by John Creasey
After a while Mannering went on: ‘Bristow is now having both Morris and Bryce watched, he telephoned the Yard ten minutes ago. He isn’t going to do anything about either of them yet, but will wait until he sees what they get up to when they hear of the death of Lady Larmont. He’s going to release that story to the Press as if he doesn’t know that Larmont shot her. I told him I doubted the sense of that move, but he’s stubborn.’
Lorna didn’t speak.
‘He’s putting out a general call for Courtney, and will pick him up the moment he can,’ Mannering added. Then: ‘How is Anne?’
‘Sleeping,’ said Lorna. ‘She’ll be all right. And darling, I’m sure she’s quite honest. I could tell that you were doubtful. You needn’t be.’
‘I hope not.’
‘What makes you doubt her?’ asked Lorna.
‘The oddness of it all. But it’s nonsense, she wouldn’t have brought that case-load of stuff here if she hadn’t been on the level. Blame my suspicious mind!’ Mannering laughed. ‘If things go well, Bristow will pick up Courtney in the next hour or two, and we’ll have the explanation of that particular mystery.’
‘Mystery?’
‘Well, either that, or a coincidence so big I just can’t believe in it. At the very time I was talking to Lady Larmont and while her husband was listening, Courtney was downstairs among the jewels. What a time to choose? He told Anne he’d had a tremendous slice of luck. What was it? That he happened to pay a social call and walked in, found the keys outside the strong-room and helped himself? Not on your life.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Lorna.
‘Far, far too perfect a set-up for coincidence,’ Mannering went on. ‘Someone knew there would be trouble between Larmont and his wife. He may have suspected that I would be about, and chosen that very time for the raid. It must have been someone who had access to the strong-room and the keys. Now Lady Larmont told me that she had a spare set made—remember? I think she forgot to add the spicy bit.’
Lorna put down her cup.
‘I know I’m dense, darling, but I still don’t see it.’
‘Look at it this way. Lady Larmont did not know that Bryce had realized who she was. But Bryce knew, and probably gave Larmont a hint, making pretty sure of a showdown. If Bryce knew what she was up to, he may have had a shrewd idea that she was going to stage a raid on the strong-room. If he managed to get hold of her set of keys and send them over to Courtney, Courtney would have been all ready for his raid. It was unexpected—a slice of luck, remember? Morris was in it, too—that’s why they fell for the fake message so easily.’
‘I suppose you’re right, but I thought they were working on Quinns, through Anne.’
‘Quinns would be twice as dangerous and only about a quarter as profitable—a second line of attack. And what is more, Bryce didn’t discover the identity of the woman who was blackmailing him until after he’d laid on everything for Quinns. It would be easy enough to switch attacks. The weakness of the whole thing came when the police were called in tonight. Bryce daren’t take over the jewels, and Morris couldn’t—they were both too likely to be watched and questioned. That left Courtney in a spot. I can imagine he finished the job, contacted Bryce, and they had to find a temporary hiding place for the jewels. Anne, already in their hands, was the answer.’
‘I suppose it could be like that,’ Lorna said.
‘Still doubtful?’
‘I don’t know. I’m so tired I’m almost past thinking and what brain I have is used up in giving thanks that you and Bristow are to work together, and everything is to be happy ever after.’
She kissed him.
Courtney woke, just after nine o’clock, and looked round an unfamiliar room. After leaving the suitcase at Conroy Street, he had gone on to a third-rate hotel in Paddington on the chance that his own flat would be raided by the police. No-one had asked any questions, he hadn’t even been invited to sign the register.
As he viewed the ugly room, his smile was the smile of a well-satisfied man.
After ten minutes, he rang the bell. A young maid answered promptly. She looked fresh and pleasant, and spoke with a marked foreign accent. When she brought in tea, he managed to touch her arm, as if accidentally, and she smiled at him coyly. In a couple of days, she would be a pushover. He sipped his tea and forgot her, because he was dazzled by jewels. He hadn’t time to enjoy them the night before, being too busy getting the stuff out of the strong-room.
Thanks to Bryce! Bryce had laid it all on, by-passing Morris.
There was a good joke about that. Bryce still thought he was at his own rooms. Bryce would have a shock when he discovered he was missing.
Courtney frowned suddenly.
It was one thing to have a fortune in precious stones, another to get rid of it. Bryce would look after the selling but it was a pity he had to leave it to him. If he could cash-in himself –
He couldn’t, because he didn’t know the markets.
He had Bryce where he wanted him. Five thousand, and he’d take a chance – but he’d have enough on both Bryce and Morris to make sure that they didn’t cheat him out of his share.
He had been instructed to take the jewels to Bryce, but at the last moment Bryce had told him, by telephone, to hold them. He wondered why.
The one thing that didn’t occur to him was that Anne would fail him.
He didn’t trouble to shave, but dressed and went down to the telephone. He dialled Bryce’s office number, but Bryce hadn’t yet arrived, so he dialled the Hampstead house. Bryce, himself, answered; his voice was taut with fury.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Playing safe,’ said Courtney, airily. ‘Everything’s all right, you don’t have to worry.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Never mind. Where can I meet you?’
Bryce said: ‘You can’t. We had some trouble last night, and the police might be watching me. Where’s the parcel?’
‘It’s quite safe.’
‘Where is it?’
Courtney said: ‘A friend of mine is looking after it. What’s this about the police?’
‘Remember you had a visitor the other night?’
Courtney caught his breath.
‘Morris and I had one last night,’ said Bryce. ‘We’ve got to lie low, because the police caught up on the visitor. Tell me where the stuff is, and I’ll make arrangements to have it collected.’
‘Not on your life,’ said Courtney.
He hung up, and stared at the pencilled marks on the wall near the telephone. But he didn’t see them. Bryce and Morris were in trouble, and they didn’t know where the jewels were.
He had a fortune on his hands, and did not know how to dispose of it.
He put two more pennies in, and dialled Quinns’ number; Peters answered him.
‘May I speak to Miss Staffer, please? This is a personal call.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Peters, ‘but Miss Staffer isn’t in this morning.’
Courtney hung up, and stared at the wall. He didn’t feel at all good. He hadn’t given serious thought to the possibility that Anne would be unreliable. She didn’t know what was in the suit-case. She might guess there were stolen goods, but she couldn’t know.
Or – had she forced the lock and looked?
Why hadn’t she gone to work?
Courtney hurried up to his room, flung on a coat, and went out. He stopped at a news-stand to buy a paper, then hailed a passing taxi.
‘Sloane Square,’ he said, and settled back in the cab.
He unfolded the paper.
Headlines about Lady Larmont’s death shrieked up at him. There was the bare announcement that she had been shot, nothing about Larmont’s statement. There was also a screaming headline about the robbery. No one reading the account could miss the implication – that the thief had killed Lady Larmont.
Courtney felt icy cold.
When the coldness thawed, he began to feel frightened.
> Chapter Twenty-Four
Frightened Man
Courtney left the cab near Sloane Square station, and went across to another news-stand and bought more papers. Then he went to a cafe, ordered eggs and sausages and tea, because fear seemed to make him hollow in the stomach, and glanced avidly through each of the newspapers. They all had the same story and carried the same implication – that the thief had killed Lady Larmont.
He felt perspiration break out on his forehead.
He started to eat, and discovered that he wasn’t hungry after all.
He left the cafe, schooling himself to walk with a slow and leisurely stride. If he hurried, he might attract attention and that was the last thing he wanted to do. As he neared Anne’s turning, he turned up the collar of his coat, in an instinctive attempt at some sort of disguise.
Then he told himself that no one could possibly know that he had been at Grayling Square.
Couldn’t they?
Bryce and Morris had obviously been questioned by the police. Bryce hadn’t talked, but Morris – he didn’t trust Morris. He could imagine the man’s sallow face and odd-shaped eyes; a furtive swine.
Crazy! Morris wouldn’t dare.
The fear remained.
He saw a man standing at the corner of Conroy Street. He was just the type Courtney had always imagined a plainclothes detective would be. Courtney moistened his lips, squared his shoulders and walked past the end of the street. He glanced along it casually, and saw another man, very similar to the first one, at the far end.
Courtney walked on.
Had the men been watching Anne’s flat?
Where was she?
Could she have gone to the police?
He reached a telephone kiosk, hesitated, then dialled the number of a friend.
‘Jerry?’ asked Courtney, abruptly.
‘Sure, who’s that?’
‘Bill Courtney.’
‘Hiya, Bill! How’s tricks?’
‘You can earn yourself a fiver.’
‘Just tell me how!’
‘Meet me at Sloane Square station, as soon as you can.’
‘Suits me, all right.’
Courtney rang off, and walked towards the station. He was ten minutes ahead of Jerry, a tall, fair-haired youth, who came ambling along, smoking a Camel.
He listened.
‘Gimme the money first,’ he said.
Courtney waited at a cafe near Victoria Station, and the time dragged. He’d left Jerry at eleven o’clock, and it was now half-past twelve. He had been almost alone in the cafe at first, now it was crowded, the lunch hour rush was on.
The manageress asked him if he would make room for another customer, and he paid his bill and went outside. It was beginning to rain. Wherever he looked, he seemed to see policemen, but they took no notice of him. He couldn’t go far from the cafe, or he would miss Jerry.
Had Jerry taken his money, and then run out on him?
He heard a clock strike one.
He smoked three cigarettes in quick succession. What would he not give for a drink! But if he were to nip down into a pub, he might miss the other man. He strolled up and down, and now he was sure that one of the policemen was interested in him.
If Anne had squealed –
He would kill her.
He turned – and saw Jerry, hurrying along. There was nothing ambling about Jerry’s gait now, and he looked tense and alarmed. They met outside the cafe.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Come on, I want a drink.’ They crossed the road to a public house, and ordered two double whiskies.
‘What happened? demanded Courtney hoarsely.
‘You’re asking me! As soon as I rang the bell, a couple of bulls come up. They asked me a hundred questions—did I know Anne well, did I know you, why had I called to see her? They let me go at last, but I was hanging around for an hour or more. And—they followed me.’
Courtney gulped down his whisky.
‘I gave them the slip,’ Jerry boasted, and wiped his forehead. ‘What job have you been doing?’
‘I haven’t done a job!’
‘That so?’ Jerry sneered. ‘Okay, okay, you don’t have to tell me, only I don’t want any more errands like that one. Wouldn’t go through that again for ten quid.’
‘Are you sure you gave them the slip?’
‘Sure? You’re talking to Jerry Ryden, son!’
Courtney said: ‘Yes—yes, thanks, Jerry.’
‘Can’t stay any longer, pal, I’ve gotta date.’
He went off.
Courtney left the pub, and caught the first bus to come along. The fact that Anne’s house was being watched told him everything he wanted to know, and the fact that the police had asked whether Jerry knew Courtney was proof that she’d squealed.
The police had those diamonds.
And – it was a murder rap.
Was Bryce behind this? Bryce wouldn’t have put the police on to Anne, but had Bryce killed the woman?
He wouldn’t be surprised.
Nothing would surprise him, now.
He had had a fortune in his hands; it was gone; and he was wanted for murder. He couldn’t get away from those facts. Supposing Bryce had got him to do the dirty work, planning to collect the jewels and frame him for the murder? No, Bryce wouldn’t have done that, it wasn’t reasonable, he had too much on Bryce.
Morris?
No, he decided, each man had too much to lose. He was filled with an insensate fury against Anne. It was her fault. If she’d kept her mouth shut, there would have been nothing to worry about.
He heard the conductor call: ‘All change,’ and saw with some surprise that he was at Shepherd’s Bush. It was drizzling with rain and there were people about. A newsboy stood in a doorway. Courtney went across and bought an Evening News.
The murder and the robbery had the front page headlines, and there was a sub-heading:
POLICE SEEK YOUTH
The police are anxious to interview a youth named “William Courtney, of 79 Linden Road, who they think may be able to give them valuable information about the robbery at Sir Lester Larmont’s house in Grayling Square. Courtney is described as –
It was a good description.
It didn’t say that he was wanted for murder, but he knew exactly what it meant.
His mouth was dry.
He needed money.
He couldn’t stay in London.
He went to a telephone kiosk and dialled Bryce’s office. He didn’t give his name to the girl who answered, and tried to disguise his voice. It was some time before Bryce came on the line.
‘Yes, who is that?’
‘No names,’ Courtney said in his normal speaking voice.
‘Just a minute.’ There was silence again, and a wild thought went through Courtney’s mind, that Bryce was sending a message to the police, that the call would be traced. But the police couldn’t trace calls on the automatic system, could they?
A middle-aged woman walked past the box, and then past again, staring at him.
Bryce said: ‘All safe, now, I had to get rid of someone who was with me. What the hell did you do last night?’
‘I didn’t kill—’
‘Shut up!’
Courtney licked his lips,
‘Where are you?’ Bryce asked.
‘I’m at Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘And the stuff?’
Courtney didn’t answer.
Bryce said: ‘Listen, Courtney, that stuff is so hot it will burn anyone who gets near it. Have you got it well hidden?’
Courtney said: ‘My friend let me down. She—she tipped off the police.’
There was another silence; a long silence; then Bryce spoke again in a very different voice, smoother and friendlier, as if the tension had gone.
‘Okay, Courtney, that can’t be helped, it’s always the same when you trust a woman. Meet me at the Windmill, Wimbledon Common, at four o’clock. We’ve got to talk this thing out.
’
Courtney said: ‘Sure, I’ll be there. But I didn’t—’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Bryce, ‘we’ll see you through. Don’t worry. Four o’clock.’
‘Thanks,’ said Courtney. ‘Thanks.’
He rang off.
The woman was still pacing up and down, and glaring at him. Courtney walked to the bus stop, trying to think. Why should Bryce want to see him on Wimbledon Common?
Why go so far out of town?
Bryce wouldn’t want to see him anywhere near his office or his house, of course, nor near Morris’s place; but Bryce had offered to help, and that meant money. A ticket out of the country too, perhaps.
He couldn’t guess.
The more he thought of it, the less he felt that he could trust Bryce or Morris. When he looked at it squarely, he knew that he had a lot on them. True Morris knew he’d killed Allen, but Morris had been in that, too. If the police caught him and he told the whole story, they would be finished – each would spend a long time in jail. If he were in their shoes, what would he do?
He would want himself out of the way.
Wimbledon Common was a big, desolate patch of country in the winter, and he knew that the Windmill, a pleasure spot in summer, was a long way from the main roads and from people – why arrange to meet him there?
It would be getting dark at four o’clock. The more he thought of it, the less he liked it.
He had to see Bryce; but he wouldn’t take any chances. He caught a bus, and it was empty on top, and he took out his automatic; it was filled with seven bullets. He had plenty and to spare if there were any emergency.
He didn’t trust Bryce.
He didn’t trust anyone.
He had a special corner in hatred for Anne Staffer.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rendezvous
When Mannering saw Anne just before one o’clock that day, she looked as if a great burden had been lifted off her shoulders.
‘Troubles nearly over,’ he said, cheerfully.
‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you,’ she told him a little tremulously. ‘It will be all right if I go to the shop this afternoon, won’t it?’
‘I don’t see why not. If you’d prefer to stay here, you can, you know.’
