by John Creasey
He took out the love-letters.
He did not read closely, but looked for the signatures. The first one was Eustace. Eustace addressed a woman with every kind of endearment, but not her name. Nor was there an address at the top of the writing paper.
The other letters, even more passionately worded, were from a woman to a man. There wasn’t much difference between one love-letter and another; the same passion unlocked the same words, the same mood of folly. There was no address on these either, merely the man’s name, ‘George’, and the woman’s, ‘Win’.
He locked them in a drawer, and took out the address book. On the third page was an entry:
Eustace R. Staffer,
19, Conroy Street,
Sloane Square, S.W.
If this added up properly, Anne Staffer was being blackmailed because of a skeleton in her father’s cupboard.
Mannering went into the living-room, where Anne Staffer was sitting. She had been crying, but was over it now.
‘I hoped you were back, John,’ Lorna said. ‘Anne’s told me what it’s all about.’
‘You’ve been so kind,’ said Anne, warmly.
It appeared that her mother had a weak heart, and a shock might kill her. Her father had been blackmailed because of an affaire which had started, and finished, some years ago.
He had paid out so much money that his business had been ruined.
‘When he just couldn’t find any more money, Bill Courtney turned on me,’ Anne said. ‘He began about three weeks ago. I knew nothing about it until then, I only knew that father was worried—I thought it was because of the business. I’d saved a few hundred pounds, and Bill’s had it all. He keeps wanting more. He waits for me nearly every night and tonight he said he must have a hundred pounds. And he’s hinted—’
She broke off.
‘That it would be easy to get something from the shop?’ suggested Mannering.
‘You guessed that?’
‘It wasn’t hard to guess,’ said Mannering. ‘He was using letters your father had written?’
‘Yes. I just can’t understand how father—’ Anne broke off again. ‘It’s no use trying to understand, I only know that if mother finds out, it will kill her.’
‘I’ll deal with William Courtney,’ said Mannering. ‘You’ve nothing more to worry about, Anne, I promise you.’
He went on: ‘Let Courtney think that you’re still scared of him. Take his instructions, and report to me exactly what he wants you to do. He’s lost the letters, but he won’t tell you about that—so, officially, you don’t know.’
‘But how can you be sure?’
Mannering took the bundle of letters from his pocket, led her into the kitchen, opened the stove, and tossed the letters in.
As the last envelope flared and died, the telephone bell rang.
Chapter Eleven
Report
‘Report,’ said Chittering brightly. ‘Courtney arrived ten minutes after you’d gone. He was upstairs, for fifteen minutes, and came down like greased lightning. Was that man frightened! He rushed to a telephone booth, then on to the nearest tube. I left the Austin, and followed. He got out at Ealing, met a man in a car on the Common, jumped in, and off they went. There wasn’t a taxi in sight. So that’s that.’
‘Ealing Common,’ echoed Mannering.
‘The man who met him was driving a black Humber Hawk registration number 2HG513. I didn’t really see the chap. Courtney just opened the door and jumped in.’ There was a fractional pause; then: ‘How is Anne?’
‘If you happened to look in, before too long, you could offer to take her home.’
‘Just give me half-an-hour!’
When Chittering arrived, Anne was actually smiling.
James Arthur Morris drove away from Ealing Common in his Humber Hawk. Courtney sat by his side, tight-lipped.
Soon they were in the open country.
Morris said thinly: ‘I’m waiting for you to tell me what’s happened.’
‘I had a visitor tonight,’ Courtney said.
‘I’m not interested in your social life.’
‘Nor was he—he wanted some letters. He took them, too, after opening my safe.’
Morris said sharply: ‘Staffer’s letters?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he take anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Listen, Courtney,’ said Morris, ‘if you lie to me, you’ll find yourself in real trouble. I look after you and you get well paid, but I want service, understand. What else was stolen?’
‘I had another bundle of letters—’
‘The jewels?’
‘They weren’t touched.’
‘Whose were the other letters?’
‘An old girl friend of mine.’
‘Been blackmailing her too?’
‘You should care.’
Morris said tersely: ‘I do care. I told you to cut everything out, except Staffer, and when I tell you to do a thing—’
‘I use my own judgment,’ Courtney finished for him. ‘I don’t scrape to you or anyone else, and don’t forget it. You pay me, but I do the work. If you’re not satisfied, find someone else.’
Morris didn’t speak.
‘That’s better,’ said Courtney. He leaned forward, drew a flask from his hip pocket, and put it to his lips.
Morris said: ‘That’s all it wants.’
‘I’ll drink what I like, and when I like,’ said Courtney deliberately. ‘I promised to tell you if anything went wrong, and I’m telling you. It looks to me as if the thief came for those letters. It could have been the other man.’
‘You said it was a woman.’
‘They were written by a woman, to a boy friend.’
‘What else was stolen?’
‘Only an old address book,’ Courtney said reluctantly. He didn’t mention Allen’s gun.
‘Was my address in it?’
‘Er … yes.’
‘You bloody fool.’ Morris pulled into the side of the road. ‘Courtney, you’re too clever for your own good. I don’t like smarties who let themselves get robbed. If you leave address books and letters lying about—’
‘They were locked in a safe.’
‘Where did you buy it from? Woolworth’s? They couldn’t have got my address if you hadn’t written it down. If there ever comes a time when you think you can start squeezing don’t. Understand?’
Courtney looked at the jeweller in the faint light from the dashboard. His own pallor and the tension of his face were not visible; but tension sounded in his harsh breathing.
Morris went on softly: ‘Don’t make any mistake. I mean business. You do what I tell you, just that and no more. Is that clear?’
Courtney said sulkily: ‘I couldn’t help being robbed.’
‘You could have helped putting my name in a book. We’ve got to get that book back. The thief did the job for Anne Staffer or for this other woman you’ve been blackmailing, so you’ve two places to look. Find out early tomorrow if Anne Staffer knows. You can easily tell. If she takes a strong line with you, it will mean that she knows she has nothing to worry about. For your sake, it had better be the other one, I’ve plenty of work for Anne to do. Properly handled, she can get a fortune for us from Quinns. Now, what’s the name of the other woman?’
‘Cartwright, Winifred Cartwright,’ answered Courtney. ‘The man she wrote the letters to is George Renway.’
‘Where does he live?’
Courtney gave him the address, and: ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Find out if they have that book,’ said Morris, ‘and I don’t want any help from you. Your job’s with Anne Staffer. First thing in the morning, post those jewel cases to me at the shop—don’t register them. Understand?’
‘My hearing’s good enough.’
‘I wish your brain was,’ said Morris.
It was too late for Courtney to catch a train, so Morris drove the younger man as far as Paddington, and let him w
alk from there.
Lorna woke next morning to find John sitting up, and the tea tray on the bedside table, with the morning papers.
She eyed him stonily. ‘Two days ago I hadn’t a worry in the world, but we had to come back to this.’
‘It isn’t all my fault,’ Mannering pleaded.
‘Most of it is,’ said Lorna. ‘You revel in it, don’t you?’
‘There’s revelling, and justifiable revelling. Anne’s feeling happier, Chittering is falling in love, and I think I have the gun that fired the fateful bullet.’
‘What?’
‘The problem is whether to tell Bristow that I stole it from Courtney, or not,’ Mannering mused.
Lorna seemed too shocked to speak.
‘He might suggest that we ought to have tipped off the police,’ went on Mannering. ‘On the other hand, by the time the wheels of the law had done their slow grinding, Courtney would probably have got rid of the gun, or used it again.’
‘But John, this means—’
‘It could mean that Courtney killed Allen, but Courtney could have got the gun from someone else,’ Mannering pointed out. ‘The real question is whether to make Bristow a present of the gun with an explanatory letter signed by Mr. Anonymous, or to say nothing, keep the gun, and at the proper time make sure that Courtney is caught with it in his possession.’
Lorna said faintly: ‘Let me have my tea.’
Mannering handed her a cup.
‘I give up,’ she said. ‘Don’t you see what this means—they are still after something at Quinns, and they want to use Anne to get it.’
‘The Fesinas might have whetted their appetites,’ conceded Mannering.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Pay a call on Courtney this evening, but not as John Mannering.’
Lorna said: ‘I suppose nothing will stop you.’
Mannering pretended not to hear, finished his tea and got out of bed. ‘See how fit I am—quite well enough to take on half-a-dozen toughs.’
‘You’ll have to tell Bristow something, John, he was so good when you were ill. Don’t let him down.’
‘I’m going to make a working agreement with him,’ said Mannering, ‘and set the seal of respectability on the Baron.’
Chapter Twelve
Working Agreement
Bristow’s handclasp was cool and firm.
‘John, it’s good to see you. I’m sorry I was out of town yesterday.’
‘So was I.’ Mannering sat down in the office and accepted a cigarette.
‘Care to tell me why you wanted those photographs last night?’
‘I met a man who had a gun.’
‘Was it the gun?’ Bristow asked, sharply.
Mannering stretched out his legs. He looked indolent and handsome, and completely at peace with the world.
‘If you knew an amateur detective who came across a little matter which he ought to report to the police, but which, if so reported, might lose a mackerel, to catch a sprat, what would you do?’
‘So it’s like that,’ said Bristow.
‘This detective doesn’t know for sure that it’s the same gun, he only guesses.’
‘If he’s the man I think he is, he doesn’t make many mistakes over that kind of thing,’ said Bristow drily. ‘So you’ve really got your teeth into the job. Tell me as much as you want to now, and give me time to think the situation over. I shall make one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘If I tell you I must have information, you’re to pass it over without argument.’
‘That’s hard,’ said Mannering.
Bristow said: ‘John, you’ve played this lone wolf act for a long time and nothing I do will ever stop you. But remember I’ve been after the people who killed Allen for nearly ten weeks, and I don’t know anything more about it than I did when I started. You’ve been at it twenty-four hours, and—’ he broke off, and threw up his hands. ‘Oh, it doesn’t make sense!’
Mannering said quietly: ‘Listen, Bill.’
He told of Anne Staffer and Courtney, omitting only his own unlawful visit. Bristow could read between the lines better than most. ‘So it was really put on to my plate, Bill. I could hardly have lost it if I’d tried.’
‘Sure about this Humber Hawk registration number?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Chittering helping you?’
‘He’s still a crime reporter.’
‘I don’t know that I like it,’ said Bristow gruffly, ‘but I think you’d better follow your hunch for a bit. I can find cut who owns this car—but on what you’ve told me, I couldn’t do anything to touch the owner.’
‘How long would it take you to find him?’
‘Ten minutes or so.’
‘May I wait?’
‘There’s no real reason why I shouldn’t give you the name, but from now on, I’ll have to be after the man too.’
Mannering said quietly: ‘Bill, I don’t want or intend to have a head-on clash with you. If we could work together, you on the routine and daily grind, I taking the risks and going where policemen dare not tread, we would get the results more quickly. Can’t we work that way? Remember that in the long run we want the same thing. Take this job. On the face of it, there’s a gang and at least one killer, and we might uncover something very ugly indeed.’
After a long pause, Bristow said: ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
The Humber Hawk ‘was registered in the name of James Arthur Morris, with an address in Hatton Garden. That was his office and shop. He lived at Ealing.
When Mannering went to Quinns that morning, Anne Staffer was polishing an old cabinet with much energy. She looked up eagerly, obviously wanting to speak to him. ‘Soon,’ he said, and went past her up the narrow twisting stairs to the store and workrooms.
Larraby was in the one with the best light, re-gilding a carved wooden frame. The picture was standing against the wall, a shaft of sunlight giving it all the glamour of Southern Italy. Mannering lifted it for a closer scrutiny. ‘Nice, Josh.’
‘I thought you would be pleased with it.’
‘Where did you say you bought it?’
‘Peggotty’s, in Bethnal Green.’
‘Peggotty? Didn’t he do a stretch recently?’
‘He came out three months ago. I always thought that he had the rough end of that particular stick, sir,’ said Larraby.
‘And this one too,’ said Mannering, ‘if he sold a five hundred pounds picture for—’
‘Three-pounds-fifteen, sir.’
‘Go and see him some time today,’ said Mannering. ‘Tell him what the picture is worth, and that he will get a fifty-fifty cut in whatever we get for it, after we’ve paid for the cleaning and overheads. He won’t make much easier money than that, and while you’re in the East End, find out if any rumours are circulating about a jewel merchant named James Arthur Morris, who has a shop in Hatton Garden and a house in Ealing. Take the small Leica, and get a picture of him if you can.’ With a friendly nod Mannering went downstairs to the office, beckoning to Anne.
He closed the door behind her, waved to a chair, and stood looking down at her. He could understand what Chittering felt; this morning the girl had a freshness and charm which it would be hard to improve upon, and she looked carefree. The difference between her expression now, and yesterday, was startling.
‘Well, how did it go?’ he asked.
‘Bill was waiting for me when I left home this morning,’ Anne said, simply. ‘He was friendlier than he’s been for some time!’
Mannering chuckled.
‘Then he started to talk about the letters, and climbed down from a hundred pounds to twenty-five. I said I’d get it by Saturday. That seemed to satisfy him, and he promised me he wouldn’t worry me again until then. He looked almost—well, relieved.’
‘He would.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he would feel sure that you knew nothing about the missing letters. Don’t wo
rry about the money. I’ll look after that. Where is the rendezvous?’
‘Oxford Circus,’ she answered slowly. ‘I suppose you do know what you’re doing.’
‘Yes, Anne, I do.’ He looked up as someone tapped on the door.
It was Chittering, who beamed almost shyly at Anne as she went out, pushing a hand through his curly hair. He sat on a corner of the desk, looking down at the papers on the blotting pad, up at the portrait, then into Mannering’s eyes.
‘Did Anne tell you that Courtney button-holed her this morning?’ There was a touch of anxiety in the question.
‘Yes. You needn’t worry in case she’s mixed up with the ugly side of the business.’
‘It’s nice to have one’s judgment confirmed,’ said Chattering. ‘My spies reported that you spent some time with Bristow this morning. Of course, you don’t have to tell me what he said, whether you’ve declared war with the Yard again or are going to smoke the pipe of peace now and for ever afterwards, but I’ll bet he didn’t tell you what I can. A Mr. James Arthur—’
‘James Arthur Morris, Hatton Garden and Ealing,’ said Mannering.
Chittering said: ‘My, my, you have got the Yard eating out of your hand!’ He was very thoughtful. ‘Well, I can even improve on that. Morris has a good reputation; he isn’t liked but is believed to be honest. He has a lot of dealings with a Mr. Mortimer Bryce, solicitor, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields.’
Mannering said softly: ‘You’re doing nicely, Chitty. It was Bryce who sold the Fesinas to me.’
‘And Morris is hand in glove with him,’ murmured Chittering. ‘He may even know something about the man who stole them back from you. Going to see Bryce first, or Morris?’
Chapter Thirteen
Make-Up
Mannering opened the door of the flat and stepped into the full cry of Ethel in song. The kitchen door was open, and Lorna must be out, or Ethel wouldn’t let herself go so completely. He saw her quivering back at the sink as it bent over a bag of potatoes.
He waited until a slight lull assured him she was about to launch into a fresh spate and that no time must be lost. ‘Ethel, where is Mrs. Mannering?’ Ethel swung round; potato peeler in hand. ‘Oh, sir. You didn’t half give me a start, sir. Mrs. Plender telephoned, and they had some tea together, and she said she’d be back by half past six, sir.’
