by John Creasey
“Certainly, sir,” said the salesman. He was astonished that a daydreaming customer should buy a watch with no more than a casual glance at it. He was so curious that he followed him to the door, and saw him bang into Sergeant Tring.
The salesman knew most of the men at Scotland Yard, and his eyes widened. He heard Tring grunt, and saw the handsome customer’s flashing smile.
“Why, Tring, of all people! Keeping busy these days?”
“Plenty to do,” said Tanker Tring glumly. He was a dyspeptic man, who despaired of ever catching the Baron. Like Bristow, he had a deep respect for Mannering. “Can’t grumble, considering.”
“Considering what?” asked Mannering amiably.
“Things,” said Tanker Tring darkly. “I must be going, sir.”
He walked towards the Yard. Mannering knew that he was deliberately disarming suspicion, and chuckled to himself when he saw the keen-eyed young man. It was the easiest thing in the world to avoid a shadow whom you recognised.
He took the tube, booked to Piccadilly, changed at Charing Cross, and nearly lost his follower at the Piccadilly line there. But the Yard man was careful, and scraped into the train as the automatic doors closed. Mannering alighted, apparently without haste, at Piccadilly, then slipped to the opposite platform, instead of up the stairs. He was back at Charing Cross in ten minutes. There was no sign of the Yard man, who was at that moment standing in the roundabout beneath Eros, wondering how on earth Mannering had managed to dodge him.
Mannering went into a cloakroom and set to work. He slipped rubber sheaths over his teeth, making them look discoloured and unlike his own, and fitted cheek pads into his cheeks. The disguise was good enough to prevent him from being recognised at a casual glance, which was all he wanted just then. He went upstairs, after tipping the attendant, and beckoned a taxi. He walked stiffly, and his head was bent forward, lessening his height.
No one followed him.
Twenty minutes later he was walking along Wine Street, Aldgate, towards a house sandwiched between two doctors’ residences. He knew the place well, and he was not surprised when a tall, almost white-haired man with his left coat sleeve hanging empty, opened the door before he knocked.
Flick Leverson was perhaps the best-known and most successful fence in the East End. Mannering had often worked with him, and had come to like the man. Leverson, with his courtly manner, his easy smile and his scrupulous fairness in all details, was a character in a million. Mannering did not know, but the left arm had been lost in an air crash. He did know that the objets d’art in the large room into which Leverson led him were genuine; Leverson was a real lover of the antique.
Leverson closed the door, and pointed to a chair.
“It’s some time since I had the pleasure of a visit. But you’ve been busy again, I see.”
Mannering had long since given up pretending that he was not the Baron to Flick Leverson.
“So a lot of other people think,” he said. “But they’re not altogether right. You’re thinking of the Chelsea affair?”
“Naturally.” Leverson looked puzzled.
Mannering accepted a cigarette, eyed it for a moment and then glanced back at Leverson.
“Do you think I’d leave a handkerchief behind, when there was no alarm and no haste?”
“I was surprised,” Leverson said, without altering his tone. “Wasn’t it you?”
“It was not.”
“That’s an ugly trick. Have you any idea who it was?”
Mannering sent smoke streaming towards the ceiling, and leaned back in his chair. He looked unworried, although he was watching carefully for the one-armed fence’s reaction.
“Granette, of the Kelworthy syndicate,” he announced.
The effect was instantaneous. Leverson stiffened for a moment with a cigar half way to his lips. There was a glint of anxiety in his grey eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mannering. Granette is one of the few men I cannot help you with. He is a lone worker. Olling sells all his and the syndicate’s stuff. I’ve heard Granette is dangerous, and that he carries a gun.”
“I’ll be careful,” Mannering promised. “Can you give me any information about them?”
“None at all,” Leverson said. “I only wish I could.”
“Pity, but it can’t be helped,” said Mannering. “Well, I’m thinking of going to Paris, Flick, and I want a place there where I can pick up some tools, and if necessary leave a parcel safely.”
“I can help you there,” said Leverson, promptly. “Do you know Paris well?”
“Reasonably.”
“Then you’ll know the Rue de Platte, just off the Place de la Republique. There’s a shop there, owned by a man named Grionde – G-R-I-O-N-D-E. I’ll wire him a message to expect you sometime within—”
“The next week.”
“He’ll have whatever you want, and you can trust him completely,” declared Leverson. “Is that all?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Mannering. “Do you know anything of Salmonson, the Hatton Garden merchant? I’ve never dealt with him.”
“Don’t,” said Leverson bluntly. “He can’t be trusted. Unless, of course, you were thinking of the Baron taking an interest in him.”
“I was,” said Mannering.
“I can think of no one who deserves trouble more, unless it is the Kelworthy syndicate. I won’t rant about Salmonson but be sure that he is one of the most unpleasant members in the trade. He has perfected a scheme of blackmail that the police can’t break, and half of his stock is obtained from women who have been indiscreet over love affairs. Is that enough?”
“It’s exactly what I wanted to know,” Mannering said.
He left Wine Street ten minutes later, feeling very cheerful. There was always more zest in robbing a man of Salmonson’s type than men like Don Manuel y Alverez de Castilla. Mannering wondered how he had obtained the Desire Diamond. He took a taxi back to the West End, removed what disguise he had used inside the cab, and soon afterwards entered the shop of Mr. William Salmonson.
He was quick to notice the grille gate thrown back from the shop door. The grille was made of inch thick steel bars, and it was between the street door that led to the passage and the shop, and the shop door itself. A clerk assured him that Mr. Salmonson would be glad to see him.
Mannering was already prejudiced against Mr. William Salmonson, which perhaps explained why he disliked the man on sight. He distrusted his pale grey eyes, his square mouth and his square chin, as well as his ingratiating manner. He was obviously not a born Englishman, and Mannering imagined one of his parents had been Swedish or Danish.
On the other hand Salmonson had no reason to be prejudiced against Mannering, and while he neither liked nor disliked the man standing before him, his first impressions were good. It was easy to imagine that this customer was wealthy. Mannering was dressed in a grey lounge suit impeccable as to cut, and Salmonson scented wealth.
Mannering lost no time in getting to the point.
“So what you are really after is really unusual jewellery,” Salmonson said. “Well – yes, I can obtain it. But it costs a lot of money, Mr. Mannering.”
“I’m not worrying about price,” Mannering said almost testily.
“I see. Then we can talk serious business, Mr. Mannering.” Salmonson looked his caller up and down. “Some of the stones that pass through our hands are not for general sale. In fact there are many stones which their owners would hate to think were on the market. You probably know the custom as well as I do, my dear sir! So many of our great families have financial problems, and have to sell valuable heirlooms. They make paste replicas, which stay in their possession as the original. A harmless little deception.”
“I know a little about the jewel business,” Mannering told Salmonson. “Some stones like that are on the market, but seldom the best. It would be too dangerous for the owners. Have you met many collectors just wanting stones, who care nothing for history providing they get them? My
own collection, for instance, is never on view, and collecting is my hobby. You follow me?”
“I certainly do, sir! Stones which are on the market and shouldn’t be. I follow you.” Salmonson was at once jubilant and wary. “It is dangerous to meddle with them, mind you.”
“I was told you might be able to advise me of someone who would take the risk,” Mannering said.
“Were you, indeed? By whom?”
“Does it matter?”
Salmonson’s eyes changed colour to slate grey, as he shook his head.
“Very well, let us be frank, Mr. Mannering. You will have no objection to buying stolen stones, if I could tell you where to get them.”
“You misunderstand me,” said Mannering. “I should certainly not buy anything that I knew to be stolen, but I would be quite prepared to buy stones with their history unknown – to me. I would probably have difficulty, for instance, in recognising the Koh-i-nor, providing it was well cut. An extreme example, but you follow me?”
“I do indeed,” enthused Salmonson. He did not doubt that a man of Mannering’s reputation would be prepared to handle suspect gems, for he knew that the bigger collectors often cared nothing about right of ownership. Salmonson could have supplied the police with a long list of names of people who bought stolen jewels, officially unaware of their origin. And Mannering, with his wealth, was a client in a thousand. “I can show you certain gems which might interest you, although I haven’t a great number. I can, however, recommend you to someone else who thinks a little less of his reputation than I do, Mr. Mannering. Frankly, I do not deal direct in matters like that. I am satisfied to take a very small commission for introducing business.”
“Will you show me what you have here? I’m not buying this morning, but I am coming into the market very soon.”
Salmonson stood up, smiling and showing his wide-spaced teeth.
“I understand, my dear sir! I will show you my own prize pieces with pleasure.”
Salmonson was smiling, and his hands were resting on his desk. Out of the corner of his eyes Mannering saw the man’s right hand move towards a small inkstand. A moment later there was a sharp hissing sound, and in front of Mannering’s eyes the wall on the right separated, showing a dark patch beyond. When he looked round Salmonson’s hand was well away from the desk.
“That’s very neat, Mr. Salmonson!”
“Isn’t it?” Salmonson purred. “It leads to my vault, and it is the one and only entrance. With people like the Baron we can’t be too careful. Just a moment, I’ll switch on the light.”
For the next half hour Mr. William Salmonson did most of the talking, while displaying his prize pieces. Mannering showed more than an intelligent appreciation, and an even deeper interest in two diamonds that Salmonson privately ear-marked as sold. But he took a detailed mental note of a small safe that Salmonson did not open, in one corner of the vault. That safe almost certainly contained the Diamond of Desire, and probably other jewels of equal value.
And now the Baron knew the only entrance to the vault.
Chapter Six
Messages And Action
It was just after one o’clock when Mannering left Salmonson’s office. It was impossible to start work until the evening, and he had to be patient. He amused himself with an early evening paper’s account of the Baron’s latest robbery, finding more than a hint of sympathy with the cracksman. More than once, by a characteristic bold and generous gesture, the Baron had gained sympathy rather than opprobrium.
Lorna’s train was not due at Dover until twelve-thirty, and there was hardly time for a message. He walked to his Club, the Barton in the Mall, and was in the middle of an excellent grill when he heard his name called. He looked up, to see the youthful figure of the man who had first started him on the chase for the five Jewels of Castilla.
Juan de Castilla was older than he seemed. He had been at Cambridge when John Mannering was up, and their friendship had lasted. De Castilla had all the flashing good looks of the hidalgo, and Mannering knew that when he had been driven out of Spain, with his father and sister, it had been a blow that would never be altogether healed unless there was a political upheaval. But he was outwardly as exuberant as ever he had been, and gripped Mannering’s hand.
“Am I interfering, my friend, or may I join you?”
“I’m in no hurry, and I’m hungry,” said Mannering. “I can recommend this extremely appetising grill.”
“I have just half an hour,” said de Castilla. “My tease of a sister has made me promise to go shopping with her this afternoon.”
“I can’t imagine a better way of spending an afternoon than with Anita,” said Mannering. “How is she?”
“As restless and worried as ever.” Juan de Castilla frowned, “It is a bad business, Mannering. Those jewels! How absurd that men and women should worry so much about little things. But they are part of us, in our blood. We would rather have lost everything than those.”
“Juan, did you see that Price was burgled last night?”
“Yes, yes, but it was not the Sea of Fire that was taken.”
“According to the measurements Price gave the Press, it was the Sea of Fire,” said Mannering.
Juan’s expression changed, he looked appalled. Obviously he had had no idea that the robbery at Price’s house had been because of the Sea of Fire.
He finished the lamb, new potatoes and petits pois too quickly, obviously upset. When Mannering went with him to the lounge, Anita de Castilla was waiting. She stood up quickly, a slim, lovely little creature dressed in black trimmed with red, with her flawless, creamy skin, dark eyes that could flash from anger or merriment, black hair that would never be properly controlled, and full, generous lips. She held Mannering’s hand.
“It is John, what a pleasure to see you. How are you? You have been feeding Juan to make him as fat as you, yes?”
Mannering chuckled, Juan said: “Steady!” and Anita suddenly realised her gaffe and tumbled apology after apology.
Mannering felt cheerful when he watched them leave. Juan had been right when he had said that the Crown of Castilla was part of them. None of the family would rest happily unless the five stones were found. What he knew of the Isabella Diamond made it easy to understand. The gem had seen so many wars and so many adventures, had been part of the royal sceptre of the court of Spain in the days of the Armada. Isabella had threatened to sell it to enable Columbus to start his voyage of exploration.
There was history, romance, blood and fire in the five Jewels of Castilla. Mannering knew them all, and could understand the passionate desire to regain them.
That night, if the Baron’s luck held, the Diamond of Desire would be in his possession. And if Granette was able to work quickly, Kelworthy’s syndicate would have the Sea of Fire, and Panneraude’s Crown of Castile. Mannering would have to fly that weekend to get the biggest of the stones from van Royten, in New York.
It was three o’clock when he reached Clarges Street, and saw a small Morris car parked some fifty yards from his flat. He also saw the driver. It was a temptation to talk to the Yard man but the keen-eyed youngster who had lost him at Charing Cross would probably not appreciate it.
He opened the door of the flat, and kicked the telegraph envelope lying on the mat. News from Lorna already! He ripped it open and read the cryptic message quickly.
OLL RETURNED LONDON GEE STAYING HOTEL RIVOL RUE DE RIVOLI OVERHEARD APPOINTMENT PIERRE PANNERAUDE TOMORROW MIDDAY L.
So Granette was going to see Panneraude, making an effort to buy the Crown of Castile before he attempted to steal it!
The pace was hot. He had to tackle Salmonson’s place that night: in a little more than four hours.
Salmonson’s shop and offices were on the comer of the junction of Hatton Garden and Liber Street. The bottom windows were barred and shuttered. The police patrolled that quarter of London more zealously than any other, most of the houses had armed guards inside, with burglar alarms rigged up to the l
ast degree of ingeniousness. Mannering might know the way into Salmonson’s vault, but he could not know what he was likely to meet as he went towards it.
He did not need to study the lock of Salmonson’s door too well that night, for he had seen the type when he had called there in the morning. He knew that he needed the most powerful cutter made for the grill inside. There were plenty of such cutters, and the chief difficulty had been to get one to Hatton Garden without attracting the attention of the police.
Normally he would have started a town robbery after midnight, but his knowledge of the care with which Hatton Garden was watched stopped him. He knew, as no one else could, that the actual chances of success were a hundred to one against, and most men would have thought he was lengthening the odds during the early evening. He believed otherwise.
It was dark when he walked towards the corner from the Strand, carrying a small suitcase in his hands, and dressed in a ready-made lounge suit that changed his appearance remarkably. The few lines at his mouth, the darkening of his skin, and rubber pads in his cheeks made him very different from John Mannering. A policeman could look at him for five minutes, face to face, and not recognise him as Mannering.
At eight o’clock, Hatton Garden and the precious stone market of London was only half-asleep. Several shops and offices were open, although the regular trading hours were past. Mannering, who had been in and out of the district a great deal as John Mannering, knew that artisans were cutting and polishing stones for prompt delivery, that he was passing stolen goods and legitimate ones, that behind most of the shutters armed guards were waiting.
But it would be some time before the police watch was concentrated for the night. Mannering passed a policeman, who seemed to size him up and pass him as presentable.
The lights were few and far between, excepting where they shone between the shop windows. Only a few people were passing to and fro, most of them from the buildings nearby. There was no regular thoroughfare, and Liber Street offered no short cut to anywhere in London. Few people were likely to use it.
