by John Creasey
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” she gasped. “Please come in.”
The passage was narrow and, when the door was closed, very gloomy. A flight of steps, narrow wooden stairs led upwards; a narrow passage ran alongside these. There were four closed doors, but as they reached the foot of the stairs one at the end of the passage opened a crack and a very old man appeared. He stood, watching from eyes deep in dark sockets.
“I’ll go first,” Julie volunteered, and ran nimbly up the stairs; the mini-skirt revealed again how nice her legs were, slender yet well-shaped. At the head of the stairs was a small, square landing, with three doors leading off; the only light came from two of the doors, which stood open. One, on the left, was wider open than the others, but as Mannering passed one, he saw a rope – a noose – hanging from the ceiling; and beneath it a chair, fallen on its side.
“Here,” Julie breathed from the door on the left, and he followed her in.
Until this moment he had wondered if this were some kind of trick, or hoax; from the very beginning, it had been so strange. But there was no hoax about the man who lay on the large divan bed. He was unconscious. He lay on his back, wearing jeans, moccasin shoes and an open-necked shirt. The rope marks at his neck, beneath the chin, were quite unmistakable. The aquiline appearance was much more noticeable than at the shop, his pointed chin and his sharp nose seemed to jut out from the sunken cheeks and the high forehead.
It was like looking at the embalmed figure of a man, for Forrester was so alabaster white.
“He can’t be asleep.” Mannering took the long, thin hand and searched with his forefinger for the pulse.
“He—he banged his head when I—when I got him down,” Julie confessed in a husky voice. “I managed to loosen the rope.”
Her voice trailed off and she swayed away from Mannering. As he grabbed her, taking her weight, her knees sagged and she would have fallen but for him. He lifted her, looked around, saw only wooden, upright chairs, and placed her on the divan next to Forrester. She wasn’t fully unconscious and kept trying to open her eyes, but he put a bright red cushion under her head, and said quietly: “Keep still, Julie. You’ll both be all right.” He sat on a corner of the divan, on a bright green folk-weave bedspread, and took a brandy flask from his hip pocket. On a bedside table was a tea tray, in one saucer a spoon, so he poured brandy into the spoon and then, manoeuvring carefully, eased her up with one arm and put the spoon close to her lips. “Sip this slowly,” he ordered, and she opened her mouth slightly but not her eyes. Her lips hardly moved but she did swallow; he noticed the faint movements at her throat. He gave her two more spoonsful, and when she had got these down she shook her head as if to say ‘enough’.
Mannering stood up, stretched, replaced the cap and put the flask back in his pocket, then rounded the divan and checked Forrester’s pulse again. It was steady enough but seemed very faint. He made a closer inspection of the rope marks, and detected an odour of antiseptic; so Julie had bathed them.
She was proving a remarkable young woman.
She muttered: “How—how is he?”
“I think he’s all right,” answered Mannering. “How long has he been unconscious?”
“He was only just conscious when I got him down, and—well, I gave him a sleeping tablet.”
“It must have been some tablet to put him out like that,” Mannering said lightly, and when she began to sit up, as if to talk, he leaned across and pressed her shoulders firmly. “Stay there for a while and take it easy,” he ordered. “I’ll make some tea or coffee.
She nodded, fair hair vivid against the crimson cushion.
He glanced out of the window, which overlooked the street, where more cars were being parked as the residents came home, then went to the door, turned, and looked into the room. The first impression had been a vague one, of colours and brightness, and this remained, except that there was more planning about the colouring than he had thought, on chairs and wall, on bed and old furniture obviously bought at second, third or fourth hand, the few vases including a beautiful white swan had a careless look which was in fact carefully arranged. Only someone with an artist’s eye could possibly have done this.
Forrester? Or Julie?
There were unframed paintings on the wall, some abstract, one of this street which when he examined it closely was almost a daub; but when he stood back it fell into perspective, and the effect was startlingly good.
He turned to the square landing.
One room, where the noose dangled, was a bathroom. This held a big old-fashioned claw-footed bath painted with nudes both male and female, against a misty background which might have been an ocean or might be meant as sky. On the high gloss of the wall paint there was a medley of female bosoms, without heads, without bodies, just the breasts in great variety. On one wall, where the light of the window fell, the effect was quite startling, for the skin and the colouring of the nipples seemed so real.
Only the lavatory seat was unadorned. The pedestal itself was painted vivid red, with white and black spots.
Mannering looked upwards, and had his biggest shock yet. For the noose dropped from a hole in the ceiling which had an ethereal light, while the ceiling itself was covered with pictures of bodies, chubby children with golden curls, skeletal children like those from Africa’s famine-torn lands. Black, white and yellow, babies of every imaginable race and shade and size, all having one thing in common.
Every mouth was open; seeking food.
Every mouth was turned towards the bosoms on the walls.
Mannering thought: Is he a fetishist? Is he sex-mad?
He made himself look up into the attic, his eyes now so accustomed to the pale light that he could see that the other end of the rope was tied to a beam. He was tempted to climb up; by stepping on to the W.C. pedestal it would be easy enough. But he had already been here for several minutes, so he went into the other room, opposite the head of the stairs – and again was startled.
In front of the small window was a sink, a draining board, and next to this a small gas oven. Against one wall, a table and two wooden chairs, painted yellow. But every square inch of the other two walls was covered with paintings; heads, shoulders, hands, feet, knees, elbows and wrists – every part of the human body was depicted there, none drawn or painted with great precision, each at first having a daubed-on look. But each had vividness; and each became life-like, growing on one, as it were.
Mannering put on a kettle, igniting the gas from a flint-lighter, then went back to the front room.
Julie, still on her back, seemed to be dozing; and Forrester was exactly as he had left him. He drew a folk-weave blanket, folded at the foot of the divan, up to Julie’s shoulders, and she didn’t stir, so he returned to the kitchen, turned the gas low, and went back to the bathroom. The noose hung about a yard beneath the hatch, and a wooden chair lay on its side by the wall. He placed one hand just above the noose, and put one foot on the pedestal and drew himself up until his head and shoulders were inside the attic and he was able to haul himself higher.
The light came from a square window in the roof, so that the roof seemed and, in a way, was open to the sky. A dormer window had been built near this and an easel stood in position to catch this north light. There was just room in front of the easel for a man of medium height to stand. Everywhere else, anyone would have to stand hunched, for the attic beams were low.
And each was adorned, much as the kitchen and the bathroom, but here were faces of men and women, boys and girls, faces of every shape and size and colour and, even more impressive, of expression. And there were paintings of nudes, male and female locked together in strange postures; much more here that could be called ‘sex art’; yet none was beastly.
The unframed pictures, some on hardboard, some on canvas or on paper, took up every spare inch of space. By the side of the easel were some shelves, with paints and rags and bottles of turpentine, powder, brushes; everything was orderly and at hand.
; And on the easel was a painting of him, John Mannering.
It was small and done in oils, and the paint was far from dry. There was no doubt at all that he was the subject; no doubt about the face of the devil cunningly superimposed; there were even small, pointed horns, while the turn of his lips was satyrish. It was as if Forrester had drawn the face and then painted over it, to get the effect of showing the real man – the devil! – behind the handsome surface.
Slowly, Mannering moved so that he could see it from every angle.
He thought, as he often thought since Forrester had visited him, of Lorna, his wife. She was one of the best and most renowned portrait painters in England, and he wondered what she would think of this.
He studied the faces more closely, and came upon a likeness of Bayonard, with an ‘inner face’ of self-indulgence and smugness; near this, one of Stephen who had been at the club for lunch. Gradually, Mannering realised that many of the likenesses – even on the couples who were interlocked – were of the owners and managers of picture galleries, of contemporary artists, of curators and directors of big art galleries like the Royal Academy and the Tate. It was as if Forrester had a private hate for all of these and showed them, here, in the merciless light in which he saw them.
Mannering went to the dormer window.
It overlooked acre upon acre of grey slate roofs and red chimney pots and brick or cemented chimney stacks; an unending vista startlingly vivid in the late afternoon sunlight. Even close to he could not see into the gardens or below the eaves and guttering.
At last, he went down exactly the way he had come up. The kettle was singing. A brown earthenware tea pot stood upside down on the draining board, cups and saucers with it. A tea-caddy contained loose tea. He made a pot, found another cheap metal tray, loaded it and took it into the front room, where there was milk in a jug on the other tray.
Julie was awake, looking at him. Her eyes were shadowed, but there was more colour in her cheeks. “Better?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you. Much.”
“Feel like some tea?”
“I’d love a cup.”
“Good,” he said, and glanced at Forrester as she hitched herself up on the divan. “Just what happened, Julie?”
She said slowly: “We had a quarrel after we left you, and I didn’t come straight home. When I got back, he—” she shivered, and the colour faded. “I saw him—hanging.”
“And got him down,” Mannering remarked, wryly. “What a terrible task that must have been.”
“Yes. He—he fell and bumped his head.”
“I saw the bruise.”
“I managed to get him to bed,” she went on, “and—and when he began to come round I asked him what had happened, and he said he didn’t know, didn’t see anyone.
He began to get excited, so I made him take the tablet. He thought it was an aspirin.” She was watching Mannering all the time. “Everything was—horrible.”
He could envisage the whole scene; picture her getting the knife, loosening the rope, trying to save Forrester from falling. She must have been exhausted when she had finished. He poured out tea in an effort to bring a touch of normality, and she sat up straight and took a cup. “Sugar?”
“No, thank you.” She sipped. “I rushed out to telephone as soon as he’d gone to sleep. I’ve a room in a house across the street and the people there let me use their telephone – I baby-sit for them sometimes, when they’re both out at work. So I have a key.”
“Did she hear you telephone me?” asked Mannering.
“No, no one did. The house was empty.”
“Julie,” began Mannering gently. “Why did you call me, of all people?”
She sipped her tea again but didn’t answer at once. He sat on the bottom corner of the bed, also drinking tea. Julie’s hair was dishevelled, and looked like spun gold against a simulated bed panel painted on the wall, a deep purple which seemed designed to show her hair to best advantage.
“There—there just wasn’t anyone else,” she said at last. “Besides—” She hesitated, but Mannering did not try to hurry her, and slowly she went on: “All the way home I could think only of one thing: how I could persuade you to come here.” When he stayed silent, she continued with considered frankness: “I wanted you here desperately. I believed you were simpatico.”
“With Tom or with you?” asked Mannering.
“With art,” she answered simply. “I didn’t think you would allow personal feelings to get in the way of art.” With a faint smile, he said: “I try not to.”
“I can tell you do. I—” she stretched out her left hand, small, white, unadorned without even a ring of pretence, and said pleadingly: “You would help if you thought Tom worthwhile, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” answered Mannering. “I’d try.”
“Despite his—his arrogance?”
“Yes,” he repeated simply.
She eyed him searchingly. He had no idea what was passing through her mind but was quite sure she was searching for words to express exactly what she felt. And they came slowly, while her eyes were glowing, appealing, as if she were begging him to tell the truth.
“And not—not because of me?” she pleaded. “Not because you either feel sorry for me, or think that if you play your cards right you will persuade me to go to bed with you. It would be because—because you believe in art, wouldn’t it?”
Now her gaze was both direct and challenging, as if she were daring him to lie to her: as if she wanted to lay bare his mind so that she could be sure that whatever answer he gave was the truth.
Chapter Four
Art for Art’s Sake
It seemed a long time before Mannering answered, and when he did it was in a matter-of-fact voice carrying just a hint of reproof. He felt at once deeply compassionate towards her and at the same time a little angry. He finished his tea, put the cup down and remarked: “Tom thinks his painting is irresistibly good, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he does.”
“And you think your body is irresistible, too, don’t you?”
She winced; drew back; and began to lose her colour. It was the last response that she had expected, so she wasn’t in any way prepared for it. Mannering watched her very closely, thinking how beautiful she was, and how desirable any man who allowed his feelings to roam would find her.
“I didn’t—I didn’t think of it that way,” she said at last.
“Have you found men so predatory?” he asked.
“Pred—oh, yes.” She paused, caught her breath and went on: “Yes. Most of them. They seem to think that because we younger people want a permissive society, because we won’t accept a lot of the conventions, that we’re all promiscuous, that—well, one pair of arms is like another.”
“Don Quixote,” Mannering murmured.
“Dulcinea,” she said huskily. “I—I’m sorry.”
“I think I ought to apologise for the kind of men you’ve met,” Mannering responded gently.
“It’s not that!” she exclaimed, suddenly angry. “It’s not just some kind of men. I have to go and ask them for something and it’s like a reflex action for them to ask me what I’m going to pay with. You—you seem to be the exception.”
Mannering made no response.
“Mr. Mannering,” she said, “will you help Tom?”
“If he’ll let me,” Mannering replied.
“What do you mean by that?”
“If he’ll accept whatever I’m able to suggest,” Mannering answered, leaning forward and taking her free hand in both of his. “Julie, you know as well as I do that it would be folly for anyone simply to offer to support him until he can support himself. That could break any real spirit he has left.” When she didn’t answer, he went on: “You do realise that some way has to be found for him to help himself, don’t you?”
“I suppose so,” Julie sighed. “What—what do you think you could do?”
“Before I can give any opinion I need to talk to him ag
ain, and also a chance to look at his work more closely, and I would like my wife to see his paintings. Do you know who she is?”
“Yes,” Julie replied. “She paints portraits as Lorna Fauntley.”
“That’s right.”
“She is very good,” Julie declared. “If—” she broke off.
“If traditional,” Mannering finished for her.
“I really didn’t mean to be rude,” Julie said, flushing a little. “I’m so tired, absolutely worn out and—and living with Tom is like living next to a volcano. He’s desperate, Mr. Mannering. It doesn’t matter what he tries to do, it turns sour on him. And he feels he’s let me down. At first he fought against letting me help but eventually he had to, or else starve, so he gave way. I came home one day after going to a gallery where a man offered to buy some of Tom’s pictures if I would sleep with him, and I told Tom. I shouldn’t have, but I was so upset. He went straight off and attacked the man, and ever since then he’s been much more difficult, sometimes almost uncontrollable, and terribly moody. I’ve been afraid he might kill himself, but this is the first time he’s tried.” She paused, and he squeezed her hand; and then she went on: “If I’d been twenty minutes – ten minutes – later, he would probably have died.”
“Yes,” Mannering said. “You certainly saved his life.”
“After driving him to attempt suicide!”
“Nonsense! Circumstances and my attitude this afternoon did that.” Mannering gave her hand a final squeeze and let it go. “What do you do, to keep things going, Julie?”
“Type,” she answered.
“Just type?”
“Yes – manuscripts for authors, memos, reports, letters – any kind of typing. I built up a connection years ago, that’s how I’ve always earned my living. I’ve a little room across the street, and pay for it partly by baby-sitting, as I told you. It’s better than working here. I don’t interrupt Tom and he does not interrupt me.”
“And Tom?”
“He paints,” she replied heavily.
