Blood Red

by John Creasey

  ‘I think I’d like to know where Norman Kilham lives, and learn more about him,’ Mannering said. ‘He seems the only line we can work on.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Charley, but he didn’t seem too sure of himself. ‘You might try Rosamund, of course; I’m sure Theo’s told her more than he’s ever told me. She might—’

  He broke off when the telephone bell rang, and glanced at the door, obviously expecting Miss Bettley would answer it in the other room. Then both of them heard her exclaim, heard her come rushing towards the door and fling it open, crying in a loud voice, ‘It’s him – he’s on the telephone. It’s Mr Wray!’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Orders

  The woman’s voice echoed triumphantly about the great room, a ringing: ‘There, I told you so!’ Charley’s head went back, as if someone had struck his chin, taking him completely by surprise; but that did not last long. He swung towards a telephone at the desk where he had been sitting.

  Mannering was already on the move. He passed Miss Bettley, and saw a telephone with its receiver off on a table in the outer room. He picked it up and stood waiting for Charley and Theo to speak. The woman came hurrying in, saw what he was doing, and said, ‘Oh!’ in a vexed voice. Mannering covered the mouthpiece and said to her, ‘I might be able to find a way to help if I listen in,’ and immediately she seemed mollified.

  All that took only a moment.

  ‘Hello, boss,’ Charley said in a casual voice. ‘I wondered when we’d be hearing from you.’

  ‘Well, stop wondering and get your pencil,’ Theo said, his voice no whit changed in vitality and firmness. ‘The dogs are after me; I can’t stay in this box long. Ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nagtyko: sell at fifty-five shillings today, don’t load the market, sell at fifty shillings tomorrow, and then get the best you can for them. Supra Texas Real Estate; buy all you can at a limit of two dollars an acre, you ought to get it for much less, use Cyrus in Houston to handle it for us, keep away from that goop in New York. Buy South African gold. Buy Australian gold and uranium. Sell Australian wool; prices are going to tumble, they’ve had a record growing year and that means a record clip. Check a little firm in Walsall, England, name of Gregory, Fish & Son—got that?—and find out if you can buy a controlling interest quick. They’ve got a genius up there who’s got a new petrol-saving carburettor which is real good, and some ideas which will make millions. Name of Jones. Don’t let ’em know it’s Jones you’re after, don’t over-offer at first; they’re not fools, but they are in financial trouble. Sell Chicco coffee and buy Tip-Tap tea, without limit, only don’t spoil the market.’ There was a moment’s pause and what sounded like a rustle of paper, and then Theo went on in exactly the same strain, orders pouring out of him like water from a tap. Or water from a mountain spring, it was so natural.

  Then Theo switched from one subject to another with only the slightest of pauses.

  ‘That’s that. Get Bettley to work late today and tomorrow again, pay her double, and promise her a bonus … How’s Rosamund?’

  ‘She’s all right.’

  ‘She at Mannering’s place?’

  ‘Yes. Theo—’

  ‘It isn’t that I don’t want to listen. I just haven’t time,’ Theo said. ‘Any minute now the cops will plant their heavy hand on my shoulder if I don’t get out of this box … Ask Mannering to keep Rosamund at the flat. Don’t let her go anywhere. If she has to leave, have two men following her. Anyone who will do this to me will do anything – including killing Rosamund.’ Now his voice was icy cold, and it was possible to imagine the way his nostrils were nipped, to imagine the pallor about his lips. ‘Tell Mannering it doesn’t matter what it costs, provided he—’

  ‘I’ve told him already.’

  ‘Thanks, Charley,’ Theo said, and paused for a moment as if he wanted the other man to know that he was really grateful. ‘And tell Mannering I’m going to telephone him at his flat tonight, as near nine o’clock as I can make it. Just after dark – I can get out more safely then. That’s all. I’ll be seeing you.’

  ‘Theo,’ Mannering interrupted, ‘why did you kill Odell?’

  Theo actually drew in another sharp breath, as if not only surprised but badly shaken. When he answered, there was an angry note in his voice. ‘You must be crazy. I didn’t kill Odell.’

  ‘You’re about the only one who thinks you didn’t, except Rosamund,’ Mannering said. The rider seemed to be tacked on by someone else; he hadn’t meant to say it.

  ‘God bless Rosamund. And goddam you if you think—’

  ‘Were you at her flat this afternoon?’

  ‘Listen, if I don’t go—’

  ‘If you go I’ll wash my hands of the whole business and the police will put you in jail for the next fifteen years,’ Mannering said roughly. ‘Get this into your head: you’re wanted for a murder which it looks as if you committed. If I’m to help, I’ve got to know the facts.’

  There was hardly a pause before Theo said, ‘Fact one: I didn’t kill Odell. Fact two: I did go to Rosamund’s flat. Fact three: Odell invited me, saying (a) he wanted to show me something that might make me change my tune about Rosamund, and (b) sell me information about a plot to ruin me. Fact four: if he’d been alive when I arrived, I might have killed him. Fact five: someone got in first. Fact six: if you’re going to try to prove to the police that I didn’t kill Odell, go and see a man named Cunningham, Jack Cunningham. He lives in Park Court, near Grosvenor Square. Shake the truth out of him. Fact seven: I didn’t know it, but I ruined Cunningham two years ago, and as a result his wife committed suicide. Fact eight: Cunningham has a daughter, Diana, who married Micky Odell a few months ago; she was the blonde last night. Fact nine: if you can find time to fix this on Cunningham, fine, but give priority to Rosamund.’

  ‘About this Cunningham,’ Mannering said abruptly. ‘What else can you tell me about him?’

  ‘I’ll call you around nine,’ Theo promised.

  ‘Theo!’ Charley shouted, as if he knew that was the only way to prevent Theo from ringing off. ‘You can’t leave it just like that. The police—’

  ‘I’m going to talk to the police right now,’ said Theo, and rang off.

  Charley gasped.

  There was another sound, as of the rustling of paper; then a sharp click followed Theo’s abrupt departure. Mannering had no doubt the police had been listening in, that there was a detective at the switchboard of the hotel.

  If Theo did ring Scotland Yard …

  It was exactly the kind of thing that he might do. Here was a man who knew that he was wanted for murder, knew that the police of the nation were on the lookout for him, yet he could telephone those orders to Charley, his mind crystal-clear, and could cheerfully contemplate telephoning the police.

  Mannering found himself smiling, and saw Miss Bettley’s pop-eyed curiosity; in a moment she would burst out with questions.

  Before Mannering had replaced his receiver Charley was striding in, his eyes blazing, his fists clenched. It was easy to believe that he had taken Theo’s guilt for granted, but that now he believed him innocent, and believed that he might be saved.

  ‘Did you get that about the man named Cunningham?’

  ‘I got it,’ said Mannering, ‘and we won’t broadcast this – but we’ll take Miss Bettley into our confidence.’ So he placated Miss Bettley, who gave a little giggle of a laugh. ‘I’ll see what I can find out right away.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Charley, and gripped Mannering’s forearm. ‘I can easily understand why Theo took to you; you’re the first man he’s ever met who works as fast as he does. Right! I’d better get busy.’

  ‘Come down to the lift with me, will you?’ Mannering asked, and urged Charley with him, into the passage. Then, quietly: ‘All I wanted to say was that you mustn’t tell Miss Bettley any details about Cunningham. Just stick to the business.’

  ‘You’re just as bad as Theo,’ Charley said with a sigh. ‘He always l
abours the obvious too. What’s the betting that she’ll tell the first newspaperman she comes across that Theo called?’

  Mannering did not go straight out of the hotel, but to the telephone exchange, which was tucked away on the ground floor behind several public telephone boxes. The plush luxury of the hotel did not extend to the switchboard, where some tattered telephone directories were on a counter which was scratched and in need of a repolish. Two girls were at the huge switchboard itself; a dozen calls were in; one girl was saying, ‘Please hold on, New York, our caller is waiting.’

  In one of the telephone boxes, Mannering saw a Scotland Yard officer whom he knew slightly; and this man was almost certainly reporting to the Yard.

  A girl, nicely made-up, nice-looking, earphones on and mouthpiece like a small phonograph fastened to her chest and moving wherever her head moved, looked up at Mannering. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mannering said, and his eyes smiled; he knew that the girl would be easy to impress. ‘Did you take Mr Wray’s call just now?’

  She looked startled. ‘Mr Theodorus Wray?’ She meant to stall, and looked at the box where the detective was talking.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mannering, and handed her his card, hoping that she would be even more impressed: if she recognised the name, there was an even chance. ‘Did you take it?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I did—oh, Mr Mannering.’

  ‘Mr Wray bought his fiancée’s ring from me, as you probably read in the newspapers,’ said Mannering, and went on in the same easy voice, ‘Was the call from a prepayment box?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Was it?’ Mannering insisted.

  ‘Well—well, Mr Wray said that it was,’ the girl declared, and coloured furiously. ‘I had instructions to listen in, sir. But now I come to think of it, I didn’t hear the coins drop in the box, and of course you always do with a prepayment call. I was taken so much by surprise that I hardly gave it any thought.’ Her eyes glinted decisively. ‘No, it wasn’t a prepayment call.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ said Mannering.

  She would tell the police, but that didn’t matter. The police would almost certainly assume the obvious: that Theo had wanted to fool them, Charley, and anyone else who might be listening in. Theo wanted them to think that he had left his hiding place in order to get to a telephone, whereas in fact there was a phone where he was hiding. It would be like him to confuse the trail just as much as he could, like him to pit his wits against the police, taking it for granted that he must let no one know where he was, in case the police made them give him away. He would stay free every possible second.

  But he was somewhere with a telephone handy.

  It was impossible to trace calls through the automatic exchange, so that wouldn’t help the police.

  It might help Mannering, because one thing was certain: Theo would go nowhere by chance. Wherever he went and whatever he did would be carefully calculated, like every risk he took. He would have some idea of the thoroughness and intensity of the police search, so – where would he hide? In the most unlikely place, of course, some place where he could be almost sure that the police could not suspect.

  Where?

  It would not be at the home of this man Cunningham, because Theo would be sure that the police had overheard that conversation. It wouldn’t be at Norman Kilham’s; that was too obvious. The police would almost certainly be on their way to Cunningham now and it would be a waste of time for Mannering to go there unless he wanted to let the police realise that he was working for Theo Wray.

  That would mean a clash with Bristow.

  Was Bristow at the Yard, or on his way to Cunningham’s Park Court flat?

  The news that Micky Odell had married the daughter of a man whom Theo had ruined was an odd twist, but didn’t seem to affect the immediate problem:

  Where was Theo hiding?

  About ten minutes earlier, in Bristow’s office overlooking the Thames the telephone had rung. He had put a cigarette down carefully on an ashtray, glanced at the inspector who was on duty in the office with him, and said, ‘I wonder who this is?’ and then announcing himself: ‘Bristow.’

  The inspector was stifling a yawn.

  The yawn faded into astonishment, for Bristow looked as if he had received an electric shock. He sat bolt upright, and for a moment didn’t speak; then he said shrilly, ‘Put him through.’ He waved at the inspector, who knew that he was being told to pick up the other telephone, and he did so. ‘It’s Wray, asking for whoever’s in charge of his case,’ mouthed Bristow. ‘Hallo, this is Superintendent Bristow.’

  ‘Hallo, Superintendent,’ greeted Theodorus Wray in a bright and friendly voice. ‘I don’t think we’ve met; just as soon as we can I mean to put that right. It’s a privilege to have a top man like you looking for me.’

  ‘Mr Wray,’ said Bristow, as earnestly as he could, ‘I want you to understand that, if you come and see me, everything you say will be most carefully considered.’

  ‘Everyone’s innocent until he’s found guilty, remember,’ said Theo. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll come and see you the moment I know for certain that you’ve caught the murderer. Right now I’m informing you that I am not the man you’re after. All the time you look for me, you’ll be wasting your time. That’s simple fact. And will you—’

  Bristow’s voice grew almost shrill. ‘Mr Wray, please listen to me!’

  ‘You just get on with your job and I’ll get on with mine,’ said Theo brightly. ‘I don’t want you wasting taxpayers’ money, and I’m sure you don’t want to. But there’s one thing you can do for me, Superintendent.’

  ‘Mr Wray, everything you will say will be taken into account—’

  ‘That’s fine, we’ll talk about it later,’ promised Theo. ‘Just now, I’m only anxious about my fiancée. I wouldn’t like anything to go wrong with her, and if someone hates me so much that they’ll try to frame me the way they have, Rosamund might be in danger. I’ve asked John Mannering to look after her, and I’m also asking you. If anything happens to Rosamund Morrel,’ Theo went on, in a sharper voice, ‘I shall hold you personally responsible.’

  He rang off.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Hiding Place?

  Mannering went first to the apartment where Norman Kilham lived. Kilham was there, with his unexpectedly plump and placid wife. There seemed nothing remarkable about Theo Wray’s school-days’ friend, who seemed to be both shocked and grieved by Odell’s death.

  ‘I was in Brighton for lunch, didn’t leave until four-thirty,’ he said. ‘I first read about it in the evening papers.’

  If he had told the police that, it would stand up.

  Mannering asked if he knew Cunningham, and Kilham answered promptly, ‘Oh, yes, I handle the old boy’s accounts – in fact I introduced Micky Odell to Di Cunningham. She’ll be properly knocked over after this. I tried to see her, but she was with the police.’

  There might be more to learn from Norman Kilham, but Mannering knew it would take a lot of digging out, and this wasn’t the time for it. He left, and soon pulled up outside Park Court, which was not far away from the Panorama Hotel. He found a parking place for his Allard, just then the car of his choice. He was not surprised to see Bristow’s car outside, nor surprised to see a plain-clothes detective standing with the commissionaire. It was over an hour since Theo had finished talking to him and Charley, and already dusk was creeping over London, although the sky was clear of cloud.

  The Yard man nodded recognition.

  ‘Mr Bristow still with Mr Cunningham?’

  ‘He’s still in the building, sir.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mannering, and went into the large hall, almost as plush, as the Panorama Hotel, with a thick pile carpet, a hushed atmosphere, panelled walls, gilt mirrors, silent lifts, and wide passages with alcoves all along them, a lovers’ seat in each alcove: purely for show, of course. As he approached the main lifts, each with its diminutive uniformed attendant, one opened
, and Bristow stepped out with two of his aides.

  There was a hint of a smile in his eyes, although his voice was hard. ‘I thought I told you to keep off this job.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Mannering said simply. ‘I doubt if I could if I wanted to. It mesmerises me.’

  ‘That’s the tallest story I’ve ever heard from you,’ Bristow said, yet he didn’t look as unbelieving as he sounded. ‘Well, it won’t do any harm to tell you that you’re wasting your time here.’

  ‘Cunningham confessed?’

  ‘Cunningham flew to the United States yesterday afternoon, and is said to be going on to South America,’ Bristow declared. ‘He expects to be away from six to seven months. His secretary says she has no reason at all to believe that he’ll be back earlier. He’s a widower, with no ties. She also tells me,’ went on Bristow, very quietly, ‘that Cunningham lost a fortune in an oil deal about two years ago, and his wife, who was ailing then, died soon afterwards. Cunningham always blamed the losses for her death – and blamed the man who caused those losses.’

  Mannering said, ‘Theo Wray.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So Wray knew what he was talking about.’

  ‘It could be even that Wray’s right, and that Cunningham is behind all that’s happened,’ Bristow went on, ‘but a man who flew to New York yesterday – I’ve checked that he left London, no doubt about it at all – certainly didn’t kill Odell this afternoon.’

  Mannering said mildly, ‘If you go on at this rate, the police will be doing quite a job before they’ve finished.’

  ‘I don’t think this is the time to be facetious,’ Bristow said, and barked, ‘Do you know where Wray is?’

  ‘Didn’t your man tell you exactly what passed between us on the telephone?’

  ‘If the years have taught me anything, they’ve taught me not to take anything about you for granted,’ growled Bristow. ‘Do you think Miss Morrel has any idea where he is?’