The Riviera Connection (3 page)

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.

 

 

Ma
nnering 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.

“Oh,” said Mannering slowly.

Stella, now Madame Bidot, had been married to Bernard Dale for ten years. She had run off – as the newspaperman Chittering had recalled – with a Frenchman. Mannering had known her fairly well, but not so well as he had known Bernard. She was a lovely creature, if anything too light-hearted, too fond of gaiety, for her solid, dependable first husband.

“She's badly cut up,” Britten said. “More than I thought she would be. What with Stella, Hilda and Tony—” He jumped up, and whisky spilled over the edge of his glass. “John, you've worked miracles before now. Can't you see any hope? I don't give a damn what it costs.”

“We don't need to worry about cost, either,” Mannering said. “I've got everyone I know in the trade looking for the Gramercys, or any jewels remotely like them. Until we get some kind of line on them, we can't hope to get a new one on the murder. The hell of it is—” He broke off, glaring at the window as if the evening sky were to blame for what had happened. “They might have gone into a private collection and never see the light of day for a century. They might be held under-cover for years. Or they might be cut up into little stuff no one would ever recognise. The chances of getting a lead through the jewels before Tony is tried and convicted are so small that I wouldn't give a pound for them.”

Britten said: “That's what counsel says. We can't see an angle for the defence that will stand up. We'll try, of course, but there's hardly a hope. When Hilda realises that the case is going on to the Old Bailey, I don't know what she'll do. I'm scared in case she kills herself.”

Lorna said: “She won't; women don't.” She gave a strained laugh. “I mean, we're tougher than you think we are, Dick. Who's with her?”

“Oh, her mother – she's all right from that point of view. If Bristow gets what he wants, I think the case will come up in about six weeks. The hell of it is when I think of a trial, I keep thinking of the verdict – and the hanging. It's haunting me.”

Mannering said mildly: “You're taking it too hard.” He refilled Britten's glass. “I can guess how you feel, though. The odd thing is that Tony says that he doesn't know whom Bernard bought the Gramercys for. If that's true, then Bernard kept a lot from his partner. I know we've been into all this before, but it still looks as if Tony's shielding someone. Think there's a ghost of a chance of that being the case?”

“I just can't make it out,” Britten said hopelessly. “I don't mind admitting that I'd like to be given a job out of London for a bit. I know that sounds as if I'm shirking it, but I can't help, and—” he tossed the drink down. “What I want is a bit of gay life. I feel almost guilty at daring to say so!”

“You'll get over it,” Mannering said. “How about cash?”

Britten said: “My firm isn't charging, of course. But we'll need a fat fee for counsel.”

“Charge it to me,” said Mannering.

 

He was not called by the Prosecution or the Defence, at the trial which took place nearly seven weeks after Tony Bennett had been arrested. Nothing new had come in, and the evidence was overwhelming.

The Prosecution was as thorough as it could be, but there was a curious calmness in court, unlike the tension in most murder cases. There was a feeling that the result was a foregone conclusion.

The case lasted for a day and a half. The jury was out for twenty-seven minutes, returned a verdict of guilty, and the judge donned the black cap before he pronounced sentence.

Tony Bennett, tall and powerful, stood and looked into the old man's lined face, watching the pale lips move as the fateful words were uttered.

Mannering also heard the words. He knew them well enough not to be affected by the phrases themselves, but Tony Bennett's expression bit deeply into him.

Tony had a round, good-looking face, curly hair, a fair complexion and blue eyes which could be merry. When meeting him first, the chief thought one had was that he was likeable. Everyone felt that; few had had a wider circle of friends. It was something in his expression, in the cast of his countenance, perhaps, and openness which won everyone.

Yet none of his friends had been able to do a thing to help.

In the dock, listening to himself being sentenced to death by hanging, he looked incredulous. It wasn't that he didn't understand, more that he could not believe that it was happening to him. When it was over, he gave a funny little shake of the head, as if he were rejecting the very idea.

A woman in court began to sob. Another joined her.

Tony was led away.

Mannering left the court with Dick Britten. They walked along the narrow street together, and at the corner on Ludgate Hill, Britten said abruptly: “I can't face Hilda. Think you—think you could?” He jerked the words out.

Mannering said: “Yes, I'll see her.”

Hilda was at a nursing-home in the West End. Her child, a son, had been born two days before the trial started.

Obviously no one had told her the news, when Mannering arrived. She realised intuitively why he had come, and what message he had to bring. She was alone, looking so pale and pure – as if innocence touched her, and horror had no place in her life. Mannering wished she would cry, but she listened and nodded and thanked him calmly. Afterwards, she behaved as if she was not made of flesh and blood, or as if the blood had dried up, and all her thoughts and actions were mechanical.

Uneasily, he left her, foolishly warning the matron and the nurses to be very careful.

He went straight to Scotland Yard.

Bristow was in his office, overlooking the Embankment. It was a long, narrow office, the leaves of the plane trees rustled close by the open windows. The sounds of traffic from the Embankment and from the river floated in.

It was warm enough for Bristow to be in his shirt-sleeves. The inevitable cigarette dangled from his mouth.

“Hallo, John, what's brought you?”

“You'll say idiocy. Bill, can you arrange an interview with Tony Bennett for me? I know I've no legal right, but you can fix it. I don't want to encourage him, or slip him a poisoned tablet or a razor blade!” Mannering forced a smile; that wasn't easy.

Bristow said: “I can see what's eating you. Everyone who knows him seems to feel the same. It's damned foolish sentiment. No one would feel like it if it weren't for the wife and infant.” He offered cigarettes. “How do you think you can help him?”

“I don't know a way.”

“I must say I expected you to make a damned nuisance of yourself before this,” Bristow said, and then added with a rare rush of feeling: “And I half wish you had! But if you haven't been able to find anything to help him with, John, I'm damned sure no one else could.” He paused. “All right, I'll fix an interview.”