by John Creasey
What other explanation could there be of Mannering’s interest in these old robberies?
“I’m going all out to get him,” Willison murmured aloud; and added slowly: “I am going to get him.”
The direct way was to prove that Mannering had handled the Fioras recently.
Mannering was alone that evening, back in the study at the flat. Lorna had to talk to a painters study group at one of the big London Colleges of Art; she should be home about ten. He was glad to have a chance to think. The more obvious danger from Willison had receded in his mind. No one was going to believe anything which might be raked up about the early robberies, and as there had been no evidence at the time of their occurrence there wasn’t even the remotest likelihood that evidence could be found now.
So he pushed that possibility to the back of his mind.
The key mystery was the Fioras.
He stretched out for the telephone and flicked over the pages of the telephone directory. Sir Gordon Sangster, said to be so ill, had a small town house in Mayfair, and Mannering checked the number and dialled it, letting what he knew of Sangster pass through his mind. The man was a wealthy industrialist who had given large sums to different art foundations, to which generosity he owed his knighthood. He had always been a collector of jewels, and had been an occasional customer at Quinns for many years. Mannering knew he was a careful buyer, extravagant only where emeralds and rubies were concerned; but if he bought stolen jewels, he might well have one of the finest collections in the world: and a prize piece would obviously be the Fiora Collection. On today’s market it must be worth a quarter of a million pounds. Could he have had it hidden away, all these years?
A woman answered and she sounded young.
“Sir Gordon Sangster’s house.”
“Is Sir Gordon there, please?”
“I’m afraid he’s much too ill to speak to anyone,” the woman replied.
“Oh, I am sorry,” Mannering said. “I do hope he will soon be better.”
“Thank you,” the other answered quite formally. “Can I help you at all? I am his daughter-in-law.”
“You’re very kind,” Mannering said, and hesitated as if not sure what to add. Then he went on: “My name is Mannering – John Mannering, and this is a business matter. Who is handling his business – or rather the particular business of his collecting of precious stones?”
There was a long pause, before the woman replied in a much sharper voice: “No one, I’m afraid. Goodnight.” And she rang off.
Mannering also rang off, very slowly.
There wasn’t any doubt about the change in the speaker’s tone, or that his name had caused it. Why should Sangster’s daughter-in-law be so sensitive; could she know that some of the jewels stolen from her father-in-law had not been lawfully his?
He telephoned Bristow, who answered so quickly that he must be sitting close to the telephone. For no particular reason, he felt enormously glad that Bristow worked for him, and that they had been so frank with each other that morning. Somehow it set the seal on their association.
“Bill, have you any reason to doubt that the Fioras inquiry is being kept quiet because Sangster himself is so ill?”
“That – and the fact that it suits the police,” Bristow answered.
“Do you know anything about his son and daughter-in-law?”
“Just a few incidentals,” Bristow answered, “and that only about the son. I was once at the Sangster house after a burglary and Bruce, the son, was there. He was about seventeen, at the time and had just been expelled from his public school – quite a minor one, as I recall. He’d already been expelled from at least two major ones. Sex and smoking, I gathered. Why, John?”
“Would he be about Tom Forrester’s age?” asked Mannering.
“Middle twenties by now,” Bristow mused. “So yes, they’d be of an age.”
“Minor public school,” Mannering remarked. “I wonder if it could have been the same school for each of them? Whether young Sangster and young Forrester know each other?”
“It would be well worth finding out,” Bristow said. “And that shouldn’t be difficult, in the morning.” After a pause, he went on: “Have you heard from Willison again?”
“No. Why?”
“He telephoned me about an hour ago and asked if I would go and see him in the morning. I know I’m under an obligation to help the Yard where I can, but they could overdo it, and if you’d rather I didn’t I’ll turn him down.”
“You go,” Mannering decided promptly. “We need to find out what’s in his mind.”
“I must say I would like to,” said Bristow, in a voice which carried an overtone of uneasiness.
Mannering pondered Willison’s activities for a few minutes after Bristow had rung off, but did not feel particularly worried. He was beginning to worry about Lorna, however. She wasn’t exactly late, but it was already past ten-thirty. She was usually home much earlier. There was a general mood of uncertainty and disquiet, and he was probably over-sensitive. If she wasn’t here within twenty minutes or so, he would telephone the Chelsea Art College, where—
The telephone bell rang.
“That’ll be her, to say she’ll be late,” he said aloud, and picked the receiver up again.
“Hallo, darling,” he said, so sure that it was her. “What time will you be home?”
“Never again, sweetheart,” a man replied, “unless you’re prepared to do a deal with me about the Fioras. I want a hundred thousand pounds for them and your wife, by noon tomorrow. I’ll call you again when you’ve had time to think about it. Think very hard.”
The man rang off.
Chapter Fifteen
Stand and Deliver
Mannering sat with the receiver in his hand for a long time.
The shock had gone through him like a knife thrust, and he was only just beginning to recover. There was so much that he must do, but it was useless to start until he was in control of himself; and he wasn’t, yet: he was actually trembling.
At last, he put down the receiver.
He stared at the lambent beauty of the brandy in the decanter near the telephone, and then at the glass by its side. Slowly, he shook his head. As slowly he looked up the number of the Art College, and dialled. A woman answered at once.
“Oh, yes, she left at the usual time, Mr. Mannering,” she said. “But taxis were very difficult tonight. I’m sure she won’t be long.”
“Thank you,” Mannering said.
He rang off, stood up and began to walk about the flat. It was useless to blame himself, but he should have gone to meet her, or at least made sure she didn’t come home alone. She seldom did, anyhow, but walked most of the way with friends who attended the lectures.
Suddenly, he cried out: “My God, if he hurts her!”
He sat down on the edge of the chair, and dialled Bristow. This time there was a considerable delay, but at last Bristow answered, and he still sounded wide awake. As Mannering told him what had happened, his breathing began to get harsh, but he did not interrupt until Mannering finished. Then Bristow asked: “What do you want me to do?”
“Telephone the Yard, and ask them if they can get my line tapped quickly,” Mannering said. “Tell Willison, if you can get hold of him, that I’m going to do exactly what this man tells me, except that I can’t give him the Fioras as I don’t have them. The priority is to get Lorna back, but we must learn all we can in the process. If the police hear the demand then Willison is less likely to assume that I’m up to monkey business.”
“I’ll try him right away,” Bristow said. “Shall I call you back?”
“No. I’d rather this chap can get straight through to me,” Mannering said.
“I understand,” Bristow said gruffly. “Shall I come over?”
“No, not yet,” Mannering replied. “Thanks. I’ll let you know when I need you.”
He rang off. The ting! of the telephone sounded very loud, but at last it faded, the signal for the
beginning of the period of waiting. The man who had telephoned had intended to let him sweat, of course; and not being over-demanding of money was clever. A hundred thousand pounds was not expensive for the Fioras alone, but – Lorna.
He clenched his teeth, and after a few seconds began to think more calmly and clearly about every aspect of the case. Where was the link between all the people involved? Who were they? He picked up a pencil and wrote out a list very swiftly.
Tom Forrester.
Julie Clarendon.
Jacob Walker (murdered at this flat).
Walker’s murderer – whom he had photographed. (The prints had not been ready when he called for them)
Sir Gordon Sangster—and the Fioras.
Sangster’s son and daughter-in-law.
The man who had telephoned Mannering.
Clive Paget and his wife, what was her name? Oh, yes. Doris.
Was there in fact a connection between all of these, or had the Forrester/Julie visit been a coincidence?
“No,” he declared aloud. “The man was in their attic, and tried to kill Forrester. It’s too much for coincidence. And there’s no certainty that Paget is involved; and none that he isn’t, either.” He kept imagining a ting! at the telephone, but it didn’t ring. At least the police should have had time to arrange for the tapping. The waiting was becoming unbearable, he must do something: anything—
There was the ting!
He snatched up the telephone and heard only the burring sound; no one was on the line. He kept the earpiece close, feeling almost stupid – and heard the ting! again.
It was the front door.
He placed the telephone receiver back, heavily, and stood up. The front door bell rang more loudly. He crossed to the room door and the hall in long strides, but hesitated before touching the door handle; at last he opened but kept the door on its chain to make sure that it could not be thrown back into his face.
He asked steadily: “Who is it?”
“Oh, Mr. Mannering,” Julie Clarendon gasped. “Oh, John! Thank God you’re in! ”
Very carefully, Mannering looked out into the dimly-lit landing. He could see no one else; just the girl very close to the door. He unfastened the chain and opened the door wide enough for her to slip through, and as she came in he closed the door quickly and slid the chain into its slot.
Then he turned to look at Julie.
She was peering up at him intently, and her eyes seemed to glow. There was something both pathetic and appealing about her, but he was very, very wary, far from sure that she could be trusted. Before he spoke she moved, almost fell towards him, and he had to put out his arms to save her from falling. She huddled against him, her body so warm and soft, her silky hair just at a level with his chin.
She began to cry.
And she began to shiver.
He did exactly what he had done when this had happened before; changed his position, lifted her, and carried her off – not to the bedroom or the study, but into the big drawing room. Drawn up in front of the tall fireplace with its brass fire-irons and the beautifully wrought brass firescreen was a long couch, and he placed her on this, and quickly drew away.
She looked so tiny, lying there.
And seductive?
She didn’t move, but stared up. Her mini-skirt was rucked up high but not indecent by today’s standards. Obviously she had been crying for a long time. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the curving lashes damp and stuck together, making her look forlorn.
“What is it?” Mannering asked quietly.
“I—I—I’ve nowhere to go,” she sobbed.
“What’s happened at Riston Street?” Mannering demanded.
“Tom’s thrown me out.”
“Nice man. Why?”
“He suddenly lost his temper, he just went berserk. He has before, he’s threatened to throw me out before, but never—”
“Whoa back! Isn’t it your flat?”
“That doesn’t make any difference,” she said miserably. “It’s his home and workshop and studio.”
“Don’t you pay the rent with your typing fees?” demanded Mannering.
She nodded but didn’t speak.
He had one ear alert for the ringing of the telephone, one listening to what Julie was saying. He was aware of the fact that if he were not so worried about Lorna he would be able to concentrate much more on Julie’s story; on her ‘plight’. There was no way of being sure that she was telling the truth, but what she said seemed in character for Tom Forrester. In one mood the great lover, in the next, the heartless brute.
When would the kidnapper call back?
“Do you mean he literally threw you out,” he asked. “Yes, the beast! I—I told him he was behaving like a pig to you and Mrs. Mannering, that he ought to tell you the truth, and—and he picked me up and carried me downstairs. Then he threw some clothes and things out of the window. I—I’d nowhere to go, and—” she faltered, then struggled up for the first time; the new sitting position made her even more provocatively attractive. “Where is Mrs. Mannering?” she sounded alarmed.
“She’s out at a meeting,” Mannering managed to say calmly.
“She—she will be back, won’t she?”
Mannering made himself say: “Yes. Very soon.”
“So I can stay, can’t I?”
“What about your friends the Pagets?”
“They won’t help,” she stated scornfully. “They always do whatever Tom wants. They’re his friends more than mine.”
This didn’t square with what Paget himself had said but there was no more reason to believe Paget than to believe Julie; there might be less. Mannering watched the girl closely as she sat still further upright, looking so very young.
He thought: Why doesn’t the telephone ring?
He said: “Has he ever thrown you out before?”
“Not—not literally. He’s talked about it often enough, though.”
“Why didn’t you have him thrown out?”
“Oh, please,” she protested. “I can’t. I simply can’t. He’s a—he is a genius. And I love him. I feel responsible for him. When people actually have real genius you can’t apply the usual standards of behaviour to them.” She was speaking now with great dignity and in a level voice. “If he were anyone else I wouldn’t just live with him, I’d insist on marriage or nothing. Oh, I don’t care on moral grounds but I don’t believe men should get away with as much as they do. It—it’s different where a genius is concerned.”
Was she over-emphasising her belief that Forrester was a genius? Was she trying to fool him, Mannering, for some obscure reason? Or did she actually believe what she said?
He thought: Why doesn’t the telephone ring?
He said: “What did you really quarrel about tonight, Julie?”
“The way he was behaving towards you, I tell you. The fact that he lied to you and Mrs. Mannering. I know he lied to her, he told me so.”
“What about?”
“The—anging attempt.”
“Was it suicide?” demanded Mannering.
“No. Someone tried to make him talk, and—well, I got back and the man ran away. Or I thought he did. He must have stayed in the attic.”
“Do you know what Tom was to talk about?” asked Mannering gruffly.
She said slowly, uncertainly: “Yes.”
“Then why?” Mannering demanded.
“He’s involved with some criminal, I don’t know who. It’s got something to do with jewels.”
Mannering’s heart began to thump and for the first time he forgot the telephone, all his attention concentrated on this girl. It was possible that she was telling the truth, not because of his questions but spurred on by her own anger and resentment.
“Who is the man he’s mixed up with?”
“A—a thief.”
“What thief?”
She said in a gasping voice: “A—a man Tom knows stole some jewels, a famous collection called—I think it was called the Fiona
Collection.” That name was very, very close to ‘Fiora’ and some of the parts of his puzzle began to fall into place, even the possibility that the attack on him, Mannering, had been intended to frighten, not to kill. “He asked Tom to look after them and Tom promised to, and—and then he hid them away. After I’d got him down he was conscious, and he told me what had happened. I—I drugged him so that he wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone else.”
“Such as the police,” Mannering said drily.
“It—it could be,” Julie agreed. “He made me promise to let everyone think it was attempted suicide so that no one would suspect he had been attacked, and start asking questions. He—he didn’t want you or the police to think that anyone had any reason to want to kill him.”
“Otherwise, we would want to know why.”
“That—that’s right,” Julie said, woefully. “That’s exactly how Tom thought. I was against him coming to you about the paintings, but I think he really wanted help over this—this matter of the jewels. It was after you came to the flat that I wanted him to tell you the truth. I said you would almost certainly help him and in any case not give him away. I started on it again tonight, that’s when he lost his temper and when—” Julie went on in a dreary voice—“he threw me out. I didn’t know where to go to, so I came here. I can stay the night, can’t I? Your wife won’t mind, will she?”
In a strangled voice, Mannering said: “No, she won’t mind.” Then he thought: When is the telephone going to ring?
On that instant, it rang.
He turned round very deliberately and went towards it, while Julie sat without moving and watched him with desperate intensity. He picked up the telephone, noticing without thinking that the time by the mantlepiece clock was twenty minutes to twelve.
He said: “Mannering.”
“John,” Lorna said in a steady but obviously strained voice, “I’m quite sure that if you don’t do what this man wants, he will kill me. He says—” she seemed to swallow her words, but they became distinguishable again. “He says that he killed the man Walker, and that he’s committed murder before. I’m in a room with him now, an ordinary kind of bedroom. I haven’t—I haven’t been molested, darling, but—”
