The Riviera Connection Page 7

  “Don’t do any more foolish things, m’sieu.”

  “Not now, not any time,” Mannering said. “What do you want? Where’s my wife?”

  “What would I want but the jewels?” she asked. “You give me them, and your wife will be quite all right.”

  He could easily say the wrong thing and jump into trouble. He was doubly glad, now, that he had gone out to get a grip on himself.

  “I don’t know what jewels you’re talking about. If I did, you wouldn’t get one, my beauty, until my wife is back. Go and find your boyfriend. Tell him my wife must be here by . . .” he looked at his watch; it was a little after five-thirty. “Nine o’clock sharp.”

  “M. Mannering—”

  Now he could let himself go.

  “Get to hell out of here and tell him!” Mannering took the girl’s shoulders and bundled her out of the room. He heard her gasp for breath as she staggered away from the door, but he didn’t wait to listen. He flung himself across the room and snatched up the telephone.

  “Hall porter, please.”

  “A moment, m’sieu.”

  Mannering waited, feverishly impatient; then the porter answered, and Mannering spoke in fluent French.

  “There is a young lady coming downstairs, in a brown dress and wearing a fur wrap.”

  “Yes, m’sieu.”

  “Stop her, talk to her, ask her what she is doing in the hotel,” Mannering said. “Delay her for at least five minutes. It will be worth five thousand francs to you.”

  “Merci, m’sieu. And what shall I do after the five minutes?”

  “Let her go.”

  “I understand,” said the porter, almost as if he meant it. “Ah, she is here.”

  Mannering rang off.

  He jumped across the room, opened a case, and took a small make-up case from it. He stood in front of the mirror, using greasepaint, working cheek-pads into his mouth, broadening his nostrils with plastic pieces. There was no time at all for fineness. He snatched a blue polo sweater from the case, slipped into it, ruffled his hair, and pulled on a blue beret. Then he hurried downstairs.

  “Mam’selle, I am so sorry,” the night porter was saying, “but I must know—”

  The girl was hemmed in by his desk, looking frantically right and left. Mannering dodged back out of sight, and went to the nearest telephone.

  In a moment, the hall porter said: “’Allo?”

  “Let her go in a few seconds,” Mannering said.

  He went out by a side door, and hurried across the road to the wide promenade. Several other people were there in the warmth of the brightening dawn.

  Lucille came running out.

  She hurried to the kerb, and flung her leg over a little green velocipede, dozens of which buzzed along every street by day. The engine stuttered as Mannering went quickly towards his Citroen. He was at the wheel when the girl was a few hundred yards ahead, going fast.

  She turned away from the sea, into a side street. Mannering raced round the corner, in time to see her disappear round another. That was into the narrow main road, where trams already clattered along the rails which stood up like welts in the cobbled road.

  There were several cars and four velocipedes. Mannering kept the girl in sight, until, a hundred yards ahead, she turned left. This was into a wide street of tall houses, mostly in need of paint.

  The girl was disappearing into a court-yard approached through green gates. Mannering drove straight past, but caught the number of the house from the corner of his eye. It was 27, painted white on a black circle on the drab green wall.

  At the end of the road, he saw the name – rue de l’Arbre; at that end the sea shimmered peacefully and the sky was blue delight.

  Mannering turned the corner, and stopped.

  If he went into the house now, he would probably run into serious trouble. Until he had Lorna safe, he couldn’t hand the Gramercys over to the police; they were his chief barter. He had to play this with agonising care, although it was like playing with Tony Bennett’s life as well as with Lorna.

  If he watched the house, he would know if she were taken away. But he couldn’t watch all the time.

  The temptation to break in was almost overwhelming, but Mannering fought it back. He was too tired, might do the wrong thing simply through lack of sleep.

  A few hours’ rest would make a new man of him.

  There was always the chance that the man who had sent Lucille would take Lorna to the Mirage, hoping for a direct exchange with the jewels. He was much more likely to visit Mannering in person.

  Mannering kept arguing with himself. He knew where to find the girl, if not Lorna, and Lorna was safe while he had the jewels.

  The wise thing was to go back to the Mirage, rest, and wait until nine o’clock and word from Lucille’s boyfriend.

  He made himself go back . . .

  He parked the little car some distance from the hotel, rubbed off the greasepaint, walked to the hotel, entered by a side-door, paid the porter the promised five thousand francs, and soon reached his room. He glanced up at the light-fitting; it hadn’t been touched. Everything was as he had left it.

  He kicked off his shoes and took off his coat, then lay on the bed. The faint smell of an unfamiliar perfume teased him. He could picture the girl when she had first blinked up at him, pink and sleepy. Mocking, tantalising . . . malicious?

  He made himself breathe regularly and deeply. If he could drop off even for half an hour, it would do him a world of good. All his life he had taught himself to sleep when he had a chance; a tired man was always at a disadvantage.

  And Lorna had insisted on being with him!

  There was nothing but irony. He could fix the Comte de Chalon easily, now; could find out the truth because his hand was so strong against the Count – or would have been, but for Lorna.

  And the auburn-haired girl.

  And her boyfriend.

  Mannering felt his eyes getting heavier. He heard sounds about the hotel and others in the street; cars, horses, bicycles, motor-bicycles, then people talking.

  He dozed.

  When he woke, bright sunlight shone on to the curtains. He lay quite still, but awake on the instant, fully alert.

  Someone was tapping at the door.

  He called: “Come in,” but the tapping was repeated. He got off the bed, reached the outer door, and hesitated.

  He glanced up at the light-fitting.

  The burglary at the villa had probably been discovered by now; possibly the servants knew that the strong-room had been raided. The Count de Chalon and his nephew in London might already know.

  The tapping came again.

  He opened the door.

  The girl who called herself Lucille stood there. She wore a lemon-coloured dress without sleeves, and a tiny lemon-coloured hat, little more than a patch on the back of her glorious hair, which fell in a gleaming, waving mass to her shoulders. She was lovely and she was young.

  She smiled, almost timidly.

  “Hallo,” she said. “You are still here.”

  “And waiting for you,” Mannering said grimly. “Come in.”

  She led the way into the bedroom, glancing about her, as if desperately anxious to spot the hiding place. Mannering rasped his fingers over his stubble, went to the balcony and stepped out, looking over the sea and the faint haze which dulled its blue brilliance. Some people were already bathing and there was a constant flow of traffic. Over on the headland, the haze hid the white shapes of the villas.

  He turned to face Lucille.

  “Where is my wife?”

  “She has written you a letter.” Lucille opened a large, bright green handbag, and took out a sealed envelope. Mannering just managed to prevent himself from snatching it. The girl wa
s laughing at him; the girl could easily make him feel a fool.

  But she didn’t know that he had followed her to 27, rue de l’Arbre.

  Did she?

  He glanced down at the written John Mannering. That was Lorna’s clear, bold handwriting; no one in the world would be able to deceive him about that.

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Not since last night.”

  “Who gave you this?”

  Her eyes spilled over with merriment.

  “My good friend, m’sieu!”

  He put his head on one side, and looked at her, then opened the letter. It was to his eternal credit that he didn’t rip it open.

  Lorna hadn’t wasted words.

  Darling, I can’t understand it. They shanghaied me last night, but I wasn’t hurt. The only man I’ve seen is delightful. I think I’m in a villa but don’t know where. The man says that I shall hear from you soon.

  Darling, I am perfectly all right. This isn’t written under dictation, with a man standing over me with a whip.

  He tells me you’re back at the hotel.

  Be careful,

  Lorna.

  P.S. I haven’t the faintest idea what he wants me to do. He had a telephone call from a girl – woman? – named Lucille.

  Mannering read the letter twice. The weight lifted. He could look into Lucille’s tawny eyes and feel almost free from fear. He didn’t look at her. He knew that she was watching him carefully, anxious to judge his reactions. He folded the letter, slipped it into his pocket, turned and looked out to sea.

  “Are you satisfied?” Lucille asked.

  Mannering grinned. “Not yet!”

  He moved swiftly, shot out a hand, pulled her hair lightly, and then went into the bedroom. She hurried after him, and he thought that she was alarmed, in case he ran off. He stripped off his shirt, singlet and trousers, and she stood with her back to the balcony, eyes rounded, lips parted.

  Wearing just his running short pants, Mannering went into the bathroom. “Lucille!” he called.

  She appeared at the door.

  “If you’re not very careful,” Mannering said, splashing hot water into the hand-basin, “you’ll get yourself into a lot of trouble. What’s the name of this boyfriend of yours?”

  “Philippe,” she said with nervous promptness.

  “Philippe what?”

  Raoul, Stella’s husband, had a brother Philippe.

  “I am not allowed to tell you.”

  “I could find ways of making you tell me.”

  “Could you?” asked the girl, and seemed to become more confident; her eyes had that gleam of mockery again. “Perhaps Philippe would then find a way of making your wife do things she does not want to do.”

  “The cat puts out her claws.”

  “What is that?”

  “Never mind.” Mannering began to lather his face, vigorously. He finished, then shaved; he had never been watched so closely while shaving in his life. He turned and shooed her out. Relief had excited him; he was almost light-hearted.

  “I’m going to have a bath. Order my breakfast, please.”

  “Very well. Bacon and eggs?”

  “Continental breakfast,” Mannering said. “Coffee, not tea.”

  “For such a big man?” She laughed at him, and then closed the door.

  He heard her go straight into the bedroom, then heard the ting of the telephone. After that, he fancied that he heard her moving about.

  He finished his bath, opened the door and called: “Go and wait on the balcony, I’m coming out to dress.”

  She didn’t answer. He waited for a minute or so, and went into the bedroom. He stopped abruptly, just inside.

  Lucille wasn’t there. A man stood with his back to the balcony, smiling.

  9

  Suggestion

  The man was young; in the early thirties, Mannering guessed. He was good-looking, dark-haired, rather swarthy skinned. His teeth looked very white when he smiled, and his dark eyes held a gleam which reminded Mannering of the look in Lucille’s. Lean and tall, the man held himself well, was confident and capable.

  “Good morning, Mr. Mannering.”

  Mannering said: “Who rubbed the lamp?”

  The other frowned, puzzled.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Perhaps you don’t have the story in France,” said Mannering. He moved to the side of the bed, where his clothes were laid out. That startled him for a moment; he hadn’t laid them out there. “Aladdin had a lamp. When he rubbed it he could work miracles. Such as change a girl into a fine, strikingly handsome chap like you.” He pulled on the singlet. “Would you mind passing me the cigarettes on the dressing-table?”

  “I shall be delighted.” The man turned his back on Mannering, he had plenty of nerve. “Lucille has gone downstairs.” He handed Mannering the cigarettes and struck a match.

  “Thanks. Won’t you smoke?”

  “Never, until after dejeuner,” said the man firmly.

  “Wise man.” Mannering went on dressing. He had finished when there was a tap at the door. He went to open it, and a waiter appeared, carrying a tray.

  “Breakfast, m’sieu!”

  “Yes, thanks.” Mannering stood aside.

  The waiter bowed to the other man, pulled up a table and put the tray on it, then placed a chair so that Mannering could eat while looking out over the bay.

  Mannering sat down and hitched up the chair.

  The man watched him, expecting violence or the threat of violence, puzzled because neither came. The more puzzled, the better. Mannering was liberal with the butter and marmalade. He watched a little yacht far out in the bay, its sail very white; so out there the sun was breaking through the haze.

  Finished, Mannering lit a cigarette and rested his elbows on the table, looked steadily into the other’s dark eyes.

  Tension grew.

  Then Mannering said: “It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?”

  The other relaxed, smiled easily, and moved towards the bed. He sat on the side of it.

  “I think we shall work well together, Mr. Mannering. Your wife is well, if puzzled.”

  “So her letter said.”

  “You conceal the fact that you are also puzzled very well indeed, Mr. Mannering.”

  Mannering murmured: “What’s puzzling me?”

  Philippe said: “I see!” His eyes glinted with laughter. In many ways he reminded Mannering of the girl. He had the same freshness, the same engaging manner; they were both likeable people it could be a joy to know. “Perhaps you are wondering where you were last night.”

  Mannering said blandly: “Oh, I think I know that.”

  “It was kind of you to visit M. le Comte in his absence.”

  “Really?”

  “But he will be most distressed because of the burglary.”

  “Will he?”

  “Very distressed,” said Philippe. He moved towards the head of the bed, and put his legs up. “If he realised that he had lost many of his jewels I think he would probably go mad, m’sieu. That would be a great shame, wouldn’t it?”

  “Perhaps you exaggerate,” Mannering said.

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so,” said Philippe. “After you had left, I also went there. It was easy for me to climb through the hole you made. I did not find it difficult to discover that you had been to the strong-room. I saw the bullets in the wall. It was easy for me, of course, because I knew where the strong-room was, although I would never have been able to force it open. I salute a very brilliant burglar.”

  “Not I,” said Mannering firmly.

  “My friend, it is useless to—”

  “From the beginning I had a feeling that you were making a
mistake,” Mannering said regretfully. “Such things do happen. Shall we—”

  “Somewhere you have concealed the Gramercy jewels,” Philippe said. “Lucille and I were watching you. We followed you earlier in the evening, when you and your wife went to explore the headland. We watched, and saw you go to the villa alone.

  “We saw you flash the signal to your wife, and saw her reply to it,” he went on. “Shall we agree that there is no point in denying that you robbed M. le Comte?”

  Mannering stubbed out his cigarette.

  “We shall never agree,” he said sadly.

  Philippe said slowly, thoughtfully: “I wish I could understand what is making you behave like this, m’sieu. However, perhaps you will be more easily persuaded later. You are the famous John Mannering, of Quinns, in London. You have a business which extends throughout the world. You are a most reputable dealer in precious stones.” Philippe’s smile was almost feline, now. “And I am sure that you have a most kind and generous heart. Have you not, M. Mannering?”

  Mannering didn’t answer.

  “I imagine that is certain, or you would not have come here,” said the other, gently. “You came, I understand – may I say that I and my friends have reasoned out your motives? – to find the Gramercy jewels. You hoped that might help a young man now in grave danger of hanging. That is very sad, m’sieu. I wish that I could help.”

  Still Mannering kept silent.

  “But I cannot,” said the other, with a shrug. “It is sad, but it is fate. M. Mannering, here in France there are many poor people who have great difficulty in keeping themselves alive. Even their children are underfed. It is a great country but it has so much sadness, much poverty. And nearby, in Spain and Italy, many people are even worse off – far worse off than your friend in London, perhaps. Troubles are comparative, you will agree?”

  Mannering said: “Yes,” and wondered how long it would be before he knew what the other was driving at.

  “We reach agreement at last,” beamed the Frenchman. “I hope it is the first of many! M’sieu, you have been to the Villa Chalon. You found stolen goods and jewels there.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Also, you have taken great personal risk by forcing your way in. The law is very severe in France, m’sieu. And there is the little matter of your wife’s comfort and happiness to remember.”