The Unfinished Portrait

by John Creasey

  ‘We have to get a message to Josephine’s son.’ Mannering hadn’t given that a thought. ‘He lives in Tottenham and works at Elstree Studios. I suppose it’s a good thing she didn’t see much of him, there was a mother-in-law feud.’ Tears glistened in Lorna’s eyes, and her voice nearly broke. ‘John what a terrible thing if she was killed in mistake for me. What a thing to have on my conscience!’

  ‘If you try to carry that on your conscience, you need a psychiatrist,’ Mannering said, more sharply than he intended. ‘The very idea’s nonsense.’

  After a pause, Lorna said, ‘I don’t think it’s nonsense.’

  Suddenly, Mannering wished he had not spoken with such vehemence.

  ‘I can see what you mean,’ he said more mildly. ‘But there isn’t any true reason to blame yourself for a chance encounter in Harrods, is there? If you’d gone to the house and badgered her you might feel some responsibility. But a chance meeting – no, you can’t blame yourself in the slightest.’

  He thought Lorna’s expression cleared a little.

  ‘It sounds reasonable,’ she conceded, ‘but most arguments in one’s own favour usually do. John, you will make every effort to find out who killed Josephine, won’t you?’

  ‘I will do absolutely everything I can,’ Mannering promised. ‘I’ve already started in fact. Josh is making inquiries about Cornelius Vandemeyer.’

  This time there was no doubt that Lorna’s expression cleared. There was no need to tell her that whatever he did would be far more to make sure she was not in danger, than to avenge Josephine.

  The police would be here for some time yet, and she would certainly be safe for the next few hours.

  ‘Why don’t you get busy tracking down Josephine’s son,’ he suggested. ‘Or would you rather the police did that?’

  ‘I’d like to,’ she answered at once. ‘Have—have they taken her away yet?’

  ‘I imagine so,’ said Mannering. ‘I’ll go and make sure.’

  When he stepped into the hall the body had gone, but men were still taking measurements and photographs. He had been at the scene of routine investigations like these a hundred times, but never ceased to be fascinated by the almost finicky attention to detail. One trifling clue overlooked might, in court, bring a police case down into little pieces. It was all necessary, yet seemed so coldblooded.

  Bristow came from the lift again, brisk as ever.

  ‘I’d like Lorna to show me those photographs, John.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be glad to.’

  ‘And don’t worry about her,’ Bristow said in an undertone. ‘I’ll keep the place under surveillance and make sure she is watched wherever she goes.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Mannering. ‘Fine.’

  But his blood ran cold. Bristow would not take such precautions unless he felt – or in this case sensed – that the danger to Lorna was very real.

  He went into the dining-room.

  ‘Josephine’s gone,’ he said, quietly. ‘Bill wants to go up to the studio with you. You won’t go out without letting me know, will you?’

  ‘No,’ Lorna promised. She smiled; but it was the kind of smile which hid fear.

  Whether there was any justification for them or not, these fears were felt keenly by three people not inclined to be fanciful or to imagine danger.

  Mannering was in a very troubled and uneasy frame of mind when he went out, to find young Lionel Spencer watching a fingerprint expert with close attention on a landing two floors down. Lionel came hurrying at Mannering’s call, looking a little shamefaced.

  ‘Hope you haven’t been calling me for long, sir.’

  ‘Not too long. But when I say I want you standing by, I mean it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. It—oh, it’s no excuse.’

  ‘What’s no excuse?’

  The boy looked into his eyes with glowing enthusiasm.

  ‘You’re used to it, sir, being a famous police consultant, but this is wholly new to me. A police investigation into a murder. It’s a wonderful chance – one in a million, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mannering said drily. ‘No doubt it is.’

  One chance in a million – and the fact that a woman had been killed was the cause of Lionel Spencer’s wonderful opportunity! Happily oblivious to this macabre side of it, Lionel appeared to be quite content to ride passenger as Mannering drove; for now Mannering wanted to have to concentrate on driving – somehow manoeuvring through traffic always sharpened his wits.

  It was nearly one o’clock when he pulled up outside Quinns. He got out and sent Lionel to park the car, paused outside the window to admire a jade casket so intricately carved that he could only marvel at the years of patient work by the Chinese craftsman who had wrought it out of a single piece of stone.

  Then he saw Larraby approaching from inside the shop and could tell from the expression on the old man’s face that he had news about Cornelius Vandemeyer.

  Lionel Spencer was in his seventh heaven, its brightness dimmed only momentarily when Mannering had rebuked him for not standing by. He had known of Mannering and Quinns for years, and without Mannering having the faintest idea, had hero-worshipped him as a kind of Scarlet Pimpernel and Beau Brummel combined. He had studied antiques and allied trades in his spare time, and so qualified himself, when the opportunity came, for the job at Quinns. If he overdid anything it was his attempt to imitate the Regency dandy. He dressed in the latest, most trendy, fashion, elegant and almost foppish; and he also trained himself to the peak of physical fitness, as well as qualifying in both judo and karate.

  He was pleasant-looking, pleasant-mannered, and had one very great advantage over most people, an inherited fortune. So he could do what work he liked, and he was doing what he had dreamed of most of his life: working with the fabulous John Mannering.

  Now he felt he had taken a great stride forward: he was on a case with Mannering. He did not know much about it yet, but sensed its importance, and if he needed any confirmation it was the way both Larraby and Mannering looked as they met in the doorway of Quinns.

  Chapter Five

  Word From The Grape-Vine

  Joshua Larraby was a man with a remarkable history. Apprenticed to a gold- and jewel-smith, he had spent half of his life in the obscurity of a safe job with sufficient to live on, but a passion had been born in him – a passion which had become a mania.

  He had learned to love precious stones as most men love a woman, with single-hearted devotion and compelling desire. Their beauty first fascinated, then hypnotised, finally seduced him, until he had stolen gems of surpassing beauty – not for financial gain but simply for love of them. Naturally, he had been caught, tried and sentenced to three years’ imprisonment. When he came out of prison he had no settled way of life, or work, to go back to, yet the years of loneliness and privation had not enabled him to repress his love of jewels.

  He had, inevitably, been on the fringe of the underworld, and on that fringe had one day met a man who had transformed his whole life. John Mannering of Quinns. Mannering had given him a job among the very things he so loved: jewels, objets d’art, antiques. Over the years, his loyalty and trustworthiness had brought full reward: he managed Quinns of London and he had won the respect and trust both of the trade and of the police – and of the half-world of thieves and fences and their families. Everybody liked old Josh. Everybody knew he could be trusted. And everybody was glad to give him little choice bits of information; the grape-vine of the world of art and jewel thieves and fences was always full of information for Josh Larraby.

  Whatever he had learned today would be absolutely reliable; Mannering was quite sure of that.

  He turned into his office, and Larraby followed, closing the door. It was a small room, with a beautifully bowed Queen Anne desk, white-painted shelves of reference books on antiques, jewellery and objets d’art behind the desk. Above his head, a portrait of a cavalier – who might have been his twin. In fact Lorna had painted it, of him, nearly twenty year
s before. In a far corner was a deep seated winged armchair; it stood over a covered entrance to the strong-room beneath the shop.

  ‘Sit down, Josh,’ Mannering said, and Larraby chose a wooden armchair in front of the desk. ‘What have you discovered?’

  ‘Cornelius Vandemeyer has of late been buying pictures and objets d’art knowing them to be stolen,’ Larraby stated flatly.

  Mannering stared, as Larraby shifted his chair to one side.

  ‘Heavily?’ asked Mannering at last.

  ‘I imagine so – that is the impression I was given,’ Larraby answered.

  ‘How long has it been going on?’

  ‘Two or three weeks,’ said Larraby.

  ‘Weeks,’ echoed Mannering. ‘No more?’

  ‘If the details of my information are correct, he is said to have wanted the set of Dutch miniatures stolen in the Addering House burglary,’ said Larraby, ‘and paid a good price for them. If you’ll forgive me pointing it out, sir, Sir Cornelius has a remarkable collection of miniatures.

  ‘Quite remarkable,’ Mannering murmured, not making it clear to which factor he referred. ‘Yes. It sounds reasonable, except …’ He pursed his lips.

  ‘Sir Cornelius’s wealth, sir?’ objected Larraby.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I boggle at.’

  ‘But money could not have bought the Addering Collection, sir.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Mannering, still absently. ‘No. How well do you know Vandemeyer?’

  ‘I don’t really know him at all,’ Larraby replied.

  ‘If to know means a certain degree of intimacy,’ said Mannering, ‘nor do I. His reputation however is public property. Scrupulously honest, exceedingly rich, chairman of several charity committees which have a worldwide reputation. We know these things. American nationality with Dutch forebears, one of the world’s most respected bankers, with substantial holdings in oil and natural gas companies. Three times married. His first wife divorced him, his second one died in a plane crash. He married Deirdre Lanchester about eighteen months ago. I think somewhere along the line there is a daughter.’

  Mannering paused.

  ‘I knew less than that about his domestic affairs,’ said Larraby.

  ‘I don’t know enough, and know very little about him as a person,’ Mannering replied. ‘What do you make of it, Josh?’

  ‘If I may say so, sir, I don’t know what has aroused your interest.’ Larraby looked almost apologetic.

  ‘You don’t—’ began Mannering, and then laughed ruefully. ‘Of course you don’t – I’d forgotten.’ His amusement faded and his expression became grave and set as he explained. The story took a long time in telling and Mannering saw the changing emotions on the fine old face, sensed how Josh’s mind began to work. When he had finished, Larraby leaned forward, hands clasped on the desk.

  ‘The coincidence of timing is quite remarkable, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Until a few weeks ago, his wife led a normal, social life, and there was not a whisper against Vandemeyer. Suddenly, she withdraws because of a so-called illness, and about the same time he appears on the under-world market. It’s almost too much for coincidence, Josh.’

  ‘It is indeed, sir. May I say how very sorry I am that Mrs Mannering appears to be a victim of such circumstances. At least you are now warned and can take precautions. If you feel you should spend more time with her, sir, I can cope very well here.’

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ Mannering said. ‘But I don’t think she would want me under her feet all day. And she is anxious to find out who killed Josephine Smith.’ Mannering went on. ‘I don’t yet know what I’m going to do, Josh – but I know I want to learn more about Vandemeyer. When the story of the murder breaks I’ll be in the headlines so I can’t take a personal interest in Vandemeyer. Now! I want you to go to the major dealers today and tomorrow, looking for miniatures and pictures in enamel and medallions – the three things Vandemeyer collects most avidly. You can hint that you have an overseas buyer, Vandemeyer is bound to crop up in conversation, and you should learn if he’s been in the market at all, or is showing any special interest in any particular kind of objet. You will even find out if he’s stopped buying through the normal channels.’

  Larraby’s eyes were glowing.

  ‘I’m bound to learn a great deal, sir. Would you like me to start at once?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will report to Chelsea this evening,’ Larraby promised, and went out.

  Mannering sent Lionel Spencer for some sandwiches, and the youth brought them in with coffee brewed in a little kitchen at the back of the shop. Lionel took such obvious pleasure in the trifling service that Mannering watched him thoughtfully as he went out – and then promptly put him out of his mind. He had to concentrate on routine work and on getting his desk clean in case he had to spend a lot of time away from it. There was a note that Brian Rennie was due at half-past two. With luck, each would be able to keep the appointment this time.

  Routine and lunch finished, he found himself pondering over Lorna’s story. It wasn’t surprising that she had remembered colours more vividly than anything else, and in the long run a description of the murderer’s clothes might be more useful than details of the car. Grey/brown with a touch of green.

  At half-past two precisely, Rennie arrived.

  Rivalling Lionel Spencer, he was exquisitely dressed in a green corduroy suit with pale brown tie, gloves, shoes and socks. In his middle forties, he looked what the old world would have called a fop and the new world would have suspected of being a ‘queer.’ Nothing could have been more wrong. He had a wife of whom he was exceedingly fond, and three lusty children. The movement as he put out his hand was almost effeminate – but his grip was like iron.

  ‘I’m sorry I was late this morning, John.’

  ‘It suited me very well,’ said Mannering.

  ‘I might have guessed you would say that,’ said Rennie. They went into the office and Mannering waved to the big armchair. Rennie sat down, hitching up his trousers with the care and precision with which a woman avoids ‘seating’ her skirt. Mannering took the chair behind the desk.

  ‘All I want,’ Rennie went on easily, ‘is fifty-one per cent in Quinns of Boston, and forty-nine per cent of Quinns in Paris and here in London!’

  ‘And how much would you be prepared to pay for it?’ asked Mannering drily.

  Rennie smiled. He had a long, delicately curved face, but his eyes were surprisingly hard.

  ‘One million pounds,’ he answered. ‘The share for Paris in French credits, the share for Boston in dollars, and the share for this shop in any currency you wish.’

  Mannering stared at him, thrust suddenly into turmoil. The price offered was at least twice what he would have asked had he been seriously thinking of selling, nearly three times as much as he would have settled for. Rennie watched him, smiling faintly, but his eyes held no smile.

  ‘Is it a deal?’ he asked.

  Mannering hesitated, and then said, ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I can’t wait for long,’ said Rennie. ‘I shall be flying back to New York tomorrow, and I want to take your answer with me.’

  Mannering pursed his lips. His mind was still reeling under the impact of those figures. A million pounds – and he could do what he liked for the rest of his life: work here at Quinns or have someone stand in for him, spend more time with Lorna …

  He shook his head, in sudden decision.

  ‘Then the answer has to be “no,”’ he said.

  ‘Because I want your decision quickly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Rennie laughed. ‘I should have known I couldn’t rush you into anything even with a dazzling offer.’

  ‘Why so dazzling?’ asked Mannering. He smiled more broadly. ‘If anyone else had made it I would have assumed that some of my stock has unsuspected value.’

  ‘It has,’ said Rennie.

  ‘I usually know,’ Mannering replied.

  ‘You couldn’t know two thing
s that I do,’ said Rennie. ‘There are two foundations in the States, one in California and one in Texas, which want to establish a unique English collection and will pay substantially for it. They might not buy everything I recommend so I would be taking a chance, but’—he hesitated—’sure you won’t change your mind?’

  ‘Not at a moment’s notice,’ Mannering said, almost sadly.

  ‘Yet you might consider doing a deal,’ Rennie said, thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes I’m not uninterested,’ Mannering admitted.

  ‘How long would you want to make up your mind?’

  Mannering did not answer – partly because he did not want to think seriously about anything but Vandemeyer and the possible danger to Lorna. That might be over in a day or two but it could go on for weeks, even longer.

  ‘A month?’ urged Rennie.

  Mannering put his hands flat on the desk, and laughed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Brian, but you’ve come at a time when I don’t really want to think seriously about this or anything else, except—’ He broke off, tempted to tell Rennie why, yet seeing no reason why he should burden the other man with the story.

  ‘It is a very substantial offer,’ Rennie interrupted. ‘Are you involved in one of your periodic adventures, John?’

  ‘You might say so, yes.’

  ‘Then wouldn’t you be wise to come to terms quickly?’ suggested Rennie. ‘You would leave Lorna very well cared for, if anything went wrong. And by the law of average, something is bound to sooner or later. I don’t wish to be a Jeremiah,’ Rennie added hastily, ‘but as an insurance, this offer is surely attractive.’ He paused, hopefully.

  Mannering said, ‘I think I’ll have to tell you what I’m worried about at the moment.’

  He told Rennie without going into too great a detail, saw how Rennie reacted, obviously shaken and concerned. As he finished, he pointed out, ‘So any decision I might make now would be under too much stress. I’m tempted to say “yes” so that I can concentrate on this problem, but that would be a panic measure.’