by John Creasey
The stranger’s teeth cracked together. Blood sprang to the side of his mouth and trickled down. Fear burned in his eyes.
Then Simon stopped hitting him.
The car was filled with the gusty breathing of the two men. People passed, students, office-workers, a policeman - footsteps clattered or thudded, legs passed in their line of vision, nice shapely legs, trousered legs - and just legs.
The long-haired youth was shaky with fear; Simon as shaky with tension.
Simon spoke first. “Do you know anything about my sister?” The words were growled, his clenched fists were close to the other’s face. “Come on, let’s have it.”
The youth spat: “You try that again, and you’ll never . . .”
Simon didn’t give him a chance to finish. He squealed and thrust both hands up, but couldn’t save himself. Simon’s hands closed round his throat and squeezed. The man’s body heaved and writhed, he clawed at Simon’s wrists, his long nails tore the flesh, but he couldn’t get himself free. His eyes seemed to be getting bigger and standing out from his head, his lips were parted in a funny kind of snarl.
The car door opened, and a girl said: “Si, you crazy fool!”
It was Susan; Susan Pengelly. She slapped the back of Simon’s head, and the blow made him relax. Then she tugged his hands away from the thin neck. The youth leaned back in his seat, mouth open and eyes nearly closed, a glazed look in those eyes. He seemed hardly to be breathing.
“What do you want, to be hanged for murder?” Susan breathed. “Oh, I’d like to wring your neck! Do you carry a brandy flask?”
Simon gulped. “Er - no.”
“Get out and let me get in,” she said, “let me see if I can bring him round.”
The youth was grunting, in a staggered kind of way.
Simon got out. A gust of wind off the river stung his forehead and neck. He didn’t notice anyone in the street. Susan squeezed into his place; he didn’t notice that then, either, but she had very nice legs, quite out of proportion to the rest of her body; her hands were small and shapely, too. She slammed the door. Simon eased his collar, wiped his forehead, but had to wait; it was only a two-seater. A young man who had been at the party last night passed in a hurry, and the usual greeting: “Hi, Si!”
“Hallo, there.”
There had been the smooth-voiced man with his veiled threats; then the discovery that Joy had been called away by someone who had said he was her brother. Had Joy really been fooled? Where was Joy? There was the man he had attacked, and who might have some information. The stirring of annoyance with Susan made him bend down and look inside.
She was slapping the youth’s face, sharply.
Simon opened the door.
“Move up,” he said.
“Si . . .”
“Move up!”
“Oh, all right, but there isn’t really room.” Susan squeezed against the youth. His eyes were wide open now, and something of the glazed look had gone. Colour was back in his cheeks. He realised that the girl was pressing tightly against him, and looked at her. He caught sight of Simon, and jerked his head back, gabbling: “N-n-n-no!”
“He won’t hurt you anymore,” Susan said.
“Won’t I?” muttered Simon.
“For the love of Mike have some sense!” The girl’s green eyes flamed. “What’s all this about, anyway? I wanted to ask if I could help, saw this man sitting here, and . . .” She didn’t finish.
“He . . .” began Simon, and then braced himself. “He knows where Joy is, and if he doesn’t tell me, I’ll break his neck.”
“I don’t think I understand,” Susan said. “You sound as if Joy had been kidnapped.”
“That’s about it.”
“Sometimes,” said Susan, “I wonder if you’re worth all the affection I waste on you. You must be crazy.”
“He’s crazy all right.” The youth was coming back in circulation. He was sweating, and poking his long fingers through his hair. He kept licking his lips and darting sideways glances at Simon. “I only want to make him see sense.”
“What about?” Susan asked.
“Sue,” said Simon with great determination, “I’m going to handle this.” But she was sandwiched between him and the youth, it wouldn’t be easy to scare the youth again so easily. “It’s not your business, you keep out of trouble.”
“I’m keeping you out of trouble.”
“Listen,” said the youth, “your sister will be all right if you behave yourself. No one’s going to hurt her. Just get this into your head - Mannering’s using you. He’s got the sparklers, and we want to know where. Up to you to find out, see? You’re a buddy of his, he’ll tell you, and you’ll tell us. Get me?”
His careless talk wasn’t a natural argot; everything about him was phoney, except the swelling on his jaw, his mouth and right eye - and the trickle of blood, which had almost dried up now.
“Gosh!” exclaimed Susan, “you were right!”
The youth raised clenched hands.
“Keep back!” His eyes glittered, as much with fresh fear as with rage. “Listen, Dumpy, you keep his hands off me! So Sister Joy’s a guest of someone she doesn’t know for a day or two. She’ll be well fed, have nice comfy bed, cheerful company, all that kind of thing. But you find out where Mannering’s got those jewels. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, I’m talking about the Fiora Collection. Get me?”
“I must be dreaming.” Susan gulped.
“No one’s dreaming. Don’t want your kid sister’s pretty face to be spoiled, Lessing? Or do you?”
That sent a quiver of horror through Simon Lessing, and silenced the girl. She didn’t know what to say or where to look, while Simon sat cold, limp and frightened.
The youth chose his moment well. He drove a clenched fist into Simon’s face, then shoved Susan heavily, banging the top of her head against Simon’s chin. He squirmed round, opened the door and jumped out.
A car horn screamed.
The youth cried out, and pressed back against the car, terror-stricken. A taxi passed within an inch of him. As it went, he jumped forward, slammed the door behind him, and leapt towards the opposite pavement. He turned left, towards Fleet Street. Soon he was lost among great lorries with huge rolls of newsprint, among newspaper vans, among workmen. A few watched him running, but no one made any attempt to stop him.
He slowed down when he passed the main entrance to the Record building. No one was following him.
Susan Pengelly and Simon sat in the Triumph, both breathing tautly, Simon through distended nostrils, Sue unashamedly through her wide-open mouth. She had stopped rubbing her head. Simon’s nose was bleeding, and he kept dabbing at it with a handkerchief which was already crimson.
“That’ll teach me,” breathed Sue. “I thought you were just having a row. Si, you’ve got to tell the police.”
He didn’t answer.
“You’ve just got to!”
He took the handkerchief away. “I don’t know whether I ought to or not,” he muttered. “I don’t know what to do for the best. Can there be any truth . . .” He broke off.
“Truth about what?”
“Mannering . . .”
“Look here,” said Susan. “I don’t know a thing about this. Oh, I know Mannering was the lion at the party last night, but where does he come into it? Let’s drive round to my place, and you can sit back and relax and tell - Dumpy,” she breathed. “Next time you needn’t break that lout’s neck, I will. Come on.”
“I’m not sure . . .”
“If you don’t drive I will, and you’ll have a crumpled wing before you know where you are.”
“Oh, all right,” Simon gave way. “The thing is, if that devil really has kidnapped Joy . . .” He broke off, started the engine, and let in the clutch. “It’s like something in a film!”’
“I think the first thing you have to do is make sure that Joy is really in trouble,” said Susan, more reasonably. “After all, we’v
e only his word for it. Let’s go to your flat, instead of mine.”
Simon had already started off.
“Yours is nearer,” he said. “We can telephone her.”
Susan Pengelly had a one-room-plus-kitchen-and-bath-room flat in an old building near Covent Garden Market. It was reached by a flight of narrow, creaking stairs, but the room itself was very big and had good views over roofs and shops. A big, double-size divan was in one corner, with a wardrobe and chest of drawers; a screen of astounding design and vivid colouring concealed part of this. She had daubed vivid colours on with a careless effect which startled everyone who saw it for the first time. Round the walls were sketches and paintings, all of heads; heads of native Africans, Indians, whites, Maoris, aborigines; the handsome and the ugly. All were from life - all were touched with a kind of malice.
There were easy-chairs, everything comfort demanded.
“Sit down and I’ll put the kettle on, we’ll have a cuppa,” said Susan.
“I’m going to telephone!”
“Oh, yes, of course. Help yourself.” She waved to a small desk in a corner, beneath a light which could be raised or lowered, as one wanted. Canvases, some clean, some already daubed or used for sketching, leaned against the wall. One was on an easel. The telephone was on the desk.
Simon dialled his flat number.
There was no answer.
He rang off, dialled two of Joy’s friends, and was told the same story; she had left the Slade, soon after lunch, saying that he had telephoned to say there was some family trouble.
By the time Simon had finished, Susan came in from the kitchen with a tea-tray. She put it on a low table, and stood in front of him, arms akimbo. She had rolled up the sleeves of her thick yellow jumper, which fitted her figure so tightly that in places she looked likely to burst through.
She put her head on one side, and had her legs slightly apart.
“Now, give.”
“I’m so worried I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels.” Simon jumped up. “You know what happened last night, about Francesca . . .?”
The telling of everything else took five minutes. Then Susan poured out tea. Between sips, Simon added little touches to the interview with Bristow, the fact that Bristow obviously trusted Mannering, the fact that the dealer who had owned the Fiora jewels had been questioned.
“Mannering can’t have them!” he burst out.
Susan said: “Can’t he?”
“It stands to reason.”
“I don’t know what you think,” said Susan, “but I think that lout this afternoon knew what he was talking about. He knows a thing or two. If Mannering . . .”
“The very idea’s ludicrous.”
“You aren’t very receptive to new ideas, are you?” asked Susan. “I don’t know this Mannering, except that he’s a handsome beast, and I’m not prejudiced one way or the other because of his reputation. All I’m worried about is Joy.” She shifted her position suddenly, and looked away from him. “And that’s a lie,” she added, with mock shrillness. “I’m more worried about you. Unrequited lover, that’s me. What with Francesca and Joy and me you do have a lot of woman trouble, don’t you? Perhaps I’ll be more help than hindrance, after all, I did save you from a charge of assault. What are you going to do? I would tell the police.”
Simon said: “I suppose I could tell Bristow, but . . .”
The telephone bell rang.
At the first ting of the bell Simon was out of his chair. He grabbed his cup, to save it from falling, and rushed to the telephone. He didn’t even say: “That might be Joy,” but rushed, snatched up the receiver.
“Hallo?”
There was a moment’s pause; then his manner altered, he sagged for a moment, gritted his teeth, and then banged down the receiver. When he turned to face her, he was five feet ten of sagging dejection.
“Was it - them?” Susan asked, in a husky voice.
“They’ve - they’ve warned me not to go to the police if I want to see Joy again,” Simon said.
11: MANNERING GETS HOME LATE
At half-past five that afternoon Mannering sat in front of the page which illustrated the Fiora Collection, and also in front of his diary. The diary had an emphatic note: 7.30 Dinner at T. P.’s. T. P. stood for Toby Plender. Plender was a barrister of repute, ten years older than Mannering, a close family friend and a man to like. The party was to do with that very important wedding anniversary, the kind of occasion that made Mannering look at the few silver Streaks in his own hair.
It had been a frustrating afternoon.
He had been out for an hour, visiting Francesca Lisle in the nursing home near Westminster Hospital. She had been sleeping, and except that he was told that she was much better and likely to be out tomorrow, it had been a wasted journey.
Lorna had telephoned, to say that she’d a list of some of the people who’d been at the cocktail party, but didn’t think it would help.
No one else had called or telephoned. Silence from Chittering; Simon Lessing; Bristow; Prinny. In fact, everywhere was silent as a desert by night. He had telephoned Lessing’s home and office, without getting the young man. He had called the Record but Chittering hadn’t been there. Larraby had nothing to report from Aldgate or Whitechapel, except that Prinny had been taken to Scotland Yard.
The one cheering piece of news had been that Francesca would probably be able to leave soon.
Where would she go?
The Lessings’ flat?
Mannering stood up. Lorna would expect him on the dot of six, and he couldn’t blame her. He would be pre-occupied at the Plenders’, but would undoubtedly be forgiven. He could have calls put through from the office and the flat to the Plenders’. Lorna would complain but accept it. Lorna . . .
The telephone bell rang.
“That’s wonderful,” he said, “it’ll begin now that I ought to be on my way.” He lifted the instrument.
“Mr. Chittering has called, sir,” Trevor said.
“John,” said Chittering of the Record, as he came briskly into the office. “You are a double-dyed villain.”
“Why sound surprised?” asked Mannering. “Chair?”
“Thanks. A treble-dyed rogue of the nastiest kind.”
“Have you been talking to Bill Bristow? Cigarette.”
“Good idea. No. A man named Ephraim Scoby.”
“Ephraim?”
“Scoby. At least, that’s the name he gave me at his hotel, and it sounds too unreal to be false. How well do you know him?”
“I don’t think I do.”
“He was outside Quinns this afternoon when you told me in that heavy-handed way of yours to make myself scarce.”
“You mean . . .” began Mannering, and chuckled. “So you followed him. Where?”
“All over London. At first I don’t think he knew he was being followed, but afterwards I came to the conclusion that he did, and was enjoying it. Finally, he invited me to have a drink. I’ve just left him.”
“Has there been time for it to act?” asked Mannering.
Chittering sounded blank. “For what to act?”
“The poison.”
“You misjudge Citizen Ephraim Scoby. He is the whitest of white sheep, the pure young man who would not tell a lie, do a dirty trick, cheat, defraud or otherwise be illegal. He only wants to make sure that others get their rights. I know all this,” added Chittering, “because he told me so. Earnestly.”
“He sounds untouchable.”
“He’s in very great trouble - emotional and ethical trouble, you understand.”
“Good.”
“He doesn’t want to tell the police that you have the Fiora Collection,” announced Chittering.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t play with his cigarette, his hair or anything on the desk. He just sat there without expression, and his clear blue eyes, childish in their directness, were upon Mannering. It was a shock to Mannering, and it took him several seconds to adjust himsel
f to the swing of events. At last he said: “What a villain I am. And I hadn’t realised it.”
“Got ’em, John?”
“No.”
“Not holding them for the rightful owner and drawing the crooks’ fire, are you?”
“No.”
“I hope I can believe you.” Chittering relaxed. “Between you and me, I don’t care for this Scoby chap much. He is the ultra-smooth kind. He has it all under control. He doesn’t threaten, just says what a pity it all is and hopes that you won’t live to regret holding those jewels. He says he is quite sure that you have them, and he seems to mean what he says. In fact,” added Chittering with a grin which made him look positively angelic, “he appealed to me, as a gentleman and a friend of yours, to persuade you to deal with him. After all, he said, no one would want you or your reputation to suffer.”
“He’s not bad at all, is he?” murmured Mannering; but he looked worried. “I wonder who gave him the idea that I had the jewels.”
“He didn’t give me a clue. He did say one thing that got under my skin, John. You know how it is.” Chittering helped himself to another cigarette from a box which Mannering pushed towards him. He became very serious. “Thanks. A lot of verbiage rolls off one. This man is economical in what he says, and I always had a feeling that there was something more behind it. The thing he said was this: ‘Francesca Lisle was lucky, but not every girl in the case can be sure of the same luck.’ “
Chittering paused, then struck a match; the sound and the flame added a stab of menace to the words.
“Where did you have this heart-to-heart talk?” Mannering asked.
“In his hotel room - he’s at Bowing’s. He’s been there for two days, hasn’t stayed at the place before, and is booked until the end of the week.”
“Thanks. He put himself in your hands pretty meekly, didn’t he?”
“We mentioned that,” murmured Chittering. “He said that hearsay isn’t evidence, that he’d deny everything, that he’d found out I was a good friend of yours and wouldn’t want you hurt. He took a chance, knowingly. If you ask me, he’ll cut and run at the first sign of police trouble. That’s beside the point,” Chittering went on. “What will you do?”
