by John Creasey
‘Forget it, John.’
‘Not in a lifetime. Just say the word, and I’ll drop the Adalgo case.’
She said: ‘I half believe you would.’ She laughed, slipped away from him and picked up her robe. ‘And you’d be ten times as moody as I’ve been lately if you did. Darling, I hate these jobs but there’s something fascinating about them, and nothing will ever keep you out of them. If it weren’t this it would be another. Hurry and dress, I want to be ready for Larraby.’
He kissed her.
At breakfast, she was gay and seemed fully recovered. Judy, nervous and excited after being told of the attack, had prepared a monumental breakfast; Lorna ate well.
‘You’ll do,’ Mannering said. ‘Now, business! Bristow is arguing with himself whether to let me have a lot of rope, for a hanging – and probably thinks I’ll get more out of Marjorie Addel than he.’
‘Well, you’re better looking.’
‘That probably doesn’t weigh with him.’
‘It would with her. She will deny everything,’ Lorna said.
‘Don’t forget the piece of paper she signed in her excitement. Marjorie and the boyfriend are mixed up in this, and I think she’ll lead the way to others. There’ll be some fun and games when they discover that they haven’t the Adalgo and practically all the other stuff in the safe was paste.’
‘Was it?’ Lorna’s eyes sparkled. ‘I thought—’
‘I’d moved most of the good stuff, there were some odds and ends in the safe, that’s all. Hardly enough to worry the insurance company. Bristow let me put him off until this morning, that’s why I think he wants to encourage me to go on. It’s almost a pity not to disappoint him.’
‘Wicked!’
The front door bell rang.
‘That’ll be Josh,’ Lorna said.
‘Mr. Larraby has made a conquest,’ Mannering said, dryly.
It was Larraby. He had shaved and his face shone, but otherwise he was exactly the same. He was carrying a copy of the Morning Cry, and was grave as he entered the dining-room. He raised the paper a little, to draw attention to it, looked at Lorna keenly, and then turned to Mannering.
‘I felt that I ought to keep the appointment, Mr. Mannering, although I shall understand if Mrs. Mannering would rather not do any work this morning. I have read about the affair here last night. I—I am really grieved.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mannering. ‘But it wasn’t your fault.’
‘It certainly wasn’t, Mr. Mannering. I shall never again take anything that is not mine. I’ve never shown any inclination towards violence, I assure you – I hate the thought of it. But that doesn’t stop me from being deeply sorry. And something else has occurred to me since I read this account.’ He held the paper up again, and Mannering, studying him, felt the effect both of his manner and of his appearance; Lorna had been right about his looks. ‘I know I’m a branded criminal, Mr. Mannering. I am still on my ticket and have to report daily to the police station, and tell them of any change of address or means of livelihood.’
‘Well?’ said Mannering.
‘And as the police are here – I saw two downstairs – and you are involved, by coming here I might put you to some inconvenience. The police would possibly—’
‘They know you’re to sit for Mrs. Mannering, and they can think what they like. What’s on your mind, Larraby? Want to back out?’
‘Oh, no, sir!’
‘Have some coffee,’ said Lorna, quickly.
Well—’
It was soon evident that Larraby was hungry.
Just before nine-thirty, Lorna took him upstairs. When Mannering went up, half an hour later, Lorna was absorbed, and Larraby sat like an image; he did not even move his eyes to look at Mannering.
Bristow didn’t telephone.
Mannering made a list of the stolen goods, gave them to one of the policemen outside, fetched his Talbot, and drove slowly towards the West End. He wasn’t followed.
He drove to Lander Street, which was not far from Quinn’s. .A single gown was in the window of the small shop, black with a touch of white at the waist and the neck; a simple effective creation. Would the girl be here? Or would she hide, fearing a visit from him or the police?
A slim, pale woman approached when he entered. Her black hair was plaited and wound about her head, she looked immaculate.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Good morning. Is Miss Addel in?’
‘She is not here just now, sir, but I am expecting her at any moment. Is there anything I can do for you, until she arrives?’
‘Has she been in yet?’
‘She telephoned to say that she would not be in until after eleven o’clock, but that she would not be much later.’ The dark-haired woman was aloof but unsuspicious. ‘Would you care to wait in the office?’
‘May I stay out here?’
‘Just as you like.’
Mannering sat on an imitation Louis Quinze chair. Like the owner – if Marjorie Addel were really the owner – the shop had a touch of quality. The pale blue carpet had a thick pile, the silver-framed oval mirrors, set in walls of duck-egg blue bordered with silver gilt, gave the small shop an air of spaciousness. Two or three model gowns were draped on stands on small rostrums, but no other gowns were in sight. A room led off to the right At the back of the shop were two closed doors, one of which presumably led into the office. The dark-haired woman went in there, moving as if the carpet were air and she too superior to walk on terra firma. No one came in during the next ten minutes.
Where was the staff? He could hear no one, except for the assistant; the place was deserted. The woman came out.
‘Can I take a message?’
‘No, thanks.’ Mannering lit a cigarette, and rose. ‘Perhaps I will go into the office, after all, if—’
A car stopped outside. Mannering looked up, hoping that Marjorie Addel hadn’t yet arrived. He had lulled suspicion by staying out here; now five minutes in the office might pay good dividends.
An elderly woman came to the door. The sleek woman glided forward, and as she passed him, Mannering murmured: ‘Shall I be in the way?’
‘If you would prefer to go into the office, sir, that will be quite all right.’
‘I will,’ said Mannering. It would take a lot to disturb that woman’s poise.
The office was small, light, luxurious. He sat down at a small, walnut desk. The customer came in, a loud-voiced woman, a type he heartily disliked. She wanted an afternoon gown. Salons were so difficult. It was nonsense to pretend that she had an awkward figure to fit. She did not suppose that she would be able to find what she wanted here . . .
The dark-haired woman ventured to disagree politely, was sure she could find exactly what modom wanted. And modom certainly did not have a difficult figure to fit – it was ridiculous to say so. Modom and the assistant went into the room next to the office, the door closed. The sound of voices continued subdued by the walls; modom was being difficult. Did she know she would turn any gown into a sack?
Mannering glanced into the top drawer of the desk, found only business notes, then looked at the blotting-pad. He shifted it this way and that. There were several brown stains on it, and some bright red, some green. He began to trace the brown marks with a pencil; they were not ink; the others were.
Dried blood looked very much like this.
He pushed the chair back and looked at the cream fur rug in front of the desk. There were several tiny darkish stains on it. He bent down, and touched the rug; it was damp. He stood up and went to the wall; from there it was obvious that parts of the rug had been washed; these places were highly whiter than the rest. He went down on both knees, ran his fingers about the long fur.
For a few moments he saw nothing; then he moved a tuft to one side, and, on the actual skin, was
a brown spot half an inch across. He touched it; it was the same caked matter as the stain on the blotting pad.
Blood? They’d want to wash bloodstains away.
He felt a rising tide of excitement.
The voices still came from the fitting-room; he was safe from interruption there, safe until someone else entered the shop. He ran through the desk, and found nothing of interest; then he pulled at a drawer which was locked.
Modom was still complaining.
Mannering took out a knife, slipped it between the desk and the lock, and eased the lock to one side; it opened almost at once.
There were several papers in the desk. The top one was a letter, and the paper was headed:
Bray and Co.,
Dealers in Precious Stones,
11a, Henrietta Street, W.C.2.
Pudding-face was certainly no stranger to Marjorie Addel.
Time had suddenly become precious; this place had its secret.
Chapter Eight
THE BODY IN THE STOCK-ROOM
The letter was in Bray’s handwriting which Mannering knew well enough, and was dated the previous day. No one was named, and there was no envelope. Bray had promised to be at the shop that evening, ‘as arranged’; so the letter had been sent to someone on the staff. Marjorie Addel hadn’t appeared to know Bray by name.
Bray – a jewel merchant in difficulties, if Bristow were right. Bray had probably been relying on the commission he would get for the sale of the single diamond to tide him over immediate difficulties. He’d given Lorna the impression of being agitated and in a hurry, in a rather hesitant fashion – that was like Bray.
He had promised to return in the evening; what had kept him away?
Modom was talking raucously.
He crossed to the door and went down on his hands and knees. Looking along the floor, he saw patches of the part of the parquet flooring which had recently been washed over; near the edges it was polished, near the rug it was dull; the rings made by the floorcloth stood out clearly.
The small window behind the desk had recently been washed. He examined it closely. The paintwork was scraped, as if sandpaper had been rubbed over it, in several places. If blood had been smeared there and dried, sandpapering to remove traces would occur to anyone with a practical turn of mind.
He could see no trace of blood near the door to the salon.
He put on his gloves and opened the window. It led to a tiny courtyard. There was a door, marked ‘Addel & Co.’ opposite him – access to the courtyard was from another room. The window of the dressing-room ran almost at right-angles to that of the office. He could see the shadows of the two women in there; one had her arms above her head, and the voices were still. Keep trying, modom!
The cement floor of the courtyard had a damp patch in the middle, but was dry at the sides; there had been no rain lately.
Mannering opened the window wide, and climbed out; it was a tight fit. He went to the door; it was locked. He examined the lock with a swift, expert glance; there were thousands like it.
He closed the window behind him, opened his knife and worked on the door. All the windows overlooking the courtyard were of frosted glass; he wouldn’t be seen unless one was opened. A breath of the past stole over him; excitement came with it. His fingers moved swiftly, surely.
The door opened.
He put the knife away and stepped into a dark passage; ahead was a flight of stairs. They creaked as he went up. It was gloomy here, and he could not see marks on the staircase. At the top, he opened an unlocked door and light shone on boards which were still damp from washing.
This was a store, cum-workroom. Large built-in walnut cupboards lined it, and there were several rows of dresses covered with plastic material, tables, sewing machines. There was little room to move. The floor had recently been washed, familiar damp patches reached one of the built-in cupboards, but the floor was dry in front of the others.
The cupboard was locked. He opened it, almost mechanically, not thinking of the task, only of the mystery here. Mystery? Why wasn’t the staff on duty?
To prevent them from finding out – what?
The lock clicked back. A row of dresses was in front of him, but the door, a double sliding one, still covered half of the cupboard. He slid both sections in the other direction.
A man’s body swayed forward and would have fallen had Mannering not put out a hand.
He held it upright.
He’d asked for it; and he’d got it.
The man’s head and shoulders were covered with a pale canvas drape. Bloodstains showed on a dark grey waistcoat; Bray always wore dark grey. Mannering eased the canvas up gently; it was in loose folds and not difficult to move. The body lurched to one side, and he grabbed it. Then he saw the face; the round, pale pudding of a face.
He pulled the canvas back again, propped the body up and slid the door to.
He’d asked for it—
If he reported this to Bristow, Marjorie Addel would soon be at the Yard, and might not come out for a long time. He wanted desperately to see her. If he didn’t report it to Bristow, he would probably see the inside of the Yard before he wanted to.
Why not tell half the truth; tell Bristow about the bloodstains? He could lock the doors and cupboards as easily as he had picked them, and he had left no prints. But getting downstairs and into the office before the dark-haired woman had finished with modom became urgent. He locked the cupboard door and the door at the top of the stairs. Modom was still talking, and her arms were above her head again. He fastened the outer door, glanced at the notice of Addel & Co., and went to the office window. He pulled it open gently. He could see no one inside. He put a leg over the window-sill, and a woman’s voice came:
‘Oh!’
She was in a corner, out of sight.
The damage was done, it was pointless to back away. Mannering squeezed himself through quickly, waiting for the woman to scream. She didn’t but he could hear her heavy breathing.
Marjorie Addel was standing by the safe, which was wide open. She had been agitated last night; now terror showed in her blue eyes.
He closed the window, smoothed down his hair, and said amiably:
‘Oh, hallo!’
She seemed to be fighting for breath.
‘All right, Miss Addel. I’m not going to run off with your money.’
‘You’re—John Mannering.’
‘That’s right.’ Mannering took out cigarettes. ‘Did you find your friend last night?’
‘What were you doing out there?’
‘Looking round the yard. It’s a nice, clean tidy little yard.’
What did she know?
‘You had no right there.’ Her middle name should be ‘naive.’ ‘Why did you come here?’
‘To see you. As you were out, I looked about.’ He offered his case; she ignored it. He smiled amiably. ‘I’m full of strange ideas. I thought you might be hiding from me.’
‘Why, why should I hide from you?’ she demanded.
‘You might think I want the diamond back.’
She was calmer now, and moved from the safe to the desk. What had terrified her? Him? Or the thought of what he might have seen. If she knew about the body, would she have calmed down so quickly?
‘You’re lying to me.’
‘Never!’
‘Why did you come here?’
‘To see a lovely lassie.’ Mannering backed to the desk and sat on the corner.
Modom was still talking. Marjorie Addel, dressed in the same simple frock as on the previous night, and the same light coat, had a strained composure which made him wonder whether she was fooling him; could anyone of her age be so unsophisticated?
He said solemnly: ‘I wanted to make sure that you had found your
friend and returned the jewel to him.’
‘I—did.’
‘Good.’
‘He is going to get in touch with you soon,’ she added. Was there slyness in the way she looked at him?
‘I see,’ said Mannering, and the body of Bray seemed to press against his arms. ‘What’s his name, Miss Addel?’
‘You know that well enough.’
He moved swiftly towards her, took her by the shoulders before she could dodge, held her tightly, his fingers pressing hard into her flesh.
‘That’s not the point. Do you know him?’
‘Of course I do! Let me go.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Let me go! You’ve no right—’
He began to shake her, gently, to and fro. She opened her lips to shout, but no sound came. Her hair began to move about, a lock fell into her eyes and she shook her head to get it away, so that she could see him. Her lips trembled, the pink flesh of her cheeks quivered, she tried to resist but couldn’t prevent him from moving her; as the rhythm of the shaking increased, her teeth began to chatter.
She kicked him on the shin; it hurt.
‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘There’s more in you than there looks, my darling. Now let’s have the truth, or I’ll shake it out of you.’
‘If you don’t let me go, I’ll scream.’
‘Go ahead. scream.’
She didn’t.
Mannering said: ‘So you don’t want a fuss, my pretty. I don’t know what you do want, but I know you’ll probably get some nasty surprises before you’ve finished. Either you’re as bad as they’re made or you’re a simpleton. Both kind have been hanged in the past.’
‘Hanged?’ she gasped.
‘That’s right.’ He moved one hand, stretched the finger and thumb round her pale throat and pressed lightly; she caught her breath. ‘Oh, I’m not going to choke the life out of you, I’m trying to make you realise what it feels like to be hanged.’
She said: ‘I think you’re mad.’
He let her go. She backed away, rubbing her right shoulder. She didn’t sit down, and as she looked at him, she seemed more mature, more wary; as if the physical shaking had jolted her mentally, and she was now terrified of him.
