by John Creasey
“My own goods, and anything held for valuation. A collection like Swanmore’s would need special cover, especially when held for someone else.”
“And you’ve got to stand the racket,” said Bristow, and his grin hadn’t gone.
“Or get the jewels back,” murmured Mannering.
“Yes, you would say that. The great know-all Mannering caught with his pants down over insurance—that ought to give you a lesson and you’ll want to save your face. But understand this once and for all. You keep off the case. Don’t try to get the stuff back yourself, we’ll see to that. There’s been too much robbery with violence lately, and we’re going to be ruthless. If you start probing, we’ll be ruthless with you.”
“I think I could stand it,” said Mannering.
“I want your word that you won’t start working on the job yourself.”
Mannering said mildly: “Sorry, Bill. No can do.”
“I insist.”
“You can insist all day, but it won’t make any difference. My own stuff ’s gone, and insurance doesn’t cover loss of profits. I stand to lose a hundred thousand pounds on Swanmore’s baubles. I’ve been on jobs like this before, and only a mug would expect me to stand by and do nothing.”
“You mean that?”
“Of course I mean it.”
“All right,” said Bristow. “Don’t say I haven’t warned you.” He waved his hand, as if in dismissal, and looked down at some notes which the sergeant had left, but Mannering did not stir. Bristow lit a cigarette from a stub, then squashed the stub on to an ash-tray. They heard movements in the strong-room. A bell rang – someone wanted to come into the shop, but the police would not admit customers or the Press. Bristow drew too deeply on his cigarette, which burned red for nearly half an inch. He glanced up, then looked down again.
“Bill,” cooed Mannering.
“Well?” Bristow’s voice was harsh.
“What’s really got under your skin? You’re behaving as if you’d like to clap the darbies on me.”
“I’ve said all I’m going to say.” Bristow glanced towards the door, and looked pleased to see the constable who hovered on the threshold. “Yes, what is it?”
“There’s a gentleman outside who insists on seeing Mr. Mannering,” said the constable, a youngish man who was obviously nervous.
“Who is it?”
“He won’t give his name, sir.”
“Oh, won’t he,” growled Bristow. “Tell him he’ll have to wait—you’ve kept him outside, I hope.”
“Yes, sir,” said the constable. “But he’s rather restless, sir, and there’s quite a crowd outside. Reporters, too, half a dozen of them, and a couple with cameras.”
Bristow said: “Until I give the word, no one can come in, and—”
Mannering stood up and slipped past the constable, who obligingly moved aside. Mannering ignored a call from Bristow, and hurried along the gloomy shop. The crowd outside pressed forward eagerly, Chittering of the Daily Record beckoned again, and a tall, well-dressed, middle-aged man, standing in the doorway, regarded him coldly.
It was Lord Swanmore.
Chapter Five
Lord Swanmore
Another constable stood by the closed entrance of the shop, but stood aside as Mannering reached him and opened the door. Bristow stayed near the office. Swanmore nodded coldly as he stepped in, and three of the men outside made a rush for the open door. Mannering pushed past Swanmore and helped the constable to block the doorway. Bristow came up.
Chittering, a mild-looking man with fair, curly hair and an innocent face, bland blue eyes and cherry-red lips, beamed at Mannering.
“Is it all true, John?”
“I doubt it,” said Mannering. “I’ve never known you to get the whole truth at the first shot. There’s been a spot of bother, the police are in possession and my lips are sealed. Sorry, old chap.”
“You’re about as sorry as the whale which swallowed Jonah,” retorted Cluttering. He dropped his voice, but it carried to Mannering’s ears. “Give me the first story you can? The rest nowhere?”
“I’ll see,” said Mannering, while other newspapermen tried to hear.
“Now look, boys,” said Bristow, suddenly bluff and friendly, “I’ll let you have a story as soon as I can, don’t harass me or Mr. Mannering now. You’ll have plenty of time for the evening papers. Look here—” he took out a large silver, turnip-shaped watch, and made a great show of studying the time. “I’ll call you in at eleven o’clock and tell you everything I can. Don’t make a lot of wild guesses, it won’t help us and it might help the bad men. Satisfied?”
Chittering grinned.
“You’re a plausible old beggar,” he said. “All right, Bill.”
The newspapermen withdrew noisily. Thirty or forty people, who had pressed forward, backed away. A constable called out: “Move along, please, move along!”
A few stragglers at the edge of the crowd shifted reluctantly. The door was closed, and Bristow turned the key in the lock.
Throughout all this, Lord Swanmore had not once shifted his gaze from Mannering, who had been conscious of this while talking to Chittering. Now Swanmore moistened his lips, and said: “I want to see you, Mr. Mannering.”
“Well, here I am,” said Mannering.
“Alone, please.”
“May I ask your business, sir?” Bristow was excessively polite. He sometimes gave the impression of being obsequious but Swanmore might soon feel the edge of his tongue.
“It is private business with Mr. Mannering.” Swanmore was as cold as a fish.
“There has been a serious robbery here, my lord, and Mr. Mannering is about to check through the strong-room, so that he can give me a complete list of what is missing,” Bristow said smoothly. “I am Superintendent Bristow of New Scotland Yard.” He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for a card, but Swanmore waved as if to tell him not to trouble.
“I know who you are. I shall not keep Mr. Mannering long.”
Bristow could be awkward: He wasn’t.
“If it’s urgent, I suppose I’ll have to spare him for a few minutes,” he said with a great show of reluctance. “We’re using the office, I’m afraid, but—”
“We can go upstairs,” said Mannering.
“All right.” Bristow nodded.
“I’ll lead the way,” said Mannering.
Swanmore looked straight ahead as he walked along the shop and up the stairs. He was nearly as tall as Mannering, who was six foot one, well-built and well-groomed. He wore a black coat and striped trousers, as if he had come from the City, or was on his way to it. In an austere way, he was handsome.
Mannering led the way into a small showroom on the first floor. A police constable stood farther along the landing, obviously to make sure that no one sneaked upstairs. Mannering closed the door, and offered chairs. The room was narrow and luxuriously carpeted. Water-colours and several small tapestries hung on the walls, antique clocks, china and glassware were in cabinets or set out on lovely pieces of Sheraton and Chippendale. The place had both elegance and charm.
“I won’t sit down,” said Swanmore. His eyes were a deep blue, and there were little bags beneath them, as if he usually wore glasses; there was a tiny ridge above the bridge of his nose, too. “Have my jewels been stolen, Mannering?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
Swanmore passed his hands across his forehead, and he seemed to sway. He put his hand to his coat pocket slowly, and Mannering offered him a cigarette, then lit it for him. Swanmore drew hard, and he did not speak for what seemed a long time. When he did, his voice was harsh.
“Everything gone?”
“Everything.”
“I trusted you, Mannering.”
“There’s always the risk of burglary,” Mannering said mildly. “Had you insured them while in transit and while they were stored here?”
“No. That was your responsibility.”
“There might be some legal argument about who
’s responsible,” Mannering said, “but I hope it won’t come to that. The police haven’t lost any time, there’s a reasonable chance that we’ll get them back.”
“You know quite well that it’s unlikely. I’ve no time for suave reassurances, Mannering. You took charge of the collection. Its value is over one hundred thousand pounds, and the responsibility is yours. I wish to make that quite clear.”
“This isn’t the time to argue about it,” Mannering said. “I’ll do everything I can to save you from loss. As you were going to sell the collection, the sentimental value isn’t important as it might have been. Don’t you think it would be best to discuss it more fully when the police have finished here?”
“No,” said Swanmore abruptly.
Mannering hid a rising anger, and waited for the tirade.
“I find it remarkable, almost incredible that there should be a burglary at a shop which prides itself on being burglar-proof just at the time when my jewels were in your keeping.” Swanmore was coldly hostile. “You have obviously failed to keep your part of the bargain.”
“Just what do you mean?” demanded Mannering softly.
“Clearly the thieves knew what was here and came for it. You allowed the fact that you had my collection to be noised abroad. I came to you because I understood you were the one man on whom I could completely rely. Obviously I was misinformed.” Swanmore ignored the glint in Mannering’s eyes and went on in the same cold, accusing voice: “I want to make one thing quite clear. If I am in any way mentioned in connection with the robbery, if my name appears, I shall also hold you responsible for that.”
“You’re holding me responsible for quite a bit, aren’t you?” asked Mannering softly.
“The blame is entirely yours. And should the fact that my jewels were here become widely known, then I shall not hesitate to acquaint my friends with your breach of trust. You will be well-advised to make sure that I am not mentioned. Mr. Mannering.”
“Ah,” said Mannering. “I am to perform miracles.”
“What do you mean?”
“For better or worse, you’re a public figure,” Mannering said, “and although the people outside probably didn’t recognise you, the reporters certainly did. You’ve had it, Swanmore. You’ll be in every newspaper before the day’s out.”
Swanmore snapped: “You’ve got to prevent that!”
“There’s no way I can. Bristow might be able to help, and probably will, if you treat him like a human being instead of a lackey. You aren’t doing so well.”
“Don’t be impertinent!”
“I don’t think we need waste any more time. You’d better see Bristow.” Mannering stepped to the door, but Swanmore shot out a hand and gripped his forearm. “Now don’t let’s get violent,” Mannering added reasoningly.
“Mannering, you must keep my name out of the newspapers! You have a great deal of influence. You’ve failed me badly—at least you can do this.”
“Anyone who thinks he has influence with newspapers to that extent is a fool,” said Mannering. “Bristow’s your only hope, and you’ve already annoyed him.” He took his arm away, and this time Swanmore made no attempt to stop him He opened the door, and Swanmore went out and slowly down the stairs.
Why was he so desperately anxious to keep out of the public eye? Mannering knew that he had always hated publicity; and the fact that he had been about to sell his collection would weaken his position in the City; it might even affect his credit. But he wasn’t a fool; he must have known that he was antagonising both Mannering and the police. He wasn’t his normal self; seemed to be labouring under the stress of some great anxiety – something more than the loss of the jewels and their value.
What? And what had brought him here?
The discovery had been made at half-past nine. It was now a quarter-to-eleven, and Swanmore must have been outside for some time. Within an hour of the discovery he had been at Quinns, presumably with some knowledge of what had happened.
How had the news reached him?
Mannering looked at other facts.
Whoever had burgled Quinns had known a great deal about the shop, and how to reach the strong-room. Few had that knowledge, and the thieves certainly hadn’t come across it by accident. They had known about the electric control, had realised that the only way of forcing entry was through the roof. Was it possible that they had known that Swanmore’s jewels were here?
Swanmore had known more about the strong-room than most.
He had insisted on seeing what precautions were taken to house the collection. Mannering had thought that reasonable; without going into great detail, he had shown Swanmore the general plan.
Swanmore was also in financial difficulties.
Odd twists often affected the minds of jewel collectors. Too often their love of gems amounted to mania. Men of the highest reputation, honourable in everything else, succumbed to the lure of, and lust for jewels.
Swanmore might be one of them; but would he stand for murder?
Swanmore stared straight ahead. They reached the shop, and Bristow came out of the office.
“Finished?” he asked affably enough.
Swanmore said stiffly: “You know that I have suffered a severe loss as a result of this robbery, I presume.”
“I do. I’m sorry.”
“I have been telling Mr. Mannering that my name must not be mentioned.” Swanmore was doing his best to unbend. “He suggests that I may have been recognised. I want you to ask the newspapers not to print my name.”
The stiff politeness of his manner was nearly comic. Normally, Bristow would have punctured this pomposity within a flash – and enjoy doing it. Instead, he looked grave and promised that he would do what he could. He did not ask Swanmore how he had learned of the theft so quickly, and escorted them both to the door. For the benefit of Guttering and the others, he said loudly: “You needn’t worry, my lord, Mr. Mannering will be doing business as usual by tomorrow. I’m sorry I’ve had to make difficulties.”
Swanmore nodded distantly, and went off.
Mannering compiled a list of the losses from a card-index file which was kept meticulously by Carmichael. He handed over photographs of some of the more valuable jewels and objets d’art. Then Bristow, still uncommunicative, went to see the reporters, and Mannering went up to Carmichael.
The old man was dozing, and Mannering let him rest and came downstairs and telephoned the hospital. Larraby was now on the operating table, and – making Mannering more sharply aware of the little man’s danger – he was asked if he knew Larraby’s close relatives; they ought to be informed at once.
Larraby’s wife had died, not long before; he had a married daughter.
“I’ll see that she knows about it at once, and she’ll get in touch with you,” Mannering said.
“Very well, sir, thank you.”
Mannering rang off, as Bristow emerged from the strong-room.
“Who’ve you been talking to?”
Bristow’s manner was becoming more and more aggressive and exasperating. He had hardly said a word about the murders, and appeared determined to be secretive.
“The hospital,” Mannering said sharply. “They want the next of kin informed. Larraby’s wife died a few months ago.”
“I know.”
“His daughter lives at Putney. I’ll go and see her, I think.”
Bristow looked as if he would like to object, but didn’t.
Mannering went out.
It was good to be in the open air; he could think out here; the atmosphere created first by Bristow and then by Swanmore put a brake on thought. Carmichael was probably right, there was not much hope that Larraby would recover. Larraby’s part fitted in with the raid; two men shot in the back, did not.
He tried to picture what had happened.
They had been at the big safe, which had no shelves, and a third man had been behind them. He had just shot them as they had worked, bundled them into the safe, pushed the door to and we
dged it tightly. Then he had packed up everything that was easily movable, put the office furniture back in position and left by the hole in the roof.
At least three men had been concerned in the burglary. There might have been others.
Had the two thieves been working alone, and been surprised by the third? Or had all three worked together, and the third man turned treacherously on his own accomplices?
Mannering had not recognised either of the dead men, but thought that Bristow had placed them. Bristow worried him.
He waved to a taxi, and the driver had no objection to going to Putney. Mannering got in, and as he sat down, heard a woman’s voice, calling: “Mr. Mannering, Mr. Mannering!”
He looked round to see Swanmore’s daughter, Patricia, hurrying towards him.
Chapter Six
Patricia
She was small, almost tiny; and delightful to look at. The glow of health was in her cheeks and clear, blue eyes – her father’s eyes. Her hair was like falling gold. She hurried towards him, watched idly by passers-by. She stood at the door.
“Jump in,” said Mannering.
“I—oh, yes, all right,” said Patricia Swanmore.
“Same address?” asked the driver.
“Yes, unless I stop you,” said Mannering. He helped the girl in, and offered cigarettes; Patricia refused one. She looked grave and yet excited, and was breathing heavily.
The cab slipped along a side street on its way to the south west suburb.
Only the girl’s eyes reminded Mannering of Swanmore.
She was dressed in a smart suit of apple-green, a canary-yellow blouse, yellow shoes, a green narrow-brimmed hat lifted off the face, and a yellow handbag. Her hands and feet were tiny, her hands lightly tanned.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To see a friend, at Putney,” said Mannering. “Are you in a hurry?”
“Not really—and I want to talk to you.”
“Good,” said Mannering. He couldn’t guess whether she knew what had happened, and did not give her a lead. “Have you seen your father this morning?”
Patricia, he knew, had a small flat of her own.
