by John Creasey
“Oh, yes, yes, perfectly well. I would have gone before, but I preferred to have another word with you, sir. I’m so terribly distressed by it all. The police tell me that Larraby has just a chance of recovering. I shall pray for him, Mr. Mannering, I shall indeed. It’s such a shocking thing. And I’ve been thinking—” he paused.
“Yes?”
“Whoever did it must have known a great deal about the shop, mustn’t they?” asked Carmichael. “And about Lord Swanmore’s collection. He—”
Carmichael broke off, either because he did not want to finish what he was saying, or because he could not concentrate. Mannering did not press the old man, and went downstairs with him. A constable fetched a taxi, and Carmichael was driven off.
Mannering went into the office.
Bristow telephoned; he wanted a list of the names and addresses of everyone, including the staff at Quinns, who knew the secret of the strong-room; Mannering promised to prepare it. Gordon left at three o’clock, and at half-past three, several workmen came to put a tarpaulin across the hole in the roof, in case of rain, and a uniformed policeman remained on the premises while the workmen were present.
Mannering, alone downstairs, looked through the stock in the shop. No customers called; it was not unusual for the shop to be empty an hour at a time. He studied the list of stolen goods, and didn’t like what he found; the full value reached nearly a quarter of a million pounds.
Just after four o’clock, he had a caller – the representative of the largest of the three insurance companies with which he was insured. He was suave, well-dressed, persistent. Mannering was going into details when there was an impatient ringing at the shop door, and Mannering went into the shop, leaving the insurance assessor with the books. The crowd of sightseers was still there, but smaller.
A young fellow, wearing a light-grey sports coat and flannels looked pugnacious, impatient and vaguely familiar as he stood outside.
This was ‘George,’ Patricia’s brother; the family likeness was very marked.
Mannering opened the door.
George wasted no time.
“Where’s Tricia?”
“I don’t know,” said Mannering. “Should I?”
“Don’t be a fool,” said George Swanmore roundly. “She came to see you, and said she would meet me for lunch at Cherry’s afterwards, but she didn’t turn up. I don’t know what your game is, Mannering, but don’t try any tricks with Tricia. I won’t stand for it.”
“I hope you won’t,” said Mannering, “and I hope she won’t play many tricks herself. She left me …”
George shifted from one foot to the other as Mannering talked, and gave the same impression as Swanmore had – of scepticism and suspicion. It was George who brought home to Mannering one common factor in the enquiries. Bristow wasn’t his usual self, and did not really believe what Mannering had told him; Swanmore had been openly suspicious; and now George showed aggressive antagonism.
“You shouldn’t have let her go,” growled George. “Anything may have happened to her.”
“What could?” asked Mannering mildly. “Bar being run over, which isn’t likely.”
“Don’t joke about it. This business is getting under my skin. Father behaving like—I say!” he exclaimed, and he backed a pace, his brown eyes rounded, his mouth agape. He was a healthy-looking man, an out-door type with weather-beaten cheeks, a broad nose and a heavy chin; in a way he was not unlike Jumpy Dale, but taller. “You, you haven’t lost the collection, have you? Great Scott, if that’s gone I—”
He broke off again, and glared accusingly.
“How did you know that I’ve had anything to do with your father’s collection?” asked Mannering mildly.
“Tricia told me something about it. Garbled story—she can never collect her wits. So that’s it—they’ve gone! A lifetime’s collection—gone. You’ve a lot to answer for, Mannering!”
“Your family seems to think so,” said Mannering, “but forget that for a minute. What do you really think might have happened to your sister?” When George didn’t answer, he went on sharply: “Out with it. Were you just talking for the sake of hearing your own voice, or is she in trouble?”
George muttered: “I honestly don’t know, Mannering, it’s beyond me. Look here, you’ve got to get those jewels back! Understand, you’ve got to get them back!” He grabbed Mannering by the coat and shook him wildly. “I don’t care how you do it, I don’t care what it costs you, but you’ve got to get them back!”
Chapter Seven
Mannering Changes His Suit
“So I must get them back,” murmured Mannering icily, making no attempt to free himself.
“Yes, you,” began George, but he didn’t finish, and dropped his hands. The contempt in Mannering’s eyes made him break off and flush. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he demanded.
“First the collection, second Patricia,” said Mannering. “That’s your order of precedence, is it?”
George now went beet-red.
“You know damned well I don’t mean that. Anyhow, you don’t seem to think there’s much to worry about with Tricia.” He took Mannering’s arm again. “You don’t understand, there’s been so much bother lately. Tricia’s scared out of her wits.”
“For a young woman who is scared out of her wits she puts up a surprisingly smooth performance,” said Mannering, pitching his voice on a low key as a policeman approached from the back of the shop. “Do you want the police to hear what you’re saying?”
“No,” muttered George, and glared at the constable – a solemnfaced young policeman who had been there since the first discovery of the crimes. “I—er—that is, of course not. Isn’t there somewhere we can talk without that gargoyle glaring at us?”
The policeman was homely looking and his solemnity and obvious fixity of purpose undoubtedly troubled George. He planted himself two yards away from Mannering, and showed no disposition to move.
“Now listen to me, Swanmore,” said Mannering, “your sister’s been late before and she’ll be late again. If I were you I’d go home and wait for her to telephone you.”
“That’s all very well—” began George.
“If you’re not there, you can’t take any message, can you?”
“Eh?” ejaculated George, and his frown cleared momentarily. “Oh, yes, I see. No. I mean, I can’t. Oh, she’ll turn up all right. I’ll wait for her. See you some fine day.” He nodded, glowered again at the policeman, and then flung himself out of the shop. “These young people,” said Mannering to the constable, as one patriarch to another.
“Exactly, sir,” said the constable owlishly.
“I wonder how long they’ll be upstairs,” said Mannering. “I’ll go and see how they’re making out.”
He did not go to the landing, but stepped heavily on the first treads, then trod more quietly; the constable would almost certainly believe that he had gone up to the top floor. Instead, he came halfway down again. The constable was no longer in sight, but there was a ting as the receiver of the telephone was lifted. There followed the whirr-whirr of the dial, before the constable spoke in a low-pitched voice which just carried to Mannering’s ears; he was asking for Gordon. He proceeded to give the Yard man a detailed account of the interview between George and Mannering, and also to describe what Mannering had been doing since Gordon had left. He had a retentive memory and an observant eye.
Mannering hurried upstairs.
Anger, annoyance, exasperation with Bristow, all faded; he now knew that Bristow thought it necessary to watch him closely and to check everything he did. Whatever had made Bristow suspicious had developed after the Superintendent had first reached the shop; he had been friendly enough on arrival.
‘Battle with Bristow,’ Mannering mused, and he smiled as he went upstairs to see what progress the workmen were making.
Bristow made an early call on Lord Swanmore, who had known something about the burglary precautions at Quinns. Swanmo
re was still stiff-necked, but unbent a little. He said he had told no one what he knew of Quinns – his enquiries had been made simply to satisfy himself about Mannering’s trustworthiness. He told Bristow that he had heard of the burglary from a friend on a newspaper – and later, repeated that to Mannering.
Bristow, still soft-pedalling with the peer, assured Swanmore that all the resources of Scotland Yard would be used to get the jewels back, and went thoughtfully to the Yard. Large in his thoughts was the owner of Quinns.
Colonel Anderson-Kerr, the Assistant Commissioner, had great faith in and liking for Bristow. He did not harass Bristow during the day, but waited for the report. It was not really surprising that Bristow chose four o’clock when the A.C. always had tea. In fact Bristow arrived before the tea, and as he entered after a perfunctory tap, Anderson-Kerr lifted the telephone and said: “Ask the canteen to make that tea for two, please.” He rang off. “Well, Bristow, you’re looking very pleased with yourself!”
“I’ve no reason to,” Bristow said, but sounded almost smug. “Sorry I haven’t been able to see you before, but things have moved pretty quickly.” He sat down in an easy chair in front of the A.C.’s large, littered desk, and took out his inevitable cigarettes. “Will you smoke, sir?” Anderson-Kerr shook his head, and Bristow lit up. “You’ve had the reports, of course.”
“Of course,” said Anderson-Kerr, “but I’d like you to fill in some details.”
Bristow did so.
The room was large and the pale green walls were hung with photographs of Assistant Commissioners of days gone by, hardfaced men in high collars, and two wearing bowler hats. Two wide windows overlooked the Embankment – for this was the Yard’s new building – and the rumble and rattle of traffic, even the mournful sounds of hooters on the Thames, floated in. The huge, flat-topped desk stood sideways on to the window. Against the wall near it was a bookcase with a fine range of reference books and gazetteers, from Who’s Who to the Medical Year Book. There were several armchairs.
Bristow finished as the tea arrived.
“I timed this well,” he murmured.
“Yes, didn’t you?” said Anderson-Kerr, a lean whippet of a man with keen, grey eyes which shone in a brown face, a close-clipped grey moustache and a formidable chin. “So Mannering’s in trouble, and you think he’ll try and get out of it himself.”
“It rather looks like it.”
“Should we be surprised?”
“Oh, no,” said Bristow. He took a cup of tea, and put it down. “But I would like to find a way of making him keep out. I’ve tried to put him off, but doubt whether I’ve succeeded.” Bristow smiled faintly. “I think he wondered what had given me a sore head, but that’s by the way. When a man will commit murder as savagely and treacherously as the man who killed Dale and the other chap, it’s better for amateurs to keep out. Don’t you agree, sir?”
Anderson-Kerr sipped his tea, but did not immediately answer.
“Don’t you?” insisted Bristow.
“Oh, yes,” conceded the Assistant Commissioner. “I’m not so sure that your only reason for chivvying Mannering was to save his skin, though. What’s behind it, Bill?”
When Anderson-Kerr so far forgot formality as to call Bristow by his Christian name, it was a tacit undertaking to listen to any confidence, off the record. That was precisely the mood Bristow had wanted to create. So Bristow drank his tea with more enjoyment, even amused himself by dallying with a currant bun, and said: “You and I are the only people at the Yard who know what Mannering used to be,” he said. “There wasn’t a finer cracksman—”
“Finer!”
“You know what I mean,” said Bristow. “And there wasn’t a more dangerous customer. Mannering always works better when he thinks he’s working against us, too, and between you and me, I don’t think it will do any harm if he has a shot at this business. Nothing would really keep him out of it, and although he would gladly work with us, it’s risky to allow a man like that to give us official help—you know how the newspapers come down on us if anything goes wrong. So I’ve made pretty sure that Mannering will plunge right into it. He’ll tell us if he discovers anything that’s really important, and he’ll go into the job with just that little extra zip which might make all the difference. Don’t you think so?”
Anderson-Kerr put his head on one side.
“The old fox at work, eh? All right, Bill—I think Mannering can look after himself.”
Bristow smiled.
“Another bun?” asked the A.C.
“Ah, thanks,” said Bristow. “I don’t mind if I do.”
The workmen and the police did not leave Quinns until five o’clock. Then, a constable was stationed back and another at the front, to make sure there was no further trouble – a move which enabled the police to check Mannering’s movements.
He had a gold automatic pencil in his pocket, and a variety of ideas in his mind, any one of which might help him to get a clearer picture of what had to be done. The picture was blurred. The burglary and the murders had taken second place to the peculiar behaviour of the Swanmore family. First Lord Swanmore, so cold and accusing; then Patricia, pleading – and yet refusing to tell him how she had come to hear of the burglary – and then George, with his reckless assumption that something had happened to his sister. Odd was the word – unless, of course, George had come for a very different reason, but had been put off by the presence of the police.
Mannering walked along New Bond Street which was at its congested worst, with thousands hurrying home after the day’s work, dozens standing at corners and waving hopefully at indifferent taxi-drivers, policemen dealing patiently with traffic and with those who were strangers to London. Fashionable shops were closing, everyone was hurrying – except Mannering.
He dawdled.
After a few minutes he saw a plump man behind him – a man dressed in brown, who looked a little untidy and, unlike most policemen, was hatless. In fact, the plump man was Detective-Officer Lawson, who had a reputation at Scotland Yard for being the cleverest shadow on the Force.
Mannering quickened his pace, thus making Lawson hurry; he dawdled outside a tobacconist’s shop and then, for variety, outside a picture gallery which displayed much abstruse modern art. He went across the road and then back again – and all the time the chubby detective kept reasonably close. Then a taxi swung round the corner of Brook Street with its flag up. Mannering jumped forward, the cabby slowed down. “River Walk, Chelsea!” called Mannering, in a voice loud enough to reach Lawson’s ears, then he settled back in the cab.
Lawson tried desperately to get another, but failed.
Near Hyde Park Corner, Mannering tapped on the glass partition, and changed his instructions; he wanted now to go to Willis Street, Victoria.
Willis Street was short, narrow and dingy, a London backwater. Once upon a time, its tall, grey, narrow terraced houses had been occupied by prosperous families, but most of them were now apartment nouses, although a few had the dignity of being divided into flats. At number 11, on the top floor, lived George Swanmore – opposite his friend Tubs. A white numeral was painted on the brown door of the Flat 6. A visiting card was fitted in a small, brass bracket fixed immediately beneath the number and above the knocker; there was also a bell, but a piece of stamp-paper was stuck across it, indicating that it was out of order.
Mannering knocked.
There was no answer, and he knocked again.
This time, he heard movements, but the door was not opened. He waited patiently. There might be half a dozen simple explanations of the delay, but after three or four minutes he gave a sharp rat-tat.
The door opened promptly, and showed a glaring George.
“In a hurry, aren’t you?”
“I thought I’d been very patient,” said Mannering.
George grunted, and stood aside for Mannering to enter. He was not surprised at the visit, which meant that he had taken the broad hint at the shop; no fool, George.
The flat was more spacious than the outside had suggested, and was newly and admirably decorated. The drawing-room into which Mannering stepped was furnished with a luxurious suite upholstered in Royal blue tapestry, and a rich carpet. In one corner stood a red lacquered grand piano, several modern paintings were on the walls. Mannering hadn’t expected this suggestion of opulence; it did not accord with George’s out-door appearance or his bluffness. George looked ruffled, his hair poked out above his right ear, and he rubbed at his left cheek savagely. It was red – and not only from rubbing; there was a smear, which might be of lipstick, behind his ear.
There was a smell of Turkish tobacco in the room – and George suddenly picked up an ash-tray and emptied it into a waste-paper basket, but not before Mannering had seen a red-tipped cigarette-end.
“Well, what do you want?” George demanded.
“Any news of Tricia?” asked Mannering.
“No.”
“Do you seriously think she’s in any danger?”
“No,” said George. “I was just mad that she stood me up.”
“Have you any idea where she is?”
“Not the foggiest—and it’s none of your business,” said George, with loud vehemence.
“Changed your mind a bit abruptly, haven’t you?” asked Mannering.
“Any objection?” George became truculent “I was a damned fool to come to you, anyway. If you could make such a mess of the collection, you’re no darned use to me or Patricia. Got the collection back?” he demanded abruptly.
“Not yet.”
“Not yet,” sneered George, and became remarkably like his father. “You never will. You’re just a windbag—how you’ve got your reputation the Lord alone knows, but you won’t keep it after this show. You ought to sell Quinns and keep a second-hand shop.”
“Possibly,” murmured Mannering. “George, you came to Quinns because you were worried about Tricia. What’s happened to make you change your mind?”
“I’ve had time to think,” said George nastily, “and I realised you’re just a flop. I said I wanted a word with you in private, but forget it. The next time you hear from any one of us will be from my father’s solicitor, and you won’t be able to laugh that one off so easily. Now I’ve a lot to do—clear out, will you?”
