by John Creasey
There was an exit out of this building into the next and Lorna had left that way, obviously unnoticed – and if the police had not known, then no one else was likely to suspect. In a buoyant mood he went up in the tiny lift, let himself into the flat with a key, and stood for a moment on the threshold.
There was stillness and silence, as there should be. But the thought of its emptiness, and the reason, had a sudden, depressing effect. Depression wasn’t easy to throw off but as he bustled about the flat, it lifted.
Up in the studio was a box of theatrical make-up, ostensibly there for Lorna and her sitters, actually for him. It was a long time since he had used it, except for a masked ball. He opened it and sat before a mirror in the alcove where Lorna kept her own paints and cleaning materials. He examined himself closely, deciding what best to do, then took off his coat and put one of Lorna’s smocks round his shoulders.
As he made to sit down again, the telephone bell rang. There was an extension in the main studio, and he moved to it.
‘John Mannering.’
‘Just a moment, please, Mr Bristow wants you.’ He waited, patiently.
It was two days since he had talked to Bristow about the Vandemeyer post, and a great deal had been planned and arranged in those two days. He wondered what specific thing Bristow was concerned about now.
‘John … Sorry to keep you.’ Bristow was his brisk self. ‘You’ll be glad to know that no one followed you to or from the airport, and no one took any particular notice of you there. Our chaps didn’t see Lorna leave Green Street, either.’
‘That’s fine,’ Mannering said. ‘Have you talked to the New York police?’
‘Yes. They will watch Lorna on arrival at the Kennedy Airport and see that she isn’t followed from there,’ Bristow assured him. ‘You needn’t worry at all.’
‘Thank you, Bill,’ Mannering said quietly.
‘Glad to do it,’ Bristow said. ‘Now – Saxon’s are expecting you this afternoon at three-thirty, I gather.’
‘Yes,’ Mannering said. ‘I telephoned them yesterday, saying I was a John Marriott who has worked for a number of galleries in Europe and the United States.’ As he spoke he changed the inflection of his voice, and sounded faintly American. ‘How will that do, Bill?’
‘I ought to have put you in prison twenty years ago,’ Bristow said drily. ‘I want to be kept in close touch. Don’t forget.’
‘I shan’t forget it,’ Mannering assured him.
When he rang off, he dialled Quinns, and almost immediately Larraby answered.
‘Is Mr Rennie there?’ Mannering asked, in the faintly American voice.
‘I’ll find out, sir. Who is that, please?’
In the same accent, Mannering said, ‘John Mannering – alias John Marriott.’
‘John Mannering—’ began Larraby, and then gave a little, delighted laugh. ‘You quite fooled me, sir. I’ll get Mr Rennie at once.’
Mannering waited for only a few seconds, before Rennie came on the line.
‘Hello, John! Did everything go off all right?’
‘Perfectly,’ Mannering said. ‘Lorna will be well on the way to Johannesburg by now.’ No one, barring Bristow, had been told where she was really going. ‘How are things with you?’
‘Fine – just fine. Larraby is a great help, but you know that.’
‘You can trust him absolutely,’ Mannering said. ‘And if you want to get a message through to me, do it through him.’
‘My, my, how mysterious can you get!’
Mannering chuckled and rang off.
Slowly, he moved towards the alcove, as slowly sat down in front of the mirror. Then he began to cream his face in preparation for make-up, and with infinite pains he started the transformation. As he changed facially, so a subtle change seemed to take place in him: a metamorphosis which carried him back over twenty years to the time when he had sat in the make-up room of an artist in theatrical make-up and had watched the change wrought in himself.
First, the cleansing; next, a cream to rub in so that it darkened his skin to a deep tan, actually changing the colour. Next, gum at the corners of his eyes which narrowed them and caused tiny lines to appear at the corners, and aged him ten years in a matter of minutes. The gum set quickly, but it would be hours before he got used to it. Above all, he must not touch it with his fingers.
Next he put rubber suction pads into his cheeks; they held themselves into position and made his face look a little plumper. Then with infinite care, he inserted warmed wax into his nostrils to give them a slight distension.
He was a different man!
He used a plastic paint to make his teeth look slightly yellow, then began to work on his hair, using a cold water dye which made the streaks of grey much more noticeable. He ought to have had a haircut, but there wasn’t time to seek out a man whom he could trust.
Finished, he peered at himself.
‘Not bad,’ he said aloud. ‘Not bad at all.’
He added a few finishing touches before putting the make-up case away. There was a smaller one downstairs which he could take with his luggage. He went down, packed two dark suits and enough clothes for a week, and went out. Outside in the street, the detective who had talked to him when he had arrived, looked at him curiously but did not speak.
Mannering walked within two feet of him, and not the slightest hint of recognition showed.
Mannering took a bus which went along the Cromwell Road, and got off near the BEA terminal. He went into a small hotel, one of a dozen nearby, and a faded-looking clerk took him up to a first-floor back room, overlooking narrow gardens which were mostly paved and tidy.
‘This is the only room we have free with a private bath, sir.’
‘This will suit me,’ Mannering said. There was a double divan bed, a built-in wardrobe cupboard and a small dressing-table. ‘How much is it?’
‘On weekly terms, twenty guineas, sir. Or—’
‘I’d like it for one week, anyway,’ Mannering said.
‘Thank you, sir. Will you sign the register next time you’re down?’
‘Yes,’ Mannering promised.
He unpacked his few things, then scrutinised his makeup again. His skin needed a little darkening on one cheek, but otherwise there seemed nothing wrong. For the first time since seeing Lorna off, he really relaxed.
It was a quarter past two.
He went down, registered as John Marriott, and went out. On the other side of the road was a parade of small shops, one of them a café. He ordered minestrone soup, a plain omelette, cheese, biscuits and coffee. Only half-a-dozen customers were there, and no one took any notice of him. He was becoming used to his new guise, adjusting his mood and his manner to fit it. He paid the bill and went out, walking towards the Museums and Knightsbridge.
Saxon’s Employment Bureau was in Knightsbridge, nearly opposite Harrods, where Lorna had encountered ‘Lady Vandemeyer.’ And Vandemeyer’s house was also in Knightsbridge but behind Harrods, in Ellesmere Square.
At three twenty-four Mannering turned into the narrow doorway marked Saxon’s. A door led to an estate agency on the left, and a flight of narrow steps led upwards to a brightly-lit landing. Mannering went up and found a door marked: Inquiries. He tapped and went in. A plump, bright-looking girl smiled up at him from a crowded office, two walls of which were lined with filing cabinets.
‘Good afternoon.’
‘My name is Marriott. I have an appointment—’
‘Oh yes,’ the girl interrupted. ‘Mr Saxon is expecting you. I won’t keep you a moment.’ She jumped up, showing a long expanse of well-developed leg, and disappeared into an inner room. Mannering heard her speaking as he looked about. Between him and the office was a counter with a flap in it; to get into the inner sanctum he would have to raise the flap and go through.
The girl reappeared, and raised the flap.
‘Will you go in, please?’ She looked at him with unfeigned interest.
Mannering went int
o a slightly larger office which was filled with card-index files and cabinets. Behind a small desk was a man with owlish-looking eyes and a baby face, small, pursed lips, and a wrinkled forehead. He half-rose from his chair.
‘Sit down,’ he invited, in a rather high-pitched voice.
Mannering sat in a high, narrow chair, hardly designed for comfort.
‘Mr Marriott,’ Saxon went on, ‘why are you looking for a position? A man with your stated qualifications should have no difficulty, none at all.’
‘I wish to live in London,’ Mannering answered, ‘and I am not well known here.’
‘Family reasons?’
‘Personal reasons, Mr Saxon,’ Mannering answered.
‘You’ve got to understand me,’ Saxon said. ‘The kind of position you seek has very special requirements. You have to prove your integrity – could you take out a substantial bond?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Mannering said. ‘If the position justified it.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘If I took out a guarantee bond to insure my employer against being robbed by me I would have to approve of my employer,’ Mannering said mildly. ‘What is sauce for the goose—’
‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Saxon. ‘I understand. What are your personal reasons for coming back to London. I have to know!’
‘I am a Londoner by birth,’ Mannering replied. ‘I’ve lived abroad most of my life, and now I’d like to come back and settle here.’
‘That is the only reason?’ demanded Saxon.
‘Yes,’ said Mannering. ‘The only reason.’
‘I see. I see. According to what you said on the telephone you have a thorough knowledge of and familiarity with objets d’art, miniatures, precious stones – all that kind of thing.’
‘I have,’ Mannering asserted.
‘You could prove that, of course.’
‘Without difficulty,’ Mannering said confidently.
‘Have you any objection to travel?’
‘Travel where?’ asked Mannering.
‘Anywhere in the world,’ said Saxon, in a lordly way.
‘Provided my home base is London, no,’ Mannering said. ‘I wouldn’t want to live abroad, but I’ve made that clear.’
‘I see. I see. What salary would you require?’ Saxon demanded, as if he felt sure that at last he had found a question which would make Mannering hesitate.
‘Two thousand pounds a year, with all expenses and all housekeeping costs in addition,’ stated Mannering without a moment’s hesitation.
Saxon leaned back in his chair, his eyes bright with shock. He pursed his lips as if he were going to utter an expletive, and then said in a very shrill voice, ‘You realise that is a very high salary.’
‘It is by English standards, but not by American.’
‘You would be based in England, remember.’
It was Mannering’s turn to pause, and he did so for a long time, then smiled faintly.
‘Mr Saxon, I’m not interested in chicken feed, and I’m an expert. Experts cost money. Do you have a position for me or don’t you?’
Saxon did not show any disapproval as he answered, ‘I have one for which you might prove suitable. Are you free for an interview this afternoon?’
‘Yes. Now or any time.’
‘At five o’clock?’
‘Yes.’
‘In which case,’ said Saxon, picking up the receiver of a telephone by his left hand, ‘I will speak to Sir Cornelius Vandemeyer at once.’
He shot Mannering a cunning look, as if to see whether the name meant anything to Mannering, but Mannering showed no more than a casual interest. That was not easy.
If Vandemeyer was as anxious as this to see a prospective employee, then he was in urgent need – and it made the dismissal of Gillespie an even greater mystery. Saxon dialled a number, had to wait for a long time, and then said with great deference, ‘May I speak with Sir Cornelius, please? … Julian Saxon … Yes, of Saxon’s … Yes, I will hold on.’ There was another pause before he spoke again and this time he seemed to spring to attention even as he spoke. ‘Good afternoon, Sir Cornelius. I have an applicant who might – who might possibly – be suitable for the position you have vacant … A Mr Marriott, John Marriott … Excellent references, sir, and an excellent background in the—ah—the antiques and objets business … Yes, he is free … Yes, I do have every reason to believe he might be eminently suitable … Shall I instruct him to come and see you at once? … Very good, Sir Cornelius, he will be there. Thank you very much.’
Saxon rang off, stared at Mannering, pursed his lips, and then spoke with very great precision, ‘This is a wonderful opportunity, Mr Marriott. Quite remarkable. I advise you to act with great circumspection with Sir Cornelius. Susan!’ He peered at the door and it opened at once. ‘Susan, dear,’ said Julian Saxon, ‘make out a card of introduction for Mr John Marriott to Sir Cornelius Vandemeyer, if you please.’
Chapter Eight
Sir Cornelius
The girl Susan smiled up at Mannering and said in warm undertones, ‘I do hope you get it.’ He smiled back in pleased surprise as he went out. The hair-cord carpet on the steep stairs was a worn wine-red, and he nearly tripped on the bottom bend, where there was a ragged hole.
‘Steady,’ he warned himself.
He had just time to walk to Ellesmere Square, and it was good practice to walk with a rather loping stride, very different from his natural one. As he turned into the Square his heart beat faster, and he was nearer a mood of real excitement than he had been for a long time.
He must be doubly careful.
He scanned the porticoed Georgian houses, noting that the numbers were painted in black on white pillars. Number 17 was in the middle of one side, with a balcony over the porch from which scarlet geraniums, vivid in the early evening light, hung as bright as dayglo posters. Mannering, approaching from Ellesmere Street, entered the Square from the opposite side of the road. He glanced towards Number 17, not attempting to hide his interest.
A man stood on the balcony, only half-hidden by the deeper shadows, probably since he was out of sight.
Why should anyone stand there except to watch him?
Mannering felt his heart thumping almost suffocatingly, but it did not make him pause or change his gait. He crossed the road between a taxi and a mini-car, and went along by the railings which guarded the garden in the middle of the square. Here there were tarmac paths, well-kept grass, laurel and rhododendron bushes, a bed or two of late tulips all, now, a little drooping. Only two dogs and a couple of children were within the garden itself.
Mannering, acutely conscious of the man above, stepped on to the porch of Number 17 and rang the bell. The door was a polished black, with a brass bell on one side, and an imposing brass knocker.
A youthful, sparsely haired man opened the door.
‘I’ve an appointment with Sir Cornelius Vandemeyer,’ Mannering said.
‘What name, sir, please?’
‘John Marriott.’ He must be extraordinarily careful in saying ‘Marriott,’ a split second of self-consciousness or over-emphasis might betray him.
‘Will you come in please?’ The footman stepped aside, and Mannering went in, telling himself that one thing was certain: this was a trained footman. ‘If you will wait I will tell Sir Cornelius that you are here.’
‘Thank you,’ Mannering said.
The hall was like ten thousand halls of that period in London. High-ceilinged, square, spacious, with a staircase leading straight up to a half-landing, and a passage alongside the staircase. One door led to the right off the hall, two more led off the passage, at the end of which was a closed door.
The footman went upstairs. Mannering heard his footsteps as he reached the top landing, heard him tap.
From here, close at hand, a door creaked but did not open wide. Mannering felt quite sure that he was being watched, but took no notice. He examined the two pictures in the hall, a Rembrandt and a Rubens;
he had no doubt at all that each was genuine. On the right was a low table, beautifully polished over the centuries – not remarkable, but very good. The heavy carved chairs, though handsome, were not collector items. Everything here confirmed what he had always heard of Vandemeyer; he was a man of good, but not extravagant, taste except in those things which he collected, for which he had no equal.
The footman came back, briskly. ‘Sir Cornelius will see you now, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Please follow me.’
Mannering obeyed.
In a few seconds he would come face to face with a man whom he had often seen and who knew John Mannering well by sight and reputation. It would be the moment of greatest danger. The footman opened the door and went just inside.
‘Mr John Marriott, sir.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Vandemeyer. ‘Yes.’
He stood up from behind a huge desk which would have dwarfed a large man, and Vandemeyer was quite small. He was immaculately dressed in dark grey, and had a good figure. His regular features reminded Mannering slightly of Bill Bristow. He had plentiful silver grey hair which was brushed straight back from his forehead and managed to give the impression of studied carelessness. Mannering had forgotten how pale his grey eyes were, and how well-shaped his lips.
A chair stood in front of the desk.
‘Sit down, Marriott,’ Vandemeyer said, motioning to the chair as the door closed.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mannering.
‘I understand that you have a wide knowledge of objets d’art. I hope that includes precious stones and a good knowledge of paintings, particularly of miniatures?’ Vandemeyer wasted no time at all.
‘It does indeed, sir.’
‘I need a man whose knowledge is really exhaustive,’ stated Vandemeyer.
‘So I understand,’ Mannering said simply.
Vandemeyer looked past him. ‘On the wall behind me are six miniatures. Can you tell me what period they are, and by what artists? By all means, examine them closely,’ he added as Mannering half-rose from his chair.
Mannering went close to the miniatures.
He took several minutes to answer, then named five artists, adding, ‘I don’t recognise the sixth one – I imagine it is modern, mounted on an old mount.’
