Held At Bay Page 14

  He paused for a second, to make sure that his muscles were relaxed enough, and swung gently towards the next verandah. He was afraid to make any noise, for he might disturb the occupants of the next room, but his shoes grated sharply against the stone.

  But he found purchase.

  He stood slantwise now, from the pillar to the next verandah, gripping the pillar with his hands and forcing his feet against the granite, his knees bent a little. Again he paused. The cool night air seemed to force its way between his collar and his neck, sending shivers down his spine. The strain on his arms was painful, but he started again.

  The possibility of crashing downwards was present all the time. A single slip and it would be all over. He repeated the manoeuvre twice, coming to rest on the verandah of a room two rooms away from his own.

  He was breathing hard, but there was elation in his mind for Robierre would never dream of coming as far as this. The moon enabled him to see without a torch, and for a few seconds he crouched, waiting and tense, making sure no one had been alarmed.

  The blinds of the room beyond the verandah were pulled to, and the windows tightly closed. Someone disliked fresh air. The Baron’s main thought was that no one would hear him as he searched the verandah balcony for a break in the plaster or the granite.

  In one corner the plaster of the wall had been chipped away, where a hanging sign had once been fixed, and there was a hole no bigger than a pigeon’s egg beneath it. The Baron slipped the Crown of Castile from his pocket, wrapped in cotton-wool, and pushed it into the hole.

  It was a tight fit, and he stood back a moment, trying to judge whether the white would show up too clearly against the drab wall. To lessen the risk he took his fountain-pen from his pocket, pressed the filler and squirted ink over the fingers of his right-hand glove. It took only a moment to smear the ink over the cotton-wool so that nothing showed white, and the Baron was smiling as he replaced the pen and started the hazardous journey back.

  With the knowledge that the diamond was safe, and the fear that Robierre would return before he had finished gone, he quickly returned. Once his right foot slipped against a pillar, and his heart seemed to turn over as he swung over eternity. He found purchase again, but his forehead was wet with sweat, the palms of his hands were sticky.

  “Too bloody close,” he muttered.

  Then very clearly from his open window he heard the ringing of the telephone bell.

  He was at the next balcony, minutes must pass before he reached his own room, yet Robierre was on the way up, or Jean would not be ringing! He knew he would have to take the biggest risk he had ever dared.

  Robierre must not find him by the window or the game would be up. The one way to get in quickly was to jump from balcony to balcony.

  The balconies were so narrow that he would have to keep close to the wall as he went; he could not have his hands outstretched to give himself balance. And the gap was eight feet or more, long enough at any time for a single jump.

  Could he do it?

  For a split second Mannering hesitated. The chance of success seemed remote, and the sixty feet to the ground seemed to have grown into hundreds. He drew a short, sharp breath, tensed his muscles and jumped – with the telephone bell ringing loud in his ears.

  For a moment he was flying through space, his left hand close to his side and brushing against the wall, his right hand stretched ahead of him. The balcony loomed closer. He was clear of both of them and falling, falling. His left hand shot up to support the right, and desperately his fingers clutched about the ledge, and the strain of his thirteen stone came suddenly on his shoulders.

  The pain that shot through them was excruciating, but he had no time to rest, and in the exhilaration of knowing he was safe he hardly needed any. He pulled himself up, reached the balcony wall with one knee, and half-fell on to the balcony. He was sweating, his head was aching, and the telephone bell was still ringing, very loudly.

  He stepped through the window and pushed it to behind him. He took off his gloves as he hurried to the bedroom, then his coat and shoes. The bell had stopped now, but footsteps were coming along the passage.

  The toes of the Baron’s shoes were scratched, and there was a coating of grey dust on his coat sleeve and trousers. He brushed the cloth quickly, flung the coat on the bed and then realised that the ink on his glove fingers was still wet.

  That would do for the shoes.

  As he picked the glove from the bed he heard a tap at the door, light and discreet. He was in a ferment of anxiety, but every move he made was cool and deliberate. The ink darkened the white patches where the patent leather had been scratched from the toe-caps and he put the shoes quietly by the end of the bed before grabbing a dressing-gown. He dropped on to the bed, full length, and as his muscles relaxed the tap came again, sharper, more imperious.

  Mannering drew a deep breath, and called out thickly: “Hallo, there?”

  “M’sieu, it is I, Robierre.”

  “Robierre!” Mannering’s voice was suddenly clearer. He raised himself from the bed, making sure the springs creaked and pushed a pillow to the floor. Only the bedside lamp was burning when he opened the door and stifled a convincing yawn.

  “Sorry. I was dozing.”

  “Yes,” said Robierre, and in the dim light the Baron thought the policeman looked more menacing. Perhaps it was because he had heard the telephone ringing and guessed that Jean had warned Mannering.

  “Well?” Mannering demanded.

  “I have made sure, M’sieu Mannering. You were at the Cabaret des Belles Femmes, ce soir.”

  “Good,” said the Baron enthusiastically. “I can go to bed?”

  “A thousand pardons, M’sieu, but I have my duty. With your permission I will search the rooms. It is a little thing, you understand.” Robierre’s English was suffering badly, and told Mannering that the other disliked this job.

  Mannering laughed, and offered cigarettes.

  “If you’ve really got to.”

  “Bien! It is good you have no objection, M’sieu. I am gratified. My men, they are outside. With your permission—”

  Mannering rested on the bed while the rooms were searched, occasionally stifling a yawn. When a diminutive French detective picked up the scratched shoes, he drew a deep breath.

  The man felt in the shoes, tapped the heels conscientiously and replaced them without noticing the scratches. He was going through the pockets of the coat now, and Mannering saw him take out the gloves.

  Would he feel the damp fingertips, discover the ink and ask questions? Mannering hardly dared breathe, but the Frenchman pressed the gloves, satisfied himself they concealed nothing, and then went through the Baron’s few clothes.

  Robierre was busy searching the furniture, tapping the wainscoting and the floorboards. Had the diamond been in the room it would have been found, for Robierre even rolled the carpets up, tested the curtains and the blinds, and spent a long time in the bathroom. Mannering heard him unscrewing the grilles to the waste pipes and the runaway.

  They finished at last. Robierre came into the room with Mannering’s gun – an ordinary pistol which fired gas pellets.

  “I’ve a licence for that,” Mannering said. “Ask Scotland Yard.”

  Slowly, Robierre put the pistol down.

  “You understand”—his English was better now—“I could not avoid it. I am happy there is nothing to find, M’sieu Mannering.”

  “I’m happy I can get some rest,” said Mannering, and he offered his hand. “I’ll talk to Scotland Yard, M’sieu Robierre. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, M’sieu!” Robierre smiled, his appreciation of Mannering’s gesture obvious. He called to his men and left the room.

  Mannering waited twenty minutes, until he was sure they had gone and then braced himself for his second ordeal. The journey to the other verandah had been unnerving, but he had to go back now. At least there would be no hurry this time.

  The trip to and from the Crown of Castil
e’s hiding-place was a nightmare, but at last he had the diamond, and was safely back in his bedroom.

  As he got into his pyjamas his mind was working more slowly over the events of the past few days. Granette and Kelworthy had yet another setback, Mannering himself had three gems – the Isabella, the Desire Diamond, and the Crown of Castile. Granette had the Sea of Fire, while Van Royton, in New York, had the Flame Ruby.

  Despite his deep sense of satisfaction, the game was a long way from finished. Granette would be doubly dangerous. If he used garrotters again, it would be a different type from Benedicte Labolle. But for the rescue at Panneraude’s, Labolle’s knife would have found a billet last night.

  His eyes closed, his breathing grew more regular, thoughts drifted. A shaft of moonlight shone over his face, leaving a sharp line from his forehead to the left side of his face. For half an hour there was no sound in the room but his breathing. Then something else came, very slowly.

  It was a faint, barely audible clicking at the lock of the door.

  It stopped suddenly, there was a moment’s pause and then the door began to open slowly, and outlined against the light of the passage was the lean figure of Jules Granette.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Granette Comes Prepared

  Granette entered the room very quickly, shutting the door behind him to make sure that the lock did not click loudly enough to waken the sleeper, and stepped soft-footed towards Mannering. As he crossed the patch of moonlight it showed his lips turned back until the gums were bare, and the evil glitter in his eyes.

  The knife in his right hand was in the shadows.

  He had planned the night so perfectly, but first one calculation and then another had been upset. He had been watching out for danger when Labolle had raided Panneraude’s house. Labolle should have been ready for Mannering, and according to Granette’s plans the Baron would have been found dead by an open safe, but somehow Mannering had slipped by the apache, and when the first alarm had been raised Granette had hurried away. He had gone soon afterwards to the Belles Femmes, to see if Labolle had returned.

  Benedicte Labolle told him what he had done. Granette had raved and raged, but there had been something about Labolle’s eyes that had warned him not to go too far.

  Knowing Mannering had the Crown, Granette had hurried to the Bristol, but Robierre had been before him.

  Granette had been quick to realise that Robierre had found nothing. He had waited until the police had gone and then entered the hotel. Jean had saluted, thinking Granette had a room there.

  He had hurried into a ground floor cloakroom, waited there for over an hour and then started the trip upstairs. Mannering’s room number was already known to him.

  Now he was less than a yard from the Baron and the knife was raised in his right hand. Mannering’s eyes did not flicker, his breathing was deep and steady. Granette’s eyes were narrowed, the twist of his lips mingled triumph and satisfaction. He stood poised with the knife only a few inches away from Mannering’s throat, and then suddenly pressed his left hand over the sleeper’s mouth.

  Mannering felt the sudden pressure without knowing what it was. He had been heavily asleep, and his numbed senses told him only that there was a weight against his lips. The numbness passed as his eyes opened and he saw Granette’s face, with the moonlight glinting like silver on the steel of the knife poised so steadily above his throat.

  The Baron lay there, very still. The Frenchman’s voice came like a whisper hushed and sibilant.

  “Keep silent, when I remove my hand.”

  Still Mannering did not move. A single movement of that knife would finish him, Granette would not be like Labolle. His mind began to work swiftly, desperately, and fear went very vividly through his mind.

  Granette removed his left hand, slowly. Mannering opened his lips, but did not speak.

  “So you are wise. You do not want to alarm the police, eh? Excellent, my dear Mannering. Now – we will talk. But you will be very quiet, as I told you.”

  Mannering shifted his position very slowly, and the knife cut downwards until the point was pricking his throat. There would be no mercy here. In that moment a sudden conviction flashed through his mind that Granette would kill him after they had talked, if not before. He had to gain time.

  “Do you mind if I get comfortable?”

  Granette drew back, the steel point left Mannering’s neck, but it left a little globule of blood which Mannering could feel trickling downwards.

  “For the time being you can be comfortable. It will be perhaps your last chance.”

  “I’m a little tired of the word,” said Mannering.

  “Parbleu! It will not pay you to be tired. First – you have the Crown of Castile. I want it.”

  Mannering’s eyes gleamed, a mocking nonchalance in his expression and his voice.

  “I worked hard for that, Granette, even to outwitting the police. Do you think I’ll let it go easily?” There was no point in lying. As his wits grew sharper, he realised the danger of his position more acutely. Granette would not be here unless he had planned a foolproof getaway.

  Granette’s teeth showed again.

  “Not easily, certainly not easily! You have a knife at your throat. A single move and you are dead. I can have time to get the jewel, for you have it here, even though Robierre does not know it.”

  “If you can search the rooms better than he did—” began the Baron, but Granette cut him short. There was a concentrated fury in his words.

  “That is enough! There will be no time-wasting, Mannering!”

  The knife came downwards like a flash, but Granette’s hands were steady, and again only the point grazed Mannering’s skin. There was sweat over Mannering’s body, and he knew that bluffing was useless. For the moment at least he had to give way.

  He drew a deep breath, and found it easy to feign fear.

  “I can’t stand this!” he muttered. “Take that damned knife away.”

  “And the diamond?” The knife did not move, and as Mannering talked and the muscles of his neck moved he could feel its sharp pressure.

  “In my wallet, on the chair.” The words were jerky.

  “Take it out,” murmured Granette.

  Mannering moved over slowly, taking the wallet with his right hand. He extracted the Crown of Castile, still in its cotton-wool wrapping, and as Granette’s left hand moved towards it he played with the idea of making his effort. But the knife was still there.

  “So,” murmured Granette. He clutched the diamond in his left hand, easing backwards with the knife. “The Baron gives back what he takes, hein? And now the other gems, my fine thief. The Isabella Diamond and the Desire stone. Where are they, eh, Mannering?”

  “In London,” Mannering said, but his eyes were staring at the knife, not at Granette. The Frenchman realised it, and pushed the knife down slowly. Mannering tried to shrink back in his pillows, and if ever a man looked afraid for his life the Baron did at that moment.

  “In London, Mannering? And where? At your flat?”

  “Don’t be a fool. They’re in safe deposits.”

  “Yes?” Granette’s voice sharpened. “Which ones? And under what name?”

  “Watson – and Wilson,” Mannering muttered. “The tickets are in my flat, in a panel of the oak wardrobe. That’s all I can tell you! Take that knife away, I can’t stand it! Take it away!”

  “You won’t need to stand it for long,” murmured Granette, and Mannering had never seen a more diabolical expression than there was in Granette’s eyes. “I have the information, Mannering, but I am not foolish enough to think you would stop and leave me to get the diamonds. And here, after Robierre has been – what more natural than for you to cut your throat? You understand, my friend?”

  Mannering did understand.

  The words were uttered with a cold-blooded intentness and a venom giving no shred of hope that Granette would change his mind. Murder was in those contemptuous grey eyes, cold and callous.
Granette stared down, enjoying this grim, macabre moment, and the knife moved slowly downwards.

  Mannering leapt.

  There was nothing else to do, the chance had to be taken.

  But as he gathered his muscles and started moving Mannering saw the flash in Granette’s eyes, and the moon glinted on the light of the steel as it came downwards. It was like living his last moment, there was a terrible conviction in his mind that death was coming.

  He felt a sharp, searing pain as the edge cut through his skin and flesh, a sharpness that was sickening. But he was still moving, and the knife was buried in the pillow, not in his throat!

  He had his right hand free. Before Granette could regain control of the knife Mannering hit him, clenched fist cracking into the man’s jaw. Granette gasped and reared backwards, and the Baron moved like a man possessed. As the Frenchman was falling the knife curved a blood-dripping arc in his hand, and the Baron’s fingers tightened round the wrists like steel springs. Every ounce of his strength went into the grip. Granette groaned, his nerveless fingers opened and the knife dropped to the bed, spraying blood over the sheet and the pillowcase. Mannering saw the red stains, and they sent a murderous rage through him, a fury that seemed to obsess him.

  Yet all the time the need for silence was in his mind.

  He was off the bed now, with Granette’s wrist still clenched in his right hand. With his left Mannering smashed Granette’s face, not feeling the pain of the blow, although the skin at his knuckles was split. Again and again he hit the Frenchman, while Granette was moaning and slobbering and trying to evade those dreadful, battering blows. Granette was a different man now, half fainting, moaning for mercy, talking in French all the time.

  The red rage was passing, but there was a kind of brittleness in the Baron’s head that he did not understand, a feeling of unreality. There was Granette, helpless across the bed, every atom of colour drained from his cheeks and with his lips slobbering in fear. His nose was bloody and probably broken, and the skin at his mouth was badly lacerated. Mannering’s knuckles were red and raw.