by John Creasey
“What reason could you give?” demanded Bristow. “You mustn’t start any of your daredevil—”
“Daredevil nothing. I simply let them know that I’ve heard rumours that some of their collection is on the market,” Mannering said. “They could never prove that wrong, and if all these jewels have been stolen they probably will be on the market sooner or later. Is there any good reason why I shouldn’t approach them?”
After a long pause, Bristow said: “No. No—it might even be a good idea. Will you, John?”
“I certainly will. And I’ll start this weekend.” Mannering suddenly recovered his appetite. He opened another bottle of beer and dipped into the cheese again. As he munched he thought rapidly, and was more than ever sure that he should not yet tell Bristow what had been happening to him. But would Bristow know anything about the people involved?
“Just one other thing,” he said casually, reaching for his pocket-book. “Do you know any of these characters?”
He showed Bristow Lorna’s sketches.
“I know the girl – Sir Richard Danizon’s daughter,” said Bristow. “But the others are strangers. What’s your interest in them, John?”
“They’re all three involved in a little mystery which will probably come to nothing,” Mannering dissembled.
It was nearly four when he left Bristow’s flat. Bristow looked much happier, but Mannering doubted whether he would have looked so happy had he known what was in his, Mannering’s, mind. Reaching the main entrance, he saw Bruce Danizon still at the wheel of the M.G. He went out, saw the youth glance at him and then look away. Instead of turning towards the road and the bus stop, Mannering shambled, splay-footed, towards the car. The hood was down, no one could have been more vulnerable than Belle Danizon’s cousin.
“Excuse me,” Mannering said, in a lisping voice, “your off-door—”
Danizon turned his head quickly, exposing the back of his neck, and at that moment Mannering’s right hand descended in a powerful chop.
“Like me to drive?” he asked, as if to himself, and he pushed Danizon away from the wheel and took his place. Bruce lolled back in the passenger seat, quite unconscious; he would be like that for quite a while yet.
Mannering turned the key in the ignition and started the car; anyone watching would surely have assumed that the patient young man had been waiting for him. No one took the slightest notice as Mannering turned left, down the hill, and drove towards Putney Bridge and Fulham. He knew exactly where he wanted to be when Bruce Danizon came round.
8
THE FIRST REPRISAL
Mannering turned into a narrow back street off the New King’s Road, Fulham, to a row of garages, each numbered, each secured with a padlock. As he turned the car Bruce Danizon stirred. Mannering, expecting him to come round any minute, was very wary. He pulled up in front of a garage marked 5 in black paint, and put his hand to his pocket for his keys. At the same moment he opened the door of the M.G.
Danizon swung bodily round and struck out at him.
Mannering, prepared for the attack, dropped his left hand to the other’s wrist and twisted savagely. Bruce gasped in pain and collapsed.
“Try that again and I’ll break your neck,” Mannering growled.
No one was about, for the garages faced the blank wall of a factory building. He knew there was a risk that one of the other tenants would come round but there was no time to take precautions. He grabbed Danizon’s shoulder and pulled him bodily from the car, then thrust his right arm up behind him in a hammer lock.
“Hold the padlock steady,” he grated, selecting a key.
“You—you’re breaking my arm!”
“That’s better than your neck. Hold it steady.”
Bruce obeyed as well as he could but he was shivering from reaction and no doubt from fear. Mannering pushed the key into the padlock, and when the hoop sprung, pulled the padlock away. Danizon made a single attempt to free himself, but stopped almost as soon as he started.
Mannering pulled open the heavy garage door, released the other pushed him inside. Only daylight from the open door shone in, and showed a big old car inside. Danizon bumped against it.
“Get in,” ordered Mannering.
“You—you’ll regret this.”
“Get in.” Mannering pulled open one of the rear doors.
“Who—who the hell are you?” gasped Bruce.
“One day you may find out. I want to know who you are.”
“I’m Bruce Danizon, Sir Richard Danizon’s nephew. If you hurt me—”
“Just do what you’re told and you won’t get hurt.”
“If you think you’re helping Bristow—” Bruce began.
Mannering clapped a hand over his face, not savagely but enough to hurt.
“I’m helping Bristow, John Mannering and a lot of other people,” he growled, his lisp even more pronounced. “And you’re going to help me help them. You can have your choice – knockout drops, or be bound hand and foot and have your lips taped.”
Bruce seemed to be struggling for breath.
“You—you can’t do this to me! You can’t—”
He was inside the roomy rear space of the car, Mannering was at the door, leaning inside. And Mannering did a simple thing: he nipped Danizon’s nostrils tightly and pushed his head back, then thrust a tiny capsule into his mouth, no larger than an aspirin tablet. Danizon gulped wildly but could not prevent the capsule from going down. Mannering let him go, and took a brandy flask from his hip pocket.
“Shall I pour this down your throat or will you drink it?”
Danizon was looking at him from the corners of his eyes, obviously terrified.
“What—what are you going to do with me?”
“Put you to sleep, collect some of your precious friends, including your cousin Belle, and—”
He stopped, for Bruce Danizon suddenly slumped to one side. This was no feint; the contents of the capsule had taken effect as soon as the casing had dissolved.
“Well, I didn’t need the brandy,” remarked Mannering, and he slid the flask back into his hip pocket. “He’ll be out for at least six hours.”
He went out of the garage and locked the doors, slipped the keys back on to his chain, and got back into the M.G. Questions were already crowding in his mind. Sometime during the afternoon, of course, someone would probably arrive to relieve Danizon, in which case it would soon be realised that he was missing; if the car were reported stolen, Mannering would be in trouble. He drove back to Putney; it being Saturday afternoon, there were several empty parking places. He pulled the M.G. into one, pocketed the keys, and drove off in his Allard.
It was nearly a quarter to five; he had dealt with Bruce Danizon in less than an hour. The reflection made him laugh aloud, but there wasn’t really much to laugh at, yet. He watched his mirror closely, made sure he wasn’t followed, and drove to Chelsea. He was about to turn into Green Street when he saw a young man sitting in an M.G. outside his house, and for a wild moment he thought that it was Danizon.
Instead it was a fair-haired stranger.
Mannering drove past, aware of the attention which his Allard attracted, reached the Embankment at the far end of the street and turned towards the heart of London. Once sure that he wasn’t followed, he headed along Chelsea Bridge Road, for the West End. Two Chelsea pensioners in their sadly gay uniforms were on a pedestrian crossing and as he waited for them a white M.G. pulled up behind him. For the second time his heart lurched, but then he saw the little red-haired girl beside the youth who was driving. He drove on, and a few minutes later the M.G. roared past.
Soon, he was pulling up into a parking space outside Quinns.
As far as he could tell, no one was watching the shop, but there was no way of being sure. He pulled off the moustache, got out of the
car, and strode – his walk natural now – to the rear of the row of shops. Letting himself in, he paused for a moment in the small square hall, its walls lined with centuries-old panelling.
“You in, Josh?”
Almost immediately Larraby called down.
“Yes, I’m here.” His white head appeared at the top of the narrow, crooked staircase, and his smile of welcome suddenly froze. “Who—?” he began.
“Just up to my old tricks,” Mannering said, and went briskly up the stairs. In spite of the unmistakable timbre of his voice and his movements, Larraby looked a little taken aback. “It won’t take me five minutes to get back to normal,” Mannering assured him. “Can you run to a cup of tea?”
“Of course,” said Larraby. “I’ll get it at once.”
He turned into his tiny kitchen while Mannering went into the bathroom which was almost as small and quite immaculate. He cleaned most of the greasepaint off with alcohol from a bottle in the make-up case and then locked the case. He washed, brushed the grey out of his hair, and went into Larraby’s living-room.
It was almost like going into the living-room of an Elizabethan cottage. Two huge oak beams, dark with age, supported the ceiling, other beams were built into the white, uneven walls. Floor and ceiling were uneven, like the walls, and yet the two dormer windows gave surprisingly good light. This had once been used as a storeroom and office at Quinns, before Mannering had bought it. When he had made it ready for Larraby he had given the old man a free hand to furnish it as he liked.
Larraby had excelled himself. Warm reds and greens on chairs and carpet, glowing copper and brass; there was not a piece of furniture less than two hundred years old. The stools on which Larraby placed tea, paper-thin brown bread and butter and rich, dark fruit cake, dated from the early years of the first Elizabeth.
Larraby poured out, sat back in a small armchair, sipped, and asked: “Did the emergency concern Mr. Bristow, sir?”
“Emergency? How did you—oh. The disguise.”
“I certainly inferred an emergency from that.”
“I can imagine you did. Yes, it did concern Bristow, and he certainly has a problem.” Mannering passed on the gist of what Bristow had told him, knowing that the secret was as safe with him as it could be with any man alive. By the time he had finished telling what had happened to Bruce Danizon, Larraby was chuckling.
“A very neat turn of events indeed,” he approved. “I—” He broke off abruptly and stared intently at Mannering. “I think I can see what is in your mind,” he breathed.
“If I can kidnap one young man—” began Mannering.
“Why can’t you kidnap all the young people suspected in the thefts,” cried Larraby, and he looked positively delighted. “Why not, indeed!”
“There is one snag,” Mannering murmured.
“If there’s only one, sir, it can present no great problem.”
“Where can I hold them?” asked Mannering.
“Surely at the cottage.”
“All of them?” asked Mannering.
“I really don’t see why not,” replied Larraby. “The—ah —sexes can be segregated, at least by night, and I am quite sure I can arrange to have the cottage guarded. Spencer’s away, of course, but we can spare Wainwright, and I suppose we could spare Smith—”
“I don’t think I trust Aristide enough yet,” said Mannering. “Have you learned anything about his recent movements?”
“Not yet, sir,” said Larraby, putting down his cup. “More tea?”
“Thanks,” said Mannering. “No, Josh—we’ll leave Aristide out of this for the time being, once I’m satisfied that he hasn’t been double-crossing us we may find a use for him. Now—let’s go over the situation at the cottage. It’s one thing to use it as we have in the past, for one or two prisoners, but—”
He broke off, frowning, seeing the cottage in his mind’s eye.
It was a tiny one with a thatched roof, not far from the river at Maidenhead. It was Lorna’s, and at one time she had often gone there to paint, when she was tired of the heat and bustle of London; but these days she did most of her painting in the attic studio above the flat. There were two small rooms at the cottage where two people could be locked in, and the glass and windows were reinforced.
“No,” Mannering said abruptly, “it won’t do. Perhaps it’s one of those bright ideas that are impracticable, Josh.”
Larraby, knowing his employer so well, did not argue.
Mannering went over the situation in his mind with very great care. Five wealthy collectors had been robbed; each one had a young son or daughter, who had been suspected of working with the thief, but Bristow had been able to prove nothing. There were, however, strict limits to what Bristow could do, even limits to what he could say to members of a family who were no more than possible suspects – in fact, hardly suspects at all.
In his mind, Mannering equated them with Aristide Smith.
Into the quietness of his reflections, the telephone bell rang. Larraby got up immediately to answer. Mannering hardly noticed him go and could only just hear his gentle voice. He kept seeing Bristow’s face and feeling Bristow’s sense almost of hopelessness. Now and again he reminded himself of young Bruce Danizon, waiting and watching outside the Putney flats.
Larraby came back, sat down, and said: “That was Pendleton, sir. The enquiry agent.”
Pendleton – Pendleton! Suddenly, Mannering was fully alive to what Larraby was saying.
“Well?”
“He has a very interesting report on Smith,” stated Larraby. “He has, apparently, been attending classes of a particular variation of yoga.’
“What!”
“That variation in which the mind controls the body, sir—and particularly in regard to receptivity to new ideas.”
Mannering looked almost bewildered.
“New ideas which come from where?”
“Emanations, sir.”
“Ah,” said Mannering. “Emanations from another and more powerful mind. Is that it?”
“Precisely,” said Larraby. “Apparently Pendleton has a very bright young woman on his staff and she attended one of these classes. She was the agent who investigated Smith’s recent movements.”
“Well, well,” said Mannering heavily. “You—ah—you didn’t happen to ask Pendleton whether he has a list of the pupils or students or acolytes or whatever they call themselves, did you?”
“He volunteered the information that the young woman is attempting to get such a list, although I gather it is more confidential.”
“Who is the master-mind?” asked Mannering.
“A man named Yenn, sir.”
“Do we know anything about Yenn? Or does Pendleton?”
“He is sending over a photograph, sir – one which the young woman took when she attended the class.”
“She seems a very intelligent young woman,” remarked Mannering. “Yoga-proof, do you think?”
“Pendleton thinks so, sir.”
“Is she coming here?”
“She will be here in about half-an-hour, sir. I thought if you could wait that long you would like to see her.”
“I would, very much,” said Mannering. “I’ve just time to finish cleaning myself up before she arrives.”
He went back to the bathroom, where he took particular care with cleaning off all remaining signs of make-up, and speculated on the girl agent Pendleton was sending. Was there any way of being quite sure that she was yoga-proof?
He laughed to himself.
He heard the telephone bell ring again and Larraby’s soft voice in response; a moment later Larraby was at the door.
“A gentleman would like to speak to you, sir.”
“Who is it, do you know?” asked Mannering.
; “He didn’t give his name,” Larraby said.
Mannering went to the telephone, still thinking of Pendleton’s ‘young woman’ and the company Aristide had been keeping. He should have expected what followed, and afterwards he was amazed that it had taken him so completely by surprise.
“John Mannering,” a man said in a deep voice, “unless you release Bruce Danizon within the hour, I will ruin you.”
9
THE THREAT
The voice was deep and vibrant, and although it held no laughter it seemed to Mannering that he could hear laughter, deep and sinister, in the far off background. He was taken so utterly by surprise that for a moment he did not speak, but very soon he told himself that if he did not answer then the fact that he was thunderstruck would be obvious to this other man.
So he said, in an aside: “Push that chair up for me, Josh,” in a casual-sounding way, and then went on: “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear you.”
“You heard me,” the other rasped.
“My dear sir,” Mannering said sharply, “I don’t at all like your manner. And if you will speak further from the mouthpiece the telephone will not vibrate so much.” He paused again, then added in another aside: “Thanks.” In fact he was already sitting and Larraby was not within earshot but was in the kitchen, no doubt washing-up or stacking the tea things.
The stranger spoke again, and now his voice sounded less vibrant.
“I told you to release Bruce Danizon.”
“Who is Bruce Danizon?” asked Mannering.
“You know very well who Danizon is.”
“I had a visit from a Miss Belle Danizon,” said Mannering. “And I saw her at the Charity Ball. Is she anything to do with the Danizon you’re talking about?”
“I’ve told you to release him at once, or else—”
“Oh, really,” protested Mannering, and slowly but firmly replaced the receiver.
