by John Creasey
If she could get the right model . . .
She didn’t want the bizarre – or even particularly arresting features; just a human being who loved, feared, grieved, lived. She would not get it from a professional model if she tried for a month, and when she got it, she would probably do a pretty picture everyone would say was lovely.
‘Oh, damn! I can’t breathe up here!’ She tore off her green smock, left the attic studio without another glance at the easel, and climbed down a rickety staircase to the apartment proper. She slipped on the last step.
‘That’s a thought,’ she said. ‘I could break my neck.’
At least it made her laugh at herself.
The bedroom mirror soon banished laughter. She tried to smile in it, but a frown showed through; she looked a shrew. Her heavy eyebrows seemed to meet in the middle; simian! It was like her to be different, to keep her eyebrows bushy; with her dark hair falling in natural and now untidy waves to her shoulders, they made her pale face pallid; distinctive, some said; she had even agreed with them.
How would she like to live with a face like this opposite her at the table?
She snatched up a pair of tweezers . . .
‘At least I’m no longer a hairy ape,’ she said, five minutes later, and laughed at herself again. Laughter cleared her frown, hinted at her beauty. She combed and brushed her hair furiously, did it up – and everything went right, even her hat set well. She unbuttoned her frock and stepped out of it. Then she caught sight of herself in slip, brassiere and green hat with a long, sweeping feather, and felt better still.
Was the mood on its way out?
She dressed in a bottle-green two-piece, this season’s best Hartnell model.
‘I’ll grab the first ugly man I see and drag him here,’ she told her reflection. ‘I’ll paint a person if it’s the last thing I do.’
She hurried into the hall.
Before opening the door, she caught sight of a portrait of John. It was the second one she’d painted of him, and had hung last year in the Royal Academy. She seldom went out without casting a quick glance at it. It pleased her, because she had caught not only his looks but the man himself.
It was a strong, arresting face. There was the half-smile which was so often played at his lips and in his hazel eyes. It hinted that he was laughing at a secret joke; humour was always lurking in him; he looked upon everyday things in a different way from most people. He seemed to be smiling at her now; yes, he could see a bright side to these moods of hers, moods which would have driven most men to a pitch of desperation and smashed the marriage.
‘Sorry, sweet,’ she said, and turned to the front door.
Someone rang the bell.
She had been too absorbed to hear the footsteps outside. Now, she saw a shadow against the frosted glass panel of the door. Her frown came back. It was tea-time; a friend might have dropped in for a leisurely gossip which would drive her silly. She actually thought of tip-toeing away, but conquered the impulse and opened the door.
A stranger stood there, tall and dark-clad.
‘Good afternoon, madam.’
‘Good afternoon.’
‘Is Mr. Mannering in?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘Oh.’ The man had a plum-pudding face, ordinary except for rather sad eyes; unpaintable. ‘I want to see him urgently. Do you know when he will be back?’
‘Some time this evening,’ said Lorna.
‘Not earlier?’
‘You might find him at Quinn’s, if you hurry. Do you know the shop?’
‘Yes, but I have no time to go there, now. Are you Mrs. Mannering?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wonder if I can leave this with you?’ asked the stranger, holding out a small packet, wrapped in brown paper. ‘Mr. Mannering knows about it. Perhaps you will tell him I will call for an answer this evening.’
Lorna took the packet.
‘Yes, I’ll tell him.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said the stranger. He smiled; it was a pity that he had such a round pudding of a face, it made his anxiety seem comic. ‘You’ll excuse me if I say that it ought to be put somewhere safe, won’t you?’
‘I’ll look after it,’ she promised.
‘Thank you very much.’ He touched his forehead, turned and made off.
Lorna closed the door and went into Mannering’s study. This was a small room, with a Queen Anne writing-table and a few old etchings on the panelled walls, two book-cases, one for modern works, one for classics, and a brown carpet. In one corner was a Cromwellian oak settle with a box- seat.
The seat was locked and no key would open it; it was lined with steel, and electrically controlled. She pressed a switch concealed in the carved back of the piece, then was able to lift the seat easily. Inside was a steel box. She pressed another switch, concealed inside the seat, and took a small key from her bag and unlocked the box. A second box was inside it, with a combination lock; this was the safe itself. She knew the combination by heart, and twisted and turned with the tumblers clicking, until it opened. Inside here were a few small packages and one or two jewel cases. She put the packet in, closed the safe, and locked it. Soon, there was just an old oak settle against the wall.
Opening the safe seemed to have opened a partition in her mind. The caller with his shy, awkward manner was one of several whom John had arranged to see here lately. Judy, the cook-general, had twice given her brown paper packets, left as this one had been.
Judy was out—
Never mind Judy!
Who were the callers? Why didn’t John see them at the shop? The packages contained jewels, of course; yet he had never referred to them or the callers.
Why not?
Had her moodiness discouraged him?
Was there really mystery?
She laughed, but not easily. John thrived on mystery; always had, always would. Mystery, trouble, crime – they were part of his life, the only part she hated.
Hated? The truth was, it frightened her. She had been frightened, over the years, because he would never leave a mystery alone. He had to solve it, no matter where it took him. Some were trivial, some . . .
Why had she had to fall in love with a man who had always lived dangerously? His passion for jewels was responsible. She’d persuaded him to buy Quinn’s, hoping the shop would absorb the passion, but it hadn’t. Nothing would, nothing could. Probably he had not mentioned the callers because she’d flare up at him, driven on by her fears – that this would lead to a danger he couldn’t escape.
Nonsense?
She’d see him – now. Talk to him, make him talk; he’d probably be able to banish her fears.
She laughed.
He might still be at Quinn’s.
She hurried out, slamming the front door.
Twenty minutes later, her taxi pulled up at the end of Hart Row. A heavy van was waiting to come out, and as Quinn’s was not far from the corner, she paid the driver and walked towards the shop. As she drew near, a man came out; not a man likely to come from Quinn’s. He carried a cardboard tray with some matches and bootlaces, and wore an old coat, old flannel trousers and a pink shirt. He was hatless, his greying hair long and straggly. He came towards her slowly, with a dreamy expression on his face. Only once did he turn away from her; to glance at the window and its single diamond.
They were nearly level when he looked round again.
Lorna missed a step
This was the model! The dreamy eyes held a glow, like the eyes of a girl in love. The face itself was interesting – weak yet with a hint of stubbornness; no, not exactly weak; arresting, in a strange way. The mouth was good, so was the chin. The cheekbones were a little high, the halo of hair gave him the look of an Old Testament prophet. If she searched London high and low, she wouldn
’t find a better subject.
He moved towards the road, to let her pass, and looked at her, surprised to find her staring at him so intently. He smiled, and fingered a box of matches.
‘Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m afraid I haven’t got much of a selection, but—’
‘Selection?’ She stared. ‘Oh, those. No, thanks. Are you busy?’
The question was absurd; she was absurd; but he looked at her with a sparkle of humour which reminded her of John.
‘I am not overworked,’ he said.
‘Could you sit for me for a few days?’
‘I don’t understand you,’ replied the tramp. ‘Sit for you?’
‘As a model. I am a painter. I’d like—’
He gasped.
‘Are you Mrs. Mannering?’
‘Yes.’ It didn’t matter how he’d guessed, he was a gift from the gods. ‘Will you—’
‘I have just seen Mr. Mannering,’ said the beggar.
The door of Quinn’s opened, and Mannering came out. No one else was in Hart Row, so the contrast between the two men was heightened. The beggar, slow moving, gentle voiced, dressed in little more than rags, short, unkempt; Mannering, brisk, tall, lean and lithe, dressed by the artists of Savile Row, with all the assurance of wealth and well-being in his manner He looked exactly as he did in the portrait at home.
They were both perfect models.
Mannering’s smile widened.
‘Hallo, my sweet. You two don’t know each other, do you?’
‘I haven’t that pleasure,’ Larraby said.
‘Mr. Larraby – my wife.’ Mannering’s eyes said: ‘Now what imp of the devil’s in your mind, darling?’
Larraby murmured: ‘How are you, Mrs. Mannering?’
‘I’m feeling wonderful! I’ve been looking for you for weeks – can you sit for me, Mr. Larraby?’
Mannering said: ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s less a case of whether I can but whether I may, Mrs. Mannering. Isn’t it, sir?’ Larraby looked at Mannering wistfully but amused, and not really hopeful.
Mannering was studying Lorna’s plucked eyebrows.
‘I don’t see why not,’ he said, after a long pause.
‘Darling,’ said Lorna, ‘Mr. Larraby will sit for me, you know, not for you.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Mannering chuckled. ‘I still don’t see why not. But not today, my sweet, no matter how your fingers are itching, we’ve several things to do. Tomorrow morning, if you like.’
‘That’ll do. The light’s no good now.’
‘11b Green Street, Chelsea,’ Lorna said to Larraby. ‘It’s a turning between King’s Road and the river – the Embankment.’
‘I am well acquainted with the Embankment, Mrs Mannering,’ said Larraby, dryly, ‘and I’ll be there any time you like.’
‘Nine o’clock? You will come?’
‘Nothing would keep me away,’ said Larraby. ‘And I may even live to repay you both. Good day.’
He turned, and walked off.
‘Repay?’ Lorna looked blank.
Mannering laughed. ‘Did I ever tell you that you’re beautiful, my sweet, while a policeman looked on?’
The constable was in the doorway of the next shop to Quinn’s.
‘No. Have I ever—’ Lorna broke off, looking at the diamond for the first time.
‘Nice little thing, isn’t it?’ Mannering asked.
‘Darling, are you crazy? To put a thing like that in the window is—’
‘I know. Asking for trouble. Don’t forget that window’s so strong you’d need dynamite or a pneumatic drill to break it. Talking of Larraby—’
‘We weren’t.’
‘We are. Before you start to dab him on canvas there are things you should know. I’ll be in for dinner. Seven-ish.’
He kissed her.
But when he’d left, she wondered why he had hedged from the subject of the diamond in the window.
Chapter Three
THE POLICEMAN AND THE REPORT
Superintendent William Bristow, of New Scotland Yard, sat in his large airy office and read the reports on his desk. The desk, like Bristow, was very neat and tidy. So was the room. So was the other desk, in the corner by the window, which was normally occupied by the Inspector who looked after Bristow’s routine work when the Superintendent was not in the office. A wall-clock ticked on a hushed note. Footsteps sounded clearly on the stone floor of the passage outside the office. Sounds of traffic came from Whitehall, the Embankment and the river, but none of these things disturbed Bristow.
He came upon a manila-coloured slip, a report from ‘A’ Division. The writing was laboured, clearly the work of a constable who had no love of writing reports. It had the bold clearness of a schoolboy’s hand, and the phraseology was a cross between that of a schoolboy and a policeman in court. Bristow ignored many repetitions; they were there because years of training had taught the constable that when making a statement before a magistrate, he had to be sure that he could not be misunderstood by a child of ten.
The report was headed: ‘Quinn’s, Hart Row.’
Bristow read it closely. It was now a little after six o’clock, and P.C. Baynes, author of the report, had come off duty at four-thirty. He hadn’t lost much time. ‘A’ Division, knowing that Scotland Yard had recently requested information about anything unusual that happened at Quinn’s, had sent it to the Yard by special messenger.
Bristow read about the beggar and his tray, about his interest in the diamond, about the policeman’s pursuit of his duty and the reaction of the old assistant at Quinn’s. There was more. The policeman knew that the beggar had been inside the shop for over an hour. Mr. Mannering had followed him from the shop, and a well-dressed woman had stopped the beggar; Mannering had joined them and, the constable prosily deduced, Mannering knew the well-dressed woman. The constable had heard them make the appointment for nine o’clock the next morning.
Bristow lit a cigarette from the butt of another.
‘Now what’s Mannering up to?’ he asked aloud.
He finished the other reports, scribbled instructions on some of them, and then picked up P.C. Baynes’s masterpiece. As he was reading it again there was a tap at the door.
Bristow looked up. ‘Come in.’
The door opened to admit a tall, gangling man, who seemed all hands and feet. He was dressed in a new blue suit. His sparse grey hair, which, judging from a few blond streaks, had once been yellow, was carefully brushed and oiled but wouldn’t lie down. His face shone. His eyes glowed.
‘Hallo, Tring,’ greeted Bristow. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Good evening, Mr. Bristow,’ said Sergeant Tring, formally. He approached the desk slowly. Obviously he was excited, and trying to repress it. His hands were clenched and his face looked ready to break into a broad grin. This was remarkable, for by nature, Tring was a gloomy man and proverbially the unluckiest sergeant on the Force.
‘You wouldn’t know, sir, would you?’ replied Tring, and rested his beefy hands on the desk. ‘I want—I want to thank you very much indeed. Mr. Bristow.’
‘Thank me? For what?’
‘Come off it,’ said Tring, relaxing. The grin turned his face into a mass of wrinkles. ‘You know about it if anyone does. I’ve got it!’
Bristow looked blank.
‘You know what I’m talking about,’ insisted Tring. ‘Strewth, I never thought I’d get it. I wouldn’t have, if it wasn’t for you. Twenty-seven years – twenty-seven ruddy years – I been a sergeant, and now Detective Inspector Tring, Mr. Bristow! Come to report.’
‘Well I’m damned!’ exclaimed Bristow. ‘Well done, Tanker! He put out a hand and shook Tring’s warmly. ‘I am glad. I knew that the A.C. was trying to get it through, but didn’
t know that he’d managed it. Sit down – have a cigarette.’ Bristow pushed a box of cigarettes across the table, and opened a cupboard in his desk, producing a bottle of whisky and two glasses. ‘This is an occasion, we’re going to celebrate.’
‘This is a real treat, this is,’ said Tanker Tring, dreamily. ‘I used to think, once a sergeant always a sergeant. I said to the missus only yesterday morning, “Daisy,” I said, “I’ve ‘ad it. I’m due to retire at the end of this year, and you’ll have to manage on a sergeant’s pension.” That’s what I said – only yesterday. She won’t half be pleased.’ He took a generous glass of whisky. ‘Ta. Mr. Bristow.’
‘You’ll want to get off to tell her,’ Bristow said.
‘She’s at the flicks,’ said Tring. ‘Thursday evening she always goes to the flicks. I go to the club.’ He pronounced the word ‘club’ as if it had an aura of sanctity. ‘Am I waiting to see the looks on their faces when I tell ‘em there. Inspector Tring – it don’t sound right, somehow, does it?’
‘You ought to have had promotion years ago.’
‘Oh, I dunno,’ said Tring, with a devastating flash of honesty. ‘I dunno so much. I’ve never ‘ad no luck, Mr. Bristow, and I’m not clever, like you are. I’m sound, though, and I stick on – a grip like a bulldog, I’ve got, and that’s no exaggeration. I dunno that I ought to ‘ave had it years ago; the thing is, I’ve got it now.’ He finished his drink. ‘Cor lumme, I could jump over the moon!’
‘On one shot of Scotch? Have another?’
‘No ta, Mr. Bristow, I’d better not.’ Tring was still beaming. ‘I’ve got a lot to put away tonight. I was talking to my club only a few weeks ago about my bad luck. It’s a kind of joke, me and my luck. They don’t mean any harm by it, but they think it’s funny I never have none. Some silly fool said I’d never get promotion an’ I said I’d buy every member of the club a pint if I had to retire on a sergeant’s pension, and one of them said: “We’ll take you, Tanker,” he said, “and if you ever get promotion,” he said, “every member in the club on the first Thursday afterwards will buy you a pint and you’ll have to drink it,” he said. So I took him on. I never expected I’d have to do it, that’s the truth. Think I can ‘ave a day off tomorrow?’
