The Unfinished Portrait

by John Creasey

  There was an urgent domestic matter to discuss.

  Judy …

  He turned the television loudly enough for it to be heard outside his suite and went downstairs again, making no attempt to conceal himself until he reached the passage leading to the communal staffroom. Wells and his wife were talking … Buff said something quite funny and they all laughed. The cook and the two women would be in the kitchen.

  He went to the room where he had met the Vandemeyers. The sliding doors by the dining-room were partly closed. He went through, safe from observation from the dining-room. One of the others might catch him here but he would find an excuse.

  Vandemeyer was saying, ‘Judy, I want you to go away for a few weeks. You need a rest.’

  ‘Want me to go away?’ gasped Judy. ‘But I don’t want to go away!’

  ‘And I don’t want any more arguments,’ her father said briskly.

  ‘But, Daddy, it’s crazy! If this is just because I wouldn’t tell you where I was this afternoon – oh, it’s crazy! I’ve every right to go out with a boy-friend for a few hours, you wouldn’t have dreamed of questioning me a few weeks ago!’

  ‘But I do question you now.’

  ‘You’ve no right to! For goodness sake, see reason.’ There was a few moments of silence, then she cried, ‘What on earth’s happened to this house? It isn’t the same place, it’s full of strangers and secrets. It’s horrible!’

  ‘Judith!’ her father said harshly. ‘Stop this nonsense at once.’

  ‘But it isn’t nonsense, it’s the truth. Everything’s changed – even Deirdre’s changed!’ Judy’s voice rose almost to a scream. ‘Gillespie said there was something wrong. I don’t believe it was him I spoke to. I don’t believe—’

  There was the sound of a slap – sharp and hard. Judy gasped.

  ‘Judith,’ her father said icily, ‘the change in this household is a change in you. You have become quick-tempered, suspicious, even shrewish. When you behaved yourself you had the freedom you deserved but you’ve forfeited the right to make your own decisions. You are going to spend a few weeks in Cornwall, at the cottage, and—’

  ‘I won’t go away! I absolutely refuse—’

  There was another tense silence, and Mannering sensed that Judy had been shocked to that silence. Then she gasped, ‘No! No, don’t let him—’

  ‘Keep still!’

  ‘No!’ screamed Judy.

  It was all Mannering could do to stay where he was, but if he gave himself away now all his effort would be wasted, and he could not be sure of doing any good. There was a gasp, and then Judy muttered, ‘You devil. Devil—dev—’

  Her voice faded out, and Buff said sharply, ‘Don’t let her fall.’ There was a flurry of movement, then cutlery clattered and fell. ‘All right, I’ve got her,’ Buff added. ‘Before she wakes up from that little lot she’ll be in Cornwall.’

  Vandemeyer said in a peculiar voice, ‘Don’t hurt her.’

  ‘If anyone hurts this baby, it will be the baby herself,’ Buff said. ‘Okay, I can carry her.’

  Mannering moved swiftly and silently out of the room, then towards the stairs. The door slammed. There was a moment of silence before Vandemeyer’s voice rose with a certain anguish. ‘I hope to God I’ve done the right thing.’

  Mannering went up to his own room, treading lightly, left the television on and went to his wardrobe for a scarf and a short swagger cane with a heavy knob handle. He left the light on in the sitting-room, turned off the one in the bedroom and opened the window wide at the bottom.

  He climbed out.

  There was a drainpipe on his left and almost directly beneath him the top of the window ledge of his office. He went down quickly, the years rolling back to the days when he would have thought no more of this than going down a flight of steps. Beneath his office was the roof of the back porch. Lights were on at kitchen and scullery. He climbed on to the porch roof and dropped down to the ground. There were no nearby sounds.

  He walked towards the service alley at the end of the garden, into it, and towards Ellesmere Street where it ran into the Square. The porch light of Number 17 was on, and a car pulled up outside. Almost at once the front door opened and Buff appeared, supporting Judy so that she appeared to be walking. The driver of the car got out: he was the middle-aged man who often trailed Mannering. A man was walking a dog farther along the street, but no one else was about. Buff bundled the girl into the back, and began to get in beside her.

  Mannering, moving slowly towards the scene on the garden side, pulled the scarf up over his mouth and chin.

  He ran ten feet, launched himself at the driver, spun him round and hit him with such force that the man went flying back. Buff, crouching to get into the car, half-turned. Mannering caught him by the leg and pulled him out. And Buff, struggling to get free, slipped and banged his head on the road. He lay stunned. Mannering bent down, tapped his pockets and found a gun in one, took it out and tossed it high into the garden. Buff hadn’t stirred. Mannering sprang round to the wheel of the car and got in. The engine was turning sweetly. It was an automatic drive, and he eased the car forward, past the man with the dog, who stood and stared.

  Mannering drove out of the Square, into Ellesmere Street, along this towards Knightsbridge. He saw a taxi at a stand, pulled up in front of it and jumped out. The driver was reading a newspaper. Mannering thrust a five-pound note through the window.

  ‘My daughter’s in the car ahead – dead to the world,’ he said. ‘Take her home, will you? I’ve got some unfinished business.’ He spoke with savage intensity.

  ‘That’s all very well, but—’ the man began.

  ‘Twenty-one, Green Street,’ Mannering went on. ‘Top floor. And whatever you do, don’t leave her alone. Twenty-one, Green Street – top floor, remember.’

  He turned and hurried back towards Ellesmere Square.

  Outside Number 17 was a small crowd, including a policeman. He turned into the alley and climbed back into the house the way he had come, stuffing the scarf into his pocket. For the first time he used the telephone; it was a risk, but a very slight one. He dialled Quinns, and Larraby answered from his flat above the shop.

  ‘Josh – about ten minutes from now Judy Vandemeyer should be at my flat. Go there and don’t look surprised when you find her in a drugged sleep. A taxi-driver will be with her – I told him Judy is my daughter. Give him a fiver and tell him to forget it. If he insists on calling the police, get in touch with Bristow. Is that all clear?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ said Larraby. ‘Lionel is with me – we will both go. His report confirms much that you suspect, sir – there are no vital differences.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Mannering.

  He put down the receiver, and stood quite still. Larraby had taken the instructions as if they were of everyday occurrence. Mannering sat on the arm of a chair and began to laugh silently. He was still laughing when there was a thunderous banging on his entrance door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lionel Spencer

  By the time Larraby had finished talking to Mannering, Lionel Spencer was at the front door of Quinns. His car stood right outside, and he jumped in and started the engine. Rays from a street lamp fell on to the deep red velvet of Quinns window, lighting the two gilded chairs, once the dining-chairs of Belgian princes, which stood there. Lights were left on in the shop by night, and a police patrol passed every fifteen minutes. Lionel knew that, but only respected the extraordinary burglar-proof precautions – the intricate system of alarm and controls which looked simple on the surface but for many years had withstood every attempt to break in.

  Larraby came hurrying, and closed the door. He did not need to turn a key in the lock, for every control slipped into place immediately.

  Lionel was by the side of the car’s open door.

  Larraby got into it, nimbly.

  ‘Hold tight!’ warned Lionel, as he had warned Judy.

  He vaulted into the driving seat and started off w
ith a roar which set sleeping pigeons a-flutter, and made a policeman in New Bond Street turn to stare. Larraby smiled and nodded at him.

  ‘They’re a rare box of tricks, they are,’ the policeman remarked to himself, and half-smiled and half-frowned as the sports car swung round the corner.

  Larraby was clutching the door and the edge of his seat as they turned into Piccadilly, down Bury Street, then into Pall Mall. He cut through to the Mall, where Buckingham Palace stood massive and squat against the pale evening sky.

  ‘We’ll be there in ten minutes flat,’ boasted Lionel.

  ‘That is presuming we get there at all,’ murmured Larraby. ‘And Lionel, I’m warning you. Show no surprise at whatever state we may find Judith in.’

  ‘State?’ growled Lionel. ‘State?’ He swung out to pass a cyclist, and then swung round a corner to the left. Lights showed the modern houses, a block of flats, and the tall houses of which Mannering’s was one. Outside these was a taxi, unable to get close to the kerb because of parked cars. As Lionel pulled up just behind it, a man came out of a front door and stood looking up and down. Lionel got out and turned towards him.

  ‘Did you bring my sister home?’ he called.

  ‘Sister? Who said anything about anyone’s sister?’ The man was heavily-built and had a big face and an aggressive manner.

  ‘My father told me—’ began Lionel, and then he glanced inside the taxi.

  Judy sat in a corner, her head lolling on her chest, making no sign of movement. Lionel pulled open the door and leaned in.

  ‘Judy!’ he called. ‘Judy!’

  ‘Lionel,’ said Larraby, swiftly reaching his side, ‘there is no need to go into a panic. Lift Judy out of the taxi and take her to the lift.’ He took out his wallet, selected a five-pound note, and turned to the taxi-driver. ‘Call the police if you think you should,’ he went on, ‘but make it Scotland Yard and ask for Superintendent Bristow.’ He handed over the note – and then for the first time noticed a man on the other side of the road.

  He went tense.

  Lionel now had Judy cradled in his arms and was turning his back on the taxi. Larraby watched the other man draw nearer, then, in an urgent undertone, called sharply, ‘Lionel! Be careful!’

  The taxi-driver looked suspiciously from one to the other.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ demanded the newcomer. He reached the pavement showing no aggressive intent. ‘Who are—oh! Josh Larraby!’ His voice rose in relief.

  ‘I want the police—’ began the taxi-driver.

  ‘You’ve got them,’ said the man who had come out of the shadows.

  ‘I’ll want proof before I’ll believe you,’ the taxi-driver growled.

  The newcomer took out his wallet and presented a card showing that he was Detective-Officer Wilton of the CID. Though the taxi-driver’s suspicions were immediately allayed, dignity demanded that he should not allow himself to be mollified too soon.

  ‘But I still think it’s a damned funny business,’ he grumbled. ‘A man asks me to bring an unconscious girl …’

  By the time he had told his story, Lionel had taken Judy to the lift and upstairs to Mannering’s flat. There was a chair by the lift and he placed her in this carefully, then stood back and looked at her. Now her head lolled to one side and she might well be in a drugged sleep. He bent forward and felt for her pulse. It was beating steadily. Thankfully he stepped back as the lift arrived again and Larraby stepped out.

  ‘They’re both satisfied,’ he announced, opening the door with a key. ‘Shall I help you carry her?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Lionel picked her up more easily this time, and took her into the flat. Larraby put on lights and led the way into the small spare bedroom and turned down the bed. Lionel put the girl on this carefully.

  ‘Ought we to take off her shoes and loosen her clothes?’ he muttered.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Larraby placed his hands on Judy’s waist, and smiled drily. ‘She isn’t wearing anything tight, just take off her shoes.’ He raised one eyelid, and said, ‘It isn’t morphia, the pupil’s fairly large.’

  ‘We’ll have to get a doctor.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ Larraby hazarded. He felt her pulse. ‘All she needs, in my opinion, is warmth and comfort, she’ll come round when the drug’s effect has worn off, and won’t feel any ill-effects.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ demanded Lionel, hotly. ‘And who is going to look after her? Mrs Mannering isn’t here, and the maid—’ He broke off.

  ‘Was murdered,’ Larraby finished for him. ‘I think we should wait for a while before we make any decisions. Mr Mannering may telephone us; he certainly will if he can. Don’t get so worked up, Lionel.’

  ‘I’m new to this kind of thing,’ Lionel growled.

  ‘But you gave me the impression you wanted to learn,’ Larraby said. ‘The one positive fact is that Mr Mannering was in a desperate hurry to get back to Ellesmere Square or he would not have left the young lady with a taxi-driver. But he will also tell you that in such an emergency a taxi-driver will either do what he’s asked or go to the police.’ Larraby paused. ‘Obviously he believes Miss Vandemeyer to be in grave danger or he would not have taken the chance of being caught with her. So, presumably she was drugged preparatory to being abducted. And there are already two people missing in this case: Lady Vandemeyer herself and the man Gillespie. What conclusions do you draw from this?’

  ‘We must hold on to her like grim death,’ said Lionel stubbornly.

  ‘You are most certainly right. I think perhaps we should arrange for a policewoman—’

  He broke off, as the telephone bell rang, hesitated, and then went into the hall to answer it. Lionel stood in the doorway as Larraby announced quite calmly, ‘This is Mr Mannering’s residence … Who … Hallo, Superintendent!’ Relief spread over Larraby’s face. ‘Yes … I am here with Mr Spencer … yes, that is right. I thought perhaps a policewoman or a nurse whom you can trust might stay here for the night … I think she is likely to be unconscious for some hours still … It would be wise, I’m sure … No, sir, Mr Mannering left no word, and I am a little uneasy about him … Very good Superintendent.’

  He rang off.

  ‘Bristow will lay everything on and will be here in half-an-hour,’ he announced. ‘So there won’t be any need to worry about Judy.’

  Lionel said, frowning, ‘There could be a lot of reasons to be worried about Mr Mannering. What do you think I should do?’

  ‘Consult the Superintendent,’ said Larraby firmly. ‘I don’t have any doubt at all.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Lionel said. ‘There’s another cause for anxiety, don’t forget.’

  ‘What, precisely?’

  ‘Supposing that taxi-driver was followed.’

  ‘Most unlikely,’ declared Larraby. ‘Mr Mannering left her alone for several minutes in the taxi and if anyone had followed her, that would have been his chance to act.’

  Lionel conceded almost grudgingly, ‘I suppose you’re right. Everything’s pretty well under control, isn’t it?’ After a pause, he went on, ‘I didn’t realise that Mr Mannering worked so closely with the police.’

  ‘There are a lot of things you don’t realise about Mr Mannering,’ Larraby said drily. ‘I wish—’

  The telephone bell rang again, and he broke off to go to answer it. This time, there was no delight at all in his expression as he demanded, ‘Who is that?’ He motioned to another room and mouthed, ‘Extension!’

  Lionel opened a door, saw a telephone near it, and snatched up a receiver, in time to hear a man saying, ‘Never mind who I am. Just bring the girl.’

  ‘I really have no idea what you mean,’ Larraby stated.

  ‘Then I’ll tell you. A girl was taken away from Vandemeyer’s house in Ellesmere Square tonight, and taken to Mannering’s place. It was a big mistake. If you don’t want to get hurt, you bring her right back.’

  ‘You are talking nonsense,’ Larry interrupted. ‘Both
Mr and Mrs Mannering are out of town, and—’

  ‘Bring her, you hear me!’ growled the man on the telephone. ‘If you don’t—’

  There was a sudden explosive roar from the door, and Lionel spun round, banging against a sideboard of bottles. He could see smoke, the door splitting from its hinges, and a man wearing a scarf over his face and carrying a gun, emerging like a dark-clad ghost. Larraby dropped the receiver and jumped towards the door of the girl’s room.

  The man who had broken in raised a gun. There was a flash, the crack of the shot, and then a gasp from Larraby, who pitched sprawling. As he fell, another man, also masked and armed, appeared from the smoke. To Lionel Spencer it all seemed like a nightmare, or something seen in a film.

  One man said, ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Soon find out,’ growled the other.

  ‘When you find her, kill her and get it over.’

  ‘He said we were to take her back—’

  ‘We wouldn’t have a chance in hell of getting away with her. She’s had it – the little bitch has caused us too much trouble already.’

  Lionel was standing stock still.

  Only the fact that he was standing on one side and there was no light on in the room saved him from being seen.

  He could see Larraby, clutching his thigh; the smoke; the two men with their guns: and the open door of the room where Judy lay. There were three other doors, besides hers and this one.

  One man approached the door of Judy’s room, the other a door on the right.

  Larraby was gasping. The words sounded like, ‘Police, police.’

  The man nearest him gave a bark of a laugh, and said, ‘The cops can’t help you. We fixed them.’

  Lionel could just make out the shape of the bottles he had nearly knocked over. He stretched out and gripped the neck of one of them, fearful of making a noise. He took another, and stepped into the doorway. The man near Judy’s room kicked the door open with his foot.

  Lionel flung one bottle with all his force at the back of the man’s head. As he transferred the second bottle to his right hand, the man he had struck pitched forward, the other spun round, gun levelled. Lionel, knowing that he hadn’t time to throw before the other fired, felt as if death were yawning before him.