Held At Bay (11 page)

As its tinny echo rang up and down the Rue de Balzac the side door of Panneraude's house opened, and light streamed from it, yellow against the darkness. High and clear through the night shrilled the imperative blast of the
gendarme's
whistle.

“
Sacré Dieu
!” muttered the driver, in a sudden panic.

Mannering bumped back against the roof, his foot catching the unconscious man's head. The driver let in the clutch, found his gears with a rasp, and trod on the accelerator so heavily that the car lurched forward in a series of short jerks. But it steadied, and Mannering's tension eased. He had no love for reckless driving, but for once in his life he was glad of the Paris cabby's indifference to danger. No one would think twice about a taxi squealing round corners and ignoring the speed limit.

The Renault raced along the Rue de Balzac towards the Chateaubriand, and then turned right, rattling all the time. For the first five minutes Mannering did not notice their direction, he was busy first easing his victim to a seat, and then trying to find out how badly hurt he was.

The man was still breathing, and the Baron saw quickly the wound was too high up to be fatal. Now he had a choice; he could force the cabby to stop, and jump off near to the Bristol; or he could follow the affair of the wounded cracksman to its end.

The cab was travelling fast and the driver obviously meant to get as far away from the scene of the robbery as he could; there was a lot to be said for staying. Also, there were plenty of night haunts in the Bastille quarter—

Where he now knew they were heading – of a kind which would come in useful. He knew several of them, and he could slip into one, tidy himself up, and mix with the crowd. He would be recognised, and it would give him something of an alibi.

He decided to wait to the end of the journey, but it passed through his mind that with the jemmy and his other tools he would look stiff and awkward when he moved.

He had the folding jemmy in his pocket, and his tool-belt about his waist. His first temptation was to throw them out of the window, but they might be picked up quickly and give a clue to the route that the car had taken.

The alternative was obvious. It was awkward in the darkness and with the unconscious crook there, but he squeezed over to one side and raised one end of the leather-covered seat. There was a tray beneath, with two or three oily rags. The Baron undid his waistband, and dropped it with the jemmy into the tray. When the cabby found them he would drop them into the Seine as though they were red hot.

The terminus of the journey could not have suited him better.

He saw the name
Cabaret des Belles Femmes
in neon lighting outside a small building, with narrow passages running along either side. A dozen people were idling outside, and several taxis were waiting. As his cab pulled into one of the alleys, a man and woman in evening dress came from the
Cabaret.

The taxi jolted to a standstill, and the driver jumped out and pulled open Mannering's door. His rapid French was difficult to follow, but Mannering managed it.

“Quickly,” he snapped. “We will carry him together.”

Here was an alibi ready-made if it should be needed. The other cracksman had obviously taken a lot of trouble to prepare one – that savoured of Granette – and there was no reason why Mannering should not take advantage of it.

“All right,” he said.

He went through a small door at the side of the hall, supporting the unconscious man's shoulders, with the cabby holding the feet. Another narrow passage, probably behind the stage, stopped at a closed door. The cabby butted it with his head, and a moment later Mannering was putting the body on a couch in an empty room.

The taxi man was smiling now, full of gestures and self-satisfaction. He was also waiting for something. Mannering slipped his fingers into his wallet and he rustled a hundred franc note. The cabby's beam proved that it was more than he had expected, and with a low bow and an expressive “
Merci, M'sieu
!” he went out. Crime was cheap in Paris.

Mannering sat down, feeling suddenly tired.

There he was, perched on a rickety chair in one of the dressing-rooms of the
Cabaret des Belles Femmes,
with an unconscious French criminal next to him, and without the slightest idea of who was expecting the man – unless it was Granette.

Well, his French and his wits would have to see him through, but he wished the thief would come round.

The wish was granted, for soon the broad-shouldered Frenchman grunted and opened his eyes; they were dark blue and expressive. He was still wearing his mask, but Mannering's had been off some time. Mannering saw the other's eyes wide, saw him draw back on the couch and glance swiftly round the room. Then in expressive bastard French he said: “
Sapristi
! You are still here!”

“I'm here,” agreed the Baron, watching for a single false move. He would have been paying particular attention to the man's right hand had he known it was Labolle, and had he an inkling of Labolle's reputation with a knife.

But the next words set his pulse racing, and he hardly noticed the glitter in the Frenchman's eyes. The words seemed loaded with venom, but not a venom directed towards the Baron.

“And Granette – he send
vous aussi.
Yes?”

Chapter Fifteen

Labolle Talks

Mannering hardly knew why the words came as such a surprise. He had been convinced Granette had inspired the other's burglary, yet the confirmation came in such an odd way. Had
Granette
sent the Baron to Panneraude's house?

“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 another 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?”