by John Creasey
‘It is by Sydney Nolan,’ Vandemeyer confirmed.
‘Then I’m not surprised I didn’t recognise it.’
‘How would you value it?’
‘Perhaps thirty or forty guineas for its novelty value.’
‘Then I was ill-advised to pay a hundred guineas,’ Vandemeyer remarked.
‘It depends on the circumstances, sir, and how badly you wanted to buy it.’
‘Yes. In the corner cabinet behind you there are several objets d’art. Will you tell me what you can of them?’ Vandemeyer did not stir from his chair.
Mannering went to the cabinet. Obviously the other pressed a switch, for lights came on, showing each of the pieces to best advantage. One was a German figurine of quite unbelievable beauty, one a carved ivory chessman, the superb lacework of the carving patterned with gold, one was a piece of carved jade which looked too fragile to be touched, one a glass paperweight also of great beauty of colouring, and the last a miniature golden casket. He used a glass to look at each.
Vandemeyer moved at last, joined him and unlocked the cabinet.
‘If you need to handle them, do so.’
‘The only one I need to handle I would prefer not to,’ Mannering said. His voice was perhaps a little more American than it had been before, deliberately assumed. ‘I would hate to touch the jade, but I’m not sure whether it is third or fourth dynasty. The others – a Dresden figurine probably by Weins, about sixteen fifty, a fairly recent chessman, I would say nineteenth century and probably Tibetan, the paperweight is Venetian—didn’t Leonardo da Vinci experiment with glass-blowing at one time?—and the casket of course is Cellini.’
The casket and the figurine had both passed through his hands, at Quinns.
Vandemeyer said, ‘You ask for two thousand pounds a year.’
‘Clear except for taxes,’ Mannering emphasised as they went back to the desk.
‘So I understand. Your references must be unimpeachable.’
‘I will stand by them, sir.’
‘Who will you refer me to?’
‘The Maharajah of Patuasur, Mr Hisito Tojo of Kyoto and Senhor Ramon Horlden of Rio de Janeiro, sir. Closer at hand, Mr Bidelot of Rue St. Honoré, Paris, Lord Mendleson—’ He knew that each of these would vouch for him as Marriott if he sent word by cable. There would be no problem.
‘That will be enough,’ interrupted Vandemeyer. ‘When can you start?’
‘Do I understand you to be offering me the position, sir?’ They were sitting opposite each other across the desk now.
‘I am,’ Vandemeyer said simply.
‘I’m honoured, sir. But if I could ask one or two questions—?’
‘If you mean about hours—’
‘Not about hours, I will be at your disposal whenever required. I am much more concerned with my quarters, and a more precise definition of my duties. If I may say so, one employer expected rather more valeting and personal—ah—attention than I had understood at the time of the engagement. I am not a valet, sir, or personal servant.’
Vandemeyer looked at him so searchingly that for a moment Mannering was afraid that something had sparked him to recollection. But at last he smiled faintly, and said, ‘I don’t want a personal servant, Marriott. I want a man whom I can trust in my collecting and who sees these for what they are – rare and beautiful objects, not simply goods which can be bought and sold at a profit. As for your quarters – I will show you where they are.’ He got up, rounded the desk and led Mannering along another passage up a shorter flight of stairs, and into a small suite of rooms. There was a living-room with books, television, two winged armchairs, a portable record-player and a shelf full of records. Next to this was a bedroom with a tiled bathroom and shower leading off. In an alcove between the two rooms was a pantry, with an electric kettle, a hot-plate, cups and saucers; everything necessary for the preparation of a light meal.
‘Do you find this satisfactory?’ asked Vandemeyer drily.
‘I do indeed, sir.’
‘Have you any other questions before deciding whether to come and work with me?’ asked Vandemeyer.
Mannering noticed the use of ‘with me’ instead of ‘for me’ and was sure that this man would not choose his words carelessly; he was equally sure that Vandemeyer wanted him to say ‘yes.’ But there was one question which had to be asked, and if he failed to ask it, sooner or later someone would wonder why.
‘If I may just ask, how it is such a post became vacant?’
Vandemeyer seemed to freeze.
‘We will go downstairs,’ he said, and led the way, leaving Mannering convinced that he had after all done the wrong thing. As they reached the head of the stairs a door opened and a girl in her late teens or early twenties appeared. Obviously she was in a hurry, as obviously not in good temper. She slammed the door, strode towards the head of the stairs, and then almost bumped into Mannering.
Mannering drew back. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘My fault.’ The girl spoke with bad grace, then looked away from him towards Vandemeyer. ‘Oh, Daddy!’ she exclaimed in a fury of exasperation, and pushed past him down the stairs.
Vandemeyer’s expression was hurt and pained as he watched her go; in that moment he seemed to become oblivious of Mannering. But he squared his shoulders, and led the way to his study. He sat behind the desk and Mannering stood in front of it, thinking about the girl, wondering what Vandemeyer was going to say.
Vandemeyer looked up at him with those pale, steely grey eyes.
‘I expect from everyone who works for me – as I will expect from you – absolute loyalty and absolute obedience. If I don’t get it, then the association quickly comes to an end. Is that clearly understood?’
‘I certainly understand,’ said Mannering with feeling.
‘I think you have the qualifications for this position. Do you want it?’
‘Yes, sir, very much.’
‘When can you start?’
‘Whenever you wish, sir. Will tomorrow morning be suitable?’
‘Certainly. At twelve noon tomorrow, then.’
‘I will be here, sir,’ promised Mannering, his heart beginning to beat fast again.
‘Good.’ Vandemeyer stood up and extended his right hand, then pressed a bell-push. Almost at once the footman appeared.
‘Wells,’ Vandemeyer said. ‘Mr Marriott will be joining me tomorrow and will go into Gillespie’s old quarters. Ask Mrs Wells to get everything ready.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Wells.
As they were going down the stairs, Wells a little ahead of Mannering, Mannering sensed a kind of tension which he had not felt before, as if Wells wished to say something significant to him, but could not quite bring himself to do so. All hope of this was lost, however, by the sudden appearance of the girl rushing through the hall to the front door. Without looking up she went out, closing the door with a snap.
‘Who is the young lady?’ asked Mannering.
‘Miss Judy – Sir Cornelius’s daughter,’ answered Wells. ‘You’ll get to know her well enough if you stay here.’ He did not enlarge on that cryptic remark, and went on quickly, ‘What time will you arrive?’
‘Just before noon.’
‘If you said “noon” don’t make it five minutes past,’ Wells advised. ‘You will find Sir Cornelius very fussy about time.’
‘Thanks for the tip,’ Mannering said.
He went out and, after the door closed, stood on the porch for a few moments looking at the garden, watching a young woman making a hash of parking a Morris 1000 in a space large enough for a Bentley. He waited until she had finished manoeuvring, then crossed the road, and turned deliberately and stared back at Number 17, as anyone in similar circumstances might do.
A man—could it be the same one?—was standing in the deeper shadows of the balcony above the porch.
Mannering walked thoughtfully back towards Knightsbridge.
He was only just beginning to realise that he had not only escaped
recognition but had got the job. The first hurdles were well past. He turned a corner, and as he did so, a girl sprang out of a doorway towards him. He recognised Judy Vandemeyer.
She stood squarely in front of him.
‘Are you Marriott?’ she demanded.
‘Yes, miss. I believe you are—’
‘You’ll be a fool if you work for my father,’ she said tensely. ‘An absolute fool!’
‘Say, what is this?’ demanded Mannering, drawling more than before. ‘Do you mean you don’t want me to? Is that it?’
‘I mean exactly what I said,’ she asserted. ‘You’ll be a fool if you work for my father. Gillespie—Gillespie worked for him for thirty years, and he got sacked at a moment’s notice. I shouldn’t think you would last thirty days,’ she added with withering scorn. ‘Take my advice, and don’t take the job.’
She turned on her heel and hurried away.
Chapter Nine
A Kind Of Betrayal
As Mannering watched the girl, he recalled her expression the moment before she turned away. She had looked angry, bitter, resentful and startled – yes, startled. As this thought flashed into his mind he saw a man on the other side of the road, hurrying. The girl, near the far corner, glanced over her shoulder, and stared not at Mannering but at the hurrying man. She disappeared.
The man, small, lean, dressed in a grey/brown suit—my God!
Sunlight fell upon the man as he reached the corner and showed a curious haze of green in the suit before he disappeared. A man dressed in a suit like that had killed Josephine.
Still maintaining his loping stride, Mannering reached the corner of Harrods and the main road as the girl appeared on the far side, near the raised section of the pavement. The man in the grey/brown suit with the haze of green was only a few feet behind her. Quite suddenly, as if realising she could not escape from him, the girl stopped, and swung round; even at this distance it was possible to see the hatred in her expression. It was difficult to see what exactly led up to what followed, but the next moment the man appeared to launch himself at her.
Mannering had never seen a man attack a woman with such venom. Trying to cover her face, Judy backed away but the man tore her hands aside and struck her half-a-dozen blows with the flat of his hand. A passer-by shouted something Mannering could not hear. There was a stream of traffic which made it impossible to get across, and two huge trucks then a red London double-decker bus hid the scene from Mannering’s gaze. At least he had time to think.
If he interrupted, going to the girl’s rescue, he would make a friend of her and incur the enmity of the man. He couldn’t really help the girl yet, but could undermine his own position.
The bus passed.
On the other side of the street a small crowd had gathered, and a policeman was heading towards it. Mannering turned and walked back the way he had come. It seemed a kind of betrayal, but the time might come when he would be able to make some amends.
He walked with those long, loping strides back to the hotel. Before going up to his room he telephoned Quinns from the prepayment box in the hall, and Rennie answered with obvious relish.
‘This is Quinns of Hart Row. Can I help you?’
‘Can I help you, Brian,’ Mannering asked in his normal voice.
‘Why, John!’ exclaimed Rennie. ‘It’s good to hear you. And thank you for the offer, but Josh and I are still doing fine. Do you want anything?’
‘Is there a cable from Lorna yet?’ asked Mannering.
‘No, not yet,’ said Rennie. ‘Can I call you any place if it comes? I shall be here for two or three hours yet.’
‘I’ll call you,’ Mannering promised. He told himself it was absurd to be even remotely anxious about Lorna, but he would be until he had heard from her. ‘Don’t wait for me, in case I’m held up. I—’
He heard a voice in the background, paused, then heard Rennie say, ‘Yes, it is. Hold on, John – Josh wants a word with you.’
There was the briefest of pauses.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Larraby. ‘I obtained one further piece of information late this afternoon which may be of some assistance.’
‘What was it?’ asked Mannering.
‘Before he disappeared, Sir Cornelius’s man Gillespie was making some inquiries about recent purchases made by his employer – the implication being that he questioned the genuineness of some of the articles bought. And on two occasions Gillespie had a young woman with him.’
‘Who was she?’ inquired Mannering.
‘The description tallies with that of Sir Cornelius’s daughter, Judy.’
‘Does it, by Jove,’ Mannering exclaimed. ‘That could be very useful indeed. Thank you, Josh.’
‘Is all going well with you, sir?’
‘Very well, I think. I want you to cable …’ He gave the instructions about the references, and explained why they might be taken up.
‘I don’t really know whether I’m glad to hear it,’ said Larraby with characteristic honesty. ‘Be very careful sir, won’t you?’
‘Very careful indeed,’ Mannering assured him.
He rang off, frowning. An Indian woman in a green and yellow sari was standing nearby, waiting patiently to use the telephone. As Mannering stepped out, she flashed a smile at him and went in. Soon she was talking very quickly into the mouthpiece. Mannering went into the street. Rush hour was over, no one seemed to be in a hurry, except two drivers of mini-cars who roared towards Fulham. A bus loaded with passengers from the airport turned into the BEA terminal. Mannering’s steps hurried with a certain agitation. Lorna wouldn’t be out of his thoughts for long until he’d had that cable. He went back to the hotel, passing the pretty Indian girl on his way, and took her place in the telephone box. He dialled Bristow’s home number, and Bristow’s wife answered.
‘No, he’s not home yet,’ she said. ‘I’m expecting him any minute. Can I get him to—oh, hold on! I think I can hear him at the door!’
In a few seconds, Bristow said, ‘What is it?’
‘It’s John Marriott,’ Mannering said in his assumed voice.
‘Do I know you, Mr Marriott?’
‘I’ve just followed a certain Mr Gillespie into a job,’ Mannering said.
There was a split second’s pause before Bristow said in a much more relaxed voice, ‘Oh, have you. I don’t know whether to congratulate you or not.’
‘You’re echoing Josh Larraby,’ said Mannering, in his normal speaking voice. ‘Any new reason for being nervous, Bill?’
‘No,’ said Bristow. ‘I’m uneasy about it, that’s all.’
‘Do something else for me, will you?’ asked Mannering.
‘What is it?’
‘Get all the information you can about the relationship between Vandemeyer and his daughter Judy – an attractive nineteen-year-old, I would say.’
‘I will,’ said Bristow. ‘Is there any particular slant?’
‘She and Gillespie seemed to have something in common,’ Mannering told him. ‘Is there any trace of Gillespie?’
‘Absolutely none,’ Bristow answered, and then added almost ominously, ‘Be careful, John.’ It was like a refrain.
‘I’ll be careful,’ promised Mannering again.
He was very preoccupied when he rang off.
He was still preoccupied when he ate a steak at a steakhouse at a quarter of the price he would pay in restaurants he normally patronised. He walked back to the hotel and telephoned Quinns again. This time there was no answer, he had left it too late, and Larraby, who lived above the shop, was often out in the evenings. Tonight he was doubtless probing into the Vandemeyer mystery.
At half-past nine next morning when he telephoned Quinns again, Rennie was already there, and a moment later Mannering’s spirits rose with a relief, which told him how anxious he had been.
‘Yes, there’s a cable,’ Rennie reported. ‘It reads “Perfect flight. New York’s as fabulous as ever. Be careful darling, Lorna.”’ Rennie paused. ‘How ve
ry strange that she should cable from New York when she’s really in Johannesburg! Don’t you think so?’
Mannering stepped out of a taxi at four minutes to twelve. The Johannesburg/New York muddle – so inexcusably careless on his part – could have needed a good deal of explaining away with anyone else. Rennie had accepted the explanation ‘she wants to avoid press publicity,’ readily enough – too readily, really, for honest belief. Well, there was nothing more he could do about it now. Mannering turned resolutely towards 17 Ellesmere Square. Wells, immaculate and more deferential than he had been yesterday, took his two suitcases. Mannering followed him up the stairs. Again he was aware of doors opening, of being watched. One door which led into a first-floor room at the front of the house, opened wider and the man who had been so violent with Judy appeared. He stared at Mannering with veiled insolence, standing squarely in his path.
Mannering stopped, and looked down on the man, who now wore a suit of navy blue. He had thin features, a sallow complexion, heavy-lidded bright eyes. There was the shadow of a beard about his chin and mouth, betraying a man who used an electric razor. He did not move.
‘May I pass?’ asked Mannering politely.
‘There’s room,’ the man answered, and to Mannering’s surprise his accent was Cockney, not remotely foreign.
‘There isn’t room for me,’ Mannering said flatly.
‘Mr Marriott,’ began Wells, agitated for the first time, ‘you ought to—’ He broke off, seeing the two men confronting each other and apparently resigning himself to the fact that they would have to resolve the issue between themselves.
It was too late for Mannering to give way now, but the small man was looking as if he meant to stand fast. It could only have been seconds, but it seemed an age before there was an interruption.
The study door opened and Vandemeyer appeared.
Mannering said briskly, ‘Good morning, Sir Cornelius.’
‘Good morning,’ Vandemeyer said. ‘Will you come and see me at two o’clock? Wells will tell you what arrangements are made for lunch. Buff, I want to see you at once.’
