The Arrogant Artist

by John Creasey

  Bristow broke the silence at last.

  “How does it matter, John?”

  “What would you do?” asked Mannering.

  “I would want to know how they had come into your possession,” Bristow replied. He smiled faintly but his lips were taut. He hadn’t yet lit the cigarette but was rolling it between his fingers. “Unless I knew differently, I would assume you had a very good reason for holding them.”

  “Unless you knew differently,” Mannering echoed.

  “Yes, John.” Bristow pushed his chair back, as if suddenly needing more room to breathe. Looking down on him was Lorna’s smiling cavalier, showing the dash and the daring of the man she loved; behind him was the winged armchair with its fine tapestry covering, protecting the entrance to the strong room which ran deep beneath the floor. “John,” he went on, awkwardly, “you must know that if—” he gulped. “If you—” he broke off again.

  “Had reverted to the habits of my remote past,” Mannering murmured.

  “Er—yes. You must know that I would do anything, absolutely everything to help you if you were being pushed into a corner because you were trying to help someone else. I never have felt that the law was absolutely rigid, it can and should be bent. But if you felt it necessary to lie about having the Fioras or any other stolen goods, then what could I think except that you were back to the old tricks?” When Mannering didn’t answer, just looked at him intently, he actually turned dark red as he burst out: “It would mean you couldn’t trust me. If you couldn’t trust me it would be because you were deliberately outside the law.” His voice grew harsher and the flush began to fade. “And if you placed yourself deliberately against the law, I couldn’t work with you.”

  “Just as a leopard cannot change his spots, once a policeman always a policeman,” Mannering said lightly. Now his smile made him the living image of the portrait above his head. “Of course you couldn’t work with me if I didn’t trust you. I—ah—couldn’t work with you if you didn’t trust me, either!” He picked up a book of matches, struck one, and held the flame towards Bristow, who put the cigarette slowly to his lips; he was scarlet again.

  “Er—no, I suppose not,” he muttered, and drew the flame on to the tip of the cigarette. “Of course you couldn’t. It would be an impossible situation.” He choked on the smoke, and it was several seconds before he could go on: “Mutual trust is vital if we’re going to work together. Thanks. Er—who would want to lie to the police and to the dead man, about you having the Fioras?”

  “Presumably, whoever has them and wants the police looking in the wrong place,” Mannering responded. “Did you find out the name of the man who raided the flat?”

  “Walker,” answered Bristow promptly. “Jacob Walker. He had a record for breaking and entering, and he’s an electrical engineer by trade, so he might have been a specialist on breaking safes open and forcing locks and sidetracking burglar alarms. Willison is checking, of course, the division’s sending men to Walker’s home.”

  “Was he married?”

  “Wife and two kids,” Bristow replied. “Twin girls of three.”

  There was the sadness and the tragedy: a woman suddenly widowed, children branded by their father’s roguery, and likely to live for ever haunted by the knowledge that he had been murdered, and that he had himself been ready to kill. The silence touched both men with the same kind of disquiet, and lasted for a long time before Mannering broke it.

  “Do what you can to find Walker’s accomplices, will you? And keep your ear to the ground. Oh—I promised Willison a copy of the report I was sure you’d have made about the visit from the Forresters.”

  “I’ve a spare copy,” Bristow said, with a sudden grin. He pushed his chair back, looked up at the portrait, and then shook his head slowly from side to side. “She’s a remarkable woman,” he said. “Nearly as remarkable as you are a man!”

  He went out, carrying a sheaf of letters, and Mannering moved round the front of the desk and looked up at the portrait. But he didn’t really see himself: he saw Lorna, an intent Lorna, and he wondered what was going on in her mind. Then he was called into the shop where the American woman had reached the stage of making an offer for the Roman vases and Rupert Smith could not handle such an offer by himself. The largest was worth at least eleven hundred pounds, Mannering knew; it was made in the first century B.C., probably by an Etruscan potter, and such work was very rare indeed. The woman offered seven hundred and fifty pounds, most charmingly.

  “I’m sorry,” Mannering said. “It’s priced at twelve fifty, and I can’t come so far down.”

  “Oh, what a pity,” she said. “But even though I can’t afford so much, I have had the pleasure of speaking to the renowned John Mannering. And a real pleasure it is.” Her blue eyes twinkled.

  As he saw her out he wondered whether she had really come to buy, or simply to see him and spend a little time among the treasures she no doubt loved. The telephone bell rang on its muted note, and as he reached his office Armitage said: “Mrs. Mannering, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Mannering took the receiver. “Excuse me. Hallo, darling, how are you?”

  “Too restless to stay in bed,” Lorna told him, without preamble. “I’m going to Fulham, pet!” And she rang off even before he could tell her that Julie was at Number 20, Riston Street. He picked up the telephone, dialled Scotland Yard, and asked for Willison. After only a few moments came Willison’s unmistakable voice, sounding almost reedy on the telephone. “This is Willison.”

  “Good morning, Chief Inspector,” Mannering said.

  “Who—” Willison began, and then stopped abruptly. “Good morning, Mr. Mannering.”

  “Have you got your man yet?” asked Mannering.

  “No, sir.”

  “I hope you get him soon. You have men in Riston Street, Fulham, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, for the time being. May I ask why you’re interested?”

  “My wife tells me she’s going to see Forrester’s paintings this morning,” answered Mannering. “I wouldn’t like to think she would be alone in case an attacker is lurking.”

  “I’ll make sure she isn’t in danger,” Willison promised. “Is that all, Mr. Mannering?”

  “Unless you’d like to tell me whether you identified the dead man.”

  “He was a Jacob Walker,” Willison answered without hesitation, “and he has a criminal record. Had you ever heard of him before?”

  “No,” Mannering replied; and then he asked with a chuckle in his voice: “Did you find anything of interest in your search last night?”

  Willison caught his breath, but didn’t answer immediately. Then for the first time a hint of laughter sounded in his voice: “I found some very interesting things, indeed, Mr. Mannering. Thought-provoking things.”

  And he rang off.

  Lorna Mannering had a bright red Elf, a mini-Riley, for running about London when on her own, and she drove it that morning. She was between sittings, and had deliberately given herself a few days off; one could work too hard, and she found it difficult to say ‘no’ to the constant stream of people who wanted her to paint them. She turned the car into Riston Street a little before twelve o’clock, seeing it exactly as John had described it, and when she got out she looked up and down, appraising the street as a subject. Very Victorian and once very poor, it was now going through a period of prosperity, and the bright paint in many colours gave it a baroque kind of appearance which wasn’t unpleasing.

  A policeman stood outside Number 17.

  “Good morning, Miss.”

  A nice little flattery, Lorna thought appreciatively, and gave her brightest smile.

  “Good morning. Do you know if Mr. Forrester is in?”

  “He is, miss, yes.” The policeman had a nice skin, nice eyes, a badly broken nose. “May I ask what your business is?”

  “I am an artist, too.”

  “You are Mrs. Mannering, then!”

  “Yes,” Lorna replied, faintly flattered
at being recognised, “Very glad to meet you,” said the policeman. “It was a pleasure to meet Mr. Mannering yesterday, too.” Concern shadowed bright grey eyes. “He’s all right, I hope.”

  “He’s fine, thank you,” Lorna assured him, and turned to the house.

  She was aware of a dried-up face and spiky grey hair at the window; this would be the old man John had told her about. She pretended not to notice him, and rang the top doorbell. There was no answer. She rang again, and when there was still no answer the policeman spoke from the pavement.

  “I know he’s in.”

  On his words, the door opened, and the bent old man appeared, peering up at her. “Morning,” he said, in his wheezy voice, and stood aside. “Never answers the bell, he doesn’t, thinks I’m his lackey, he does.” He pressed back against the wall as Lorna entered, and at the same time a pair of feet in vivid red socks appeared at the head of the narrow stairs, and a man called in a loud, exasperated voice: “Who the hell’s that? If I worked in a factory you wouldn’t come barging in—”

  He broke off, with a lame: “Oh,” on sight of Lorna.

  “Good morning,” Lorna said sweetly. “I now know exactly what my husband meant when he described you.” Tom Forrester did not speak again but came quickly down the stairs, blue jeans above the red socks, vivid yellow shirt stuffed in at tiny waist; the jeans needed no belt. His hair was tousled, his face particularly handsome in the shadowy hall. He looked at her very intently as he reached the bottom tread, and in a different, a pleasing tone of voice, he asked: “Mrs. Mannering?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is very good of you to come.”

  “I am glad to,” she said.

  He made no reference to his rudeness but made way for her to pass and followed closely up the stairs, saying: “Turn left and go straight on.” She did so but could not fail to notice the bathroom or see the wall-pictures; and she shuddered involuntarily because she could imagine the noose, hanging down. She hoped Forrester did not notice the shudder. The door of the front room was open and she stepped inside.

  Although there was an air of disarray and colour-clashes, she was quick to see that both scheme and untidiness were considered. In its vivid way, it was a beautiful room; the room of an artist. In one corner was a huge plastic bubble chair in vivid blue, and on the divan bed and the floor were many scatter cushions as well as cushions large enough to sit on. She went towards the bubble chair as Forrester said: “Do sit down.” And when she was sitting, he gave a most charming smile. “Do you approve of the décor?”

  “I don’t think approval is the point,” she replied. “I certainly like it.”

  “Thank you.” When she simply smiled back, he went on: “Does this mean that your husband liked what he saw well enough to want a second opinion?”

  “He told me there were some indications of an original mind,” Lorna replied.

  “It was very clever of him to notice, in view of what happened,” Forrester said, wryly. “Did he—may I get you some coffee?”

  “No thank you. I had a very late breakfast.”

  “So did I,” confessed Forrester. “Did your husband tell you where most of my paintings are?”

  “In the loo and in the attic with some in the kitchen,” Lorna said. “I am very agile, Mr. Forrester.”

  He stood looking down at her, and she was puzzled and surprised at the change in his manner and the way he appraised her. He was frowning, and the lines between his eyes and across his forehead became deeps grooves. These made him more striking to look at, and his eyes were vivid blue and bright. He seemed older than John had suggested: in the late twenties, not twenty-three or four. He stood looking down at her for so long that it became embarrassing, but she did not feel inclined to turn away.

  He seemed to grow larger, and to draw closer, although he did not move.

  She could not prevent her heart from thumping with an emotion she couldn’t identify, except as fear, yet ‘fear’ wasn’t really the word. She was very much aware of him as a man, and had no doubt at all that he meant her to be.

  Then his lips parted and he began to speak, slowly, very deliberately.

  “You are a most beautiful woman, Mrs. Mannering. And a most desirable woman. Does your husband tell you that often enough?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Artist’s Licence

  As Forrester finished, he smiled.

  There was nothing predatory about it, but there was daring with a hint of danger. She did not think she had ever met a more masculine man; one who by his very pose and manner could make her aware not only of him, but of herself. Had John told her that he would behave like this she would have said laughingly: “I can look after myself, darling,” and she would have felt quite sure.

  And of course she was sure: wasn’t she?

  It was uncanny that he could loom so large and near without moving. Or was he moving? Had he drawn a little closer? Whether he had or not, her heart was thumping louder and the sense of fear was greater, her breathing was much more shallow, each breath coming through slightly parted lips. She wanted to make some casual or commonplace comment, to pretend that she was not aware of this – this magnetism in him, but if she spoke while her heart was thumping so it would be gaspingly, and that would be fatal.

  Fatal? What on earth was the matter with her?

  Now he moved, closer, and held out his hands.

  “I can see he doesn’t,” he said. “Too many men take their wives too much for granted. Don’t they?”

  She didn’t put out her hands although the impulse to do so was nearly irresistible. She could not move further back in the chair which seemed to close about her, holding her back, her waist, her thighs: hugging her. She sensed, she knew, that if she yielded even so far as putting out her hands, she would be lost.

  Nonsense!

  But it wasn’t nonsense. This was real. She was sitting in the corner in a chair from which she couldn’t rise without holding or pressing against something to help herself up, and only this man’s hands were within reach. And they were drawing closer, long, pale, strong-looking hands.

  “Lorna,” he said, “you are mature enough to know better.”

  At last, she could control her voice well enough to answer: “Better than what?” The words came out quite clearly but perhaps with a shade of vehemence.

  “You know perfectly well what I mean,” he said.

  “No,” she denied. “I don’t.”

  But her heart was now thumping furiously and she was breathing with greater difficulty even than before.

  “You do,” he insisted. “You are a very beautiful and desirable woman and I am a handsome, strong and virile man. We have been thrown together by chance and we have an opportunity to make love. Two perfect human beings with a perfect opportunity. And—” he moved again and rested his hands on her elbows. She could feel his strength, and sense the urgency of his desire. “No one need know,” he went on. “If you live in a comfortable convention-cluttered world, no one need know. I promise you.”

  The pressure of his hands grew stronger, and he began to lift her. She was surprised how easy it was for him. And he was utterly serious. He had such confidence in his mastery that it did not seem to occur to him that she would not be compliant. He was smiling more broadly, and the glint of his teeth against the harp-shaped lips made him very like John. John. The unbelievable thing was that she was so acutely aware of his overwhelming masculinity; there had been a time when she would have yielded as she had, all those years ago, to John.

  But she had been in love with John.

  This wasn’t love.

  This wasn’t even conscious attraction; only awareness. It was as if this man had cast a spell over her.

  “Lorna,” he said, his lips very close to her cheek. “Don’t resist. You’ll only spoil things if you resist. You are quite beautiful. Adorable. Utterly desirable.”

  He drew his hands up along her arms towards her shoulders, and tilted her head back, s
o as to kiss. She did not know quite what it was that clicked in her mind; a kind of reflex action as strong as the attraction of this man. She spoke again and much more softly, whispering, almost as if she were answering seduction with seduction.

  “You really are a most arrogant boy, you know.”

  He was so shocked that his hold on her loosened, and effortlessly she moved to one side, between him and the wall. He made a grab at her but she avoided his hands as if she was unaware of them, reached the end of the divan and, as he took a long stride towards her, went to the window and looked out into the street.

  Forrester came very close to her but all her fear had gone and the half-formed temptation had vanished too; she was in complete control of herself. She peered further out, and saw the top of the policeman’s helmet. A car passed, noisy but slow. She turned to look at Forrester, smiling quite freely.

  “You may not believe it,” she said “but I really did come to see your paintings.”

  Her eyes laughed at him.

  She thought, this will help to find out what he’s really like. If there’s any humour in him, and any gallantry, it will show now. But if he were truly arrogant, if a repulse carried real injury to his pride, then he was worth no one’s trouble, least of all John’s.

  Suddenly, he backed to the bed and dropped down on it, raising his hands palms outwards in a gesture of surrender. And whatever he was feeling, outwardly he began to laugh at her congé.

  “I give in,” he said. “You’ll live to regret it, though.”

  “If I do, I can always come to you,” she retorted lightly.

  “As a supplicant? You? Not on your life!” He moved further back on the bed. “You wouldn’t care to change your mind?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Ah, me. The old world has talons that hold you fast. The period of transition is hard. But if I can’t persuade you, I can show you my etch—paintings.”

  “Please,” she said.

  “You will still look at them?”