by John Creasey
Any thought of telling the police that he’d found a line had died at the sight of Prinny’s fear. If he told Bristow, Bristow would have to visit Prinny, and Prinny was already frightened enough. Leave him a little longer, and he would talk. The police would be seen, too. Mannering wished the bus would come. He wondered how Francesca was. He wondered what Simon Lessing was doing, and whether Lessing’s interest in the girl was simply romantic. He hoped it was. A bus came up, and two cars passed on the other side of the road, going fast. One was a pale-green Wolseley, and at sight of it Mannering backed away from the bus.
“Make up yer mind,” the conductor growled.
“I’ll take the next,” Mannering said, and dazzled the man with a smile. He didn’t feel like dazzling anyone. He watched the green car swing round the corner into the street where Prinny had his shop, and recognised Bristow at the wheel.
He walked past the end of the street.
Yes, there was Bristow’s car, outside the shop; and the shabby youth was walking away. Mannering watched him. He crossed to the telephone kiosk at once, and it was empty for him. Mannering reached the pavement by the kiosk as the youth dialled. He was answered almost at once, spoke urgently, and kept looking down the street; so he was probably reporting that the police had called on Prinny.
He mouthed the last word. “Okay.” Then he pushed the door open and stepped out.
Mannering moved at the same time, they cannoned into each other, and Mannering trod on the youth’s toe hard enough to hurt, then fell heavily against him. Pain stifled anger. The youth snatched his foot from the ground, and kept his mouth wide open in a strangled cry of anguish. People stopped to watch. A girl got off her bike. Mannering was full of apologies - for what he’d done, for being in a hurry.
They parted.
This time, Mannering walked very quickly away from the scene, and found a taxi outside Aldgate Tube Station.
“New Bond Street, Oxford Street end,” he said, and got in and sat back, breathing more quickly than usual.
The taxi moved off.
First Mannering lit a cigarette, then he took out a yellow pigskin wallet, nearly new, which had been in the youth’s pocket a few minutes earlier. The three unpleasant photographs didn’t surprise him. Twenty-one pound notes, kept together by a rubber band, didn’t really surprise him either; it simply told him that the youth was being paid well to do what he was told. He was gratified by the sight of three letters, all addressed in immature hands to Charlie (one was spelt Chas) Ringall, at the same address in Whitechapel.
The surprising things were the telephone numbers. The Slade School and the Lisles’ flat were among several others.
“I think we might get a slice of luck soon,” Mannering said aloud. He put everything away, drew hard at his cigarette, and pondered. He was really sorry that Bristow had reached Prinny so quickly. What had brought the police?
The case might break open. If Prinny talked and could help the police, Bristow would get busy in a hurry, and Bristow was as good as the Yard had. It might not be a case for Mannering after all. That would please Lorna.
He bought a newspaper at the corner of Oxford and New Bond Streets. The Press had all the story, and a picture of Francesca on which they’d gone to town; she looked almost as lovely as she was. There was a story of the party, and the fact that Mr. and Mrs. John Mannering had been present was there for all London to read. Mannering was described as the “expert in precious stones and objets d’art and famous for his investigations into crimes concerning the loss of jewellery”. The Press was a continual thorn in the flesh, but it also traded in roses. At least one Fleet Street man would readily help if help were needed.
Mannering reached the corner of Hart Row. He was not expecting anything unusual. At most, he thought that one or two Fleet Street men would be waiting for him. In fact, there was one. There was also a stranger whom he had seen once before that day; the one who had scared Prinny, and had gone off in a small Austin.
He was just standing, waiting.
9: THE REPRESENTATIVE OF BIG INTERESTS
The Fleet Street man was curly-haired, bright-eyed Chittering, head bared, raincoat open, shoes in need of cleaning, smile almost as cherubic as Larraby’s. Chittering was a friend, a wise man, a good reporter and by no means a bad detective. Most of the mistakes he made were out of ignorance of certain circumstances, and his mistake that afternoon sprang from that cause. It had happened before Mannering could do anything about it.
“Hallo, Private Eye,” he greeted, “they tell me you’re on the Fiora Collection trail again. What a sleuth!”
The sleek, well-dressed stranger was looking into a window where three hats, all ridiculous, flimsy-looking wisps of millinery, were displayed on long sticks topped with faces which the artist could only have dreamed up after a scarifying nightmare.
“Wrong as usual,” Mannering said. “I’m not on any trail.”
“Liar. Francesca Lisle, too!”
“Coincidence.” Mannering had his back to the stranger now, and winked fiercely. Chittering had the wit not to change his expression. “I’ve had a rough time at a sale-room, Chitty, I need a bath and a change before I feel human again. And I’ve nothing for you, anyway.”
“Keep this up, and you’ll almost convince me,” Chittering said. “At least tell me this - is it true that Francesca is a pupil of Lorna?”
“No. They happen to like each other. Lorna will help the kid all she can, of course, that’s all.”
“No inside story,” Chittering mourned, and gave a Gallic gesture. “I give up. Let me know if anything should break, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
‘”Bye,” said Chittering.
He went off, towards New Bond Street.
Mannering stepped into the shop, turned to close the door, and saw the sleek stranger staring at him from dark, opaque-looking eyes. He felt a breath of disquiet, could imagine that if that man looked at some people, Prinny for instance, he would be frightening.
Trevor was in proud command, two other young assistants were busy. Mannering went upstairs into a small show-room where china was on one side, dominated by three Ming vases, and Roman, Egyptian and Babylonian pottery and metal ornaments on the other. A small window overlooked Hart Row.
The man was walking away.
That was no answer to anything. The man had seen him at Prinny’s and seen him here, and knew who he was. He had overheard Chittering’s greeting. For the first time Mannering began to wonder whether it had been a mistake. He went up one more flight, washed and changed back into the suit of honey brown. He made notes of the telephone numbers and “Dear Charlie’s” address, then put everything he had taken into an envelope and addressed it to Charles Ringall, Esq., and dropped it into the post basket. He stretched out his hand for the telephone, meaning to telephone Lorna, and the bell rang.
“Yes?”
“Will you speak to a Mr. Prinny, sir?”
“Who?”
“Prinny. That is what I think the name was . . .”
“Yes, all right,” said Mannering, recovering. “I’ll speak to him.” He would have been less surprised by a call from the Prime Minister or the Archbishop of York. He heard the clicking of the private exchange plugs, and the young assistant in the shop said: “You are through.”
“Hallo, Prinny,” Mannering greeted.
“You and I must have a little talk,” a man said. It was not Prinny. He spoke slowly, and his voice had a suave note and an overtone of confidence. “You shouldn’t have put the police on to Prinny, that was a mistake. Just keep this between our two selves, and you won’t be any worse off. But don’t squeal. You understand, don’t you?”
“No,” said Mannering softly.
“Now don’t be silly. I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want a fight with you or anyone else, Mannering. We can do a deal, and you won’t suffer. I’ll get in touch with you later. Au revoir.”
The man rang off.
Manneri
ng put his instrument down slowly. There was likely to be a lot to learn, and he wanted to learn a lot more about the man who had called himself Prinny. It was probably the sleek man, and he held the picture in his mind’s eye. A little less than medium height, dressed in smooth-textured clothes, wearing a new navy blue Trilby and very shiny black shoes. He had that powdery blue jaw of the very dark and a smooth skin; the skin of a man who had just come out of a barber’s, after all the face treatments the barber could suggest.
Thirty-odd, Mannering guessed; very easy of movement, too.
Here was a growing problem. The man had spoken as if he felt sure that Mannering would do what he was told - as if he believed Mannering would understand him. Why should he think that?
The telephone bell rang again, breaking Mannering’s thought.
“Yes,” he said cautiously, and found that the line was still through to the main exchange, no one was at the private one. “This is Mannering of . . .”
“This is Simon Lessing,” that young man said abruptly. He sounded like an officer in command of a hot spot on a nasty day. “I’m coming round to see you at once, you’ll stay there, won’t you?”
“Don’t be too long.”
“I’m on my way!”
Too much of that self-assertiveness, Mannering thought, and he would quickly lose patience with Simon Lessing. Then he wondered how far the events of the past hour, especially the unknown’s telephone call, had made him cantankerous. He lit a cigarette and chuckled aloud. Then he put his head out of the office and told a tailor’s dummy of a junior assistant to go and get him some sandwiches, and closed the door on: “What kind would you like, sir?” The junior ought to know. Ham. Next, he rang the Green Street flat. The maid answered, Lorna had left just after eleven and hadn’t come back.
“But she said not to worry, sir.”
“Then we can’t possibly worry,” said Mannering. “Any callers or telephone calls?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Tell Mrs. Mannering that I called, won’t you?”
Mannering rang off, musing that willing maids were priceless.
Chittering didn’t telephone, although Mannering expected a call. He fell to wondering what had made Simon Lessing sound so peremptory, and how long he would be.
He was still wondering an hour later.
Lessing didn’t arrive at all.
Simon Lessing put a finger between his neck and his collar, and pulled. He felt hot and sticky, and it wasn’t because of the weather.
He was in Francesca’s flat, and could see through the open door of her bedroom to the river. He didn’t notice the bright flickering of the river.
Francesca was all right, in a nursing home near the hospital. He knew that she had made a statement, that the police claimed to be satisfied, and that a doctor had said that she could leave the following day. So far, so good. He’d also seen his sister Joy. Joy had already been to the nursing home, anxious about Francesca. He hadn’t been able to settle to work, and had come round to Riverside Walk because it was Francesca’s place and he couldn’t keep away.
Mannering was obviously interested; as obviously, he wasn’t going to call on him for help. He could hardly blame Mannering, but it would not be easy to sit back and await events. Easy? It was impossible! He might find something at Francesca’s flat which the police had overlooked. Or Cissie might remember some odd word that would help. At that stage Simon, a little vague about what kind of help he could give Francesca, did not realise that he was suffering from acute frustration.
So he had gone into the flat, where Cissie had talked incessantly. The police had been there for two hours, looked everywhere, even had the carpets up, and then left. She was indignant and a little excited, and bothered by the newspapermen, too, and she had been photographed three times, twice when wearing her apron.
The telephone had come to his rescue.
As he rang off after talking to Mannering, he could remember how glad he had been when it rang. Just for a second.
“This is Mr. Bernard Lisle’s flat.”
A man had asked in a very smooth, even voice: “Who is that speaking, please. Mr. Lisle?”
“No, he’s away. My name is Lessing.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said the man at the other end of the wire, as if that explained everything perfectly. “Mr. Simon Lessing, isn’t it? And you have a pretty sister, now what’s her name? Joy.” He repeated the name. “Joy, yes. Am I right?”
He was right, but Lessing didn’t say so. Fear was a strange thing, and something in this man’s voice, in the way he spoke rather than anything he said, brought fear. It was only a flash, and soon gone. It was rather like the feeling when one slipped at the top of a flight of steep stairs and recovered one’s balance without falling.
“Supposing I have? What has it to do with you, and who - -?”
“Patience, Mr. Lessing,” the man said smoothly. “No one’s going to get hurt. That is, unless they’re very silly. Pretty little Joy doesn’t deserve to get hurt, does she? So we mustn’t take risks with her.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“A little later, we’ll have a talk together - over a drink perhaps,” the stranger said. “Until then, au revoir.’” The French phrase came smoothly, wasn’t gauchely pronounced as it was so often after a man had been speaking English.
He rang off.
Simon stared at the mouthpiece, then slowly replaced the receiver. The flash of alarm came again, and this time it didn’t fade so quickly. It hadn’t been an open threat, but was certainly a threat of some kind. And Joy . . .
He was very fond of Joy. She had the prettiness of healthy nineteen. She was his kid sister. He worried about her if she came home late.
He telephoned Mannering. . . .
He called good-bye to Cissie, and hurried downstairs. He was angry and still scared, and in this mood, determined to tell Mannering that he intended to help, nothing would keep him away. His anger and fear switched from the suave voice to Mannering, who was someone he could think about and who had brushed him off too easily that morning.
His grey Triumph sports car was parked outside the house, which was one of a long terrace. A string of nine barges, pulled by a small tug, went quietly down river. A man turned a corner, and disappeared. Lessing pulled open the door of the car, slid in, slammed the door, took out his key - and saw the marks on the windscreen. They were chalk marks, and not very clear. Lettering, of a kind.
He shifted his position, and was able to make three words out.
Seen Joy lately?
That spasm of alarm, frighteningly familiar now, came again. This time, its passing left his heart banging with heavy, choking thumps. He didn’t begin to ask himself why this was happening; he hadn’t had time to be dispassionate. Francesca had nearly been murdered, and now there was this threat.
Of course it was a threat!
He put his foot down hard on the accelerator. The Embankment was clear at this end, and it took him only fifteen minutes to get to the Slade. Several students, two of whom he knew, were coming out of the front door. They stared at him curiously as he hurried in. Obviously he’d come at a good time, students were on the move. He saw the red-haired girl of the party ludicrously filling a thick woollen sweater.
Her eyes lit up.
“Hi, Si!” She broke away from two friends, and approached him. “What went wrong after we left you behind last night, villain?”
“Sue, don’t fool. Where’s Joy?”
“How should I know? What did happen, darling?” She clutched his arm. She was too fat nearly everywhere, but seemed completely free from self-consciousness. She pressed against him. She had a witch’s face, sharp nose, green eyes, big red mouth and white but widely-spaced teeth. She screwed her neck to look up at him. “It wasn’t you, was it?”
“Sue, where’s Joy?”
“Don’t ‘oo love ickle Susan anymore?”
“For Pete’s sake stop fooling!”
&
nbsp; “My, you are edgy,” Susan said, changing her tone. “Don’t know, Si. We were sketching glamorous female torsos, and I think Old Seymour came in and spoke to her, and she went out. Girls!” Susan swung round suddenly, raising her voice to a strident scream. Everyone within earshot stopped and looked at her. “Anyone know where Joy Lessing went?” she asked, now in a cooing voice.
A sleek-haired youth said: “Her brother telephoned, and she went off to see him. Family trouble, or something urgent.”
Simon Lessing heard that, and felt sick.
The red-head looked at him, her expression quite serious now. The light faded from her green eyes, and she looked less like a witch.
“Didn’t you call her, Si?”
“No, I did not.”
“Then she must have a boy friend. Pretty girls often have boyfriends and fix clandestine meetings. Don’t worry.”
Mechanically he said: “No.” He turned and hurried out. Susan watched him, then shrugged her shoulders and joined her companions.
Simon Lessing turned into the street, hurried towards his car, and saw something which jolted him out of his mood.
A man sat at the wheel.
10: THE WHISPER OF SUSPICION
Simon Lessing did not realise it, but he did not know himself. Present him with an emergency and he acted swiftly, effectively and with judgment. Give him time to think, and he dithered. The news about Joy had frightened him, and overlaying the fear was anger. The sight of the man in his car touched that anger into action.
The man was a stranger, young, dressed in shapeless brown tweeds, in need of a hair-cut; it was affected poverty, there was something arty about him. The long hair was reddish. He looked sideways at Simon with a smooth, sneery grin as Simon slid into the car. He didn’t grin for long. Alarm displaced derision, and he flung up a hand and backed against the door. It was like trying to stop a charging rhino. In the confined front seats of the car, Simon smashed at his jaw and at his stomach, hooking and upper-cutting savagely.
