by John Creasey
Marjorie had kept her head well; too well?
Mannering went thoughtfully back to Chelsea.
Judy let him in, and said that Lorna was still in the studio. Mannering went whistling up the rickety stairs. Lorna glanced round at him, and Mannering felt her glow of satisfaction; all dark thoughts and brooding had been swept away by her work. Larraby had gone – but Larraby was there, on canvas. Mannering stood looking at the portrait, while Lorna wiped her hands on an oily rag.
‘Well, well,’ Mannering mumured.
‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s perfect.’
‘It’s only half-finished, but it ought to be all right.’
‘It’s got him, body and soul,’ said Mannering. He went a little closer, and then drew back. ‘Mind, body and soul,’ he amended. ‘Has he seen it yet?’
‘No. I sent him out to get some lunch and told him to be back at half past two.’
‘You’re going to work yourself to death,’ said Mannering, as she went to the wash-basin to wash her hands. ‘Judy’s complaining that lunch is getting cold.’
‘I’m almost ready.’ Lorna took off her paint-daubed smock. ‘I’ll have to sign that with a diamond!’ She laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have missed Larraby for the world.’
They went downstairs. Judy brought in a chicken en casserole, and started to serve.
‘We’ll manage,’ said Mannering.
‘Very good, sir.’ The girl went out, trim, prim, tiny.
Lorna said: ‘John, what a selfish beast I can be.’
‘You said it.’
‘How have you been getting on?’
‘Oh, uncovering an odd murder or so.’
‘Only or so?’
‘Just one, to be exact.’
She put down her fork.
‘You almost sound serious.’
Mannering talked, leaving nothing out. Before he had finished, the chicken was cool on their plates. Judy looked in, and bobbed out again. They finished the course in silence, and Judy brought in canned raspberries and cream.
‘You’re fated,’ Lorna said at last. ‘Fingerprints?’
‘Not mine. Bristow may fancy that I’d seen the body before, that’s the only danger.’
‘I hope it is.’ Lorna finished her sweet, slowly. Then she threw up her hands. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? Two beauties to protect now, plus a young man. I can see it working out very well, darling. The police are watching you. You’re keeping something back from them for the sake of a pair of pretty blue eyes. Before you know where you are, you’ll be fighting Bristow openly. Why must it always work out like this?’
‘The spice of life,’ murmured Mannering.
‘The vinegar. You won’t go too far without telling Bristow, will you?’
‘I will not.’
‘I don’t believe you. What happened to the note from Bray?’
‘It’s still in my pocket.’
‘How nice! Supposing Bristow had the bright idea of coming here with a search warrant?’
‘The letter isn’t addressed to anyone at Lander Street,’ Mannering pointed out. ‘Bray came here several times and was due here last night, so there’s no reason why he shouldn’t have sent me a confirming note. I’m not a bit sure that it’s any use as evidence.’
‘There may be prints on it.’
‘I’ll soon find out,’ said Mannering.
After a pause, Lorna said: ‘There are times when I understand why Tring hates you so, darling.’
Mannering chuckled. ‘Our Tanker’s having a wow of a time. Coffee?’
Larraby was back on the stroke of half past two.
‘Come up when I call, will you?’ Lorna went ahead to brood for a few moments, then throw a piece of cloth over the unfinished canvas until Larraby had taken up his position again; no sitter here ever saw a half-finished portrait.
‘Like the life?’ Mannering asked Larraby.
‘It’s just as good as a holiday,’ said Larraby. ‘It’s—it’s a new life. Mr. Mannering, I hesitate to ask for anything else, but if afterwards you can think of a way of helping me to rehabilitate myself, perhaps find me work, I’ll—’
‘I will’
‘Larraby!’ called Lorna.
The little man’s footsteps were firm on the staircase.
Mannering watched him out of sight, then went into the drawing-room. Larraby was a persuasive type; was his manner natural, or artificial?
Mannering took out the letter, held it close to the window, and then took a tiny bottle of grey powder from a writing-table and sifted it over the paper. A few faint prints showed, tiny fragments; the police might find them useful. Zara had been wearing cotton gloves, and on paper like this, prints soon faded.
A car pulled up outside. He saw a battered trilby on the man who got out.
Mannering went to open the door himself.
‘As arranged,’ said Forsythe. ‘May I come in? Thanks. I tried to get round before lunch, but crime seems to be flourishing this morning.’
‘Where?’ asked Mannering.
‘In most parts of London,’ said Forsythe. ‘Three smash-and-grabs, an attempted murder – beer-and-passion variety – and a spot of bother at a Communist meeting.’ He laughed. ‘Thanks.’ Mannering offered cigarettes. ‘You’re in good company.’
‘Yes,’ said Mannering, dryly.
‘Yours is the titbit of the show, though,’ Forsythe went on. ‘Murder and robbery here last night – I see you’ve still got a Robert on the doorstep – and the carved up corpse at Addel’s this morning. A ripe piece, Marjorie Addel.’
‘Ripe’s the word.’
‘What’s the word for her sister-in-law. Exotic?’
‘Mysterious?’
‘Do you think so?’ Forsythe was anxious.
‘I was asking you.’
Forsythe grinned.
‘It’s a waste of time trying wordy warfare with you, John. I’ve just come from Bristow. He’s up to his eyes in work and more like a clam than ever, which means that he’s on delicate ground. I gather from his Eminence, Tanker Tring, that harsh things are being said about you at the Yard.’
‘Again?’
‘And again! You’ve stuck out your neck with the Adalgo. The thieves didn’t believe the real stone was at the shop, of course – perhaps they think they got it last night.’
‘They didn’t get it,’ said Mannering. ‘You can print that.’
‘Thanks,’ Forsythe said. ‘Which reminds me, we’re giving you a lovely piece of free personal publicity.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘You’ve got it. We sent a cameraman round to Quinn’s this morning. He took a beauty of the Adalgo in all its glory. I had a word with the masterly Carmichael – where do you find ‘em?’
‘Carmichael’s been in the trade for years.’
‘If you’d said centuries, it wouldn’t surprise me. And there’s that chalk-faced boy with him, Simon. John, supposing there were a raid on Quinn’s, what good do you think those two museum pieces would be?’
‘Quinn’s is a museum.’
‘Seriously, aren’t you taking a risk?’ Forsythe tapped the ash from his cigarette, and looked up with a crooked grin. ‘You may not think so, but you’ll read all about it in the Cry in the morning. Open invitation to smash-and-grab – that’s the line. The editor has decided that you’re to be the star for this story, and I’ve had to do what he tells me. Sorry. But you’re warned.’
Mannering laughed. ‘Thanks. You don’t want a statement from me, you’re doing pretty well on your own.’
‘Oh, come,’ protested Forsythe. ‘We say that Quinn’s isn’t protected well enough, so you ought to say something about it. How does this go: “Mr. John Mannering told a Cry
reporter that he had every confidence in his staff and in the precautions taken to protect this treasure house from the depredations of burglars”?’
‘Mr. Mannering told a Cry reporter that he had no statement to make,’ corrected Mannering, firmly.
‘Oh, well. Were you first at the scene of the crime in Lander Street?’
‘I went to buy my wife a new dress, and the police came while I was there.’
Forsythe put his head on one side. ‘That’s interesting. Oh, that’s most interesting. And you were so anxious to buy your wife a dress that when Marjorie Addel rushed out of the shop, refusing to sell to a man with such a reputation, you chased her, picked her up and carried her back. Most interesting.’ Forsythe paused. ‘Have you ever thought much about tourists in London?’
‘I’ve often felt sorry for them.’
‘There was one in Lander Street you won’t feel sorry for,’ said Forsythe, dreamily. ‘He was there with his little Leica, and I saw him with the Leica and heard he’d got a kick out of snapping you carrying the Addel beauty. I’ve paid him twenty pounds for the copyright. Don’t say I haven’t warned you.’
‘If you think you’re going to blackmail me into making a statement by threatening to publish that picture, you’re mistaken.’
‘Not even whitemail?’
‘I’m colour blind.’
‘Oh, well. It’s a good picture. Your wife ought to like it’
‘She knows all about the Sir Galahad act. It’s no use, Teddy. I’m not making a statement to you or anyone else, yet. When and if I make one, you shall have it first.’
‘I’ll believe you. You’d better mean what you say, or that photograph will be splashed.’ He laughed. ‘I’m holding it myself. If I let the news editor see it, he would want a front page splash, but I’d rather get the story. Can I ask a few questions, off the record? Did you go to the shop this morning expecting to find trouble?’
‘No. I fancied that Marjorie Addel was up to no good, because she’d been to see me here. When I went to the shop she hadn’t arrived. I was shown into the office, and saw the blood. It struck me as odd.’
‘Odd! You ought to write for the films. Who showed you into the office?’
‘The mysterious exotic.’
‘Zara Addel,’ mused Forsythe. ‘She wouldn’t have done that if she’d known that blood was splashed all over the place, would she? Most people know that you can smell blood better than a bloodhound. Pity. I was hoping Zara had done something she was going to regret.’
‘Do you know her?’
‘One hears this and that. No one knows her well, but she’s been a bit high-and-mighty with one or two calf-lovers who’ve met her at the shop and then bought gown upon gown for imaginary girlfriends. Zara’s dark eyes capture young hearts. When the suitor thinks all is well because she’s all melting at the shop, and suggests a trip further afield, she slaps faces. Some think it’s her way of doing business, others that she’s just not of a romantic turn of mind, and such advances surprise her. Whether you like her or not, you’ve got to admit that she’s got plenty. You know what I mean – the latent lure of the hot blooded South and all that kind of thing.’
‘Mixed with naivete,’ Mannering suggested.
‘Just the word. Not really of this world – except where business is concerned.’
‘What do you know about Marjorie Addel?’
‘We’ve dealt with her occasionally. Zara’s the power behind the scenes, and Marjorie’s one of the best woman designers in the trade. Your wife’s bound to know of her. Well, I must be getting along. I won’t use that snapshot unless you fail me over the exclusive story. Oh, I nearly forgot. We’ve dug out a bit about the history of the Adalgo, but we may as well have it right. Diamond of fate, wearers get stabbed to the heart, only rightful owner a Queen. Care to check?’ Forsythe took a sheet of paper from his pocket.
Mannering read it through.
‘Not bad.’ He made several pencil alterations.
‘Can I say you gave us the information?’
‘You’ll say it anyhow.’ Mannering gave the paper back. ‘Do you know if there’s any prospect of an early arrest for the policeman’s murder?’
‘Not a hope. The car they escaped in was stranded, no fingerprints, no nothing. Any ideas?’
‘I never have ideas.’
‘Modest Mannering! Well, thanks.’
Mannering saw him out, and returned to the study.
The flat was quiet. The settle-safe was closed. He glanced at it, imagining the scene when the squat man had forced Lorna to open it. Murder, intrigue, illogical beauties, Larraby, legend – all were tied up with one gem: the Adalgo. The squat man thought he had it; Marjorie Addel’s Paul thought he had it.
What was Paul Harding like?
He’d find out.
The adalgo was living up to its reputation, but why were those paste replicas in existence? Why had so many people been convinced that they had the diamond? Two or three fakes, two or three mistakes, could be coincidence; there was no coincidence about this. Because he was believed to have the Adalgo, Bray had been brutally murdered, with two or three bullets in the stomach – as the policeman.
The same kind of crime often meant the same murderer.
Why not?
He had the real stone, for possession of which bullets were being freely exchanged; no wonder Lorna felt frantic.
But he’d find out, on his own. He’d always worked alone, and would again. Out of the past, the old familiar compulsion gripped him. In the days of the Baron he’d been compelled to walk alone, trusting no one; he trusted no one now. Could he trust Lorna? There might come a time when her nerve would break if he told her everything that came to his mind in days like these; and there was danger, bearable alone but not when shared; he’d shared too much danger with her. The police? They were watching, lynx-eyed, in the hope that he would make a slip, would twist his words and misconstrue his actions. Marjorie—
He could trust no one completely; but the truth was there, for the finding.
The telephone bell rang, and kept ringing.
He took off the receiver.
‘Carmichael here, sir. I am sorry to worry you, but—’
‘That’s all right. What’s the trouble?’
‘I really think you ought to come here if you can. A young man who gives his name as Paul Harding is in the shop. He is very angry about the Adalgo diamond. He—er has made somewhat wild and scandalous charges against you, sir. I have been able to calm him only by promising him that you will come at once.’
Chapter Ten
A YOUNG MAN AND HIS MANNERS
Mannering parked the Talbot near Quinn’s, and walked briskly to the shop. Tanker Tring was at the corner, behaving like an ostrich by ignoring Mannering. One policeman in uniform stood in Hart Row.
The diamond was there in all its beauty.
More people than usual were looking at it. The reward of publicity.
Mannering stood watching, and knew that he was being watched. A girl looked round, saw him, and exclaimed: ‘That’s him!’
‘That is he, darling,’ corrected an elderly woman. ‘And whom do you mean?’
‘Why, John Mannering! ‘
A dozen people turned and stared; Mannering beamed and went in, while at the corner, Tring scowled.
The shop was very dark.
Carmichael stood at the far end, with a tall young man; Carmichael raised a hand in eager welcome. Behind him, Simon stood like a pallid, black-clad ghost.
Paul Harding came forward, like a dog from a leash; trinkets and furniture shook.
He was young, a good looker, and well-dressed. His thick, brown curly hair refused to lie flat. Aggressiveness glowed in his eyes and showed in his manner. He looked a fighter, and undoubtedly wa
s in a fighting mood.
‘Are you Mannering?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where the hell have you been? I want to know—’
‘Come into the office, and tell me what you want to know.’ Mannering put a hand on the young man’s arm; he was trembling; Marjorie couldn’t have been more agitated. He let himself be ushered into the office.
Carmichael closed the door.
‘I’ve waited for you for nearly an hour,’ Harding snapped, as Mannering took a book out of a cupboard. ‘You’ve the damned nerve to stand there fiddling about as if—as if—as if I didn’t matter a damn!’
Mannering smiled amiably. ‘Do you?’
‘I’ll show you whether I matter! You palmed off a fake gem on Miss Addel last night. The real one’s in the window. Before I leave here, I’m going to have it.’
‘The trade value is ten thousand pounds.’
‘I know what it’s worth, but you’ve no right to it. I’ll make a full report to the police unless you let me have it.’ He put his hand in his breast-pocket and pulled out a jewel case. He flung it down on the desk, and it burst open. The paste stone fell out and rolled along the table. ‘That’s yours.’
‘They’re both mine.’
‘They’re not! The real stone—’
‘You know, you and your Marjorie learned in the same bad school. What makes you think that you can come filibustering in here, shouting wild accusations, and then march off with a ten thousand pound diamond? It’s time you grew up.’
Harding’s hands clenched.
‘You’ve got the nerve to talk to me about filibustering! You’ve no right to that stone. You should never have been allowed to have it. It wasn’t Bray’s to sell.’
‘He didn’t sell it.’
‘I know he didn’t, you had it on approval. You’ll take it out of the window and give it to me, or I’ll send for the police.’
Mannering took out his cigarette case, selected a cigarette with great care, and pushed the case across the desk. Harding didn’t notice it. Mannering sat down, slowly.
