by John Creasey
Dr. Medway shook his head.
“Not really. I met Ezra and his wife once at a dinner party, that’s all.”
“Are. you Mr. Harcourt’s regular physician?”
“Yes. I have been for over thirty years.”
They were at the door, now. The younger doctor and the nurse were by the patient’s side. Barely above a whisper Mannering asked: “What are you going to put on the death certificate?”
“There’s only one thing to put,” replied Medway. “Death from natural causes. Mr. Harcourt has suffered from heart trouble for at least fifteen years. All stresses, strains and shocks are bad for him, particularly emotional shocks. He is a man who involves himself deeply in his clients’ affairs, and identifies with them. This affair has been more than he can stand: it is as simple as that.” He shook hands with Mannering, said again: “It was good of you to come,” and returned to the sick room. Young Pace stood a little awkwardly by the open door of the lift.
“Would you like to use the lift?”
“May we walk?”
“Yes, of course.”
Pace led the way to the stairs while Mannering looked about him. This was a Victorian house both inside and out, he did not see anything of an older period except, perhaps, some landscape paintings. Most of the pictures were portraits of the kind one was likely to find in a London club. Everything was solid and well-polished, the curtains were tapestry or velvet, the carpets Wilton or Axminster. Over the front door was a stained glass fanlight.
“Do you know the Peek family?”
“A little,” answered Pace. “Mr. Harcourt was really the one who had dealings with them. But I could introduce them to you if you wish.”
“Later,” Mannering said. “Thank you. But there is something you can do.”
“Anything,” said Charles Pace earnestly. “Mr. Harcourt was as much a father as a partner to me. My father died young, Norman brought both my brother Roger and I up, put us into the firm, has been—” He broke off; when he spoke again his voice was stronger and more urgent. “Mr. Mannering! What did you mean by asking what Dr. Medway would put on the death certificate?”
Very deliberately Mannering answered: “I wanted to find out whether he had any suspicion of foul play. Apparently he hasn’t. Mr. Pace – I want you to find out the name of everyone on your staff who was in the office from which your partner was telephoning when he collapsed. Whether they were clients, members of the staff, anyone at all. And having done that I would like to know if anyone on that list was also close by when Ezra Peek had his last seizure.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Pace.
“Will you do it?”
“Of course. I won’t lose any time. There’s one name which would appear on both lists which I can tell you right away.” When Mannering didn’t ask what name it was, Pace volunteered: “Mrs. Lucille Peek.”
“Can you be sure there was no one else?” demanded Mannering in a strangled voice.
“Not positive in the absolute sense,” replied Charles Pace, “but ninety-nine per cent certain. I should know for sure by this evening – shall I telephone you?”
“I’ll be grateful if you will,” Mannering said.
But on the way back, with a police escort exactly as before, he felt that was the last telephone call he wanted to hear. He was concentrating on it when he saw the driver of the police car in front wave him down, and then pull into the kerb, just halfway down Putney Hill and within sight of Bristow’s house. The driver climbed out and came hurrying back.
“There’s a message for you, Mr. Mannering – very urgent. Not to go to Quinn’s or your flat, but to St. George’s Hospital. Someone on your staff has been badly hurt.”
13
‘Accident’?
About the time that Mannering was approaching Harcourt’s house in Wimbledon, Josh Larraby was leaving by the front door of Quinn’s. He could always get in and out by the back door and there was a special key to his apartment and special security precautions at the back, against burglary. Coming home, Larraby usually used his private entrance, going out he loved to walk through the shop. In a way, it was ‘his’.
He never forgot the first time he had come into it, soon after Mannering had taken over, a thief freshly released from prison, sentenced because of his love of precious stones and the temptation they created and to which he had given way. He never forgot how Mannering, the last person he expected, had given him a chance to rehabilitate himself: to live with the jewels he so loved, and for which he felt so over-riding a passion, and at the same time to live and conquer the temptation to possess. It was well over twenty years ago and much of that time he had been manager at Quinn’s, retiring only when he became too old.
He was now eighty-one, and one of the happiest men alive.
He lived, trusted absolutely, within hand’s reach of the wondrous treasures at Quinn’s. Occasionally, he was called upon to identify or to date a jewel or a piece of jewellery, for he still stored more knowledge than most men acquired in a lifetime in his head. Mannering and Bristow never hesitated to consult him if they were puzzled. He could walk through this shop whenever he liked, and it was like walking through history. And, perhaps the greatest delight of all, he was occasionally invited by Mannering to take part in a valuation such as that for the Peek Collection. It was sheer joy.
The past few weeks with Mannering had tired him one way and yet refreshed him in another, and he was almost sorry about going away for a rest. But physically, no doubt, he needed one. So he left, walking, carrying just an overnight case for he did not intend to be away for long. He turned out of Hart Row, his heart as near to singing as it could be.
He did not see the small car which drove straight at him.
He was on the pavement; it did not occur to him that he was in danger.
There he was, walking sedately, a conventionally-dressed man in a business suit, and coming towards him were two youths with hair growing down to their shoulders, wrapped up in patched coats, unshaven, unwholesome-looking. He tried to avoid a direct stare, thinking: Really! What is the world coming to? But his curiosity got the better of him, and on that instant he saw their expressions change from vacuous listlessness to fear. One of them yelled: “Look out!” and dived into a shop doorway.
The other looked beyond Larraby to see the thing that caused him terror, and he leapt forward, carrying Larraby with him. All of a sudden people were shouting, screaming, as the small car mounted the pavement. Had Larraby still been walking there it would have mown him down. As it was he was several feet away, on his back, the long-haired lout half over him. The car went on, crashing into a plate glass window. The driver flung the door open, sprang out and ran, disappearing in the crowd of traffic. Only a few people noticed him; afterwards, no one was able to describe him clearly.
Mannering leapt out of his car outside the side entrance to St. George’s Hospital, as Bill Bristow came hurrying down the steps. So it wasn’t Bill. He had never seen such an expression on Bristow’s face: a mixture of rage and anxiety. He was almost afraid to ask: “Who?” And then he did not need to ask for there was only one of the staff who could affect Bristow like this.
He asked gruffly: “Josh?”
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
“Touch and go. Head injury.”
“How did it happen?”
“John,” Bristow said, “someone tried to run him down. A passer-by pushed him out of the way of the car but Josh hit his head on the pavement. It’s touch and go,” he repeated. “The other poor devil has multiple fractures of the legs – both legs.” They were now walking up the steps to the hospital.
“Is Josh conscious?”
“They’re operating in half-an-hour,” Bristow said. “He’s had X-Rays and everything possible is being done. He’s alive – but only just.”
Bristow gulped.
How it had been arranged Mannering did not know, but they were taken straight to the ward where Josh Larraby was lyi
ng. He looked ashen pale, and his eyes were closed; whatever drug they had given him had put him right out. There were nurses round his bed, and a young doctor who, at sight of the two men, came forward.
“Mr. Mannering?”
“Yes,” Mannering said, and made himself add: “All I want is for you to save him.”
“I know,” said the doctor. “I’ve met him at Quinn’s, and – well, I can’t promise you anything. With a younger man I’d say he had a very good chance indeed. You don’t need telling—”
“You’ll do your best.”
“Our absolute best,” the doctor said. “And now we’re about ready to start.”
“How long will this take?” Mannering asked.
“It could be as long as two or three hours. I’ll see that you’re informed the moment we can give an opinion.”
Mannering went out, walking blindly, hardly seeing the bare walls, the doors he passed, the visitors, the push-carts, the hospital’s personnel. He reached the main hall and felt Bristow gripping his arm like a vice. He allowed himself to be pushed towards a chair, and helped to sit down. Josh. He had known him for so long, he was – one of the family. Family. Josh. Oh, God. He pressed his hand against his forehead and Bristow asked something he didn’t hear. Josh. Family. Lorna! He straightened up in sharp alarm, the pain driven away from his eyes momentarily.
“Lorna?” He barked the name.
“I haven’t told her,” Bristow said. “I thought—”
“She must know.”
“I thought you would want to tell her,” Bristow said, only to add: “I will, if you like. One of us must.”
“Lorna,” Mannering said, and after a pause: “I’ll tell her. Did they get the driver?”
“No.”
“Killer,” Mannering said. “Killers at large. Do they know it was an attempt to kill him?”
“It’s being handled as if it were attempted murder,” Bristow said. “By the same team as the one handling your affairs last night. John, I hate asking this but every senior policeman involved is asking me.” When Mannering simply looked at him in silent invitation to go on, the words seemed to spill out of him. “Do you know more than you’ve told us, John?”
Mannering looked at him as if he did not comprehend.
“What a bloody silly question. No. Absolutely no, and that is final.”
Bristow looked both alarmed and relieved as he said: “Now take it easy, John. No one’s accusing you. I’ll tell them, right away. Would you like me to drive you to—”
“I’m perfectly capable of driving,” Mannering said, and then jerked: “Thanks.”
By the time he had reached his car he knew that he had let fly at Bristow because of his own pent-up emotions. Josh Larraby, so near death; the man who had worked with him for so long, who had spent nearly every moment of estimating the value of the Peek Collection with him.
Only one person, so far as they yet knew, had been close to Ezra Peek and Norman Harcourt at the time of their last and fatal shock.
Lucille couldn’t be involved in such devilry; in an attack on an old man – a helpless old man.
He found himself grinding his teeth as he started the car, but as he moved into the stream of traffic he regained more self-control, concentrated on his driving and was soon in Piccadilly. Traffic was very heavy this morning. He had to wait for minutes to make the turn off which would take him to Hart Row. He saw a police car in his driving mirror; they were certainly making sure they did not lose him.
But nothing could really protect him, or anyone else if someone meant to kill.
While he was sitting there in the Allard, for instance, someone on the pavement or in a nearby car could shoot him. Throw a hand grenade. Or—
He was getting fanciful!
There was nothing fanciful about this business, it was all happening, and he had to find out why. First the why, and then, who was at the back of it? And it was past time he stopped this emotional brooding, the tensions; he could not concentrate on the vital issues unless he could stand aside and look at them objectively. First why and then who by? It was glaringly obvious that the attacks on him had started only when he had finished the valuation and when he had identified Lucille. The attack – if it had been an attack – on Harcourt had come soon afterwards. So had the attack on Josh; the last, the unforgivable attack.
Why Josh Larraby?
He was driving along Bond Street now and would soon turn off to Hart Row, without realising that he was passing the very spot where Josh had been attacked. The truth of the affair, or at least part of it, came to him with shattering force. He and Josh were both wanted dead because they had valued the Collection.
Nonsense?
No: it gave a motive which he hadn’t seen before. Someone wanted them dead because of the valuation.
Had he been the only intended victim it could be because he might be able to help Lucille to sell the Collection. Might be able? He would be able. There was no if about it, and if he had to he could borrow against the security of the Collection. Now that Josh was involved it could only be because they had worked together on the Collection and knew it thoroughly, perhaps more thoroughly than any man since Ezra Peek’s death.
Now he felt a warning passing through his body – there was something in the Collection itself which was bringing these attacks upon them. Something Harcourt might know, too. He—
There was a traffic block at the corner to Hart Row, and as he sat, waiting now and no longer fuming, turning the new idea over and over in his mind, he suddenly realised that he shouldn’t be here: he had left for Chelsea and Lorna, he had spent all this time in the thick of London traffic going in the wrong direction! Fit to drive, was he? He actually laughed, and that in itself showed an improvement; a few minutes before he would just have been mad at himself. What was the best thing to do? If he went to his usual parking place he could walk through the office block to Piccadilly and get a taxi from there – no. Taxis were too risky at rush hour.
He must drive.
He was crawling past the entrance to Hart Row when he saw Charles standing outside the shop looking this way and that. Immediately Charles spotted him he waved and began to run towards him. At that moment the traffic ahead began to move; traffic could be as contrary as people. He was at one side, saw Charles turn the corner in the driving mirror, ignored a taxi behind him, and stopped. Charles reached the window.
“Two things, sir. Mr. Norman Harcourt died this afternoon and – well, the other is that you’re to go to Chelsea as quickly as you can, sir. To your flat. I don’t know what’s the matter but Mrs. Mannering’s most anxious.”
So now there was trouble with Lorna; for Lorna.
He said: “Thanks, Charles. It’s touch and go with Josh but he’s having the operation now.”
He drove into an empty stretch of road and from that moment everything seemed to go his way; he was able to catch the lights of Bond Street and Piccadilly, was soon in St. James’s Square. Traffic seemed to divide for him in Pall Mall. He went right at the Mall and swung round Buckingham Palace, towards Victoria, and when he was in Fulham Road saw a police car just behind him. He gave a snort of a laugh: those drivers were incredible! At last he was in King’s Road, Chelsea, outside the Town Hall, and it would not be long now.
Why would Lorna send for him so urgently without giving a reason?
Had she heard about Josh?
Charles may have told her, but that would not create an emergency at the Chelsea flat, and Lorna would not cause one unless there was real need. He was forced to slow down a little; and at the same time made himself think of the new motivation. What could Josh and he have discovered or seen in that Collection which would make someone want to kill them?
There had been hundreds of pieces: seven hundred and ninety-one to be exact. Did all of them together or just one of them hold the secret?
Should he be worrying more about Lorna? There were police back and front at the house and he could imagine no reas
on why she should be in danger, but nevertheless he began to fret. What was holding up the traffic? It started to nose forward and he took a turning to the left, making for a rabbit warren of streets which would lead him to the Embankment and the other end of Green Street. Ah! Now he could move. So could the police car. An elderly man stepped off the kerb outside a pub, and Mannering jammed on his brakes. Careful. He had a vivid mental picture of Josh lying on a narrow hospital bed, pale and still under the anaesthetic.
He turned into Green Street.
Two plainclothes men were still on duty, and neither of them showed any sign of panic or alarm. One of them moved across and asked: “Like me to park your car, sir?”
“Would I!” He climbed out of the door as the other opened it. “Has there been any trouble?”
“I haven’t seen any, sir.” Alarm showed in the man’s eyes. “Have you any reason to believe—”
“I’ll call down from the window if there’s any need,” Mannering said over his shoulder as he hurried into the house. The lift was on the ground floor and only half-a-minute elapsed before he was at the door of his own apartment, key in hand. Suddenly, he remembered: I have to tell her about Josh, and then he opened the door and stepped inside.
There was no sign of anyone, but he heard Lorna saying: “I’m quite sure he won’t be long. He will come the moment he gets the message.”
Another woman answered her: “I am frightened in case they kill him. If they do I would never forgive myself. Never.”
The voice was Lucille’s …
14
Fear From Guilt?
They were in the drawing -room, the one formal room in the apartment, which overlooked the street. Although Lorna made changes from time to time basically it was much the same as it had been for many years; a Regency room of golds and greens and pale greys.
Lucille was standing by one of the two windows, and the sun, coming through for the first time that day, glinted on her hair. Lorna was sitting on the arm of a large chair, still in her painting smock, a little dishevelled, obviously concerned. Mannering reached the doorway and watched them. He would never understand how it was that he felt so calm.
