by John Creasey
‘I don’t think anyone has, Bill. I think Wray would make quite sure that no one could guess.’
Bristow nodded. ‘Something in that,’ he conceded.
Mannering said, ‘Well, thanks for saving my time here,’ and they walked out to the street together.
Mannering went to his car and drove off ahead of the police – and would not have been surprised had he been followed. He was not. That suggested that Bristow did not seriously think that he knew where Theo was.
He kept coming back to what seemed the only guide: that it would be the last place that he or the police or anyone else would expect. Somewhere with a telephone. Not a hotel or a boardinghouse, because the police could cover all such places quickly. Therefore, a private house, or flat: private premises of some kind. There was nothing to suggest that Theo had prepared a hiding place while he had been in England; he hadn’t had time, and as far as Mannering knew, there had been no need for it.
He drove to Green Street.
Two plain-clothes men were in the street, and he knew that another was at the back of the building, on the bombed site which was used as a car park. Bristow was doing two things: making sure that if Wray tried to get into Mannering’s apartment, he would be stopped; and making sure that no harm came to Rosamund.
There was no sign of Thomas.
Mannering went up in the lift, let himself in, and immediately heard Thomas’s voice, and, a moment later, Lorna’s.
‘… if you’re sure, Mrs Mannering.’
‘I’m quite sure, Tom. Miss Morrel won’t leave the flat tonight without Mr Mannering’s knowing. You’ve seen the police outside, and you know that we couldn’t be more strongly protected.’ There was a note of amusement in Lorna’s voice that Mannering rejoiced to hear. ‘You go home, and don’t worry. Go to Quinns first in the morning, unless we get in touch with you.’
‘Well, if—’ Tom turned round, and saw Mannering. His eyes lit up. ‘Oh, hallo, sir! I was just saying that I ought to go and see my people at home. We’ve some relations here from the north.’
‘You carry on,’ Mannering said.
“Thank you, sir. But if I thought there was the slightest reason to feel that I’d be taking risks with Miss Morrel, I’d make my excuses at home like a shot.’ He looked at Rosamund as he spoke, and in his eyes was the light of adoration.
Moth to a candle?
Had she some deep, unsuspected, perhaps unwitting quality which did attract men, so that all they wanted was to make sure that nothing could harm her?
Nonsense!
‘I know you would,’ Mannering said to Tom, ‘but there’s no need to worry. You get along, and we’ll see how things are in the morning. We won’t leave Miss Morrel unprotected.’
‘That’s fine,’ Thomas said with forced heartiness. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Mannering. Goodnight, sir. Goodnight—er—’
‘Goodnight, Tom,’ Rosamund said.
Tom’s eyes were glowing as he left the flat.
Mannering closed the door after him and went into the drawing room, where Lorna and Rosamund had already gone. Lorna looked her normal self: Rosamund looked a little pale, perhaps a little scared, too: certainly there was no happiness in her; no one could doubt that she was desperately worried about Theo.
Could they?
‘John,’ Lorna said, ‘I think if Rosamund had her way, she would take the Red Eye of Love and throw it in the river!’
Mannering pretended to look shocked.
Rosamund tried to laugh. ‘Nothing’s gone right since Theo had the idea of buying it. It’s almost as if it’s cast a spell.’ She gave a little shiver, which seemed genuine, and went on, ‘I know it’s ridiculous, and it can’t be the ring. I just can’t see anything clearly, I’m so scared. John, will you answer a question truthfully?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think Theo killed Micky?’
Mannering said., ‘No.’
Her eyes didn’t light up, as he had expected. She stared at him reflectively, as if her mind was quite clear, after all. ‘I think you’re saying that just to reassure me. I’d much rather know what you think.’
‘I think that he went to the flat to see Odell, and found Odell there dead,’ Mannering said. ‘I know that Odell telephoned him, and persuaded him to go to the flat. Some person we don’t yet know knew he was going there, and got there ahead of Theo. It could have been someone who wanted Theo blamed; it might have been someone who wanted to kill Odell.’
At last the brightness was back in Rosamund’s eyes, and she exclaimed, ‘You really do believe it!’
‘Yes, I believe it,’ Mannering assured her, and told them what had happened.
Before he had finished, Rosamund was saying in a dazed way, ‘So he is all right. He’s not hurt.’
‘Wherever he is, he’s as bright and lively as ever,’ declared Mannering, and looked at her very straightly. ‘Have you any idea at all where he might be?’
‘If I could even guess, I’d tell you.’
Mannering believed that she would.
It was after dinner, which they started about nine o’clock, and while he was still pondering over the one question which mattered, when a ring came at the front-door bell. Mannering went to answer it. He wasn’t surprised to see Charley Simpson. Charley had changed into a dark suit, and looked almost as if he were going to a church service or a funeral, but there was a glint in his eyes and an air of confidence which had been missing when Mannering had seen him at the Panorama Hotel.
‘Hallo, Mrs Mannering. Hallo, Rosamund.’ He gave her a brisk wave. ‘I’ve laid on everything that I can, and arranged for radio-telephone calls to be put through here if any more come, but there should be a lull between now and eight in the morning. Then I can get cracking on the boss’s orders.’ He rubbed his chin as he went on, ‘I even had time to read up everything I could about the Red Eye!’ He glanced at Rosamund’s empty engagement finger, and went on ruefully, ‘He’d hate it if he knew it wasn’t there.’
‘He’d have more sense,’ Rosamund said.
‘Amazing story behind it,’ Charley went on, and added with a little twist to his lips, ‘The real trouble seems to have started since he bought the thing. It’s almost as if it does cast a spell of some kind. Er—do you think it would be possible for me to have a look at it? The thing seems to have an hypnotic effect on me, even though I’ve never seen it.’
‘It does on everyone,’ Rosamund said gravely.
‘Is it handy?’ asked Charley.
‘I can get it,’ Mannering said, and when Rosamund nodded, he got up and went out.
He was in the study, about to open the electrically controlled oak settle-cum-safe, when Lorna came hurrying.
‘Hallo, sweet,’ he said. ‘You want to get under its spell too?’
‘Are you sure you should take it out?’ Lorna asked. ‘Isn’t it better locked away?’
Mannering looked at her, and then very deliberately winked. She was puzzled, until he winked again. Then she laughed, and her face cleared. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said, and went out of the room.
‘So that’s it,’ said Charley, looking at the ring as it lay in the velvet case, as if sleeping. ‘All this fuss for that.’ He peered more closely. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t say so, but it doesn’t strike me as being so wonderful. I suppose I expect the fire to step out and burn me up, that’s the way Theo talked about it. He said that it seemed to come alive when you put it on, Rosamund.’
Rosamund said very firmly, ‘Well, I’m not going to put that on my finger again until I know that Theo’s safe and free. I’m not sure that I will then.’
‘Probably wise,’ conceded Charley, and tapped his fingers against his mouth. ‘Well, I’d better get back for some shut-eye; if I’m not up and about by seven in the morning I’ll never catch up with the day. There’s still a lot to do, and old Bettley’s battling on. Amazing woman, that – got a remarkable mind for figures. Great stroke of luck that Theo managed to get hold of her. But then, h
e always does have the luck.’ He stood up.
Mannering saw him to the door, and as Charley stood on the threshold, he looked beyond Mannering to the partly open door of the drawing room, and said in a quiet but urgent voice, ‘I really came round to make sure that Rosamund’s all right. Don’t take the slightest risk with her, will you? Since this trouble blew up, I feel as if nothing matters but keeping her safe.’
And this had ‘blown up’ since Theo had bought the Red Eye of Love.
‘We’ll look after her,’ Mannering assured him, and watched him go, then turned back into the study, lifted the telephone, and dialled a Chelsea number: the private number of Superintendent William Bristow. He was not surprised when Bristow answered in person, sharply: he would probably take it for granted that an eleven-o’clock call was from the Yard.
‘Bill,’ Mannering said, ‘Theo Wray seems to have been very lucky with his temporary secretary, one Miss Bettley. She was absolutely right for the job, almost as if she was hand-picked. It might be worth checking where she came from and all about her.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ Bristow said at once. ‘I know she came through an agency and her credentials seemed all right, but I’ll probe. What’s the matter, can’t you sleep?’
‘I keep waking up and wondering where Wray is.’
‘If we find that you’re giving him shelter, or know where he is, you’re going to be in the dog-house,’ Bristow said, and added very softly, ‘I’ve been through all the reports taken since the murder. I’ve discovered that three people saw a man answering to your description in that street this afternoon. One of my sergeants remarked on the fact that it was probably you. Don’t get yourself in the dock for Theodorus Wray, John. Don’t persuade yourself that you couldn’t be wrong about him. If a man with a mind like his has taken a wrong turning, then he’ll use anyone and anybody to help him get his own way. There isn’t much doubt he has a touch of megalomania: he can’t bear being thought wrong.’
That wasn’t Charley’s view, but Mannering didn’t argue.
‘Be more specific, Bill. Whom do you think he’d use?’
‘I said anyone and meant it,’ Bristow asserted. ‘Simpson, for instance, is now having to carry out Wray’s specific instructions, and is doing so blindly. Apparently he always has. You seem to be eating out of his hand. Wray would use Simpson, he would use you, I believe he would even use Rosamund Morrel, to get what he wanted.
‘Make sure he doesn’t fool you, John.’
Chapter Twenty
The Last Place He’d Be
Lorna was in bed. Rosamund was in bed.
It was after midnight, and Mannering was sitting in his study, staring at the locked settle-safe, seeing Theo Wray’s face in his mind’s eye, grappling with the problem which had now become an obsession. Where was Theo? Bristow could say what he liked, but it was hard to believe that Theo was the Machiavellian mind behind all this: there could be no point in it if he were; but no one could be sure he knew what went on in Theo’s mind.
Where was the last place he’d expect to be found?
Here? No, that was nonsense, although the police were half prepared for him. Rosamund’s place? He would know that the police would be watching, and they had been in possession all day, anyhow. This was absurd: he was too tired to think clearly or he wouldn’t have such nonsensical ideas. But it would be somewhere like that. Perhaps he had planned it beforehand, so that he had a secret hiding place to go to. He’d been warned of trouble by these chance encounters.
Mannering stood up, yawned, and went to switch out the light. He actually touched the switch when he caught sight of the headline of an evening paper.
MAY FAIR SOCIALITE MURDERED
Odell could never have wanted a better obituary. A number of Mayfair people wouldn’t exactly be pleased, but they were unimportant.
Odell had made progress because he had amassed a fortune – not a fortune in the same sense as Theo Wray, but one which enabled him to rent the most expensive apartment in London.
There was the last place anyone would expect to find Theo. In Odell’s flat!
Mannering forgot that he was tired, and felt as if he had been given a shot in the arm. He stood quite still, looking at the headline, then turned the newspaper over. There was a photograph of the block of flats, only ten minutes’ walk away from the Panorama Hotel, where the lowest-priced apartment cost over four figures a year, and where some cost treble that sum.
Odell’s flat?
It was there, in the heart of Mayfair. It was modern. It had a night staff of porters and two night-duty detectives, there to be on constant guard. It housed some of the wealthiest people in London, and many from abroad. The value of the costly furs and jewellery in that block of flats was probably greater than in any other single place in the whole of England, perhaps in the whole of Europe. And because of that, the owners had boasted before it had been built, and boasted now, that it was burglar-proof.
Was that where Theo was hiding?
The police would have been to see Odell’s wife, of course, and had undoubtedly taken the chance to search the apartment, but once that had been done, they were likely to have only a formal interest in it. Odell’s wife would have the best possible legal advice, and so the police would have to tread with great care too.
Was that where he would find Theo?
Mannering left the flat by the Green Street entrance, and knew that his departure would be reported to the Yard, but he wasn’t followed. A call to have him watched might be put out, and radio cars and police on beat duty could trace everywhere he went – for just so long as he wanted to be traced. He drove the Allard to Victoria, parked it, and checked that he wasn’t followed. He walked in the darkness of a side street, then swiftly towards a district of little houses, a few small factories, and some garages, which were closed for the night. There were lock-up garages among them. He waited near a lock-up garage, and no one came, no policeman’s footsteps sounded, there was nothing to indicate that anyone knew that he was here.
A strange thing happened, a metamorphosis which came slowly, almost catching him unaware; and with it there was excitement and a sense of exhilaration, as if he were on a high peak, surveying the great mountains all about him, and setting out to climb the inaccessible, to do the impossible. He was not fully aware of it, but such moods as this, coupling danger with daring, made Mannering what he was, made him different, made him the man Theo Wray had liked because they had so much in common.
If the job had to be done, nothing must stop him.
And he drew upon the knowledge he had acquired in the deadly days that had passed.
There was no sound as Mannering pushed back the sliding door of the lock-up garage where he kept an old Austin with a specially tuned engine, capable of remarkable speed. This was one insurance against such difficulties as he faced tonight. He stepped inside, and paused to listen, putting care highest among the virtues. A car passed and people walked along a nearby road, but none came here. He closed the doors, and, knowing they were lightproof, switched on a light. He checked the tyres, the battery, and the oil, switched on the ignition, and confirmed that the petrol tank was half full. Once every two or three weeks he came here, to check all this.
It was cold.
He switched on an electric fire, and then set to work. Stored on a shelf was a theatrical make-up outfit. Inside a small hanging cupboard, a suit of clothes which was too large for him now; but there was an inflatable belt, which made him look fatter, and pads for his shoulders, so that when he put this coat on he would look older and round-shouldered. He stripped down to his vest, opened the make-up case, and set to work. It was a year since he had made up, but he had once been so familiar with its intricacies that it was like second nature. He could almost hear the voice of the old makeup expert who had taught him.
‘… the important thing, Mr Mannering, is to use your natural features as part of the new appearance … make every feature a little larger, nothing even a lit
tle smaller … When you are going out among the people in the streets, be sparing especially with make-up at the eyes. There it is always more easily noticeable. Just narrow the eyes, and so change their appearance. Use a little of this quick setting gum in the corners … no, no, no, it will not make you look like a Chinese! And remember, the part of disguise which cannot be seen is always the best. Pads inside the cheeks, a film of this newfangled plastic to work over the teeth and gums, so … Little round pads for the nostrils …’
How long ago had this been, for him to have called plastic ‘newfangled’?
Mannering was absorbed in what he was doing, and felt deep satisfaction when he saw himself change in front of his own eyes. He was plump, elderly, tired-looking, his eyes narrowed as if he were perpetually squinting and should wear glasses.
He changed his clothes, stripping right down: vest, pants, trousers, shirt, collar and tie, shoes, socks – everything; and he changed the accessories too. He could never be sure that he would not be stopped, held, and searched, and never be sure that the time gained by concealing his identity when he was first detained would not prove invaluable.
‘… the little things, Mr Mannering, will make all the difference between a long life, or a short life not so merry!’
Suddenly a car engine sounded, turning off the distant Vauxhall Bridge Road. Mannering stopped working and listened, and his heart began to thump. The car drew nearer, and was slowing down. There was surely no reason in the world why the police should come here now. The car was crawling in low gear.
Mannering kept absolutely still, his teeth clenched so tightly that his jaws hurt.
The car went past, and was some distance off when its engine stopped. It was going to another lock-up garage, of course.
He began to pack his ordinary clothes into a large suitcase, taken from the boot of the car, and made sure that everything was in it, and if the police came here they could never tell that Mannering had occupied the garage. He put the filled suitcase in the back of the car. Then he drew on a pair of tight nylon gloves which fitted like another skin, but did not leave any fingerprints. He switched off the fight and opened the sliding doors, which were oiled so that they made very little sound.
