The Warning

by John Creasey

  She turned back to look at him.

  ‘I think I know who killed my uncle.’

  He said quietly: ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

  She told him that after going to her room for the night, she thought she heard voices. Returning to the study door she overheard enough to alarm her. Immediately she had gone into Kennard’s bedroom, where she knew he kept an old Service revolver.

  Later, after Dawson had escorted her back to her room, she found he had locked her in. When the shooting started she tried the door again, and this time it was unlocked. She had rushed to her uncle’s study. She found Dawson wounded and her uncle all but dead.

  ‘So the burglar killed him,’ Mannering said.

  ‘That is what the police think,’ said Daphne Kennard, ‘and that is what Dawson said.’

  ‘Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Mr Mannering, please listen to me.’ She drew nearer. ‘It was a little after half-past one when I first saw the burglar; it was nearly four when I heard the shooting. It didn’t take me a minute to get from my room to the study. If the burglar had shot my uncle and Dawson, and run off, surely I should have seen something.’

  Mannering didn’t speak.

  ‘I think Dawson killed my uncle,’ the girl said abruptly. ‘I want you to prove it.’

  The girl said tensely: ‘Will you help?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mannering, quietly.

  She turned away, and fumbled in her handbag for a handkerchief. Tears had brightened her eyes, giving them an added beauty.

  It was strange how Lorna always chose the right moment to appear with a tray. She appeared now.

  ‘I thought you might like some tea,’ she said comfortably.

  ‘I’m sure Miss Kennard would,’ said Mannering. He introduced them; then outlined the story.

  ‘I know it probably sounds absurd,’ said Daphne hurriedly, ‘but I’m sure there was something between Dawson and my uncle. On the surface they were friends and associates, but I believe they hated each other. I could see he was worried, but thought at the time it was merely a business matter. I think now that it was something very different, and much deeper.’

  Mannering said easily: ‘Have you any idea what it was?’

  ‘Absolutely none. But I can pay to find out.’ She opened her handbag again. ‘I’ve brought my cheque book. Name any sum you like, Mr Mannering.’

  ‘Supposing I prove that the murderer wasn’t Dawson?’

  ‘I want the truth, whether I am right or wrong. It must be confidential, please.’

  ‘The police might find out, too.’

  ‘That can’t be helped,’ she said, and opened her cheque book and took out a pen. ‘How much shall I make the cheque?’

  Mannering murmured: ‘One thousand pounds.’

  Lorna looked at him as if he had gone mad. Daphne Kennard hesitated, shot him a swift glance, then started to write.

  ‘Who is it for?’ she inquired.

  ‘Leave the name blank,’ he said.

  The girl obeyed, signed and tore the cheque from the book and handed it to him.

  ‘You keep it,’ he said. ‘When the case is over, you can hand it to any charity you like.’

  Lorna relaxed.

  ‘I’ll pay in advance,’ the girl said in a strained voice. ‘To the Red Cross.’ She wrote again.

  ‘I may want access to some of your uncle’s private papers,’ Mannering said. ‘The police won’t be too pleased to find me there, so it has to be understood that I’m working for you. Are you the next-of-kin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d like to be there when your uncle’s will is read. Now, about Dawson. You don’t like him, do you?’

  ‘I detest him.’

  ‘How does he feel towards you?’

  She said hesitantly: ‘He pays me much more attention than I like. I put up with it for my uncle’s sake.’

  ‘Go on putting up with it,’ Mannering said.

  ‘Although he killed—’ she flared up.

  ‘If you let Dawson see that you suspect him, and he did in fact commit the crime, then he’ll cover his traces much more efficiently,’ Mannering retorted. ‘Don’t show any change in your attitude towards him at all.’

  Ten minutes afterwards, Daphne left the flat.

  ‘Bristow will know all about her visit in five minutes,’ Mannering said moodily. ‘What did you think of her?’

  ‘I liked her. I suppose you’ll have to see Dawson.’

  ‘I think I’ll wait to see which way he’s going to jump. So now we’re waiting for Dawson and for Bristow.’

  ‘And Robby,’ said Lorna.

  Mannering frowned. ‘Ah, yes.’ It wasn’t any good thinking about Robby yet.

  The telephone bell rang. Lorna, who was nearer to it, picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hallo?’

  Mannering, watching her, saw the sudden pleasure in her listening face.

  ‘Hallo, Robby!’ she cried. ‘Where are you? How are you?’

  Mannering jumped to his feet.

  Chapter 13

  Robby

  Lorna said: ‘That’s wonderful! Yes, he’s here, hold on.’ She held out the receiver.

  ‘Hallo, there!’ greeted Mannering.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Robby White. ‘Have I been looking forward to this! I say, John, I want to see you urgently. I’m at London Airport now and coming in on the B.O.A.C. bus to town. Can you meet me at the terminal? We ought to arrive just after six o’clock.’

  ‘Right. I’ll be there.’

  ‘Good man. The problem is really hot, John, and right up your street.’ He gave a queer, choking kind of sound. Then Mannering heard a sharp report, heard Robby exclaim, heard another report, much louder.

  Lorna said urgently: ‘John, what is it?’

  Then Robby’s voice came again.

  ‘Still on the line, John?’

  ‘I’m here all right, the question is, are you there?’

  ‘My dear chap! The bullet smashed the glass but missed me. I nearly got the beggar, but he managed to roar off in a car with half the aerodrome staff chasing after him. Better say a quarterpast six, this will probably mean a delay.’

  At the terminal of the airport Robby White jumped down from the bus. Tall and powerful, his head of wavy fair hair stood well above the crowd.

  Striding forward with every sign of extreme pleasure, he gripped Mannering’s hand and dropped a kiss on Lorna’s cheek.

  ‘Wonderful to see you both!’ Settled into the Bentley, he said at once: ‘Bad show about Kennard. I wanted to see him pretty badly. He wasn’t such a sound chap as his reputation suggests, you know, but plenty of guts. Shot a lion once – want to hear about it?’

  ‘Not about the lion,’ Mannering said patiently, ‘but everything else.’

  ‘So you shall, old boy, and I’ll begin by saying that though I liked Kennard well enough, about two months ago I began to doubt his honesty. I had a visit from a friend who’d been given a raw deal on some real estate near Johannesburg. Kennard bought up a mortgage, and foreclosed. My friend had heard that I knew Kennard, and would I plead with him? I did – by letter. A man named Dawson answered, saying this was a business deal; Sir Paul Kennard never mixed business with pleasure, and regretted that there was nothing he could do to help. It riled me. To handle it like that was so damned rude. A little bit later I heard of another distressing case. It concerned a young married woman, named Rhoda Hayden. Her husband had become blind, and the situation couldn’t have been much worse. There were rumours of forged documents and that kind of thing. That is when I wrote to you. I can take business even when it’s cut-throat, but I don’t like fraud. I began to wonder if Kennard, who has a lot of interests in South Africa, was a crook.’

  ‘I don’t quite follow,’ Lorna said slowly.

  ‘I think it’s getting clearer,’ said Mannering. ‘They’ve struck gold in two or three places in the Transvaal. Small towns near the strike have become boom towns, price
s have risen. You think Kennard had foreknowledge, lent money on short-term mortgages, and closed down the mortgages to get the boom price. That right?’

  ‘Right enough. But then I thought that Kennard, as I knew him, just wouldn’t sink to crime like that. I told myself that he probably hadn’t seen my first letter, so I wrote another. I told him exactly what rumours were floating around, and detailed the charges. You know the sort of man-to-man letter.’

  “Yes, I know,’ said Mannering resignedly.

  ‘I see you think I was a fool to send it, and probably I was. Anyway, Rhoda Hayden’s brother, a chap called Kenneth Powell, came over here to try and put things right for his sister. I had one letter from him to say he was hiding out in a poky little place because he thought his life was in danger. And nothing since. Do you know anything about him?’

  Mannering said quietly: ‘He was right about the danger. They killed him. Did you tell him, in a letter, to ask me to help him?’

  Robby nodded.

  ‘Then that may be it,’ said Mannering, turning to Lorna. ‘That letter mentioning me was found by one of Dawson’s men. Powell knew that whoever was after him would have a cut at me, and tried to warn me. I’ll explain later, Robby. Is that all?’

  ‘Not entirely.’ Robby laughed shortly. ‘I was shot at in Cape Town before leaving, and you know what a welcome I had here. When I wrote that letter to Kennard I certainly started something, didn’t I?’

  ‘And the question is, where is the letter,’ Mannering murmured, ‘and exactly what did you say in it?’

  Chapter 14

  Visitor

  ‘The contents of the letter? Well yes, I remember that all right,’ Robby said carefully. ‘I gave Kennard chapter and verse of what Powell and his sister had told me, giving the names of some of the people defrauded. I said that unless there was a satisfactory explanation, I’d have to take the matter further. For good measure I added that I hoped he wouldn’t fob me off with a reply from Mr Dawson.’

  The Bentley pulled up behind Garielle Lee’s small car outside the Green Street house. Mannering opened the street door, and as they started up the stairs they heard voices, a man’s and a woman’s. One was Garielle’s, and the other was Dawson’s.

  Mannering signalled to Lorna and Robby to wait. He went up the top flight of stairs.

  ‘I think I’ll have to go,’ Garielle was saying. ‘If you see Mr Mannering, please tell him that I called. My name is Lee – Garielle Lee.’

  Dawson turned – and saw Mannering. His light grey eyes gave him a hard stare of appraisal.

  ‘My name is Dawson. I was an associate of Sir Paul Kennard.’

  Mannering opened the door of the sitting-room.

  ‘I wonder if you’d wait in here. Forgive the mess – we had burglars.’ He smiled blandly. ‘Do sit down. Cigarettes on the table.’ He went out and closed the door. ‘We’ll go in here,’ he said to Garielle, and took her into the study. ‘Now tell me, what happened last night? I saw the man in the back of the car, just too late to warn you.’

  ‘Nothing much happened,’ said Garielle. ‘He had a gun and took me to some house. He seemed to think you’d given me a letter. When they saw that I hadn’t got one, they let me go.’

  ‘Did they ask questions?’

  ‘Yes – about how much I knew of you and the dead man. I just told them the truth.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mannering. He went to the door and opened it, half-expecting to see Dawson, but Lorna and Robby appeared.

  Mannering whispered: ‘Garielle Lee’s in there. Don’t make a noise and keep your voices low.’

  ‘Who’s the other chap?’ Robby demanded in a hoarse whisper.

  Mannering said: ‘Dawson.’ He slipped into the living-room.

  Dawson was still there, smoking, and at ease.

  ‘Good of you to see me, Mr Mannering.’

  ‘How can I help you?’ Mannering asked.

  ‘Mr Mannering, I am going to lay my cards on the table. A man in Sir Paul Kennard’s position and influence has to hurt people at times – financially, I mean. It often leads to personal tragedy. It isn’t possible for a business man to worry about individuals.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mannering blankly.

  ‘A friend of yours, who is on his way to England, took up the case of one such unfortunate,’ said Dawson. ‘He was foolish enough to believe a lot of rumours which this so-called victim spread about. They were not true. I’m anxious not to have Paul’s name smeared now that he’s dead.’

  ‘Very natural,’ Mannering approved.

  ‘I’m glad you understand. In the circumstances, I am prepared to make some ex gratia payment to the person who thinks he – or she, as in this case – has been wronged. I would like to meet your friend, Mr White, and make the necessary arrangements.’

  ‘Very generous,’ said Mannering.

  ‘There is one other thing,’ went on Dawson smoothly. ‘A niece of Paul’s who lived for some years in America, is now in England. She was very fond of her uncle, and I gather that she has come to the conclusion that the police are not competent to deal with the murder inquiry.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Mannering deplored. ‘The folly of youth.’

  ‘And the tiresomeness of it,’ said Dawson heartily. ‘She mentioned to her maid that she would come to see you. I’m glad you understand that such folly mustn’t be encouraged.’ He gave Mannering a quick, calculating glance. ‘I wonder if you’ll help me further?’

  ‘Oh, in what way?’

  ‘If Paul’s niece – Daphne Kennard – comes to see you, will you let me know?’

  ‘I can’t see any reason why not,’ said Mannering pleasantly.

  He opened the door – and saw a man crouching on the landing, gun in hand. He sprang back as the man fired; but there wasn’t any doubt that the bullet had been aimed at Dawson.

  With a flying leap the gunman cleared the stairs.

  Chapter 15

  Report to Bristow

  The front door opened and slammed. Dawson was already swinging round. ‘Where’s your telephone?’

  Mannering said: ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to call the police.’ Dawson’s voice was harsh. ‘That’s twice I’ve been shot at in twenty-four hours. I don’t like it.’

  ‘So you think he shot at you.’

  ‘Who the hell do you think he shot at?’

  ‘It could have been me,’ murmured Mannering.

  The sound of the shot had brought Robby and Lorna hurrying to the hall; Garielle stood outlined against the study door.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Robby. ‘People having target practice, and the pair of you arguing about who had the favour of being shot at. Does it matter?’

  ‘I say it matters,’ growled Dawson. ‘Who are you?’

  The veneer of culture was gone.

  Robby said: ‘John, you forgot to introduce us.’

  ‘Like hell I’ll wait for introductions,’ growled Dawson. He looked round the hall, saw an extension of the telephone and hurried towards it. Everyone waited.

  Dawson said: ‘Give me Superintendent Bristow, at once. My name is Dawson.’

  There was a pause before Dawson spoke in the same domineering voice.

  ‘Bristow? This is Dawson. I am at John Mannering’s flat in Chelsea. I’ve just been shot at again. I asked for police protection last night, why didn’t I get it?’

  There was another pause, before Dawson said flatly: ‘I don’t want apologies, I want action.’

  He slammed down the receiver and swung round on Mannering. For the first time, he seemed aware of the steady gaze from four pairs of eyes; it even appeared to disconcert him.

  ‘Sorry, Mannering. You can imagine my feelings.’

  ‘Oh, easily,’ said Mannering. ‘I don’t like being shot at, either. Is Bristow coming here?’

  ‘I should hope so.’

  ‘Then you’d better come and have a drink. This is Miss Lee, and here is Robert White, from South Africa.’ His smile was bland.
/>
  The ugliness and hardness of Dawson’s earlier manner showed again; there was viciousness in his look. With a curt nod he moved away, scanning the wall. The bullet was buried in the wood of the study door. He took a knife and started to dig it out.

  Mannering said sharply: ‘That’s a police job. Please leave it.’

  ‘Like hell I will!’ Dawson dug his knife into the wood. ‘All you’ll do is remove the evidence. I don’t trust you.’ Wood splintered as he uncovered the bullet. He slipped it into his pocket and strode across the hall. ‘Tell Bristow I’ll be at my flat.’

  ‘But you won’t be,’ murmured Mannering.

  ‘What the devil do you mean?’

  ‘You stay here with the bullet until Bristow comes, otherwise you might get rid of the evidence.’ Mannering smiled blandly.

  Dawson bunched his fists. Robby sauntered over and ranged himself near Mannering.

  ‘Stand aside,’ ordered Dawson.

  ‘Not until Bristow comes. There is one difference between my suspicion of you and yours of me, Mr Dawson. I think you want the bullet so that you can lose it, in case Bristow traces that gun it came from. He could assume that it was fired from the gun that was used last night, couldn’t he? We’ll let him check. There are other odds and ends, too. You had yourself shot at, to “prove” what a hapless victim you are, to pull wool over the eyes of the police. But Bristow is as allergic to wool as l am.’

  ‘Get out of my way,’ Dawson said harshly.

  ‘Don’t make things difficult,’ said Mannering. ‘Come and have a drink before Bristow arrives.’

  ‘I’ll see you dead, first!’

  ‘Did you say the same thing to Kennard?’ asked Mannering quietly.

  The colour ebbed from Dawson’s face. His body seemed to withdraw as if conserving all his energy. Then he sprang.

  Mannering flashed out his left, as Robby, too, entered the fray. Dawson hit the floor with a thud.

  Robby dusted his hands.

  ‘What about a drink, John?’

  ‘Go and tidy up. I’ll see to this,’ said Mannering.