Held At Bay (14 page)

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 Castile'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.

“It doesn't look pretty,” said the Baron harshly. “And nor do you. Remember this, when you think of trying to corner the Baron again.”

He picked up the knife idly, still with that queer brittleness, almost a weakness, strange to him, and Granette's breath hissed. Mannering laughed, but he had to steady himself against the bed rail.

“Scared, Granette? It's different when the odds are reversed, isn't it? But I prefer this—”

He moved to the wardrobe quickly and he had an automatic from his coat pocket before Granette realised what he was doing. He swung round, levelling the gun at Granette's face, and the Frenchman tried to hedge away. Mannering's voice was still harsh.

“Don't worry to get comfortable, Granette. Explain one or two facts. First, where's the emerald you took from Price?”

There was no fight left in the man.

“In—in Kelworthy's safe. It has a double bottom.”

“That'll do,” said the Baron. His knuckles were smarting where the skin was raw, and the right side of his neck was stiff. That knife cut would take some explaining. His pyjama coat was coated with blood near the neck, and liberally sprayed down the front. He realised how close he had been to death as he took the Crown from Granette's pocket. “Granette, listen to me. Don't try to get van Royten's ruby. Don't try any tricks with Anita de Castilla. Don't come after me again. Next time I'll kill you.”

Granette lurched forward, from the bed to his knees, and the sight sickened the Baron. He stepped back, evading those clutching hands, while Granette lifted a terror-stricken face upwards.

“I'll do anything, anything!”

“You'll do what I tell you. Go over to that desk, and start writing. I want a confession, in English, that you robbed Archibald Price and put on the Baron's disguise.”

Granette did not try to fight. Mannering watched as he wrote quickly, despite his trembling hands. The confession was more comprehensive than he had expected, and there was a deep sense of triumph in his mind as he put it on the table and moved his gun towards Granette.

“I'll use that if you try any tricks again. The moment there's trouble, it will go to Scotland Yard. Keep out of my affairs. Now get out of here.”

Granette was trembling all the way to the door, and the Baron watched him disappear along the passage. His face was set as he relocked the door. He grimaced when he saw the mess he was in, and felt suddenly weak.

No one with his throat cut fatally could have looked much worse. The knife had pierced the skin and flesh on the right side and the wound was nearly half an inch deep in the centre. It would not have needed much more pressure to have pierced the jugular: something under split seconds had divided the Baron from death.

As he cleaned up, he knew that he would have to have stitches in the wound. He felt sick, too, stiff and pain-racked, and yet there was no one he
could
approach.

There were Labolle and Gussi!

Mannering dressed as quickly as he could, without putting on a collar and tie, wrapped a scarf loosely round his neck and slipped outside. Jean was not there. It was five o'clock, the darkest hour before dawn, but outside Paris was waking. A taxi came along.

The journey seemed an endless torture, and it seemed an age before Mannering made someone hear him. The cabaret was closed, grey dawn was beginning to spread across the sky. Mannering leaned against the doorpost and he was drooping forward when the door was opened at last and Gussi's fat figure was outlined against the dim light.

“
Mon Dieu
!” gasped the fat man, and suddenly his arm was about Mannering's waist, steady, comforting. There was no need to think now. “'Ave care,
M'sieu,
‘ave care!
Sapristi,
they ‘ave cut your t'roat,
hein?
Lisette,
Lisette
!”

Mannering heard him calling, but he did not see
La Supreme
as she joined her husband, felt nothing as they stretched him on a couch. He was barely conscious when Lisette –
alias La Supreme
– telephoned for a doctor and Gussi tried hard to staunch the bleeding that had started again.

He was conscious of a vague satisfaction that this was not happening at the hotel, and then the small room went dark, seeming to whirl about him. Blackness came, complete and merciful.

At the very moment when a doctor was entering the
Cabaret des Belles Femmes
Jules Granette was talking over the long-distance wire to Jacob Kelworthy, at Hampstead. He spoke guardedly, but gave the names of Wilson and Watson, and the safe deposits where the other two jewels were supposed to be secreted. And: “It will be best for me to visit America now, I think.”

“I suppose so,” grunted Kelworthy. The news of the failure to get the Crown had depressed him. “Send Lenville back to me.”

“I should be careful there,” said Granette. “He is fond of the girl Anita.”

“That might be useful, very useful,” said Kelworthy. “That's good, Granette, perhaps we're not doing so badly. And you told Mannering the Sea of Fire was in my safe, you say?”