow you mean?” Labolle spoke carefully.

  “Use your head,” the Baron said, more quietly. “You know that I gassed you at Panneraude’s?”

  “Zat ees so.”

  “You left the safe open. I took some of the jewels out of the safe and carried you to the head of the stairs. Panneraude was at the bottom and the lights were on. Panneraude’s gun was as steady as your knife.”

  “An’ it might slip,” said Labolle ominously.

  “Panneraude’s gun did when I threw you at him,” said the Baron simply.

  Labolle’s eyes widened, his knife went downwards a little, and Mannering dropped his hands to his side.

  “You threw me?”

  “You were on my shoulders and I slung you at him. There wasn’t much breath in Panneraude after that, but there was quite a sensation. As I beat off the servants, a gendarme came to the door. I had to hit him, too. If your taxi hadn’t been there—”

  “Attendez, M’sieu! If this is true, ‘ow come zat I am here, with you?”

  “I picked you up again,” said the Baron.

  “Sacré Dieu! Mais vous—les gendarmes—”

  “I didn’t think you deserved to be left behind,” said the Baron. “Panneraude fired as you went down, and I thought you’d a more serious wound than it proved.”

  “It is a strange story,” muttered Labolle. “An’ yet – it is true, how else could this be?” He looked as though he could not believe his ears. “An’ les diamants?”

  Mannering put his hand in his pocket for the gems, seeing that Labolle moved his knife upwards. The man’s eyes widened when he saw the gems, and he pushed his knife slowly into his waistband. Mannering’s eyes were smiling as he took out cigarettes and offered them. Labolle said “Merci!” and a match flared up.

  “An’ now – Gussi, s’il vous plait. For ze time, it is friends. You an’ me, M’sieu le Baron?”

  “Friends it is,” said the Baron with deep satisfaction. “Do I follow the same instructions?”

  “But yes. And this time zere is no trick, M’sieu!”

  Mannering took him at his word and went out of the dingy room. He followed the ill-lighted passages to the door Labolle had described, and tapped. A low-pitched voice called “Entrez!” Mannering stepped inside; and he found himself face to face with the fattest man he had ever seen in his life.

  For a moment it seemed unreal.

  The man was sitting by a small table, littered with papers. A long, thin cigar was poked from the corner of a rosebud of a mouth. Above it was a button of a nose, buried in fat flesh, two little brown eyes, a sloping forehead and pate as bald as a billiard ball halfway across the head, and fringed with fuzzy black hair.

  Gussi was dressed in a blue shirt bursting at the seams in half a dozen places, a pair of grey flannel trousers and a pair of gaudy slippers. Whether he was surprised or not the Baron did not know, for that fat face could rarely show expression. He stood up slowly, his vast paunch quivering as he spoke in soft French.

  “Who are you, M’sieu?”

  “Labolle sent me,” the Baron said. “He’s been wounded, and needs first-aid.”

  “Wounded, so? Not badly, I hope?” Gussi had a mellow, impressive voice, and, astonishing though it was, moved with a certain easy grace. He turned towards a door that led from the small, square room, and as he opened it Mannering saw the wash-basin, towels and the usual equipment of a small bathroom.

  But the most astonishing thing was the magic of Labolle’s name.

  Without an
other word, Gussi collected a bowl of warm water, two towels and some bandages, iodine and a pair of scissors. He gave the bowl to Mannering and led the way out of the room. He made a jocular comment as he saw Labolle, and started to get down to cleansing the wound with a professional dexterity which Mannering found surprising. He pressed at the red and blue flesh after he had washed the coagulated blood, and as Labolle winced he said: “The bullet is still there, mon vieux. You will permit it to be removed?” Gussi spoke in English, in deference to the Baron. Labolle followed his example.

  “Yes. Be quick.”

  He seemed indifferent to the inevitable pain, and Mannering watched the operation, fascinated. He admired the way those fat, podgy fingers handled the sharp knife Gussi had taken from his waistband, and Labolle’s silent endurance. In a surprisingly short time the bullet was out, and the wound cleansed and bandaged.

  Gussi stood up, breathing heavily. “That is all, Benedicte.”

  “Yes.” Labolle looked piercingly towards Mannering. “You understan’, M’sieu, ‘e ‘as been ‘ere ze whole time, yes?”

  “It is a pleasure to ‘ave your presence, M’sieu.” Gussi bowed to Mannering, and his expression relaxed for once into what was intended for a smile. “Perhaps it will be good if, ver’ soon, M’sieu appears in the big room. So many others, they may see you.”

  “An excellent idea,” admitted Mannering, and his eyes showed his gratitude. He had certainly been well repaid for seeing Labolle safely home.

  “Then come,” said Gussi. “You can stay a short while, yes? An’ afterwards you can talk with Labolle.”

  “Mais oui, c’est bon,” Labolle approved. “Gussi, le vin blanc, s’il vous plait.”

  “It will come, mon vieux, do not fear.” Gussi nodded and opened the door, and Mannering followed him out.

  There were many things that the Baron told himself he would like explained. The relationship between the cracksman employed by Granette and the cabaret patron – for obviously Gussi owned or managed the Cabaret des Belles Femmes – was amicable to a degree.

  Mannering stopped wondering when he reached the entrance to the cabaret hall. Gussi stood aside to let him enter, whispering to a girl waiting near the door. She wore sparkling stars on her breasts and tiny silvery panties, a youthful, cheeky gamine who gripped Mannering’s arm with thin fingers and led him through the crowded room.

  Mannering had a fair knowledge of Paris night-life, but he had never visited anything more typical than the Cabaret des Belles Femmes. It was crowded, with more than a sprinkling of the élite among the rougher types, apaches and the bourgeois, mingling amicably. There were several American tourists and a few English people who seemed prepared to sit and drink and gape. Music was coming from the stage set in the centre of the hall, and operated from beneath the floor. A solitary woman was dancing slowly and with an almost ethereal grace.

  Mannering found his eyes drawn towards the dancer as his escort led him to a small table, and called shrilly to a waiter for champagne.

  The order brought a dozen “hushes!” and glares of disapproval. Then every eye turned back to the centre of the hall. The slow, stately way the dancer moved to the music was fascinating, compelling. She was even more naked than his first escort – the little gamine had disappeared – but that was forgotten as he watched the dancing. He had never seen anything quite so lovely, quite so fascinating, so natural and yet unreal.

  There was a deep hush over the hall until the music stopped. For a moment the dancer stood with her arms raised towards the ceiling, hands wide apart and slim shapely legs close together. Then Mannering saw that she was moving downwards, standing on a movable piece of the platform. As it began to fall the applause burst out, a constant roar. It lasted until the woman’s hands had disappeared, with the spotlight on her all the time, changing its colours with a wild loveliness. Then the orchestra crashed out, a troupe of girls danced on to the stage, and the precious moment was gone.

  Mannering smiled as the spell of that dance was broken, tension eased by the cunning of Gussi and the little gamine. A dozen people not connected with the management, including at least two American couples, had seen him, and would certainly recognise him. Gussi was making sure of the alibi, and his little gamine escort would provide one for earlier in the evening.

  Mannering waited for twenty minutes, before the girl came back. She wore a gossamer thin wrap, and Mannering realised that Gussi had sent her in before just to make sure she was noticed. He did not see the fat man as he went back along the passages, and Labolle was alone in his room. He seemed to be dozing, but his eyes opened when he saw Mannering.

  “Bon, I ‘ave the wait, M’sieu. It is what you want?”

  “Gussi is very clever,” said Mannering, and although Labolle made no comment,

  Mannering knew that he had said a wise thing.

  “Do you know him well?” “Ver’ well, M’sieu. It was la guerre, you understan’? I was permit to be of service. Now ‘e is the frien’ in the hundred, hein? An’ La Supreme – M’sieu le Baron, what you t’ink of her?”

  Mannering’s eyes narrowed.

  “Was she dancing alone?”

  “Mais oui, M’sieu! La Supreme, no others dance alone ‘ere. Gussi, ‘e is the ‘usband.”

  “Good God!” gasped Mannering.

  “It is the life, an’ they are ‘appy. Now, M’sieu, we talk. You ‘ave the diamants. We divide, n’est ce pas? Fifty-fifty, is it not?”

  “You did the real work,” protested the Baron. “And there is Granette.”

  “Granette!” said Labolle softly. “’E will not worry, M’sieu le Baron. ‘E is after a special stone, not those.”

  Labolle stopped suddenly, his eyes narrowing, for he stared at the diamond that had leapt into the Baron’s hand.

  “Sapristi, M’sieu, it is it! Ze size, the appearance, exactement!”

  “Yes,” smiled the Baron. “We were after the same stone. But Granette should have warned you.”

  “Permit me, M’sieu! Granette, ‘e come today, ‘e tells me of a M’sieu Man’ring, whom I shall kill, yes?” Labolle touched the knife suddenly, and the Baron’s spine chilled. “That I onderstan’! You, you would perhaps lie, M’sieu. I try to what you say – catch M’sieu le Baron, or M’sieu Man’ring, it is the same. Mais non! I work for Granette, yes, but I not kill one who save me. Benedicte Labolle know when to believe. I work for Granette, but ‘e is a dog! You ‘ave done for me big service. Now, M’sieu. You onderstan’?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Shocks

  In the moments that flashed by as he met Labolle’s straight gaze Mannering realised that the Frenchman had been the winner in that battle of wits. But Mannering had been thinking that Labolle was ill-disposed towards Granette; instead he was still with the man, and he had held his hand simply because Mannering had saved him from Panneraude.

  He broke the silence at last.

  “I see. So you want this for Granette?”

  “You do not onderstan’,” said Labolle gravely. “Labolle fails to win one-two petits diamants – poof! He is disturbed, le Baron beats him up. Le Baron won, M’sieu, chez Panneraude, and he has the diamant!”

  The Baron tossed the glittering gem towards the ceiling and caught it, almost gloating. The Crown of Castile, and it was his!

  “Fine! Then I’ll keep this and these others are yours.” He pointed to the smaller stones.

  The more he saw of Labolle the more he liked him. It seemed that Labolle’s ‘honesty’ was crystal clear, according to his lights. This was a queer mix-up, with the fat Gussi, the lovely La Supreme, and Labolle to represent the apache. A man with an astonishing character – yet a garrotter.

  He pushed his thoughts to one side. “Are you safe now, Labolle?”

  “Mais oui! There is no worry, M’sieu. An’ you, you tell those who may ask, yes, that the night it was spen’ at the Cabaret des Belles Femmes. There is no other dangaire, M’sieu?”

  “From the police? I
don’t think so,” said the Baron.

  “Bien!” There was a tap on the door, and it opened at his call. Mannering’s eyes widened as he recognised the woman who entered. She was smiling, a tall, slim creature swathed in a plain silk wrap, and in her dark hair a sparkling diamante tiara. Her bare feet were thrust into backless slippers, but it was the dark hair with the tiara that told Mannering that La Supreme was paying a visit to Labolle. She was not beautiful in the conventional sense, but her features were very delicate, and her complexion quite lovely. There was a transparency about her skin that was almost unreal. Mannering felt the fascination of her blue eyes as she glanced at him in well-controlled surprise, and then at Labolle.

  “Benedicte, I am so sorry. I know not zat—”

  “M’sieu le Baron,” said Labolle quickly, “‘E ‘as been admiring you, ma cherie.”

  La Supreme’s eyes glowed as she looked at Mannering.

  “It is a pleasure, M’sieu.” Her English was prettier than her French.

  Mannering bowed. “I’ve never been so moved by dancing.”

  The compliment pleased her as it would a child, and as her words tumbled out Mannering was astonished again by the naïvety of these people.

  “That is ver’ charming of you, M’sieu. Benedicte now, ‘e can never say ze word comme ça!” She twinkled at Labolle. “But ‘e is our ver’ good friend, M’sieu. ‘E ‘as told you that one day ‘e save the life of Gussi, yes?”

  “He did say something about it,” said the Baron, “and—”

  Gussi entered the room before he could go on. Fat and quivering, the Frenchman nevertheless walked with the grace that was one of the most remarkable features of the trio. Not until afterwards did Mannering learn that Gussi had been a tap dancer until eight years before, when his weight had grown too much for him, and he had invested in the Cabaret des Belles Femmes. Gussi was no more than forty-five, and La Supreme near the forty mark. The friendship between them and the apache was obviously deep-rooted.

  Mannering talked for five minutes, and then stood up. Gussi smiled at him, that absurd rosebud of a mouth twisted.