by John Creasey
Please be at Quinns in Hart Row at four o’clock this afternoon. The matter is urgent. B.Y.
Would they believe Bernard Yenn had written them? he wondered. There was just a chance, and the peremptory wording was characteristic of the man as he knew him. He telephoned Aristide’s flat, and Aristide answered promptly enough for Mannering to be sure that he had been up for some time.
“I’d like you to be at Quinns at four o’clock, for a special job,” Mannering said. “Can you make it?”
“I’ll be very glad to,” Aristide said, with apparent feeling. “I’ve polished every piece of silver in the place and—I mean, I’m bored stiff.”
“I don’t think you will be, for long,” Mannering said. “Aristide—”
“Yes, sir?”
“Were you at a meeting over Pandit’s – the carpet shop opposite Quinns – yesterday afternoon?”
Aristide caught his breath.
“How on earth did you know about that?”
“Were you there?” insisted Mannering.
“No,” Aristide said. “But my brother James was.”
“Your brother?” Mannering was startled into echoing the words. James Smith, he thought, James Smith . . . No wonder the face in that photograph had seemed familiar!
“Yes. He and a few others play around with yoga and—well, I used to, but I got sick of it, sir. There was something about this particular group I didn’t care for. How did you come to know about the meeting?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Mannering said.
It was then half-past eleven, and Lorna was preparing lunch, as she liked to do on Sunday when the daily maid didn’t come in. When Mannering looked in the kitchen, she wore a flowered apron which had a bib fastened round the neck, and was chopping mint. He went across and slid his arms round her waist, linking his hands in front of her.
“Look,” he remarked, showing the gap between her waist and his hands, “you’re wasting away. What time is lunch?”
“Half-past one.”
“I’m going over to the shop to have a word with Josh. I’ll be back in good time.”
“You will, won’t you?” she urged.
“Promise.”
He hugged her, and went out, whistling, but the whistling stopped when he reached the lift. His Allard was parked outside, and so was a police car, with two men in it. They exchanged ‘Good mornings’ and he drove off. He delivered the notes, one in Mayfair and the other at Knightsbridge, then drove to Quinns.
No one was watching here, as far as he could see.
He gave the usual signal at Larraby’s door before turning the key. The silence as he went inside seemed so complete that he was seized by a sudden fear, but as he started up the stairs, Larraby appeared at the top.
“Good morning, sir. I’m afraid I was dozing.”
“Good for you,” remarked Mannering, lightly. “Didn’t you sleep well?”
“Not too soundly, but then one doesn’t as one gets older. Is all well with you and the situation?”
“I think so,” said Mannering. “I’ll be bringing the other two in soon after four o’clock, all being well, and with any luck we’ll have the climax soon after five.”
“You really think it’s as near as that?” asked Larraby.
“I certainly hope so,” said Mannering drily. “I wouldn’t like to keep this pressure up much longer. I think I ought to check that they’re all right in the strong-room.”
“I’m sure they are, sir,” said Larraby. “I took some breakfast down and put it in the outer room, then came back, and slid the first door open. When I went down again an hour later the food had gone.”
“Let’s give them some morning newspapers,” suggested Mannering, “and try the same thing.”
Twenty minutes later the newspapers had gone, too.
“They’re taking it all very calmly, sir,” Larraby remarked.
“I don’t see how they could do much else,” Mannering reasoned. “All right, Josh. I’ll be back by half-past three.”
At the flat, he carved a small shoulder of lamb with long-practised skill, and enjoyed luncheon with green peas, roasted potatoes, and home-prepared mint sauce. There was the same air of normality as there had been last night, and even Lorna seemed to have lost her worst fears.
“What have you got to do when I’ve gone?” asked Mannering.
“I’m going up to the studio,” she said.
She always worked whenever she felt there was any cause to worry, but she made no particular comment. He left the house, waved to the policemen on duty, and drove to Quinns, arriving at twenty-five minutes to four. By five to four he was at Larraby’s Hart Row window, and at one minute to the hour a Morris Minor turned the corner and pulled up outside Quinns. He went downstairs, through the shop, and opened the main door. Two young men, one tall, thin and bearded, the other shorter and clean-shaven, got out, looking at him in puzzlement.
“Mr. Yenn asked us to come,” said the young man with the beard. He was Charles Clawson Junior.
“He’ll be here in a few minutes,” said Mannering. “There will be a special meeting downstairs. The others are already here – would you care to join them?”
The young man nodded.
Larraby was already in the office, and the outer exit of the strong-room was open. Mannering watched as the two youths went down the short flight of steps ahead of him without showing the slightest apprehension; obviously they were used to doing whatever Yenn told them to do.
“Mr. Yenn will be here soon,” Mannering said, and went back up the stairs; for the first time he glimpsed alarm on their faces, as they turned to see the door slide back into place. If Mannering had a regret, it was that he could not see the others when the first sliding wall partition opened and they confronted one another. He did not trouble to push the armchair and carpet back again, for Bristow and Yenn would be here within the hour.
“It has gone with such remarkable smoothness, sir,” Larraby remarked, “that it’s hard to believe there won’t be trouble before it’s over.”
“That’s how my wife feels,” Mannering said. “When things go badly we expect it, when they go well, we’re astounded. Most human beings are natural pessimists in this wicked world. Short of the police arriving in strength and finding that I’ve shut half-a-dozen people up against their will, I can’t see anything that can go wrong. Have you seen any sign of the police?”
“Absolutely none, sir.”
“They may be watching from a distance,” Mannering said. “And they can certainly move pretty fast.” He chuckled. “Here am I, joining the ranks of the dismal jerries. Don’t you accept the possibility that everything could go right for once?”
“Oh, I accept the possibility, sir,” replied Larraby, with glum emphasis.
They both laughed.
“Josh, you haven’t been out all day,” said Mannering. “Go for a stroll, and keep your eyes open for police as you go.”
“I shall enjoy that,” said Larraby, heading for the door immediately. “I will be back in half-an-hour, sir.”
Mannering went to the window and watched the old man walking along quite briskly, shoulders square, near-white hair blowing slightly in the breeze, looking about him with the delight of a young boy. Yet he would observe with instinctive thoroughness. No one would be more certain than he to find out if the police were watching Quinns.
If they were, then they may have been tipped off, or, as likely, been alerted by Mannering himself and the comings and goings at Hart Row and the known trouble at the Green Street flat. And they could close in at a moment’s notice giving no warning at all. Mannering suddenly felt more uneasy than he had expected. He had, after all, kidnapped the young people in the strong-room, and kidnapping was a major offence.
He began to be anxi
ous for Larraby’s return.
Larraby turned into New Bond Street, and paused at a tobacconist’s window, the most reasonable place for an elderly man to pause. It enabled him to look up and down in each direction, and the first glance, towards Oxford Street, troubled him.
Two policemen were standing by a car in which another man sat; and they were laughing and joking – as they might be if they were all policemen. Larraby did not linger, but walked in the other direction. Very soon he saw a ladder up against the wall of a shop a few doors along. A workman was climbing off the ladder on to a roof. Any workmen busy in this part of London on a Sunday were rare, although if there had been heavy rain and a leaking roof, it would be understandable.
It had hardly rained all this week.
Larraby glanced down a side street, the one into which Mannering had climbed the previous night; there was a car parked along it, and the man at the wheel was looking upwards. Suddenly, he waved his hand, and Larraby needed no telling that he was a policeman watching a colleague on the roof. That roof was only a few yards away from Quinns.
Larraby walked on as if noticing nothing; then saw two more men at a telephone manhole. Telephone repairs were often carried out on Sunday, but this was too much for coincidence. So was a newspaper seller in a doorway which was not usually used for news-vending.
There was no shadow of doubt in Larraby’s mind that Quinns was being closely watched; that a strong police cordon surrounded it.
Quickening his pace, Larraby reached Savile Row and walked round the narrow streets towards the other end of New Bond Street, and now, as he drew within reach of Quinns, he saw other men, two of them whom he recognised as Divisional police officers. He changed direction again, as if casually, and as soon as he was out of sight of the police, stepped into a telephone booth. He had been away for twenty minutes and it was a little after half-past four.
Mannering answered almost at once.
“John Mannering speaking.’
“This is Larraby, sir,” Larraby said quietly. “I am afraid there is no doubt at all – the police are in strength around Hart Row. I doubt if I have ever seen a stronger concentration. There must be at least twenty men on the watch, sir, from the roof as well as the street.
“Is there anything I can do, sir?”
“Just come back,” Mannering said after a pause. “But don’t show any alarm, and don’t show that you’ve recognised the police.”
“I’ll be with you in a few minutes, sir,” Larraby promised.
Mannering put down the receiver very slowly, staring at a Dutch panel of three priests at a table, the colours subdued and yet beautiful against the lighter panelled wall. Larraby’s: “I’ll be with you in a few minutes, sir,” echoed in his ears. So did everything the old man had said, and Mannering could see the picture with vivid clarity. At least twenty men – and the Yard would not concentrate such a force unless they had strong reason to suspect serious crime.
Could they know about his prisoners in the strong-room? And if so, who could have told them? No one knew about the kidnappings except Larraby, Lorna and himself . . .
No, there were others. Yenn had seen some of his ‘assistants’ come up and be hustled inside, and might well suspect they were being held prisoner. Yenn, and Belle Danizon, and anyone whom they had told.
But who would they have told?
“No one,” Mannering muttered to himself. “No one.” He took out his notebook and ran through it for Gordon’s private address and dialled the number. The ringing went on for so long that he thought there would be no answer, but at last the sound stopped and a woman spoke, breathlessly.
“This is—Mrs. Gordon.” Her breathing was very heavy, reminding him, absurdly, of Yenn’s.
“Is Superintendent Gordon in, please?”
“No,” the woman answered breathlessly. “He is—out of town.”
“Out of town?” echoed Mannering, and one of his greatest hopes faded into thin air. Even if Gordon hadn’t been able to call off the watch, he could have told Mannering what was behind it.
“He—he was sent on a special assignment,” Mrs. Gordon added, breathing more freely. “I don’t think it is—confidential. Who—who is that, please?”
“John Mannering,” Mannering said.
“Oh, Mr. Mannering! How nice to speak to you. My husband tried to call you before he went away, but couldn’t get through and he had such little time. He’s been sent to Norfolk, the Norfolk police wanted some assistance. It’s such a nuisance when he has to go out at such short notice.”
“A thorough nuisance,” agreed Mannering. “Well, thank you.”
“I’m glad I heard the telephone – I was gardening, it’s been such a lovely day. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” Mannering said, and rang off.
His nerves felt very brittle.
Gordon had been sent away deliberately, of course; could he doubt that it was because he was known to be well-disposed towards Mannering? Someone else at the Yard must have realised or guessed he had asked Mannering to help Bristow, must have told the hierarchy at the Yard.
It was a long time since danger had crowded so close upon him, and Mannering put the receiver down and stood very still. As he did so, there was a knock at the back door, a code knock giving reassurance. He went down, expecting to see Josh Larraby.
Instead, he opened the door to Aristide Smith and Belle Danizon.
19
THE CONSPIRATORS
Mannering stood aside, and Aristide and Belle entered.
In the year or two that Mannering had known him, Aristide had always been a rather diffident young man, not at all sure of himself, but now he had an assurance – a confidence – which could not be mistaken. He looked Mannering straight in the eye. So did Belle, who was holding Aristide’s arm in the way peculiar to women who want to make sure that others know they will brook no competition.
Mannering closed the door.
“Mr. Mannering,” said Aristide. “You have twenty minutes at most to make up your mind whether you want to spend the next few years in prison, or whether to make yourself millions of pounds more than you have.”
“Oh,” murmured Mannering. “Is that so, Aristide?”
“Sarcasm won’t affect me,” Aristide said shortly, “and there’s no point in holding an inquest. You made the mistake a lot of middle-aged men make; you thought that because I’m young, I’m a fool – and inferior to you. I am not. I have fooled you completely. Ever since I came to work for you I have been planning this.” He was now moving towards Mannering’s office, and instead of standing aside and deferring to Mannering, he went in first, took a swift, arrogantly possessive look round, and looked superciliously at the portrait of Mannering as a cavalier.
Mannering slipped behind the desk and into his chair.
“Do sit down, Miss Danizon,” he said.
“Not Miss Danizon – my wife, Mrs. Smith,” corrected Aristide; and as Mannering tried to digest that piece of information Belle sat down in the chair opposite him. He had seldom seen anyone so radiant; if he had to judge, he would say that she was a very happy young woman.
“Congratulations,” Mannering murmured.
“A little overdue,” said Aristide, “but never mind. And now let me tell you one or two things that should help you make your decision. Bernard Yenn has believed for a year that he was using me and my friends. He has acquired a certain facility in tele-hypnosis, with the help of a tape-recorder and his curiously pitched voice. But although a lot of people fall for that, most don’t. He thinks his disciples, as he calls them, obey his instructions because of his hypnotic powers. In fact, they obey because I tell them to do so. I give them instructions, Mannering. Yenn is a useful cover – if we’d ever run into trouble we could always have pleaded that we were under the influence of Bernard and his phoney yo
ga-hypnotism.”
“How very ingenious,” Mannering applauded.
He was beginning to recover from the shock, but he felt far from easy. There was such confidence in this young man, such certainty; and so far Mannering could not see even a glimmer of hope.
“Not so ingenious as some of the other things we’ve done,” Aristide said proudly. “Each of us is from a wealthy family, Mannering. Each of us is sick to death of being told what to do by parents who belong to yesterday. And so we – or rather Belle and I – worked out a scheme to take some of the family jewels, which we would inherit some day in any case, turn them into big money, and take our turn at being top dog. And the scheme proved a very good one – the potential became larger and larger all the time. Now, thanks to an edited tape, we have Bristow where we want him; Bristow will do what he’s told, and he still has a lot of power as a policeman.”
“He’s had a remarkably fine career,” murmured Mannering.
“And if he’s sensible he can go out in a blaze of glory,” said Aristide. “If he isn’t, he’ll live in the shadows for the rest of his life.”
“What do you want him for?” asked Mannering. For the first time since the shock of this revelation he felt the stirring of anger, a glow which began to spread throughout his body.
“You can’t even think beyond the end of your nose,” said Aristide, glancing at Belle as if to say: “You see how much cleverer I am than Mannering.” “Bristow knows more about private jewel collections, and the safety precautions taken for them, than any man living. He’s going to help us take whatever we want, and you’re going to sell it for us. And you’ll both get a cut – ten per cent of the proceeds for each of you. You see how generous I am?”
“Very generous,” murmured Mannering. “And do I take it that your wife’s visit to Quinns and Bruce Danizon’s telephone call were stages in my—er—take-over?”
