The Arrogant Artist

by John Creasey

  “How much is in it for me?”

  “Five per cent of what I get – and a thousand as a starter the moment I’ve got my hands on them,” Mannering offered. He put his hand to his pocket again, waving the gun carelessly. “Here’s a hundred to show earnest.” He took the wad of notes from his inside breast pocket, and tossed it on to the foot of the bed. “Take ten of those, if it’s a deal,” he ordered.

  Paget counted the notes out with great care, then shuffled the others together and pushed them nearer Mannering.

  “Oh, it’s a deal all right,” he said, almost crowing. “But we’ve got to be careful.”

  “I’ll be here at ten o’clock in the morning,” Mannering told him. “I’ll have the details all worked out by then.”

  “Okay!” breathed Paget. “Okay. You going now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t make any noise,” pleaded Paget. “We don’t want to wake the kid.”

  Mannering stepped into an empty street where the lamplight shone on the roofs of the cars; there was hardly a parking space left. No lights showed except at Forrester’s place. He forced that lock again, and stepped inside. The old man’s snoring was now so loud that Mannering did not need to go close to the door to check it. He glanced into the other two downstairs rooms, which had a few sticks of furniture but were otherwise empty, then went upstairs cautiously; but there was no need to worry; Forrester sat where Mannering had left him, his head leaning against the wall as if he were trying to get some sleep. He did not stir as Mannering climbed the stairs, which were surprisingly solid in such a small house. Mannering’s mind was much clearer and he knew exactly what he wanted to do. The anxiety for Lorna nagged like toothache and a false move now could bring about her death.

  He felt differently about Forrester, virtually convinced that painting was his life, that he wanted above all to make his living by his own creative work. He looked tired and drawn. His mouth was slightly open, his chin, thrusting, looked very long and pointed. Mannering went closer and studied him intently from several angles, then tip-toed out and into the lighted kitchen. Over by a plate rack were four self-portraits, all in coloured crayons, and another in watercolours. Mannering took these down and placed them at the head of the stairs, then went back to the bathroom. Forrester hadn’t stirred.

  “Forrester,” Mannering said quietly, but to no effect. “Forrester!” There was still no response. He touched the man’s shoulder, and for the first time Forrester moved, stiffening; and his eyes flickered. “Wake up,” Mannering said sharply, and when the other sat up sharply, he rasped: “How much did Bruce Sangster pay you for painting those copies of Vermeer?”

  The words seemed to hum about the room. Vermeer – meer – meer echoed. Forrester’s eyes opened wide, his mouth dropped open, his expression was one of extreme incredulity.

  “How much?” demanded Mannering. “If you want to get free of him, tell me.” When Forrester made no answer, probably because he was so shocked, Mannering growled. “I could break your neck. Or your fingers, one by one. How much did he pay you?”

  Forrester drew in a deep breath, and then answered in a strangled voice: “Two-fifty each.” He stared at Mannering as if at a freak, and managed to say: “Who—who the devil are you?”

  “Never mind. Why did you throw Julie out tonight?”

  “How do you know?” breathed Forrester.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I—I had to.” There was a pause before Forrester went on: “Sangster made me.”

  “What made you obey him so readily?” Mannering sneered.

  “He wants her out of the flat so that he can be here tomorrow, and he doesn’t want to be recognised. He—he can—he can tell the police about me.”

  “For the Vermeer copies?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s no crime to copy a picture, no crime to sell it—the only crime comes if you try to pass if off as genuine. Didn’t you know that?”

  “No!” gasped Forrester. “I swear I didn’t.”

  “And that was all he had on you. There’s nothing else?”

  “I—I stole some paints and brushes, and he found out,” said Forrester. “And—” he moistened his lips. “If I don’t do what he says, he’ll throw vitriol over Julie.” Forrester was gulping time and time again; one gulp for every few words. “He—he’d cut off my right hand.”

  “Nice chap,” Mannering said, in his own and not the Baron’s voice, but Forrester did not seem to notice the slip. “So you’re going to do what he tells you?”

  “I haven’t any choice,” Forrester said bleakly. “I sent Julie away because I was sure she’d go to Mannering – do you know Mannering?” He flashed that question cunningly.

  “Yes.,” Mannering answered.

  “If I’d told her to go to him the obstinate little witch wouldn’t have, but on her own that’s where she’d go. And I’m sure Mannering will look after her if anybody can. And—there’s some other job Bruce wants done tomorrow. He’s going to meet Mannering here, he wants him to buy some stolen jewels.”

  “Mannering buy stolen jewels,” Mannering rasped, incredulously. “Not on your life.”

  “Bruce Sangster says he will.”

  “Then Sangster’s a fool,” Mannering said. “Do you have a picture of him?”

  “There—there are one or two sketches in the living room,” Forrester said, and tried to get up, as if he had forgotten he was tied. He dropped back again. “If you would cut me loose, I’d be able to show you. I wish to hell I knew who you were.”

  “I am a fence,” Mannering said, with great deliberation. “And I’ve a safer market for the Fioras than ever Mannering would be. You want to be free, you say?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I’ll untie you if you’ll leave here without any fuss when I do.”

  “But I’ve got to be here—” Forrester began desperately.

  “You were right, Julie did go to Mannering,” Mannering said. “Then he sent her to his manager’s home, an ex-Yard man’s. She’ll be safe there. So will you, if you’ve the guts to go and take your chance.”

  “But I must stay here!”

  “What chance do you really think you’ll have with Bruce Sangster?” demanded Mannering. “Do you believe he’ll ever loosen his grip? Or don’t you think he’ll pretend to, and whenever he needs you, will come back and threaten to blackmail you again for your share in all this. Isn’t that what he’ll do?” Mannering thrust his face closer to Forrester’s.

  “I—I expect so.”

  “So if you’re not here when he comes—”

  “I must be! If I’m not he’ll give me away, and—oh, God, you don’t know him. If he says he’ll do a thing, he’ll do it. He’s absolutely ruthless – a devil if ever there was one. He’s robbed his own father for years, he keeps the old man virtually a prisoner in his sick-room. He—he’s utterly heartless I tell you!” Forrester was sweating now, and spluttering. “I must be here.”

  “I must be here,” Mannering said. “I’ll deal with Bruce Sangster, not you. Now stop arguing and do what I tell you.” He took a penknife from his pocket and cut through the nylon cord at the other’s wrists and ankles. At first Forrester couldn’t stand without swaying but gradually the circulation began to make him tingle, and he was able to move about. He led the way into the kitchen-cum-living room and pointed to four pencil sketches of a young man. They were tucked away behind a cupboard and Mannering hadn’t seen them before.

  “There’s Bruce Sangster,” Forrester stated.

  He pointed at the man who had turned to look upwards after running away from Mannering’s flat: from Jacob Walker’s murder. And tomorrow there would be a photograph to prove he had been in Green Street.

  “Forrester,” Mannering said quietly, “you’ve one chance of freeing yourself from Sangster now and for always. This is it. Mannering’s manager will put you up, too, if—”

  “How do you know so much about the manager?” dema
nded Forrester.

  “It’s my job to know,” Mannering said calmly. “I will drive you there, and you’ll find Julie there already. Then all you have to do is wait.”

  Forrester muttered: “It’s taking a hell of a chance.”

  “Tell me of any other chance you have,” Mannering retorted.

  Their eyes met for what seemed a long time, and then Forrester raised his arms and let them flop. He did not notice the drawings at the head of the stairs, and Mannering picked them up and slipped them under his jacket. Soon, they were in the Morris 1000. At one end of Putney Bridge Mannering left the car to telephone Bristow, and Forrester made no attempt to escape; it was as if he realised that he had reached the crossroads, that he must take this chance of freeing himself from Bruce Sangster’s stranglehold.

  On the telephone, Bristow said: “Yes, John, we can put him up on a couch. All you want me to do is keep them both here until after mid-day tomorrow.”

  “That above all,” Mannering said earnestly. “Until I give the all clear.”

  “All right,” Bristow promised. “I should have known better than to try to prevent you from working on your own. Does Forrester know who you are?”

  “No.”

  Bristow said: “You think Sangster is holding Lorna, and you’re going to be at Riston Street, instead of Forrester, when Sangster comes. Is that it?”

  “Yes,” Mannering said.

  “John, if you were to tell Willison—” Bristow began.

  “Bill,” interrupted Mannering, “if I tell Willison he’s likely to raid Sangster’s house, or at least watch it; and that will tell Bruce Sangster that the police are suspicious. I’m not prepared to take the risk. He’s a cold-blooded killer who will probably rather kill himself than be caught and imprisoned.” He had a vivid mental image of Forrester’s face as he had talked of young Sangster; another, of the face of the man himself as he had run along Green Street. “If I thought there was a chance I’d go to Sangster’s house myself, but I won’t take the risk that he might kill Lorna.”

  Bristow said gruffly: “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Mannering rang off and went back to the car. Forrester was staring straight ahead, tight-lipped. He was still tight-lipped when Bristow opened his apartment door for him, while downstairs, Mannering drove away from this huge complex of flats halfway along Putney Hill.

  Bristow took Forrester to the door of the spare-room, where Julie was sleeping; then he closed the door on her and showed Forrester to a long, comfortable-looking couch.

  They were both sleeping, Julie and Forrester, when Bristow went to bed.

  Mannering was aware of policemen watching him as he drove away from Bristow’s, but no one followed. There was little traffic about, but all the street lamps were misted with a light drizzle. He hadn’t yet decided where to go: to Green Street, back to Riston Street, or to the East End, where he had an old friend who was a make-up artist, as near a genius as could be.

  Fear for Lorna was like a cancer in his mind.

  The waiting was almost intolerable. But he had to wait for Bruce Sangster to make the first move. If things went wrong at noon tomorrow he could alert the police, but Sangster had to leave his house and go to Riston Street before the police took any action, otherwise they would almost certainly move too quickly.

  Was she at Sangster’s house?

  Was she asleep, or wakeful and fearful?

  Was she alone?

  The urge to go to the West End, break into the house and find out the truth grew stronger all the time. But he fought it away. The one real hope was to impersonate Forrester, and he must not rely on himself to put on the Forrester disguise; it had to be perfect. He must go to the make-up artist who lived in Whitechapel.

  As he drove along the Embankment, Mannering saw the illuminated dial of Big Ben; it was nearly a quarter to two.

  In a little more than ten hours, he would come face to face with Bruce Sangster.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Flora Collection

  “Mr Mannering,” said old Pendleton, who had worked on disguises for Mannering for nearly twenty years, “I am delighted to see you.” They were in a small room rather like a theatrical dressing-room, in his small terrace house near Whitechapel Church. He was small and old and wizened. “And I take the liberty of an old friend.”

  “Tell me,” Mannering said.

  “You are very tired.”

  “Yes,” Mannering admitted. “But I still have a lot to do.”

  “In the morning, I can make you this man’s double,” declared Pendleton. “It will take only two hours. If you will now sleep until half-past eight, I will guarantee to wake you in good time.”

  “I doubt if I shall sleep,” Mannering demurred.

  “Then you should take a little white tablet which I will give you, with some warm milk and a lacing of brandy—” Pendleton broke off, appealingly.

  “All right,” Mannering conceded. “I’ll be sensible.”

  If he slept, he told himself, he would forget for a while.

  He slept; soundly.

  In a small box-room at Sangster’s house Lorna slept, fitfully; she was locked in, there was no window, but at least she was not bound to the bed. In another room Bruce Sangster slept with his wife, and on the same floor, his aged father was more in drug-induced coma than in sleep itself.

  At Bristow’s apartment, both Forrester and Julie slept well.

  In Riston Street, so did the Pagets and, across the road, the old man with his snoring.

  “A little more hair on the left sideburn, yes,” said Pendleton. “And a snip or two on the back of the head. How well your hair has kept its strength, Mr. Mannering … Now, let me look at your ears. You need some wax, but that is no problem.” Deftly, the old man worked on the outside and the lobe of an ear, glancing frequently at one of Forrester’s self-portraits emphasised the ears and the temple. “He is a remarkably gifted young man, this artist. I think he uses fewer strokes with pencil or brush than any I know and yet he is not careless or pop. Oh, this modern pop art!” He stuck the extra wax on to Mannering’s ear with an odourless liquid glue. “Excellent! … Such talent, so often wasted in protest … Now, the other ear,” He fashioned another lobe, and added: “There is a slight scar which I shall have to simulate. How good will the light be, Mr. Mannering? … Not too bright? Good! And how long must the disguise last? … Only a few hours? That is easy. Now had you answered by saying a few weeks that would have been different … Now, a waisted sheepskin jacket, blue denim shirt, a pair of Levis, and you will pass for this young man even to those who know him well, but the impersonation would have to be short-lived … Good! Now, see for yourself,” he urged.

  Mannering stepped forward so that he was enclosed on three sides by a mirror. And even he was startled at the change which had come upon him.

  He looked like Tom Forrester in the face and head and shoulders, but was too thick at the waist. As he smoothed his stomach, Pendleton said: “I can lend you a rubber stretch belt, which will help you there.”

  The belt made Mannering’s stomach and hips not only flat but deceptively slender, yet was comfortable to wear.

  Soon Mannering was driving across London.

  At half-past eleven he left the car a few hundred yards away from Riston Street, in Wandsworth Bridge Road, walked past a little parade of old shops, turned into the street and went straight to Number 20. The door opened as he pushed the gate, and Paget stood there, in obvious agitation.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “A word with you, Clive.” Mannering spoke in Forrester’s voice, accurately enough to get by.

  “I can’t. I’ve a visitor coming.”

  “I won’t keep you five minutes,” Mannering said, and pushed the other inside. “Where is Doris?”

  “She’s gone to her mother’s for the day.” The man was too much on edge to notice that this ‘Forrester’ was a larger man; and the danger-moment was past.

&
nbsp; “That’s good,” Mannering said. “And now, Clive old boy, I want to know what you’ve been up to lately. You’re working with Bruce Sangster, aren’t you? Come on, tell me,” he repeated roughly. He took Paget’s right arm and twisted it behind him, thrust him forward and up the stairs. Paget kept kicking against the treads, he was so terrified. Mannering pushed him into the bathroom, tied him hand and foot as he had Forrester the previous night, and then slapped a piece of adhesive tape over his lips. “I’ll be back for you,” he said roughly, and stepped out, closing the door.

  He went to the front room.

  A few people were in the street, including two women on their doorsteps and three younger women pushing prams, one with hot pants which showed every curve imaginable. There was no sign of activity at Number 17 and he reached the door and took out Forrester’s keys. Before he found the right one, the door opened and the old man backed away, as if in sudden alarm.

  “Might as well kill a man as frighten him to death,” he complained. “And where have you been? Had two messages for you, I have. I thought you were never coming back.” His rheumy old eyes were surely too weak to let him suspect that this was not Forrester.

  “I’ve been out about some painting,” Mannering answered briskly. “Who are the messages from?”

  “A Mr. Bruce,” the old man answered. “He said he’ll be here at a quarter to twelve, and if that Mannering comes, he’s to stay. What’s on?” The frail voice then became gruff, the man thrust his face closer to Mannering’s and asked: “What’s up? You having some luck at last? Eh? Tell me, Tom boy, are you breaking through?”

  “I’ll break through before I’m finished,” Mannering said sharply.

  He broke off.

  That was the moment when he realised that he didn’t know the old man’s name. At the back of his mind there was a name ending in Ed. Fred, Ed, Ted, something like that, but he couldn’t be sure. So he had to phrase his comments so that he need not use any name.

  “What’s up?” the old man demanded. “What’s up with you today, Tom, boy?”