The Riviera Connection Read Free

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.
    â€œMr. Bristow’s upstairs, sir,” the second man said. “As far up as you can go.”
    â€œThanks,” 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.
    â€œOfficially consulted, John?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOne thing about the old B, he doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet,” said Chittering. “Mind if I mention you?”
    â€œI don’t see why you shouldn’t.”
    â€œThanks. 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.”
    â€œOn 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.
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œThanks 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