by John Creasey
Yours very truly,
Kempen, Howe, Kempen and Clarke
As signature, there was an almost illegible squiggle.
When Mannering looked up, he saw Lorna staring at him. Without a word, he handed the letter to her. He saw the way her brows knitted together, and was almost afraid of what she would say. There was anger in her eyes when she finished reading.
“Do you know the executors?”
“I know one-a young man named Linn. I met him once when I was asked to display the insignia.”
“Who asked you to display it?”
Mannering hesitated.
“Don’t say you can’t remember!”
“No,” Mannering said. “I remember it very well. There was some talk at Catesby’s about a display of the jewels and other effects, and I asked them whether they would like to use Quinn’s window. It’s the kind of thing that’s happened before.” He laughed on a curiously restrained note. “I’m doing very well on this affair, aren’t I?”
“Who are the other executors?”
“A firm of solicitors-Kempen, Howe, Kempen and Clarke.”
“It must be a try-on.”
“I suppose so,” said Mannering. “Toby mentioned this as a possibility, and he wouldn’t have done so if he hadn’t been worried about it. And if I say ‘no deal’ - “
“If!” interrupted Lorna. “Of course you’ll say no deal! It’s one thing to fail Brutus, quite another to submit to this kind of threat.”
Mannering began to feel better.
“If I say ‘No deal’, which of course I will, they may try issuing a writ, or even some form of publicity.” He gave the odd, restrained laugh again. “I’m prepared to believe anything will happen as a result of this.”
“What will you do?”
“Send it over to Toby, and let him deal with it. There can’t be any urgency,” Mannering went on. “At least the law grinds slowly.” He picked up a newspaper. “I wonder what’s in here,” he said, opening it as Lorna unfolded another.
He found what he feared he would find on Page 3: a headline in Mayfair’s column:
£25,000 - GOING, GOING, GONE
There were squabbles among the millionaires at Catesby’s yesterday when the Duke of Alda’s Estate was divided amongst the world connoisseurs of fine art. Anger and recrimination came when (we are told) there was some misunderstanding between Australian sheep millionaire, Nathaniel Brutus, and that expert on jewels, John Mannering of Quinn’s. Apparently, Mr. Mannering offered only £650,000 for the ducal insignia, although authorized by Mr. Brutus to bid up to £700,000-£25,000 more than the highest offer.
What’s in a mere £25,000? I posed this question to Mr. Arnold Linn, one of the late Duke of Alda’s executors. From his answer it would not surprise me if the loss of this sum to the Estate proved the cause of a great deal of litigation.
Mannering put the paper down, as Lorna said in a strangled voice: “Who told them Brutus offered £700,000?”
“He told most of the people at Catesby’s himself,” Mannering remarked gloomily. “We didn’t have to wait long for the publicity, did we?”
“But it’s ludicrous!” Lorna cried. “Sorenson paid £675,000, so there’s a gap of only £25,000. And if you’d gone to £680,000 Sorenson might have stopped. There might possibly be a case for £5,000, but this. . .” she broke off, more angrily than ever. “What are you going to do?”
Mannering hesitated, continuing almost casually: “Get away from it all.”
“But you’ve got to fight them, you can’t run away!”
“Not even the new me?” asked Mannering, and immediately regretted saying it, for it made Lorna wince. “Sorry, sweet. I didn’t say run away, I said get away.”
“But where to?”
“Australia,” Mannering answered, stretching forward and picking up the copy of ‘The Fine Arts World’. He opened it to the announcement of the sale and handed it to her.
“If Brutus has suddenly developed an interest in fine art, he might be at Melbury. If he isn’t, I could look him up while I’m there.” He saw a light glow in Lorna’s eyes as he went on: “I’d like to see him and find out whether this went as deep with him as you think it did.” He paused, and then added: “Will you come?”
“Yes,” said Lorna, without hesitating. “I’d like to.”
The truth, thought Mannering, was that Lorna wanted to see Nathaniel Brutus again. He did not try to understand why, simply accepting this as a fact.
8: FLIGHT
The first telephone call from a newspaper came at twenty to nine, while they were having breakfast.
The second, third and fourth came within the next ten minutes.
Mannering was about to leave for Quinn’s when there was a ring at the front-door bell. As he opened the door a light flashed and a photographer drew back as if afraid he might be risking reprisals. A lean man whom Mannering knew slightly said cheerfully.
“Mr. Mannering, I’m Bond, of the World - May I. . .”
“You may,” Mannering said lightly. “I’m going to find out from my lawyer whether your piece this morning is actionable. I’m sure you wouldn’t like to make me late for such a pleasure.” He pushed past and closed the door behind him. The small lift was open, and he stepped in and pressed the button. Five floors below, two more newspapermen approached from the main entrance.
“Excuse me, sir, I’m from the Globe.”
“Mr. Mannering, can you tell me whether you’ve heard from the Duchy of Alda’s solicitors?”
“The question should be whether they’ll hear from mine,” Mannering said.
Two more newspapermen and a photographer were getting out of a car as he strode towards King’s Road. Above all things he wanted a taxi, but instead of this a private car pulled up in front of him, and a man called: “Mr. Mannering!”
“Oh, get to hell out of it!” growled Mannering, and strode past-then stopped abruptly, for the voice was that of young Tenby, one of the assistants at Quinn’s. The young man was startled, and Mannering forced a smile as he turned back. “Didn’t recognize you,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Larraby thought you might find a car useful, sir. I’ll be glad to do anything I can. He tried to telephone you but your line was engaged at the time. There are several newspaper people at Quinn’s, too.”
“Several?” Mannering asked, sharply.
“Well-seven or eight, in point of fact. Mr. Larraby thought you might prefer not to come in until he’s got rid of them.”
“They’re really going to town, aren’t they?”
“The penalty of fame, sir!”
“We’ll soon see how brittle fame is,” said Mannering drily. “I’ll go to Mr. Plender’s office in the Barbican-ask Josh to telephone me there, will you?”
“Yes, sir. Is there anything I can do?” Tenby, twenty-three, nice-looking, bright-eyed, obviously hoped very much that there was.
“Yes,” said Mannering. “Go to the B.O.A.C. or the Qantas offices, and get two return tickets to Sydney, New South Wales, by the first available flight after tonight-for me and for Mrs. Mannering. And keep it under your hat,”
“You can be sure I will, sir!” Tenby’s eyes became even brighter.
Toby Plender’s office was in one of the new Barbican buildings, ferro-concrete and with countless windows, like blank oblong eyes. It had a clear view of the newly cleaned St. Paul’s.
“Not a bad idea,” Plender said. “I can keep ‘em busy for a few weeks. I shouldn’t think they could get a writ, and even if they did I think the judge would throw it out-he almost certainly would for anything over £5,000 at this stage. Now if the Duchy could persuade Sorenson to say he would have gone beyond seven hundred thousand, they might have a case, but they’d need an affidavit from him, and I can’t imagine Sorenson would want to put you in an awkward position-can you?”
“I don’t know why he should.”
“In any case I could get in touch with you in A
ustralia,” said Plender. In the following pause, his telephone bell rang. He picked it up, listened for a moment, then handed the receiver to Mannering.
“Larraby, for you,” he said.
“There is no particular business demanding your attention,” Larraby told Mannering, a moment later. “The next major sale is at Aldenbury Hall, in November. The-ah - crowd outside hasn’t grown any smaller and I think some sightseers have joined the photographers. If I were you I wouldn’t come in. I can send Tenby round with any papers you may require.”
“I’ll take your advice, Josh,” Mannering said.
“There’s just one thing, sir. What shall I tell the newspapermen?”
Plender, who was listening on an extension on the other side of his desk, broke in quickly.
“I’ll answer that one, John . . . Josh, Mr. Mannering is too scrupulous by far. Tell them that there was some misunderstanding about his instructions to bid over six hundred and fifty thousand pounds, and remind them that Mr. Brutus is not familiar with the proceedings at such auctions. Say that Mr. Mannering is going to Australia to attend an important sale, and will no doubt see Mr. Brutus and straighten this matter out. . . Yes . . . Yes, that’s right. If any of the newspaper people want more, refer them to me . . . No, don’t tell them what flight, but do tell them Mrs. Mannering will also be going... Goodbye, Josh.”
Plender put down the receiver.
“All cut and dried,” Mannering said. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I’m sure I’m right. Don’t forget the other side of the coin, John.”
“What do you see in your crystal ball?”
“You’re really not yourself over this,” Plender remarked, and suddenly became very serious. “Can I trespass on our years of friendship, John?”
Mannering said slowly: “Of course.”
“Is Lorna’s attitude worrying you?” When Mannering didn’t answer, Plender went on: “I mean, is her attitude about this affair becoming an obsession?” When Mannering still delayed answering, Plender added almost desperately: “I know I’m jumping in with both feet, but if you are worried about Lorna, that would be more than enough to prevent you from concentrating.”
“Is it as obvious as that?”
“It’s obvious that something’s wrong. I’ve known you and Lorna argue, I’ve even known you quarrel, but last night there was a chill of aloofness between you that could almost be called one of estrangement!” Plender looked at him in mild, almost comical embarrassment. “John, I handle domestic problems by the dozen, and I really know the signs. One of the most significant facts is that a lot of couples drift a long way apart before they realize it. If they saw the signs early enough they’d do something in time.”
“So it is as obvious as that,” Mannering said heavily.
Plender dabbed his forehead.
“It’s so damned difficult to be objective about a friend. John, there’s a lot of truth in the old cliché about a trouble shared being a trouble halved. Would it help to tell me about it?”
Mannering was sitting very still in his padded chair. Now that Plender had stopped talking the silence was absolute, for high up in this new modern block there was soundproofing and air-conditioning, and beyond the window only the blue sky above the dome of St. Paul’s. Slowly, he began to speak.
“At first I thought I’d upset Lorna over this particular matter, but it’s beginning to look as if she’s had something on her mind for months. With luck. . .” he paused, and then repeated: “With luck, we’ll be able to sort it out between here and Australia. If not, then I’ll need all the help you can give me.” He sprang to his feet and looked out of the window, down onto St. Paul’s and the spare, new buildings about it, the streets which seemed so narrow and the cars which seemed so small. “I can’t believe it’s serious.”
Plender didn’t speak.
Mannering thought: But Toby does.
He stared up at the clear blue sky, the wisps of cloud, and the streak of white vapour which betrayed the presence of an aircraft which he could not see.
He looked out of the window of the four-engined V.C.10 upon a sky as cloudless and as blue as it had been over London, but now they were nearly five miles up on a flight which seemed as smooth and steady as a bird’s. Between him and the window Lorna leaned back, dozing. But was she dozing, or simply keeping her eyes closed so as to make it difficult for him to talk? There had been some long, long silences on the flight, and she had ‘slept’ much more than usual when travelling.
A stewardess approached, tall, pretty, nicely made-up. She smiled at Mannering, bent over him and whispered: “You’ll soon be able to see Sydney, Mr. Mannering.”
“Oh, good. Thanks.”
Lorna stirred, and opened her eyes.
“What was that?”
“We’re approaching Sydney.”
“That was quick,” Lorna said. “We’ve only just passed Brisbane.” So she had been asleep. They leaned towards the window, looking on one side over hilly country and the brilliant blue of the Pacific, on the other side over flat, yellowish land dotted here and there with farmsteads, cut by roads which went surprisingly straight. Gradually, the dark mass of the city came within sight, and in a few seconds they were able to pick out the great bridge which spanned the harbour, the scattering of small houses built into the hillsides, the valleys, crowded too with houses; the deep green of trees, and the paler green of grass throwing all into relief. The roofs as well as the walls of many of the buildings were brightly coloured. Soon they could distinguish the brilliance of flowers, smoothly laid lawns and gardens. Winding through the hills was the harbour, which seemed to have a thousand inlets, each dotted with small craft. Some groups of yachts moved fitfully, sails stretched by a shallow wind. In the bays the surf rose with lazy grandeur, washing the golden sands. The water of the harbour, with those countless inlets, had a depth of blue that was almost unbelievable.
Suddenly the harbour and the steel mass of the bridge disappeared, and were replaced by the sky-scrapers of the city, the parks, all the heterogeneous muddle of a great metropolis.
As their aircraft circled the city, the stewardess repeated: “Fasten your belts, please ... No smoking now. Fasten ...”
The landing was perfect, the Customs and Immigration formalities were soon over, and as they walked to the airport buildings, Lorna put a hand on Mannering’s arm.
“Are you glad you’ve come?”
“I hope I’m going to be,” said Mannering.
“You won’t. . .” she began, but a fellow passenger drew alongside and began the usual small-talk. A tall Australian also joined them, hoping, he said, they would have a wonderful time in Australia. He pressed a card into Mannering’s hand. “Anything I can do, sir, just telephone me-don’t hesitate.”
“I won’t,” said Mannering mechanically.
Lorna’s hand tightened on his arm.
“Look,” she said.
Mannering had already seen the television camera and the group of reporters, and he knew that the problems here would be as acute as they had been in London. Was he glad he had come? It wouldn’t take much of this surging mass of newspapermen flinging their questions at him to make him wish the idea had never entered his head. But it was over at last, and they were in a taxi driving swiftly towards the city, held by the fascination of visiting a place they had never been to before. It was like any great metropolis, and yet it held an individual quality that was peculiarly its own. The streets were choked with traffic and with people, and the taxi seemed to turn a dozen times before slowing down outside the Hotel Australia.
Outside was an old man carrying a placard. At first it looked as if he was a newspaper boy who had sold out of papers, but in fact it was not a newspaper placard. It read:
POMMIE - GO HOME
A doorman came forward, followed by a porter. The reception clerk was as sleekly dressed as any in London. The formalities over, he handed Mannering a bundle of letters.
“Here�
��s your mail, Mr. Mannering.”
Surprised, Mannering took it. A porter led the way to the lift, and very soon they were in a room high above the city, overlooking a park beyond the roof-tops of another wide street. Mannering stood with Lorna for a few moments, then forced himself to say: “If we could get the Brutus business settled, we would enjoy Sydney.”
“Yes,” she said, and looked steadily into his eyes. “You’re not going to try to persuade him to deny that he asked you to bid higher, are you?”
“I’ve come to try to find out whether I did as much harm to him as you think,” Mannering said, and before Lorna could go on, before they could start discussing Nathaniel Brutus, he turned to a table and began to open the letters. Most had a New South Wales postmark-Newcastle, Bondi, Manley, Cowra, places he had heard of only vaguely.
In the first was a newspaper cutting from the Sydney Globe - the same wording exactly as that in the London Globe. Pinned to it was a slip of paper:
MANNERING - GO HOME
There were twenty-seven letters. Twenty-four were similar to the first, and the words ‘Go home, go home’ began to make a refrain in his mind. Two were from dealers whom he had met in London, welcoming, friendly. One was from a firm of auctioneers he had heard of, inviting him to a preview of the goods for sale at Melbury House. The three business letters did little to ease the disquiet and the sense of oppression which the others had created.
Lorna read two of the ‘Go home’ letters, tossed them aside, dropped onto the bed, and said: “So it was a mistake to come.”
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Mannering said. There was a tap at the door and he called “Come in” but it didn’t open; then there was another tap. He moved across and opened the door. There was no thought of danger in his mind, only awareness of his mood, and of Lorna’s, and exasperation with her as well as with himself. The first realization of trouble came when he caught a glimpse of a bearded man throwing something at him. He had no chance to dodge, no time even to raise his arm to save his face.
