The Riviera Connection Page 2

He came in, freshly shaved, fastening his collar, with his tie draped round his neck.

  “Hallo, my sweet! I’m ready for a snack, too.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek as he sat down. “Thanks.”

  “Who called you?” asked Lorna.

  “Bristow.”

  She didn’t comment, but poured out tea. He took it, talked a little, mechanically, glanced through the letters which she brought from the front door of their Chelsea flat, but he was not really with her.

  When he had gone she stood at the window of the large room on the top floor of this Chelsea house. He crossed the road, on the way to the garage not far off, but didn’t turn and wave to her. Usually, he would have. Slowly she went back into the bedroom.

  The watching years were heavy upon her.

  A crowd surged about the house of murder when Mannering pulled up in his cream-coloured Jaguar. It was after nine o’clock, so there were no children. A uniformed policeman stood on duty at a white gate. The house itself was set in a large, well-tended garden, but was hardly a thing of beauty. Its grey walls and severe, late Georgian lines seemed to resent the sun which was shining from a cloudless sky.

  Antirrhinums, asters, zinnias, all in a galaxy of colour, glowed in the flower beds; the lawns were trim; the gravel drive was neat. The front door stood open, and another policeman was on duty outside at the foot of the stairs.

  As he approached, Mannering caught a glimpse of a man leaning out of an upstairs window.

  The policeman on duty recognised him.

  “Mr. Bristow’s upstairs, sir,” the second man said. “As far up as you can go.”

  “Thanks,” said Mannering.

  The first people he saw were newspapermen, all hurrying down. They stopped at sight of him, and a dozen questions were fired, all meaning the same thing. They were amiable and friendly, and three hurried on. The fourth stayed on the second landing with Mannering. He was a short, curly-haired man with a face like a cherub, whose name was Chittering, who knew a great deal about Mannering and suspected much about the Baron. He had a pair of the most innocent-looking blue eyes in the world, and there was no one whom Mannering would more readily trust.

  “Officially consulted, John?”

  “Yes.”

  “One thing about the old B, he doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet,” said Chittering. “Mind if I mention you?”

  “I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”

  “Thanks. When did you see Dale last?”

  Mannering’s grin was taut. “I can’t see any grass growing under your feet, either. Yesterday afternoon. Wait downstairs for ten minutes, and if Bristow doesn’t object I’ll give you a headline the others won’t have.”

  “On your best behaviour, are you,” Chittering murmured. “I wonder how long you’ll be prepared to wait for Bristow’s approval before doing what you want to do.” He grinned. “Hurry, John!”

  Mannering went up the last flight of carpeted stairs three at a time.

  Another uniformed constable stood at the open door of the flat. Several men were inside. Mannering saw them busy, with tape measures, fingerprint powder, all the routine of an investigation. If you were a policeman, you had to work by rule of thumb, and it often got quick results. Sometimes it took too long.

  Two plain-clothes men nodded at him, no one else took any notice.

  He reached the door of the room where the safe had been opened.

  Bristow was bending over the safe, a man dressed in a light grey suit, very spruce, with grey hair brushed well back from a centre parting, his small, trimmed moustache stained yellow with nicotine. A cigarette drooped from his well-shaped lips. His grey eyes had an eager brightness; he was in the middle fifties but looked little more than forty.

  He glanced round.

  “Oh, you’ve arrived,” he said, without enthusiasm, which meant that he was preoccupied; having sent for Mannering he wouldn’t mean to be offhand. “Won’t be a minute.” He drew at the cigarette and it glowed very red. “I don’t know what to say,” he said to the large, bulky man dressed in brown who stood by him. “Forget it for the time being.” He took the cigarette from his lips, then looked at Mannering, with his brows drawn together; a deep groove formed between them.

  Beneath Bristow the detective was Bristow the man.

  “Thanks for coming so quickly, John. We’ve moved the body. Have a look at these, will you?”

  He turned from the safe towards a small table near the window. The sun shone through, here, and seemed to light a silvery fire at one side of the table. There was a little heap of diamonds, cut and polished but not set. Mannering saw these before he noticed anything else on the table, but there were various oddments including several legal documents, bank books, a small bundle of five pound notes, and some keys.

  He did not touch the diamonds, but peered at them grimly. They were a fair size, and nicely cut, but there was nothing remarkable about them. Sold on the right market, they should fetch something like a thousand pounds each.

  He took a pair of callipers from the pocket of his brown suit, and picked up a diamond, took it closer to the window, turned it this way and that, and fire seemed to strike from it as it caught the rays of the sun.

  “Don’t tell me that’s a fake,” Bristow said.

  “It’s no more a fake than you are,” Mannering retorted, and gave the taut grin again. “Are you? These are new or recently cut and polished stones. If you really mean ‘could they be big, stolen stuff cut down for resale?’ the answer is yes – except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They were found here.”

  “Hmm,” said Bristow, and stretched out his hand for the callipers, picked up a diamond with them, and examined it in much the same way that Mannering had. “Not a hope of identifying them, anyhow. Are you particularly busy?”

  “No.”

  “Have a look round first, and then we’ll have a chat,” Bristow said. “I’ll want an inventory as soon as I can get it.”

  “Have you sent for his partner?” Mannering asked.

  “Bennett? Yes, he shouldn’t be long,” Bristow said.

  “Any objection to the Press knowing that Dale saw me yesterday afternoon, and took the Gramercy jewels away with him?” asked Mannering.

  Bristow’s eyes suddenly became frosty.

  “Did he?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are they worth?”

  “Forty thousand pounds.”

  Bristow said, very softly: “How often did he deal in big stuff like that?”

  “Whenever he had a buyer.”

  “How did he pay?”

  “Cheque against delivery. I put it through his bank just before three yesterday.”

  “Who was he going to sell the stuff to?” Bristow asked.

  “It was the one thing he didn’t tell me,” Mannering answered.

  “Oh, was it.” Bristow’s eyes were half-closed. He stared at Mannering as if trying to make up his mind what to say next. He didn’t smile when at last he broke the long silence. “Listen, John, no tricks. If you know who he expected to sell these to, tell me.”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “And you didn’t ask?”

  “There’s etiquette even in my business,” Mannering said mildly.

  “You’ll have to teach me,” Bristow growled. His eyes were wide open, now, and his gaze very direct; almost hostile. “Don’t go off on a lone wolf act. I didn’t know Dale had been to see you yesterday. I just wanted a quick opinion on those diamonds and anything else we may find here.”

  Mannering said: “I’ll help where I can. What about this story for the Press?”

  Bristow relaxed.

  “You can go and unburden yourself to your friend Chittering,” he sa
id.

  Mannering found Chittering in the hall talking to a youngish woman with a pale but startlingly attractive face, dark eyes, black hair which looked as if it had resented the brush and comb that morning. Her fine, dark eyes were slightly bloodshot, and she looked tired out.

  “I just can’t tell you any more,” she was saying. “Betty’s at the hospital. I didn’t want her to go, but the doctor insisted. She doesn’t remember a thing – it’s the shock, he says.”

  “You’ve been very good,” Chittering said. “Hallo, John. This is Mrs. Gorlay, Bernard Dale’s neighbour from the flat below.”

  There were murmured courtesies, then Mrs. Gorlay went up to her flat; she had easy grace of movement and a figure which drew Chittering’s gaze.

  But Chittering was first and last a newspaperman.

  “Any luck?”

  “I sold the Gramercy jewels – diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and rubies – to Dale yesterday afternoon,” Mannering said. “Their value, over the counter was at least forty thousand pounds. You could say that Dale bought them for a mysterious and unnamed collector who wanted them urgently, and who is going to be disappointed.”

  Chittering made a puckered O of his small lips.

  “Name of said collector?”

  “Not known.”

  “Clue Number One,” said Chittering, and grinned. “I wish you luck, John! Anything else I can do?”

  “Larraby or Carmichael at the shop will give you a history of the Gramercy jewels,” Mannering told him, “and the more you print about them the more I’ll think of you. A good strong hint that we would like this collector to come forward would help.”

  “‘We being you – or the police?”

  “Regard us as one,” said Mannering blandly.

  “And butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,” Chittering jeered. He turned away, but didn’t go far. “Wasn’t there some trouble between Dale and his wife a year or two ago?”

  “Just divorce,” Mannering said dryly.

  “Odd circumstances, weren’t there?”

  “She ran off with a Frenchman, and Dale chased after them.”

  “Oh, lord, yes!” Chittering rubbed the down on his chin. There were moments when he looked no more than a boy. “Nice time, that daughter of his is having.”

  Mannering shrugged.

  Chittering went out, and Mannering returned to the top flat. Bristow wasn’t exactly waiting for him, but seemed glad that he had arrived. He was sitting at the desk, going through a book that looked like a diary. The room, part living-room, part study, had a comfortably homely air; armchairs were worn at the arms, everything was planned for comfort rather than appearance.

  “Now what we have to do is find out who Dale bought those jewels for,” Bristow said. “Sure you’ve no idea?”

  “Not only that, I don’t think he’ll come forward,” Mannering said. “Care to lay a bet?”

  “No,” Bristow said, and grinned. “But I think we’ll have an arrest within twenty-four hours. I’ve just had a telephone call – Bennett, Dale’s junior partner, was out all night. His car has a bullet hole in the roof – and one of the neighbours took a pot shot at the murderer. Like to talk to him, when we get him?”

  “Yes,” said Mannering slowly. “I think I would.”

  Bristow noticed a change in his tone. “Now what’s on your mind?”

  “I know young Tony Bennett well,” Mannering said. “He’s a nice lad.”

  “I’ve known a lot of nice lads get hanged,” Bristow said dryly.

  3

  Arrest and Trial

  Mannering sat in the small office at the back of his shop, Quinns, and studied the girl opposite him. She was in her early twenties. Some would have called her pretty, a few might have said that she was lovely. Now, her face was very pale, her eyes almost feverishly bright.

  When he had seen her walking towards him along the shop, past the precious objets d’art, the treasures of the ages which made Quinns world-renowned, Mannering had realised that she was with child. He doubted whether she had many weeks to go.

  She had come alone.

  She was Hilda Bennett, wife of Tony Bennett, whom Bristow had arrested and charged with Bernard Dale’s murder, three days ago. Mannering had seen her twice before; never when she had been so despairing as this.

  “Sit down,” Mannering said, and pressed the bell for one of his assistants to bring tea. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the day had been quiet.

  He had found himself thinking more and more about Tony Bennett, about the evidence against him and the fact that Bristow was quite sure that he had the murderer.

  Hilda lowered herself into a chair. A silver-haired man came in, with tea on a tray.

  The girl looked as if she were going to swoon.

  “It’s no use, Mr. Mannering,” she said. “I know you’ll do your best. Everyone will. Dick’s been—” she broke off, her voice suddenly hoarse, tears flooding her eyes.”Dick’s been wonderful. But they’ll hang Tony. I’ve got an awful feeling that nothing can save him.”

  Mannering knew that the evidence was so overwhelming that it was frightening. If he told the girl that she was wrong, he might worsen the situation for her later. He could encourage faint hope but dare not go further.

  “Bristow’s thorough,” he said. “And everything I can do, and the police for that matter, is being done. If we could be sure where Tony was that night—”

  “We just can’t,” said Hilda, and closed her eyes. “I’ve told you just what he told me, Mr. Mannering. We were going to the pictures. Then someone telephoned him, said that he had a wonderful chance to buy some jewels very cheaply. You know what Tony is for business. He just dropped everything and hurried to Watford, where he was to meet this customer. He didn’t tell me who it was. He’d been off on hurried trips like that before.”

  She paused.

  Mannering passed her a cup of tea.

  “And he was waylaid and drugged,” Hilda went on. “When he came round it was early morning. He drove home . . .”

  It was an odd, unconvincing story. The customer who was supposed to have telephoned Tony Bennett had been found – a jewel merchant with an extensive trade, who had a reputation second to none. He was emphatic that he hadn’t telephoned Tony; that story was false.

  It was possible that Tony had been to see another girl, Mannering knew; possible, but unlikely. He stuck to his guns, swore that the message had come from the dealer. The Watford police, Bristow and Mannering had tried to break the dealer’s story; it just wouldn’t break. The evidence that the dealer had not even been near a telephone at the time of the call was overwhelming.

  “Tony assumed someone thought he’d had the jewels on him,” the girl went on wearily, as if she were reciting a lesson painfully learned. “He didn’t want to disturb me, or worry me. He slept in the spare room. But there was the bullet hole in the roof of the car . . .”

  Yes; his car had been used by the murderer, and there had been plenty of time for him to go to Dale’s house and get back. He said he’d been forced to swallow a tablet which had sent him to sleep, but had not seen his assailant.

  There could hardly be a taller story.

  Dick Britten, Hilda’s solicitor and a family friend, fetched her from Quinn’s half an hour later. He looked as if he hated the task of trying to comfort her.

  “I just don’t believe that Tony did it,” Mannering said to Lorna, a few days later, “and Bristow can yap from now until Christmas without convincing me. If they hang him . . .”

  Lorna said slowly: “You’re afraid that they will, aren’t you?”

  “I can’t see a loophole,” Mannering growled. “Tony knew the Gramercy jewels were at the flat. He had a key to the flat. He’s a locksmith as well as a jewel-merchant, and he could have forced
that safe. It’s just a question of being sure that he shouldn’t hang, yet not seeing a ghost of a chance of saving him.”

  “How is his wife?”

  “I gather that she’s almost prostrate.” Mannering lit a cigarette. “Dick Britten will be here soon – he’s with her now. He’s having a hell of a time, too.”

  Britten, he knew, was Bernard Dale’s brother-in-law; his ex-wife’s brother. That had been characteristic of Bernard Dale – to be faithful and loyal to old friends.

  “So Britten couldn’t be busier,” Mannering went on. He drew deeply on the cigarette and moved to the window of their Chelsea flat. He could see the shimmering waters of the Thames, not far away, and the stream of traffic along the Embankment. “She’s in trouble all the way round. The jewels were under-insured. Bernard took a chance, didn’t mean to hold them for long, obviously. The loss is big enough to smash the business. Nice outlook, both for Bernard’s daughter Betty and for Tony Bennett’s wife.” He was pacing about. “I’ve never felt quite like this before – it’s as if I’m being suffocated. There just isn’t a lead to anyone else.” He heard the front door bell ring. “That’ll be Dick.”

  They were in the drawing-room, a lovely room of greys and blues; comfortable without being luxurious but in superb taste. They heard the maid walk across the hall of the flat, then a man’s voice.

  A moment later, the maid opened the door.

  “Mr. Britten,” she said.

  Britten came in quickly. He was so fair that at moments he looked grey and much older than he was. At other times he looked absurdly young. Mannering had known him as a light-hearted, almost feckless young man with a little known serious streak in him. He was much more serious, now; an able man. His eyes looked tired, his shoulders drooped.

  They shook hands.

  “What will you have?” Mannering asked. “You look as though you could do with a double.”

  “Without much soda,” Lorna said.

  Britten forced a grin.

  “You’re about right. Thanks. I’ve spent most of the day with Hilda.” He dropped into an armchair, and took a cigarette from the box which Lorna proffered. “Thanks again. I’ve also seen Tony. It’s the most ungodly business, John. I can’t believe that Tony did it, and yet the evidence seems to get stronger and stronger. The stuff which the Defence digs up doesn’t help. True, they haven’t found the jewels, but Tony had time to dispose of them – could have had an accomplice, of course. I—” Britten broke off. “Imagine how I feel about it. Bernard was my brother-in-law, even if things didn’t work out well.” He took the drink from Mannering. “Thanks. That word keeps popping up! I’ve had Stella on the telephone from the Riviera,” he added abruptly, and tossed half the drink down.