Blood Red

by John Creasey

  ‘Theo, be serious for a minute,’ Rosamund pleaded. ‘You must understand that I am not going to accept an engagement ring worth so much money, and I wouldn’t wear it if I accepted it, and you wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘No, I guess I wouldn’t,’ he agreed, with a mock frown. ‘Say, how about this: we’ll turn it into a family heirloom. I guess it would be the very first I ever had. Didn’t you like it, honey?’

  ‘Like it? It would be like having one of the Crown Jewels!’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Theo earnestly. ‘That’s exactly right. Fit for a queen. How did you like my gentleman friend Mannering, eh? You’re mighty cagey about him.’

  ‘I hardly noticed him.’

  ‘That I don’t believe. He’s Ronald Colman, Rex Harrison, and Greg Peck rolled into one!’

  Rosamund found herself laughing. She so often found herself laughing with Theo. The way he grinned with one side of his mouth, and the way he screwed up one eye in pretended disgust, the way he said the unexpected, the outrageous statement he would make – all encouraged her to laugh. To take him seriously all the time would be impossible. In some ways he was much younger than men of her own age; it was hard to realise that he was forty-four.

  ‘Theo,’ she said, ‘I don’t want you to misunderstand me. I think it’s a wonderful thing to suggest, it’s absolutely superb, but it isn’t practical. You just have to learn to handle your money differently from that. It’s no use buying famous diamond rings as if they were rhinestones.’

  ‘Honey, didn’t you promise to marry me?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I did, but—’

  ‘You suppose you did?’ He moved with one of those lightning-like surges, took her up in his arms and held her very close, and said deep in his throat, ‘You promised to marry me, and don’t you forget it. I can’t wait until I’ve got the ring on your finger, and you on a honeymoon.’ He kissed her until she gasped for breath, when he drew his lips away, but he didn’t let her go. ‘You’re going to marry me, and I’ll kill any guy who tries to stop us.’

  He sounded almost as if he meant it.

  She stared at him in alarm, seeing the grimness of his expression, which had so swiftly followed gentleness, and she was a little frightened. He meant it when he said it. He was subject to such swift changes and moments of fierce, almost ferocious temper, and she had experienced that several times in the two weeks since they had met. He lived on his nerves, and did ten men’s work, but she believed that there was some other cause of these outbursts.

  Was he frightened? Was it fear that tore at his nerves, making him live so tensely that some quite small thing might bring on a rage?

  She knew only what he had told her about himself.

  That he was English, had emigrated as a youth to Australia, made a fortune there, then gone to the United States, and literally struck oil.

  ‘Yes, sir, ma’am,’ he would say in that sometimes ludicrous attempt to speak as an American from the Deep South, ‘I’m in oil, sho’ thing I’m in oil, there ain’t no man alive in mo’ oil than I’m in.’

  They had met at a cocktail party. She wasn’t sure who had introduced them – possibly someone who modelled at the same photographer’s studio. She had noticed him; everyone had. He’d talked outrageously even among a crowd. Then he’d espied her, and something seemed to happen to him. He had walked straight across the room, taking another man by the arm as he came, and when he reached her had said, ‘Introduce us, friend.’

  They had been introduced.

  ‘Rosamund sounds just about right to me,’ Theodorus had said, and added the only comment he had ever made about his childhood or his parents. ‘My dad invented the name, he had some kind of an idea that it was in the Bible, so I’m Theodorus. Where are we going to have dinner tonight?’

  Just like that.

  She had not dined with him that night or the following night. Since then, she hadn’t had a meal on her own except breakfast, and he had joined her three times even for that.

  He could stand very still, and could also move with unexpected, quick-silvery movements. When they were together, she doubted whether she made a move which he did not notice. She had gone to the studio less and less, and was using up her savings. Theo hardly seemed to think of money in the ordinary, everyday sense.

  He let her go.

  ‘Now, if you’ve finished supposing, we can continue with the conversation,’ he said, ‘and it’s a waste of time, hon. I am going to buy that ring, and I am not going to wear it myself, and I am not going to put it in a vault, safe, strongroom, or museum, so you might as well get used to the idea that you’re going to walk around some of the time with the Red Eye of Love right on your next-to-little finger.’

  She faced him very steadily. She did not understand him now and wondered whether she ever would. She could not really believe in him. She knew only that he could make her laugh and as easily make her cry, that when he was with her, her heart exulted, and when he was not, she felt lost and alone. He always had his own way. It was obvious that he had never felt a restraining hand. The world was made for him, and he was going to see that it behaved the way he wanted it, and his years hadn’t tempered his enthusiasm or his exuberance. She had protested about other extravagances, but they had all been trifling compared with this. Now, she knew that she was going to have to make him realise that she meant exactly what she said.

  ‘Theo,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Was the fit all right, honey?’

  ‘I shall not wear that ring, as an engagement ring, or for any reason at all.’

  He seemed really startled by her firmness. ‘Now, hon!’

  ‘I mean it, and there’s nothing you can do to make me change my mind. Now let’s stop talking about it.’ She was more than a little afraid that, if they kept on talking, he would blow up with one of those furious outbursts. He had done so with a man in a cocktail bar, and once when a man had come to his suite at the Panorama Hotel. He had taken the most luxurious suite in London’s most luxurious hotel, and they had been looking at a television programme when the man had called. There had been just a brief exchange of words and then a tremendous eruption; for a few minutes she had been almost frightened, in case Theo killed the man. Again she had asked herself if he was living on his nerves because of some deep-rooted fear; or whether the pressure of his fabulous activities was making him mentally ill. She had never met a man who behaved with such arrogance, nor one who could be more endearing.

  Now he went white about the lips. She could see that his teeth were clenching. That was how he had looked before the earlier outbursts.

  She felt almost despairing, because she did not see how she could prevent another.

  Chapter Four

  Persuasion

  Rosamund thought Theo was going to bellow at her. His lips worked, and his fists clenched and were raised a little. He began to rise and fall on his toes, like an animal about to spring. She met his storming eyes without flinching, but inwardly she was afraid; and her heartbeats seemed to suffocate her.

  Then, like a whirlwind, he swung round towards the window. He reached it in a few strides, and stood with his back towards her, staring at the High Street, the passing traffic, a clock in a church tower. She could hear him breathing, could hear the thumping of her own heart: that was all. The squareness of his shoulders, the erectness of his carriage, were so much a part of him that she wanted to break down, run towards him, and tell him she would take the ring, would take anything he wanted to give her. But she stayed there because she felt that this was a supreme test: to make or break the love between them.

  Slowly, he turned round.

  For him to do anything slowly was remarkable.

  He smiled at her.

  ‘I don’t see why we should quarrel, hon,’ he said, in a relaxed voice; and his expression and his body had relaxed too. ‘I’m just going to hope that you change your mind. Maybe you don’t believe that I want you to have that ring because it’s the only wa
y I can show you how much I love you. That’s the simple truth. It’s a kind of love token.’ He came nearer, and she realised that he hadn’t given up; he would never give up trying to get or do whatever he wanted; but now he was intent on persuading her. It must have been a tormenting struggle within himself, but he’d won it.

  ‘Just tell me one thing,’ he went on, standing very close to her. ‘You don’t believe that nonsense about the legend, do you?’

  She was puzzled. ‘What legend?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know about it?’

  ‘All I know is what was in the Collector and Connoisseur. When you said you were going to get me the finest engagement ring in the world I wondered what you were talking about, and then I saw the book opened at the page describing the Red Eye of Love.’

  He gave her a quick, almost impersonal hug, and swung away from her. ‘Gee, honey, you’ve got a surprise coming to you. You don’t know about that legend? It was one of the first things I was told when I began to inquire about it. That article was all facts and figures. D’you know what my gentleman friend Mannering would say? He would say that it hadn’t any romance. No heart.’ He thumped the left side of his chest. ‘Not like me! It forgot history. Come and sit down and listen to me.’ He dropped into a large armchair and patted his lap, and, half laughing, she went to him and he pulled her down, kissed her almost perfunctorily, and hugged her.

  ‘This ring was made for a Babylonian babe, way, way back in Bee Cee. She was a beauty but as cold as ice. No red blood, no fire in the eye or passion in the bosom. Well, the then big shot of Babylon wanted to break her down, if you see what I mean. So he made a deal with her pa, and they got married. It was like marrying an Egyptian mummy, only they weren’t mummifying ’em then. Like lying in bed with a lump of ice, say. Some guys would have given up, put her in a nice big country house all on her own where she could see the view, and fixed himself a cosy harem in the city. But not this kingpin. He didn’t like being beaten. I’ve known other guys like that,’ digressed Theo, and squeezed her until she gasped. ‘So he decided he was going to woo and win this dame he’d wedded. He showered gifts on her, gave her slaves by the dozen, and diamonds by the thousand, she had only to lift her little finger and half Babylon would come running. But NBG. No blooming go.’

  ‘So what did he do?’

  ‘He had this very ring made, the Red Eye of Love. The story goes that there was the centre diamond with a reputation already made, a red diamond which warmed the old cockles and acted like a love philtre. He got this stone. He made the ring, the finest ring then ever known to man. Next he gave it to the icicle as a present, and sat back to see if it worked.’ Theo broke off.

  Rosamund had found herself listening intently, instead of laughing at his airy disrespect for phraseology and history. She stared at him, and he wrinkled his nose. Teasing. She was eager to know what was supposed to have happened, and he knew that she was.

  ‘Well, go on!’

  ‘Want to know if it worked?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Oh boy, oh boy, did it work! There’s never been a love philtre like it. First of all, she had twins. Then a couple of boys. Then there was a police action somewhere around the eastern end of the old Mediterranean, and Kingpin marched off to war, leaving little Wifey and the family behind, with a lot of courtiers and strong-arm men to look after her. Which they did. It worked so well that Kingpin came back from the wars, heard a thing or two, chopped off a few heads, and gave Wifey a dish of poison. He also buried the Red Eye of Love so deep that no one was ever going to find it, but wind and erosion and maybe soil subsidence settled his hash over that, and it was found in 1889 during some excavations there. And those excavations weren’t for relics, honey, they were for oil. How about that?’

  ‘I’d hate to be given a dish of poison,’ Rosamund said in a small voice. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Phooh, you don’t want to worry your head about that.’

  ‘I want to know what happened then,’ said Rosamund, and struggled to get up. He held her fast for a moment, but soon let her go, and she stretched her cramped legs, then sat on the arm of his chair, resting a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘The story goes that it was bought by a South American millionaire for his lady love, and she went off with another,’ Theo declared. ‘He sold out to an Indian prince. The potentate gave it to his daughter, who had so many admirers she didn’t marry anyone. It went back to the little old United States and was bought by an ancient Texan millionaire who’d fallen in love with a young and lovely little minx who wouldn’t say yes. When he gave it to her, she did say “aye”, and they lived happily ever after. At least, their marriage was happy ever after, until she poisoned him and ran off and married a younger, more handsome man. The trouble was that by then the police knew a thing or two about the effects of poison. Next, Red Eye was bought by another millionaire for its own sake, and put in a collection. The collection was broken up, and the ring was given to a girl who married an Englishman. That’s where I’m going to disappoint you,’ added Theo with an impish grin. ‘That marriage was ideal, but family fortunes suffered, and the ring was sold. Get it?’

  ‘Then Mannering bought it?’ Rosamund suggested.

  ‘Yip!’ said Theo, and jumped up from his chair. ‘He bought it. I’ve been checking on that guy; he certainly is a private eye worth knowing. Scion of nobility, ran out of luck, family lost a fortune, looked as if he was out for the count, began to deal in precious stones, soon made a fortune. Well, what he’d call a fortune.’ Theo flung that remark out carelessly. ‘Married the daughter of an earl who made his money in trade, shocking thing! She’s a painter; got quite a reputation in her own right. Name of Lorna – supposed to be the tops.’

  He broke off.

  A new and different glittering light appeared in his eyes, and he began to nod, very slowly. Then he went on, ‘Sure, that’s right.’ Then he added: ‘It’s a humdinger; it’s a dandy.’ He put his head on one side and studied her. ‘Turn your head a little that way,’ he said and frowned, and then ordered, ‘Look upwards a little, raise your head – hold it! Hold it!’ he repeated, and slapped his hands. ‘That’s perfect!’ He swung round towards the telephone which was near the fireplace, and before she realised what he was doing, was flipping over the pages of the directory. ‘Main – Mai – Man,’ he crooned. ‘Mannering, John, 24 Green Street, SW3. Flaxman …’ He began to dial, as Rosamund jumped off the chair and ran towards him.

  ‘Theo, don’t!’

  ‘Don’t crowd me, honey,’ he said, and fended her off with one hand as he held the instrument to his ear. She could just make out the ringing sound, then a sharp break, and a vague voice.

  ‘I want to talk to Mrs John Mannering,’ Theo said crisply, but it was the glint in his eyes, a kind of radiance and a look almost of exaltation on his face which fascinated Rosamund. It made her stand still, watching, thinking that his must be the most vital face in the world. ‘What is? … Fine! … Mrs Mannering, I’ve got an order for you, a wotcher-callit – a commission, that’s right. I want the best portrait ever painted of my fiancée, and for the real goods, the sky’s the limit … Yes, ma’am, you couldn’t be more right, I’m serious … Yes, ma’am … What did you say?’ He broke off. He looked flabbergasted, opened his mouth, closed it again, gulped, and let the receiver sag from his ear.

  There was a woman’s voice, sounding very faintly, and it stopped.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, I am Theodorus Wray,’ he said, in a whisper. ‘Yes, ma’am, how … Oh, sure. Sure I understand … That’s right, ma’am.’ His voice strengthened a little. ‘I’d like that, Mrs Mannering.’ His eyes brightened. ‘Yes, ma’am, that’ll be dandy, we’ll be there. Sixforty-five, yes, ma’am!’ He was quite himself again. ‘Formal dress, yes, ma’am! Now don’t ring off, just wait a minute.’ He clapped a hand over the receiver and beamed at Rosamund, but ignored her when she asked urgently, ‘What is it?’ He was looking at her reflectively.


  Then he said into the telephone, ‘Mrs Mannering, I’ll be glad if you’ll tell John that I’d like him to have the Red Eye of Love with him tonight. I’ve got a feeling my fiancée is going to change her mind. Thank you … Thank you, ma’am!’ He rang off.

  ‘Theo, I t—told you—’ Rosamund began, but her exasperation was tempered by curiosity, and she stammered over the words.

  Theo looked at her with a great light in his eyes. ‘That’s what I call dandy, honey! We’re having dinner with the Mannerings tonight. Just imagine. Poor boy makes good, dines with English aristos in their own home. That’s progress. That’s the kind of progress you only dream about. Anybody can make money—’ He broke off, thrust out his arms, took Rosamund by the shoulders, and stood her at arm’s length, his gaze running all over her slim body. ‘Honey, I’m going to buy you the most expensive cocktail gown and the most expensive dinner gown there is in London. We don’t have much time.’

  ‘But he’s fantastic,’ Lorna Mannering said, and found herself laughing. She was in Mannering’s office a little before one o’clock, on her way to lunch with the agent who handled her paintings. ‘Even over the telephone he had a way with him.’ She went on, ‘I really think he expected me to drop everything and start on this girl of his. What is she like?’

  Mannering, sitting on the corner of his desk, looked up at his wife with a smile. Lorna was sitting in his chair behind the desk, wearing a mink bolero and a small black hat trimmed with mink, and looking rather as if she had just stepped out of the pages of Vogue.

  ‘Not so lovely as you were twenty years ago,’ Mannering declared, ‘but still worth putting everything aside and painting her.’

  ‘You sound almost as if you believe it.’

  ‘What is it the French say?’ Mannering mused aloud. ‘Good as bread. That isn’t quite right, but it gives you an idea. She has a look of virtue, whatever she’s really like, and it shows. You’ll take one peek at her, and your fingers will itch to start work.’