by John Creasey
“Yes. That’s why I want to talk to you. I was there about an hour ago—at home, I mean. He’d just heard about the robbery. He was raging with anger and said that he was going to see you right away. I tried to dissuade him, but I think he’ll come.”
“He’s been.”
“Oh,” said Patricia in a small voice. “I hoped I’d get there first, to warn you. I feel, well, responsible.”
“I shouldn’t,” Mannering chuckled. “Your father has been shovelling out responsibility by the ton, you needn’t add any weight to it. Naturally, he’s angry—wouldn’t you be, if you’d lost a fortune?”
“He needn’t behave quite so badly,” said Patricia. “John—” she paused.
“Hm-hm?”
“You know when I came to see you the other day, and begged you to do what he wanted—sell the collection secretly, I mean?”
“Oddly enough, I remember it vividly.”
“Oh, don’t joke, please!” She put a cool hand on his. “There was something I wanted to tell you then, but I just couldn’t bring myself to it. I wish I had, although—well, I can’t be sure that it’s had anything to do with this.”
“We can find out,” said Mannering, “but I’ll make a guess first. He’s been worried for some time, and you don’t know why. He hasn’t been himself for—how long? Years, probably.”
“John, you know!”
“Just guesswork.”
“I don’t see how you could have guessed,” said Patricia, but she didn’t argue the point. “You’re right, anyhow. He has been a changed man since mother died, three years ago. I stayed on at home for a year afterwards, but obviously he didn’t want me. He didn’t exactly tell me to go, but went as near as he decently could. That’s why I took the flat. It was the same with George.”
“George?”
“Don’t be dense,” said Patricia. “You know my brother George.”
“Oh, yes. George,” said Mannering.
“George was kicked out, too,” said Patricia, with the blunt cruelty of youth. “He didn’t take it very well, and he’s been at loggerheads with father ever since. As a matter of fact, George and father never got on particularly well, mother held the family together.”
“I see,” said Mannering.
He and Lorna had known Patricia Swanmore for a long time, but had never been close friends. He knew enough about Patricia to realise that normally she would hug family secrets like these to herself. The shock of the robbery had broken down all her reserve, which had begun to crack when she had first come to see him.
Why?
“I don’t think you do see,” said Patricia. “It’s a hopeless jumble, really, John. Father, George, Tubs—”
“Another brother?”
“Ass! Tubs is just a friend.” Mannering thought she sounded wistful – at least as wistful as she could be. She looked as fragile as a china doll, but had a quality of steel in her; she hated both sentiment and emotion. “Tubs and George were very good friends for a long time, but Tubs has rather gone over to father, I don’t know why I’m babbling like this,” she added quickly, “but it is true that father seemed to change—”
“Many men change when they lose their wives.”
“Oh, yes, but it wasn’t just that with father. He—he and mother hadn’t got on too well in later years. It wasn’t for several months that he began to change. We could never get a civil word out of him, it wasn’t like living at home at all. At last George and I left. George has a flat opposite Tubs—Tubs Maudsley, I thought you knew him. Such a terrible bore!”
“Oh, that Tubs. He means so well,” said Mannering.
“You obviously know him,” said Patricia dryly. “He will persist in making—but that’s got nothing to do with it,” she added hurriedly. “Since we left, father’s lived alone, except for a housekeeper and his man. After being quite a social lion, he stopped going out, spent all day in the City and all his evenings in his study. In a way, he shut himself off from the world—why, I don’t think he’s been to a theatre once this year!”
“Shocking!” murmured Mannering.
“John, you are taking me seriously, aren’t you?” demanded Patricia with a slight edge to her voice.
“Very seriously, Tricia! But don’t get things out of focus. A lot of men don’t go the theatre very often. Many prefer to stay quietly at home rather than go gadding about.”
“You didn’t know father before,” said Patricia. “He was always so sociable. Not genial, like Tubs—brrh! Oh, you ought to know what I mean. Approachable. Nice. And now he behaves like a pompous diplomat.”
“You haven’t many illusions left, have you?” asked Mannering thoughtfully.
“I’ll have you know that I’m twenty-five,” said Patricia. “John, I don’t know whether you keep heading me off, or whether I don’t really want to come to the point, but—I think that father is being blackmailed.”
“Ah,” said Mannering, as if that explained everything.
“I’ve thought so for some time, and I once half-suggested it to him,” went on Patricia, talking as if she were determined to be done with the subject now that she had broached it. “Did he see red! I can’t be sure, I suppose it’s impossible to be really sure, but there are a lot of indications. He hasn’t so much money as he used to have, he’s being very canny about spending. Yet he was really wealthy once, and it isn’t all to do with stocks and shares going haywire these days. He absolutely drooled over the collection at one time, I can hardly believe that he was prepared to sell it. He told me he was thinking of it, quite casually, when I wanted to borrow one of the diamond clips. That was just before I came to you; I knew that you were the best man to deal confidentially with anything like that. But where was I? Oh, yes, I’ve realised that he was getting hard-up, and I just can’t account for it except by blackmail. And if he’d allow himself to sell the collection in order to pay someone for his silence—well, he must have done something pretty dreadful in the past. I’d hate it to come out, and yet—I hate seeing him so worried. Oh, I know he’s exasperating and he makes me furious sometimes, he’s become so stodgy, but—”
“I think I know what you mean,” said Mannering.
“I’m sure you do—I don’t think I could have told anyone else. John, you are a detective, aren’t you?”
“Well, hardly. I—”
“I’ve often read about you helping the police and all that kind of thing,” declared Patricia. “As a matter of fact, that’s why I first mentioned you to father. I thought you might discover there was something the matter, and do something about it.”
“You’d make a valuable conspirator.”
“I haven’t conspired with anyone, I may have intrigued a bit,” corrected Patricia, almost serenely. “John, have I made my point clear? I know father’s in trouble, and I want you to help him. Now you’re involved, you’ll have to make enquiries about the robbery, won’t you? I mean, you could do the two things together.”
“I could try.”
“Will you?”
“Conditionally,” said Mannering.
“I’ll accept any conditions,” said Patricia, but she looked at him as if she were making some mental reservation. “What are they?”
“That you tell me everything you know and suspect.”
“John, I have done—there’s nothing else.”
“There are details,” Mannering said. “And there’s one point in particular, that happened this morning. You said that your father had ‘just heard’ of the robbery at ten o’clock. Was that the first you’d heard of it?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you think—” began Mannering.
“Oh, John!” exclaimed Patricia, jumping up and bumping her head on the roof of the cab. “I am a beast. I arranged to meet George for a drink at twelve o’clock, at Cherry’s. I can’t possibly manage it if I come out to Putney with you. Be an angel, and drop me here. I can get a bus or I might get a taxi, you never know, do you?” As she spoke, she tapped on the gl
ass partition, and called: “Stop, please!” The driver pulled in to the side of the road, and Patricia went on – as if she were determined not to allow Mannering to speak again. “I hate letting George down, he’s had such a rough time lately, and I keep him in touch with what father’s doing, you know. He hated the thought of having the collection sold, in fact he thought of buying it himself, secretly, but he couldn’t rustle up enough cash. John, you’ve been wonderful! I won’t forget. Shall we have dinner this evening?”
“Yes,” said Mannering, opening the door. “Merro’s, at eight-thirty.”
“Wonderful!” cried Patricia.
She jumped down from the cab, light as the wind, and smiled radiantly at him, but thought to tell the driver to go on to the Putney address. Mannering looked out of the rear window, and saw her watching the taxi until she darted across the road in front of a lorry with a recklessness which made him wince.
She had not wanted to say what time she had heard of the burglary.
Larraby’s daughter, a Mrs. Green, small, plump and attractive, was shocked by the news, and eagerly accepted Mannering’s offer to take her to the hospital. She ushered him into a small sitting-room, rushed upstairs to put on her ‘things,’ and was down again in less than five minutes, her brown hat a little askew and her blue coat unbuttoned.
At the hospital, the report was non-committal. The operation had been ‘successful’ but the patient was still on the danger list.
From the hospital, Mannering went to Fleet Street, not to Quinns. Bristow had taken so much responsibility that he could remain in charge at the shop for an hour or two longer. In the offices of the Daily Record Chittering was one of a dozen men dotted about a vast room which was littered with desks, telephones, dictaphones, tape-machines and other impedimenta. The Daily Record, being a morning newspaper, there was not a great deal of activity at midday; no one took much notice of Mannering, who knew the building fairly well and had come up unannounced.
Chittering’s fair head was bent over a copy-pad, and his stumpy, black pencil was racing over the sheets. Mannering sat on a nearby desk and watched him. He judged from the way Chittering shifted his head once or twice that the reporter was aware that he was being watched, but was determined to finish what he was doing before being interrupted.
At last, he tore off the final sheet, shuffled half a dozen sheets together, pinned them with an office wire-stapler, and tossed them into a wire basket marked: Subs. That done, he took a pipe with a huge bowl from his pocket and turned, slowly and with great deliberation, to face the watcher. When he saw Mannering, the pipe clattered on his desk.
“You beggar!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“And interrupt the muse?” said Mannering.
“This morning of all mornings, the owner of Quinns can interrupt a dozen muses,” said Chittering. He retrieved the pipe, and took a shiny tin from his pocket, opening it to reveal a dark and sinister-looking mixture. “You don’t smoke a pipe, do you? Decadence. What have you come to tell me?”
“I haven’t come to tell you anything, I want some information.”
“Oh.” Chittering put his head on one side. “Bristow said you’d probably want that, and he put it very nicely—as man to man, believe it or not. He didn’t actually mention you by name, but he did say that he hoped we’d think twice about giving anyone information which we’d got off the record. Having a row with the Yard?”
“Not yet,” said Mannering.
“Then one’s brewing up, if I know you,” said Chittering. “I like Bill Bristow, but not so much that I’ll take his word as law. What juicy item do you want to know?”
“Who was killed?” asked Mannering.
Chittering rounded his red lips in a wide ‘O.’
“You have been shut out in the cold,” he said. “Jumpy Dale. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Jumpy Dale.”
“Never,” said Mannering, but it wasn’t quite true.
“Every jewel collector or merchant should have heard of Jumpy,” said Chittering, reprovingly. “Very good man with tools and an oxy-acetylene burner. Really top-class cracker of cribs, well-equipped, and with several buddies who were always at hand if they were wanted. Had a queer characteristic—he was as nervous as a broody hen before getting inside a house, no use at breaking and entering at all—that’s why he didn’t work alone, he always had to use someone else to get into the house. Once inside, so the story goes, he was on top of the world. I’ve tried to interview him several times, but he’s been too shy. He usually went around with Baldy Lock. Baldy, not Goldy! That was the other little chap who was croaked. Funny business, John, because Dale was always very careful whom he worked with and for, and he always had someone tagging him, in case things went wrong. He usually had a look-out man somewhere around, too. Tell you something that might interest you—I doubt whether Bristow has picked it up yet.”
“What’s that?”
“The policeman who was patrolling Hart Row district last night heard a bicycle bell. Didn’t see the cyclist, just heard the bell. It’s been said that whenever Jumpy Dale was on a job, someone carrying a bicycle bell was his look-out man. Clever warning, something that wouldn’t make a patrol-Robert raise an eyebrow.”
“Bristow won’t be long getting on to that,” said Mannering. “You ought to know that you shouldn’t underestimate our Bill.”
“Possibly,” said Chittering, looking down his nose. “Bristow has blind spots, though. Still, use it for what it’s worth. The queer thing about this show is that a careful man like Jumpy Dale allowed himself to be shot in the back, after he’d cleared practically everything out of the strong-room. It looks as if his look-out man might have crept in, without warning, shot ’em both and gone off with the swag. I know Bristow is searching for that look-out man.”
“Any idea who it might be?” asked Mannering.
“Sorry, no,” said Chittering. “There are limits to the encyclopedic knowledge of this reporter! Hope I’ve been of some help.”
“A great deal. Thanks.”
“Don’t you go yet! It’s your turn,” said Chittering. “What was Swanmore after this morning?”
“Oh, a small piece he wants for his collection,” said Mannering easily. “He—”
“Oh, yeah? What about his daughter? Was she after the same piece?”
“What do you know about his daughter?”
“That she came tearing along Bond Street as if the Devil or her revered parent was on her tail, saw you, and rushed into your taxi,” said Chittering. “There she doubtless poured out her heart to the sympathetic gallant. It wasn’t just a coincidence that Swanmore should turn up when he did and force his way in, or that Patricia should arrive soon afterwards and be eager for a heart-to-heart talk with you, was it?”
Mannering didn’t hesitate to say: “No.”
“Ho-hum! Dirty work with his collection?”
“I shouldn’t jump to any conclusions,” advised Mannering. “Swanmore’s worried about something, that’s as far as I know or can tell you. Don’t press it just yet.”
“All right,” said Chittering. He was a reporter who, like most of his kind, could be trusted implicitly once he had given his word. “As a matter of fact, John, there have been rumours in the City. Nothing very much, nothing particularly shady, but just a word here and there that Swanmore has lost more than he can afford to, and that things aren’t too good with him. You know how these things get around. I wouldn’t have known, but I lunch with the Financial editor when I’m not out and about, and he keeps me well-informed. Helpful?”
“It might be,” said Mannering. “Thanks very much.”
“All information gladly dispensed,” said Chittering glibly, “but don’t forget I shall want a dose or two of the medicine before the patient’s finally cured.”
“I won’t forget,” promised Mannering.
It was half-past twelve when Mannering left Fleet Street. He visited a second-hand clothiers in a side street
in Holborn, bought a worn tweed jacket, a pair of flannels that had seen better days, a shabby trilby and some other odds and ends. These he packed in a battered fibre suitcase, and took to the murk and smell and clatter of Paddington Station and deposited them in a platform cloakroom. Later in the day he would visit Jumpy Dale’s haunts in the East End, but would get no information from the murdered cracksman’s associates if he were dressed for Mayfair.
He had a whisky and a sandwich at a luncheon counter in a Fleet Street inn, a place of old oak, pewter and history, and reached Quinns just after two o’clock.
A small crowd was gathered about the doorway, peering into the gloomy interior. They stared at Mannering as he went to the door, and a policeman strolled forward to open it.
Bristow had left, and Gordon remained in charge with three uniformed men.
Gordon was red-faced, sandy-haired, and gruff with a slight Scotch accent.
“We expected you back a long while ago.”
“I was detained,” said Mannering briefly.
“Superintendent Bristow is wanting a detailed statement from you,” Gordon complained.
“I’ve told him all I know,” said Mannering. “If he wants any more, I’ll see him whenever he cares to come here or to my flat. Have you finished here yet?”
“Just about to,” said Gordon as if regretfully. “But you won’t want to open up today.”
“I’d have a job to. I’ve no staff, and can’t stay in all the afternoon myself.” Mannering had little time for Gordon. “Have you seen Carmichael?”
“Aye. He’s still upstairs.”
Carmichael had been well looked after; a policeman had taken him tea and sandwiches, and he was sitting in an easy chair in Larraby’s room. He looked sick, ailing, and obviously still suffered from shock. Mannering wished that he were not so badly affected; it was almost as if he had something on his conscience.
Carmichael smiled at him eagerly, and apologised for his collapse; and was sure that he would be fit enough for work in the morning.
“I shouldn’t come in for two or three days,” Mannering advised. “Well enough to get home now, do you think?”
