Taking the Blame

by John Creasey

  “I know your guesses,” said Lorna dryly. “There’s another thing. The fact that it looks as if someone is trying to get you into a mess.”

  “Oh, yes. Another red herring. Remember, George is ladling out suspicion against me.”

  “I think it’s more than that,” said Lorna.

  “It would be a nice, salty herring,” said Mannering, and laughed. “My sweet, I feel a lot better; it’s the first time I’ve been able to make some sense out of the business. If I’m wrong, well—what does it matter?” He looked at the letter, took it gently between his fingers and pushed it back into the envelope. Then he took a larger envelope from his desk, put the letter into it and sealed it. In the desk was the gold automatic pencil which he had found on the roof of Quinns, wrapped now in tissue paper. He tucked it into his pocket.

  “Are you going to take them to Bristow?”

  “Yes,” said Mannering. “Soon, too. Darling—”

  “Now what do you want me to do?” demanded Lorna. “I know that tone of voice.”

  “Nothing desperate and nothing dangerous. Go along and see Tubs Maudsley. Tell him you’re worried about me, that you heard something of the bother at Willis Street, and can he suggest anything which might help—particularly about George. Or rather, George and Clara. Tell him I think that Clara may hold the key to the problem, and that she isn’t at her flat. Does he know whether George ever met her anywhere else—am I going too fast?”

  “No, go on.”

  “And while you’re doing all that, pay Tubs a lot of attention,” said Mannering. “Tubs is in love with Tricia, or so we’re told, but he doesn’t get much change out of her. It might be a case of thwarted passions. It’s just possible—I wouldn’t put it higher, and it probably sounds crazy—that Tubs is behind it. He could have arranged for the attempt to sell the collection quickly, just to make it seem obvious that he, rolling in money, can’t be involved.”

  “That’s too far-fetched,” said Lorna. “There may be something in the rest. Anything else?”

  “Not yet,” said Mannering. His eyes were glowing.

  “John—”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not going to do anything crazy, are you?”

  “I’ve never been more sensible in my life!” Mannering moved, pulled her to her feet, kissed her, and went on while he held her close. “In fact, you can telephone the Yard and tell Bristow I’ll be looking in about half-past three.”

  It was two-fifteen when Mannering left Chelsea, with the letter and the pencil in his pocket. He did not go straight to Scotland Yard, but visited a jeweller whom he knew well, and upon whose discretion he could count. He showed him the pencil without allowing him to touch it, and asked if he could supply one similar.

  “I can’t myself,” the jeweller said. “It’s an unusual American make, and a small quantity came into the country a few weeks ago. You could probably get one at Listers’, in New Bond Street, I saw three in their window only yesterday.”

  Mannering thanked him and went out.

  He took a taxi to Fleet Street. He found Chittering in the reporters’ room of The Record, engaged in fierce argument with another reporter. Chittering jumped up as soon as Mannering entered.

  “Well, now, a scoop for a good boy?”

  “Not until you’ve grown up,” said Mannering.

  “So you’re after more information,” said Chittering. “If we go on at this rate, I’ll have to make a charge. What is it now?”

  “These City rumours,” said Mannering.

  “Yes.”

  “Ever heard any against Maudsley?”

  Chittering cocked an eyebrow.

  “Tubs, eh? My double, if he’d lose a bit of weight. No, I can’t say that I’ve heard any whispers against him. He’s not very active in the City, you know, but does a little bit of selling and quiet buying now and again. I’ll find out if there’s been anything, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. Tubs is sound financially.”

  “Try to make sure, will you?” asked Mannering.

  “Right.”

  ‘Thanks. And now for something much more delicate,” said Mannering. “You’ve a man on the staff who dabbles in the arts of criminology, haven’t you? Finger-prints, microscopes, all that kind of thing.”

  “Yes.” Chittering’s eyes became very round.

  “How long will he take to test a couple of small things and photograph any prints, without showing they’ve been touched, or smearing the prints?”

  Chittering scratched his ear.

  “I daresay he could do it in an hour, if he’s in. He’d need more time to develop the prints.”

  Chittering lifted the receiver of a telephone and was promptly answered, spoke briefly, and put the telephone down.

  “He’ll play,” he said.

  Mannering handed the letter and the pencil to Chittering.

  “Want them while you wait?”

  “If they could be delivered by special messenger to Quinns—”

  “You want jam on it,” Chittering grinned. “I’ll bring ’em myself.”

  “Care to look in at Listers’, the Bond Street jewellers, and buy me a pencil like that without showing them the original?” Mannering asked.

  “Can do,” said Chittering. “It’ll cost a pretty penny, plus a very detailed story, later.”

  Mannering took out his wallet and counted twenty pound-notes. “That’s an instalment,” he said. “Give the change to your pet charity. And thanks, Chitty.”

  “Pleasure,” said Chittering.

  Mannering was again lucky in getting a taxi. He was still being closely followed, but that worried him less now that he had a purpose. Something to think about beyond the blanketing problems. He went straight to Quinns. For the first time since the murders, no one was gaping in at the window. A constable was still on duty, and Mannering nodded brightly as he unlocked the door and went inside. He was careful to relock the door.

  He went up to the roof, stood there for several minutes, until the trailer caught sight of him. That done, he went downstairs again and telephoned Lord Swanmore.

  “Who wants him?” asked a familiar voice at the other end of the line.

  “Is that you, Maudsley?” asked Mannering. “Mannering here.”

  “Oh, really,” Tubs sounded surprised; probably Bristow had weakened his faith in Mannering. “Yes, old boy, he’s in,” Maudsley went on more brightly. “Hold on.”

  After a pause, Swanmore spoke coldly.

  “Yes, Mannering.”

  “I want to see you, between five and six o’clock,” said Mannering. “Will you be in?”

  “I can be,” said Swanmore. “What—”

  “Good,” said Mannering, and rang off.

  It was nearly a quarter-past four when Chittering returned with the pencils and the letter; the expert believed that he had made a good job, and no one could be sure that either specimen had already been tested for prints. Mannering tucked them into his pocket.

  “What’s bitten you, John?” Chittering asked. “You’re like the old dog with numerous tails.”

  Mannering chuckled.

  “Ideas,” he said. “Won out of the sweat of suspense, if you’d like a purple patch. Bristow thinks that he stuck something on me, as you said. I’m not too happy about that, but why just be unhappy?”

  “Attack is the best means of defence, eh?” said Chittering. “Don’t forget to tell me as soon as you can give me a word for publication.”

  “Why not tackle Bristow a bit later, and tell him I let something drop about the letter,” said Mannering. “He might let you publish the story.”

  “Not if I know Bristow, he thinks I’m on your side,” said Chittering. “Still, I’ll try.” It was like the newspaperman not to make any comment on the contents of the letter. “Where are you off to now?”

  “To see Bristow.”

  “That ought to please the dick outside,” said Chittering with a grin. “He’ll be able to get a cup of te
a while you’re with the great man. But half a mo’, John.”

  “Well?”

  Chittering tapped the-letter.

  “That’s hot stuff, and I’d like to use it. Can do?”

  “If you really want to get me in bad with Bristow,” said Mannering.

  Chittering sighed.

  There had been a time when Mannering had been persona grata at Scotland Yard, and he knew both the new grey and the old red buildings well. It was unlikely that the police on duty in the old, red block, which housed the civil force, would have any inkling that he was under a cloud. He went there, was amiable with the sergeant on duty. He wanted to see Bristow, he said, and had forgotten for the moment that Bristow was in the new building. The sergeant didn’t complain.

  “Go through this way, sir.”

  “Thanks,” said Mannering.

  The detective who had followed him kept close.

  Two narrow passages, one on the ground floor, one underground, connected the new and the old buildings. The old was bleak and dark, the new one brighter, with light-coloured walls and more windows. Mannering hurried along the corridors, passing men who came towards him, seeing others looking at him curiously as they came out of their offices. He went up to the second floor and reached Bristow’s office well ahead of his shadow. He tapped sharply, heard Bristow’s crisp: “Come in!”

  Bristow, reading a report, didn’t look up immediately. Mannering stood by the door, heard the C.I.D. shadow stop outside, and smiled.

  The room was airy and long. The windows overlooked the Embankment, and he could see the tops of waving plane trees and catch a glimpse of the silvery Thames. One tree had a huge piece of bark stripped off it. Bristow’s desk was at one end of the room, and there was another, empty desk opposite the door.

  Bristow looked up.

  “Busy, Bill?” asked Mannering.

  Bristow jumped. Mannering chuckled, went forward and sat on a corner of the desk. Bristow, looking more alarmed than he used, picked up a piece of blotting-paper and dropped it over what he had been studying.

  “Or just ruminating?” Mannering continued, appearing to notice nothing furtive.

  “You’ve got a nerve,” said Bristow heavily.

  “Well, I wouldn’t get anywhere without it. You’ve been so weighed down by the cares of office, that I could hardly get a civil word in. Now—”

  “How did you get in here?”

  “I walked in—the roof ’s too high and the window’s too narrow. Everyone seemed very pleased to see me,” went on Mannering brightly. “You haven’t spread your dark suspicions to the rest of the staff, I’m glad to see. Perhaps you’re no longer suspicious.” He took out cigarettes.

  Bristow took one, by force of habit.

  “I’ve always warned you that one day you’d slip up,” he said, and clamped his lips on the cigarette.

  “And I’ve always told you that I wouldn’t, because I’m such a law-abiding citizen,” said Mannering. “I’m about to prove it, Bill. Who was in charge of the search of Quinns? Including the roof,” he added hastily.

  “I was,” said Bristow.

  “My dear chap, you’re slipping.” Mannering took out the pencil, pulled off some of the cotton wool, and handed it to Bristow. “I had another look round there just now, and found that lodged between two slates. I can’t imagine it’s been there long, and shouldn’t think many people disport themselves up there. Would you?”

  Bristow said slowly: “No, I shouldn’t.” He looked at the pencil, and then back at Mannering. “When did you find it?”

  “Just now,” said Mannering.

  “If you found this yesterday and have kept it until now—”

  “Oh, don’t be so sour,” said Mannering, tartly. “Anyone could have missed the thing where it was; I happened to see it glinting in the sun. Probably the sun wasn’t out when you were on the roof—it was morning, anyhow, you’d see it at a different angle.” Mannering dropped his hand into his pocket again. “Exhibit Two, William—this came by post, at lunch-time, to the flat. You’ll see the postmark on the envelope, that ought to convince you.”

  Bristow took out the note, read it, frowned and jerked his head.

  “Have you done anything about this?”

  “Yes, I’ve brought it to you,” said Mannering. “I also warned Swanmore that there’s something up and I’m going to see him as soon as I’ve finished with you.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “What else could I have done?” asked Mannering reasonably.

  Bristow grunted. He studied the letter again, and lost himself in it, while Mannering looked at his desk. The sheet of blotting-paper was still where Bristow had dropped it, but a corner of the form beneath showed. Mannering could see some lines and some printing, but not enough for identification. There were several others on the desk; Bristow had obviously been going through the reports on the Quinns case.

  If he could move across the desk and shift that blotting-paper, Mannering might get a glimpse. He took out cigarettes again, and, apparently absent-mindedly, held them out.

  “Smoking, thanks,” said Bristow.

  Mannering’s sleeve touched the blotting-paper, and it moved – but the form beneath it also moved, and he could see only one word, or part of a word, which he hadn’t been able to see before. That served its purpose, for it was in heavy black type, and read: “FINGER-PRI …”

  He withdrew his hand, and with Bristow still studying the letter, saw a small case resting against the wall in a corner. It was covered with grey finger-print powder.

  It was almost identical with the make-up case he had left at Paddington.

  Mannering felt himself go cold.

  Was it the case?

  He had only handled the thing three or four times, it was impossible to be sure. He stared at it fixedly, and gradually became aware that Bristow was looking at him, while pretending to study the letter. He did not look away at once; he could not alter his set expression. He saw Bristow glance down at the desk, to several photographs on the far corner.

  One was of a glove.

  Then Mannering knew what had happened; a great pit yawned in front of him.

  Bristow was now watching him openly.

  He stubbed out his cigarette, and looked up.

  “Anything to say?” demanded Bristow gruffly.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Swanmore Again

  “Say?” echoed Mannering. “What about?”

  “You know very well what I mean,” said Bristow.

  “Do I?” asked Mannering. He felt almost suffocated. Bristow’s accusing stare, the case, and the photograph told a damning story. He fought against dismay, and beat it back. “Oh, about that note,” he went on, as if the light had dawned. “No, Bill. It was posted in Hounslow, as you can see, and looks as if it were written in the dark, or while the Swanmore girl was blindfolded. Of course, it may not be her handwriting at all.”

  Bristow continued to stare at him.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Mannering with a great show of frankness, “I might have been tempted to try and help the girl, but for one thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “That it might be another plant, Bill. Another attempt to inveigle me into this.” Mannering chuckled, now in complete control of himself; yet he knew Bristow might charge him before he left, that by coming to the Yard he may have given up freedom. “From the beginning of this show, someone has been after my blood, dropping hints and innuendoes and probably stuff which you would call evidence, all over the place. This might be another—a letter purporting to come from Patricia, actually written by the man who kidnapped her, just to catch me on the wrong foot.”

  “Hmm,” said Bristow. “It’s too vague for that—if it had told you where to find her, or given you a clue you could go chasing after, there might be something in the argument. I’ll soon find out whether it’s her handwriting or not, anyhow. Anything else?”

  “I would say that I’d done fair
ly well this afternoon, wouldn’t you?” asked Mannering. “There’s one other small thing. You know a bad boy named Prideau, don’t you? He buys stolen gems.”

  “Well?” Bristow barked.

  Gently, Mannering told him Carmichael’s story; Bristow appeared to accept it at its face value, but made no comment. It didn’t ease the tension, which grew unbearable.

  “Don’t you think I’ve done well?” Mannering asked at last.

  “Well enough to make you believe that you’d better not play the fool,” Bristow said heavily. “What do you intend to tell Swanmore?”

  “Just the simple truth.”

  “You’ve heard nothing else from Miss Swanmore? No telephone message from or about her, or anything like that?”

  “Nothing,” said Mannering.

  “Hmm,” said Bristow. He tapped the letter and the pencil with his finger-nail, and went on: “At least you seem to be coming to your senses.” Would he say that, if he were going to make a charge? “Did you see the man who shot the policeman when you were in Aldgate last night?”

  “I wasn’t in Aldgate,” Mannering said flatly.

  Bristow just grinned; nastily.

  Mannering said: “Well, I’ll be going. If it will help, I’ll give you an itinerary of my likely movements; you could take your patient trailer away from me then. He’s only shuffling his feet outside the door.”

  Bristow said: “That’s not funny.”

  “You know, Bill,” said Mannering gently, “something’s happened to your sense of humour.”

  “I should keep yours polished,” Bristow said. “You’ll probably need it.”

  Mannering laughed, and let himself out. He winked at his shadow, who dutifully followed him. He went out of the entrance to the new building, nodding to a surprised duty constable. He crossed the road and leaned against the parapet of the Embankment, watching the gentle flow of the river, hearing the soft splashing against the stone wall beneath him. He was oblivious of the traffic passing along the road, the clanking and rattling of trams, the rumble of trains going over Charing Cross Bridge, the constant background of London’s sounds – he was thinking only of that make-up case and the photograph of the glove. He looked at his forefinger, and the tiny scratch, now practically healed. He remembered when it had happened, he realized exactly that Bristow knew. All his fears and Lorna’s had been justified.