by John Creasey
What a strange interview it had been; particularly when she had so obviously wanted to ask him to work for her and Harcourt had been so obviously against it, and yet diffident about saying so.
These thoughts passed quickly through his mind and yet it seemed a long time before he spoke; and then it was with a question which seemed to have nothing to do with the present situation.
“Do you have to wear those dark glasses, Mrs. Peek?”
“I am used to wearing them, when I am out of doors.”
“Do you wear them for disguise?” When she did not answer, he went on: “Or to hide your expression?”
“Is it important?” she asked.
“To me, very important.”
“Why?”
“I like to be able to judge the reaction of whoever I am with. I can’t with you, while you wear those glasses.”
She made no move to take them off, but a glimmer of genuine amusement crossed her face. He wondered what was passing through her mind. He wondered whether her husband really had been murdered, and whether Harcourt believed that to be true. He wondered why she was so anxious to dispose of the Collection. And he wondered what she would look like with the emerald tiara in her hair.
He knew what she would look like.
Superbly beautiful.
And he knew what he would feel: a tumultuous heart because of the stones and the life she would breathe into them. Their own life plus hers would be almost unbearable. Out of the blue, unbidden, there came a mental picture of a kind so startling that it was like a vision. Of this woman standing, naked, with the emeralds in her hair. Such visions could drive a man mad.
The smile at her lips faded. He could not be sure but he thought she was drawing her eyebrows together in a frown. Two voices seemed to cry out within him, one in warning: Have done with her, forget this madness! And the other saying: She needs your help; have you ever refused to give help where it was needed?
She stirred, and said quietly: “You are afraid, aren’t you, Mr. Mannering?”
“No,” he said. “Not afraid, certainly not afraid of danger if I should help you with the Collection, but – I am puzzled. And there is too much that I don’t know. I would want to know everything before I worked with you.”
“Everything?”
“Yes,” he replied, “including the reason why you have followed me so often and for so long.”
She said quietly: “That might be the most difficult of all the things I would have to tell you.” She stood up, with such grace of movement that he could not fail to be affected by it.
Stay away from her, stay away from danger, a voice exhorted him.
It was not physical danger that he feared.
“Mr. Mannering,” she said, “I need more time to think about this. And perhaps you also need more time.” Was she reading his thoughts? “Will you come and dine with me this evening?”
No, say no, she is seducing you.
“I would like to,” he said. “I’m not sure whether my wife has any plans that it would be difficult to cancel.”
“How soon will you know?”
“By half-past five.”
“Then I will telephone you at your office at a little after half-past five,” she said, and suddenly, with a slight wave of her hand, she was gone. He heard her footsteps on the wooden stairs, receding, fading. There were voices, other footsteps, a bell ringing. The girl and the man he thought was her father had gone and he had not noticed either of them move. People passed to and fro, and must have been doing so all the time, but he had not noticed, he had been so utterly absorbed in Lucille Peek.
He stood up, glancing at an old-fashioned clock with a big round face and Roman numerals above the doorway. It was a quarter to five. How could so much have happened in an hour and a quarter – so much and yet so little?
Little? He laughed, but without amusement, the arrow of derision pointing at himself.
He went out. There was a middle-aged man at the reception window, manning the switchboard. He did not appear to notice Mannering as he passed down the stairs. There was no sign of Lucille Peek, but one of thirty or so cars parked beneath trees which were dark and leafless against the sky was a red M.G. There were hundreds of red M.Gs. about. A taxi turned in at the gates and deposited a passenger halfway along the row of houses. Mannering beckoned him and he drove up.
“Hart Row, Bond Street,” he said as he got in.
It was a new taxi, and as taxis go, very comfortable. He sat with his legs outstretched, not so much thinking as reacting. The simple truth was, that the woman he now knew as Lucille Peek had had a disturbing effect on him from the moment he had turned to find her so close behind him in Green Street. Why had she followed him about?
Unless he decided to have dinner with her tonight, would he ever find out?
Did it matter whether he ever found out or not?
The truth was, he didn’t know; Supposing at half-past five he simply told her he was sorry, he could not go, there was a family engagement to which his wife had committed him. He felt as nearly sure as he could that she would accept that; would assume that he really meant that he did not wish to accept her invitation and was using Lorna as an excuse. And along with that would go her acceptance that he wanted nothing more to do with her or the Peek Collection.
Quietly, he said to the empty cab: “But I do want to go. That’s not the question: the question is, should I?”
He woke to his surroundings and saw that they were already in Bond Street. “The corner will do,” he told the driver, and for a moment stood looking about him. She wasn’t there – of course she wasn’t there! He walked briskly along to Quinn’s, and paused for a moment in admiration, for Bristow had placed on display a single miniature, which drew his eye as it must draw the eye of everyone who passed. Bristow had a rare and unexpected gift of window dressing.
He entered the shop, and was surprised to find at least seven prospective customers, many more than usually appeared at one time. Charles was dealing with two elderly men, the other assistants were also engaged with couples, Bristow was talking to a small, black-haired young man whom Mannering recognised only as Japanese. He went straight to his office; only Bristow appeared to notice him, flashing him a quick, searching look as he passed. Mannering unlocked the office door and went straight to the desk, seeing several notes placed for his attention.
The first read:
Wilson Waddington’s credit is fully established.
The second read:
Mr. Norman Harcourt has called twice – will you call him back?
The third read:
Mr. Hiro Mitsu, youngest partner in Mitsu of Tokyo, is in the shop – if you don’t come to see him I’ll make a morning appointment.
The fourth read:
Lorna telephoned to say that she’s been asked to go to an Arts Council meeting tonight and will be gone by six o’clock. Perhaps you will eat at your club.
All of these had “W.B.’ initialled beneath them.
Lorna, then, wouldn’t be in.
He could almost hear Lucille Peek’s voice: “Will you come and dine with me this evening?” and his own answer, that he would have to make sure that his wife hadn’t committed him to some other appointment. Now he had to decide simply on his own desires: he need not think that by dining with another woman he would be leaving Lorna to her own resources at home. Not, on a simple business occasion, that Lorna would have minded.
But was it to be a simple business occasion?
Mannering sat on a corner of his desk and dialled the number of Harcourt, Pace and Pace. It was now a quarter-past five and as the ringing sound went on and on he began to wonder whether the office was closed, but as he started to lower the receiver a girl answered breathlessly.
“Harcourt Pace.”
“Mr. Mannering speaking. I—”
“Oh, Mr. Mannering, Mr. Harcourt’s down on this floor now, he hoped you would call, please hold on.”
Mannering studi
ed the list of notes as he waited, telling himself that he should have gone to see Mitsu, for the Tokyo firm was one of the best antique dealers in the Far East. He leaned forward and pressed Bristow’s buzzer: not Bristow but Josh Larraby opened the door.
“You did ring, Mr. Mannering, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Ask Bill if he can keep Mr. Mitsu for a few minutes, I’ll be out as soon as I’ve made this call.” Larraby withdrew and the door clicked to as Harcourt came on the line. His voice was low-pitched and faintly conspiratorial.
“Mr. Mannering, how good of you to call. I was anxious to have a word with you, very anxious indeed.” Another voice sounded, louder although obviously further away. “I am in a somewhat conspicuous place and do not wish what I say to be overheard, I do hope you can hear me.”
“I can hear you,” Mannering assured him.
“Good. Mr. Mannering, Ezra Peek was for many years a client, a most valued client of mine. Most valued. Mrs. Lucille Peek whom you met is his second wife, and the relations between his two sons and Mrs. Lucille Peek are somewhat strained. I speak with restraint, you understand. There is no doubt at all of the validity of the will. Proper provision was made for his children, substantial provision including his house in Ealing and considerable property in and near London as well as stocks and shares. I tell you this in absolute confidence, you understand. Absolute confidence.”
On an open telephone, Mannering wondered: with a girl operator at the switchboard? But he said: “Of course,” and waited for the other man to go on.
“Mrs. Lucille Peek was left an annuity, a reasonable and fairly substantial one for a new wife of only three years, together with the Collection which you have valued. At first no one raised any objection, or challenged this – none of the family had the remotest idea of the true value of the Collection. In fact it was not until you gave your—ah—shrewd guess of a million pounds that the legacy aroused any comment.”
Harcourt paused, and Mannering filled the gap by saying: “I see.”
But it did not fill the gap. Harcourt’s breathing became more laboured, it was as if he were beginning to gasp for breath. A heart attack? Mannering wondered. A spasm of some kind? The hoarse breathing was very loud in his ear now and he found himself gripping the telephone so tightly that it hurt his fingers.
Next moment, the receiver at the other end went down.
It was not replaced briskly or sharply; there was a clattering sound, what might have been a shout, then a louder clatter before the line went dead. Mannering was so startled that he hardly knew what to do best. Then he put down the receiver sharply, waited long enough for the line to clear, picked it up and dialled the Harcourt, Pace and Pace number again. This time the ringing sound went on much longer than before, but he held on until there was a break in the ringing and a clerk’s voice answered: “Harcourt, Pace and Pace.”
“My name is Mannering. I was cut off from Mr. Ronald Harcourt a few moments ago. May I speak to him please?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Ronald’s had one of his attacks,” the man said. “He’s all right, he’ll be round in a few minutes, but he’ll be taken straight home and I should doubt if he will be in the office for two or three days. Can one of his partners help you?” Before Mannering could answer the man went on: “Will you call in the morning, sir? Or shall I have one of the partners call you?”
“I’ll call,” Mannering decided. “Thank you.”
He replaced the receiver very slowly. In one way he was relieved, in another more concerned than ever because he did not know what Harcourt had wanted to say, but felt sure that it had to do with his dealing with Lucille and the Collection. He sat on the corner of his desk, hand still on the telephone, everything forgotten except this. There was a tap at the door and Bristow looked in, his lips parted to speak. Mannering’s expression obviously stopped the words but his appearance shook Mannering out of himself, and he stood up from the desk.
“What is it, Bill?”
“Mitsu has to go,” Bristow answered. “I thought you might just like to say hallo. But he’ll be here at ten-thirty tomorrow, so—”
“I’ll come,” Mannering said, and went ahead as Bristow stood aside for him. Young Mitsu, who barely came up to Mannering’s shoulder, had a complexion so perfect that it looked artificial, and his eyelashes and eyebrows were as jet black as his hair which was brushed straight back from his forehead.
“I’m very glad to see you.” Mannering extended his hand.
“You are kind to interrupt important business for me,” Mitsu gripped firmly enough as he bowed over Mannering’s hand. Straightening up, he went on: “I bring you greetings from my father and his father.” There was a marked American intonation in his voice.
“My greetings to them,” Mannering said.
“You are so kind.” Mitsu bowed again, more deeply this time. “And my thanks for finding precious time in which to see me tomorrow. I am sorry I have a social engagement at the house of the Ambassador for which I must not be late. You will forgive me?”
“Of course,” Mannering said, and walked with the Japanese towards the door, which Charles hurried to open. As Mitsu went out a telephone bell rang and Mannering thought: Lucille. He did not hurry, did not betray his inner excitement, but continued to walk at the same even pace towards his office. He was halfway there when one of the assistants called: “It’s for you, Mr. Mannering.”
“I’ll take it in my office,” Mannering said; he did not know what Lucille would say or what he might have to say to her. He told himself that he had not even decided whether to go and see her tonight, although in fact he was lying to himself. He pushed the door to with one hand as he plucked up the receiver with the other, and said: “This is John Mannering.”
A man’s voice spoke, quickly, decisively: “Mannering,” it said, “if you have anything to do with that bitch Lucille Peek you’ll be signing your own death warrant. Didn’t anyone tell you she’s already murdered two husbands, one of them Ezra Peek?”
7
Murderess?
For a split second Mannering was too taken aback to speak, but the man did not hang up; regaining his poise quickly, Mannering replied calmly: “Who is speaking?” his mind alert, his ears keyed to catch every nuance of tone and expression.
“Never mind who I am. I—”
“But I need to know who has my welfare so much at heart.”
“Mannering,” the man said, and his voice was now harsher in tone and touched with anger, “you may think it’s funny now, but you won’t think anything’s funny for long if you get involved with her. You would be wise to accept the fact that she has had more men than a hundred normal women put together. She destroys lovers and she kills husbands.”
The last words echoed and re-echoed in Mannering’s mind. Before he could speak, the line went dead and there was nothing at all he could do but replace his receiver. A chiming clock, just outside the door, struck one: the half-hour. Lucille was to call soon. He went to the door to find Bristow approaching and the last customer apparently gone. Mannering schooled himself to look as normal as Bristow, although those words still echoed in his head. “She destroys lovers and she kills husbands.”
“You’re looking very pleased with yourself, Bill,” Mannering remarked.
“I’m more than pleased, I’m excited,” declared Bristow. “This has been the best day, saleswise, since I came to work for you, and that means in four years. Apart from the tiara and the vase, over thirty thousand pounds together, we have sold forty-one thousand pounds worth of stock. You’ll have to start buying, John!”
“Forty-one thousand!” exclaimed Mannering.
“Two Watteaus at fifteen hundred each, the Genoese silver table, four thousand, the small Louis Quinze secretaire …” Bristow went through the list in his head – another of his rare capabilities; he remembered virtually everything that happened during the day. His last item was: “And that little gold and porcelain clock outside your room, seven hundred an
d fifty pounds. My God! You get your hands on some beautiful things, John!”
“Congratulations,” Mannering murmured. “We should have a drink to celebrate. Have the others gone?”
“Yes, even old Josh has gone upstairs, he’s been helping us out nearly all day.” Bristow watched Mannering take a bottle of Scotch whisky and a syphon from a cupboard close at hand, and went on almost casually: “How did you get on at Harcourt, Pace and Pace?”
Mannering began to pour out, asking himself as he did so: how much shall I tell Bristow? He was almost sure that it had to be all or nothing – anything else would be unfair and frustrating. He gave Bristow a whisky and soda which he knew would be to the other’s liking, added more soda to his own drink, and said: “Cheers. And congratulations.”
“The customers came here.”
“Your window drew them,” declared Mannering, sipping and letting the drink go down slowly. “Bill, I am due to receive a telephone call from a Mrs. Lucille Peek, who has been trying very hard to persuade me to take the Peek Collection off her hands quickly, largely – I gather – because her husband’s children by his first wife might challenge her right to it. She apparently wants to sell the Collection while it is legally hers, and then skip. The skipping part is a guess, the other a reasonable inference from what Harcourt told me.” He drank again before going on: “And that is not all. The last telephone call I had was an anonymous well-wisher whose crucial accusation was that Mrs. Lucille Peek destroys her numerous lovers and kills her husbands.”
He leaned back in his chair, studying Bristow’s expression. It was worth studying, for it changed from interest to alarm, then on to incredulousness and finally to something not far removed from disbelief.
Mannering chuckled.
“The telephone call was obviously to find out whether, after this dire warning, I will go and dine with this Delilah alias Lucille tonight.” He glanced at the telephone and suddenly realised that it must be a quarter to six; as suddenly, felt gripped by alarm – yes, alarm – lest she did not call again. He glanced away, his smile now set as he watched Bristow take a deep drink and then put his glass down.
