by John Creasey
She said: ‘How much do you know about precious stones?’
‘That they’re good currency in any language.’
‘So that’s all.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, it’s time we had a better look at you. Bryce can you get up?’
Bryce stood up slowly, one hand against the chair for support.
‘I don’t think you’re steady enough to hold a gun yet,’ said the woman. She pointed to Mannering and nodded to an upright chair. ‘Sit down.’
He obeyed.
There was another picture, a dark-background print, hanging low on the wall: it gave a better reflection than the first picture had done. He could see the reflection of the woman and some of the furniture, but not Bryce or Morris.
The woman came towards him.
He believed she intended to knock him out. He kept his gaze riveted on the picture, waiting for an agonizing second, then sprang up kicking the chair backwards, against her. She cried out.
Mannering swung round, and snatched the gun.
‘Surprising what a difference a little bit of steel makes, isn’t it?’ he asked.
He lined Bryce against the wall, then turned to the woman.
‘And now, lady, suppose we lift the veil.’
Chapter Sixteen
The Photograph
The woman stood without moving. He hadn’t much time left; if Morris came round and Bryce grew bolder, the game could move the other way again.
She put her right hand to the scarf, and began, very slowly, to move it aside.
He wished she would hurry.
Her mouth came into sight, well-shaped, but determined.
Then suddenly she rushed across the room. He could shoot her, but couldn’t stop her otherwise. She was at the front door by the time Mannering reached the passage.
He wouldn’t shoot, and she seemed to sense it. She wrenched the front door open and darted out into the night. He was within a few feet of her, and made a final effort, hand outstretched. He clutched something, felt it give as she tore free and raced along the road.
A car turned into the road, its headlights sweeping the houses. If he were seen rushing after her, there would be trouble. He backed into the porch, acutely disappointed but admiring her courage; she had taken a desperate chance, and it had come off.
He went back into the house. What on earth had become of Chittering? But there wasn’t time to worry about him now. Bryce and Morris gave him plenty to think about.
He saw a shadow from the room where he had left the two men. A bullet smacked a few inches beyond his head. Bryce fired again, and Mannering cried out, as if in agony.
Bryce came fully into sight, gun smoking. Mannering fired at it, and knocked it out of his hand, leaving the man helpless.
Then Mannering heard the sound of approaching footsteps and excited voices. He pushed Bryce back into the room, and slammed the door. The key was in the outside, and he locked it.
There was a thud at the front door.
‘It was from here,’ a man said clearly. ‘I’m sure it was here!’
Mannering hurried through the kitchen to the back garden. There was a fence at the end of it, about five feet high. He climbed it, clambered through another garden, and found himself in a quiet and deserted street. Soon, he reached the end of Willerby Street where he had parked the Austin.
Chittering was nearby; he must be.
Chittering wouldn’t have run out on him.
He started the engine, then slowed as a woman screamed. He saw that she was standing over the huddled body of a man: and feared that it was Chittering.
If Chittering were hurt, these people would give him attention quickly; he couldn’t help the newspaperman if he were caught. On the other hand, if Bryce came out, he, himself, would certainly be recognized. He put his foot down and the car shot forward, but it was hard to make himself believe that it was the only thing to do.
There was one place of importance he hadn’t yet visited, and there was time to do this, before Bryce took action. He sped along nearly deserted main roads towards the northwest, and Hampstead. He kept seeing a mind-picture of Chittering’s face, so pleasant, so cherubic, so alive.
Who had attacked him?
The woman?
There wasn’t much for Mannering to boast about, yet.
He left the car a hundred yards away from Bryce’s property. He was a bachelor with two servants, the house, large and substantial.
Mannering walked quickly through the white gates, reached the big porch and shone his torch; that was taking a risk, but haste was all-important.
It would take him several minutes to force the lock of this door, but he would waste as many looking for a window he could force, or seeing if the back door were easier. His tools rattled as he drew the skeleton key out. There was little sound, and no light at any of the front windows.
The door opened.
He stepped into a dark hall. There was no light of any kind until he shone his torch; then he saw several big doors and a sweeping staircase; this was a large house, beautifully proportioned.
One of the doors was of the swing type. He went to it, and saw a light shining under a door on the right of the passage beyond. The servants, a man and wife, would be in there. He heard the faint sound of music from a radio.
He opened the door an inch, and peered through the narrow crack. He saw a man’s feet comfortably crossed, and near them, a woman’s.
He went back into the hall and moved a chair in front of the swing door. He saw a silver tray standing on an oak chest, and placed it on the chair seat; at the slightest touch it would clatter to the floor and give him plenty of warning.
He went through three other downstairs rooms, then mounted the stairs stealthily, his footsteps muffled by the thick pile of the carpet.
The second door he opened led to a study, a small, panelled room – the room of a man of wealth. A fire burned low in a wide hearth. It did not take him very long to find the safe in the wall behind a picture.
A combination wall safe was the worst type to open quickly; he doubted if he had time, nor had he the proper tools for such an intricate job. He turned away and approached the desk; that would be easier. He opened the middle drawer, with his pick-lock, careful not to scratch the surface.
He pulled out several papers, but found nothing of interest.
He thought he heard a sound.
He paused, his head raised. He went to the door and peered out cautiously; but there was no one there. There was no light downstairs and none on the landing. He went back and opened drawer after drawer in quick succession; none gave much difficulty.
Then he started to go through them.
In a bundle of papers were bills from James Arthur Morris, Jeweller. Mannering put those aside, and went on. He found some photographs in an envelope, and shook them out on the desk. Among the first he saw was one of Anne Staffer. He found one of Morris, another of Courtney, several of people he didn’t know – men and women. There was only one other young woman, and she was a beauty; and vaguely familiar.
He turned it over, and read: Lady Iris Larmont.
He knew her slightly as a customer, and knew that her husband was a compulsive collector of precious stones.
This might be the clue he needed, for Lady Iris Larmont might well be the woman of Morris’s house – that woman of authority.
Larmont, a widower for years, had lately married a girl who was twenty years younger than he. It had caused something of a stir in London Society, though she came from a good family, and there had been nothing really sensational. The Larmonts threw an occasional party, but did not enter into society with any great splash.
Mannering opened the last drawer.
In it was a file of letters to Mortimer Bryce, and each one was signed: ‘Lester Larmont’, They were instructions for the purchase and the sale of various jewels, and among them was an order for the disposal of the Fesinas.
The last letter was dated September 9th, just over a week
before the attack on Quinns. It ran: I am very disappointed that you cannot persuade Mannering to sell the Fesinas back to you at the price he paid.
The matter is extremely important, as I have told you. If you cannot close this deal, I shall have to consider using another agent.
The tone was testy, the test a mystery; why sell jewels and then try to get them back? Why hadn’t Bryce even tried to buy them?’
Mannering left the letters as He found them. There was no reason to let Bryce find out that the desk had been opened. He closed and re-locked the drawers, and stood up. He had the new angle he had been hoping for, the angle which had evaded Bristow, because Bryce hadn’t talked about his working for Larmont.
Why not?
Possible answers flitted through Mannering’s mind, and he rejected them. He went out, switched off the light, and closed the door. Darkness closed about him as he went down the stairs. He crossed the hall, took the metal tray off the chair and put it back on the chest, then replaced the chair, all by the light of the torch.
He opened the front door.
The glow of the street lamp met him; and silence. He closed the door gently, and hurried along the drive. Tension which had wrapped like a cloak from the moment he had realized that the woman would escape, was easing for the first time.
He opened the door of the Austin.
A woman inside said: ‘You’ve been very quick.’
The street lamp gave sufficient light to show the gun in her hand.
Chapter Seventeen
Lady With A Gun
Mannering stood still for only a second; then he lowered his head and got into the car.
‘Where would you like to go?’ he asked.
She laughed; and her laugh was as attractive as her voice.
‘You aren’t a bit like your face,’ she remarked. ‘Just drive on to the Heath, a nice lonely spot.’
‘Where lovers lie and the odd murder or two can be done by stealth,’ said Mannering. ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten that I could have killed you.’ He started off smoothly.
‘I remember perfectly,’ she said. ‘I also remember that you hadn’t the nerve to shoot.’ When he didn’t answer, she went on: ‘What happened after I left Morris’s house?’
‘I made the silly mistake of thinking about two things at the same time, and forgot that Bryce was getting his breath back. He’d taken Morris’s gun, and there was some shooting.’
Her voice sharpened. ‘Is Bryce hurt?’
‘I only meant to hit his gun, but I can’t be sure his fingers didn’t suffer. I don’t think you’ll find Bryce and Morris much good in the future, anyhow, their nerve began to crack tonight.’
He turned a corner, then came on to the Heath. Trees loomed up beneath the headlights, bushes grew close to the edge of the road, which was wide but twisting. ‘Did you see a man in Willerby Street?’
‘You mean, the man who was looking-out for you?’
‘No one looks out for me, I work alone—but I knew he was there.’
She said sharply: ‘How?’
‘He’s a crime reporter and has been interested in Morris for some time. I slid into the house without him noticing me, and when I left, he seemed to have run into trouble. I’m curious.’
‘I hit him,’ she said.
‘You’re quite an Amazon.’
‘He was in the porch of Morris’s house, and didn’t hear me come. I hit him with the gun, and after that—’
She broke off.
‘Yes?’ asked Mannering, mildly — and he didn’t slacken the car’s speed. He had no illusions, however; the gun was covering him, and she was capable of using it.
‘I dragged him into another porch.’
‘He was still unconscious when I came away, so you must have hit him pretty hard.’
He felt her breath on the back of his neck; she was leaning towards him. He sensed that there was something he didn’t understand, a trick up her sleeve. He moved his head forward, braced himself, and jammed on the brakes. The car shuddered to a standstill, the woman was shot forward.
He snapped on the courtesy light, and saw her lying nerveless, the gun in the left hand, a hypodermic syringe in the right. He leaned over and took the gun away, then took the syringe. He pushed her scarf aside.
She wasn’t looking her best, but she was quite a beauty. Her name was Lady Larmont.
‘You’ll feel better in a few minutes,’ Mannering said. ‘Did you jab this hypo in to the newspaperman?’ She didn’t answer, but he could see that was the truth, and that she had had every intention of doing the same to him.
Mannering marshalled up all the facts he knew about her. She was the young wife of a middle-aged collector of precious stones who had sold his part of the Fesina collection secretly and then tried to buy it back. Bryce had been instructed to carry this out. But hadn’t done so, using Reginald Allen’s method instead. So far, that was logical. Bryce preferred to steal and to sell back to Larmont …
No, it wouldn’t work; Larmont wouldn’t pay for stolen jewels, and he must have known these were stolen, the story had hit every headline in the country.
Was it so certain Larmont wouldn’t buy ‘hot’ stones? Many collectors did so if the mania for jewels took possession of them. They wouldn’t care how they obtained what they wanted. He mustn’t forget that, according to the letter, Larmont had wanted to buy them back.
His wife not only knew Bryce and Morris, but gave them instructions – each had seemed prepared to obey her.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked presently.
He wondered what she would say if she realized that he knew who she was.
‘I think you owe that newspaperman a break, don’t you? We’ll go and see him, and maybe he’ll find a story in you.’
She was appalled. ‘No!’
‘Don’t you like the idea of publicity?’ He laughed harshly. “You’d make a good front-page picture, and the police would be interested, too.’
‘You daren’t do it.’
‘What makes you think not?’ asked Mannering. ‘The police know all about the little fracas we had by now, they were arriving when I left. I don’t know how Bryce and Morris will talk themselves out of it, but I am quite sure that if they’re charged, they’ll try to save their skins by blaming you.’
She said in a low-pitched voice: ‘Bryce and Morris don’t know who I am.’
Astonished, he said quickly: ‘That’s a tall one.’
‘It’s quite true. I have a hold on both Bryce and Morris,’ she said. ‘It pays them to do what I tell them. It will pay you, too.’
‘But you’ve nothing on me.’
‘It would still pay you to work with me.’
‘I think in big money.’
‘I work in big money.’
Mannering laughed. ‘You certainly talk big, my pet. I’m interested, up to a point. How did you know about Courtney’s flat being burgled?’
‘I had Courtney watched, because I wasn’t sure Morris was wise to use him.’
‘Who did the watching?’
‘No one who matters or who knows why I was interested.’
Mannering shrugged.
‘All right, let’s leave it at that. “Who are you, where do you live, and what’s your racket?’
‘If you think I’m going to give myself away as easily as that—’
Mannering said gently: ‘My dear Lady Larmont—’
She started violently at the sound of her name; and for the first time, he saw fear in her grey eyes. Mannering patted her hand.
‘All I want to know is your angle.’
She didn’t answer.
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Mannering. ‘On the other hand, think of tomorrow’s headlines. Lady Iris Larmont—’
‘Stop it!’
‘I might find it worth while on a fifty-fifty cut,’ said Mannering, ‘Now that Bryce or Morris are no good to you, you’ve only one chance of staying out of jail, and that is to confide i
n me.’
She still didn’t answer.
‘Please yourself,’ said Mannering. He hustled her into the front seat, then took the wheel.
The girl sat absolutely motionless, by his side.
Mannering headed for the West End. It was nearly midnight and there was little traffic.
At last, she spoke.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Fleet Street. Didn’t I tell you?’
‘Take me to my home,’ she said. ‘I will tell you what it’s all about.’
Chapter Eighteen
Whole Truth
The house was a big one in Grayling Square. The whole facade was in darkness when the Austin pulled up outside. Her husband was away, Lady Larmont told Mannering, and the servants long since in bed.
She opened the massive front door with her key, and stood aside for him to pass.
‘After you,’ murmured Mannering.
She went ahead, switching on a light before he entered. The hall was spacious and beautifully furnished, as one would have expected from so rich an owner.
She threw off her scarf, and walked with easy grace towards the stairs. He didn’t trust her, but calculated that she was in too much danger to take chances with him. She led the way to a long narrow room on the first floor.
‘Will you get me a drink?’
‘What will you have?’
‘Gin and vermouth.’ She moved to an armchair and sank down.
He poured out two drinks and carried them across to her.
She raised her glass.
‘To partnership,’ murmured Mannering.
She looked tired and dispirited, and at the end of an adventure rather than at the beginning of one. Was she too young to stand up to much of what had happened tonight?
He glanced up at a photograph of Larmont; the man was in the fifties, and looked it.
‘We’re going to have a heart to heart talk, remember? As I don’t want to deal with the police any more than you do, let’s just find out if there is any way we can work together.’
‘I don’t trust you, I don’t think you’ve told me the truth,’ she said.
