by John Creasey
He disappeared.
Mannering picked up the receiver and dialled Leverson’s number. The brrr-brrr began, soft, insistent. Harding came in and banged the door. He reached the study, and drew back sharply, a brooding aggressor.
‘Who are you calling?’
‘My wife.’
‘Oh.’ Harding came into the room. ‘What was that man doing here?’
‘Help yourself to a drink.’
‘I don’t want a drink. What—’
‘You’ve never wanted a drink so much.’
‘What was that man doing here?’
‘My wife is painting his portrait.’
‘Good Lord! She must be hard up for a model! The man’s a rogue – didn’t you know?’
‘No.’
‘He was sent to prison for—’
‘I know that one. A single jail sentence for a single crime doesn’t make a man a rogue.’
‘Nonsense! My father never trusted him.’
‘They’ve done business together, have they?’
‘They did, at one time. Still, if you know about his past it’s none of my business.’ Harding lit a cigarette. There was no answer from Leverson. Mannering put the receiver down. ‘We’ll go in the next room.’
‘I had to come to see you again, Mannering.’ Harding became subdued again. ‘I hope I haven’t chosen a bad time, but—’
‘The time’s all right. Whisky?’ Mannering stood by the cocktail cabinet.
‘Thanks.’
‘What’s the trouble?’ Mannering asked.
‘You remember I told you about my father’s quarrel with Bray?’
‘I don’t forget that easily.’
‘Those damned police had the nerve to detain him for questioning! They only let him go half an hour ago. I called home, they told me about it then. He’d just telephoned to say that he would be back later in the day. And he’d left a message for me, Mannering.’ Harding took a gulp of his whisky and soda. ‘It’s—fantastic! He asked me to ask you if you’d go to see him.’
‘Oh, did he?’ said Mannering, heavily.
‘Yes. Will you?’
It wasn’t really as complicated or crazy as it seemed. There was a simple solution to all this, the odd pieces of the puzzle would fall into place.
‘Will you? I know I behaved like a fool, but—’
‘We can’t blame your father for that. Yes, I’ll go. What does he want?’
‘I just picked up the message, that’s all. You’ll go as soon as you can, won’t you?
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks. Then I’ll be off.’
‘I shouldn’t go just yet,’ said Mannering.
‘Why not?’
‘The police saw you come in.’
‘I’m not worried about the police!’
‘Blow hot, blow cold. Love me, love me not; “I fear the police, the police can go to hell.”’
‘They’re worried about you,’ said Mannering.
‘What the devil do you mean?’
‘I saw Bristow at Quinn’s, remember? He told me that he wants a chat with you.’
‘And you’ve sent for him!’ Rage flared up again. ‘That’s who you telephoned. You’ve told him I’m here! Why, I’d like to break your neck!’
‘You were seen to come in.’
‘You’ve given me away! You—now I know what a foul swine you are,’ bellowed Harding. ‘And Marjorie trusted you, she—’ He choked, turned on his heel, and made for the door.
Before he reached it, the bell rang.
‘Love me, love me not.’
‘Is that your friends?’ Harding managed to put a sneer into his words.
‘Probably.’
The bell rang again.
‘Aren’t you going to answer the door?’
‘There’s no hurry. So your father’s been released.’
‘The fools should never have detained him.’
Mannering said: ‘You want help, Marjorie wants help, your father wants to see me. You don’t give a damn for the police and shake as with palsy when they come for you. What’s the truth?’
Harding didn’t answer. The bell rang again.
Mannering shrugged, and opened the door – to Tring.
‘Hallo, Tanker! Got over the writer’s cramp?’
‘Took your time letting me in, didn’t you?’
‘There’s always plenty of time. Do you know Mr. Paul Harding?’
‘I’ll be glad if you will come along with me, to make a statement,’ Tring said laboriously. ‘I am Serg—I am Inspector Tring, of New Scotland Yard.’
He took out his card, but Harding brushed it aside.
‘Are you arresting me?’
‘No, sir.’ Tring was formal. ‘We would like you to make a statement, that’s all.’
‘Do I have to go with him, Mannering?’
‘No,’ said Mannering, ‘but I should, if I were you.’
Tring, preferring not to voice agreement with Mannering, said nothing. Harding’s face was set and angry. He wanted to talk to Mannering, or else to make a fool of him.
‘Oh, all right,’ he growled.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tring. ‘Goodnight, Mr. Mannering.’
He turned, and ushered Harding out of the room.
Mannering crossed to the window. Tring appeared in the street first; his car stood outside the house, with a police constable by it. Harding got in, and Tring followed clumsily. The door slammed.
Mannering caught sight of a familiar figure on the other side of the road as he turned away.
There was a binned out house, only the shell of which was standing, nearly opposite; behind one of the walls stood Josh Larraby, invisible from the street. The little man appeared to be standing on tip-toe, so as to watch Harding.
Larraby watched the car disappear, and then stepped cautiously from his hiding place. He looked up at the window, caught sight of Mannering, smiled and hurried towards the Embankment. The policeman on duty watched him.
Why was he so interested in Paul Harding?
What did the two really know about each other?
Mannering took up the telephone and dialled Leverson’s number. Brrr-brrr, brrr-brrr. The ringing sound mocked him. Lorna had been dragged by the hair across this room, probably over the very spot where he was standing, and in spite of the warning, in spite of the danger, he hadn’t sent Simon here. But the police had been outside all the time, it wasn’t so easy to fool them as he’d told himself, Lorna ought to have been safe.
Had Larraby told the truth?
He was caught with a sudden surge of fear, swung round, thrust open every door in the apartment, looked in the cupboards, even lifted the seat of the settle. Then he approached the attic staircase. His breathing was uneven, he was near panic. He went up, slowly. The hatch was down and locked from the outside, as Lorna usually locked it. The bolt stuck when he pushed it. He pushed harder and caught his finger on a splinter. He winced, flung the hatch back, and thrust his head and shoulders through.
If Lorna—
Larraby’s portrait stood on the easel without a canvas cover; it was an uncanny likeness, and more than a likeness. The studio was empty. Mannering laughed, unsteadily, climbed in and looked in the store cupboard, with its tidy stores of paint tubes, chalks, crayons, pencils and brushes. He kicked aside several pieces of webbing, used for packing.
Of course she wasn’t here.
What had got into him?
Doubt about Larraby, chiefly; he knew that.
He stood and studied the portrait. There was something Lorna hadn’t caught; Larraby’s expression, when Mannering had gripped his shoulder downstairs; that intense, almost desperate denial of bad faith.
Larraby had persuaded Lorna that he could be trusted or she wouldn’t have left him here alone; a known jewel thief, given the freedom of a place full of objets d’art, some of them priceless. Larraby had a way with him – and Larraby had been watching Harding and knew just how to conceal himself.
Mannering went out, and crossed to a policeman on duty over the road.
‘Constable.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Did you see my wife leave?’
‘Yes, sir, I did.’
‘Remember what time it was?’
The constable hesitated, then took out his notebook, flipped over a few pages and said in a flat voice: ‘Three minutes after four o’clock, p.m.’
‘Thanks.’ So Larraby had his time right.
Mannering half-turned, then said: ‘Was anyone with her?’
‘Not when she left the house.’
‘Did she meet someone?’ Perhaps Leverson had come to see her and they’d gone off together.
‘She met a reporter,’ said the policeman stolidly. ‘I don’t know his name. ‘
‘Youngish chap, battered trilby, soiled raincoat, who’s been here before?’
‘That’s the man, sir.’
‘Did they go off together?’
‘In his car, yes.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mannering. ‘You’re good.’
‘I can understand you being worried after the other night, sir.’
Mannering said: ‘Yes.’ He was more worried than he wanted to admit, and the news of Forsythe’s visit only slightly reassured him. He hurried across to his car. Larraby and Harding, Tring and his own patchwork thoughts, had delayed him an hour, he ought to have been at Leverson’s house long ago. He drove fast through the thinning evening traffic, towards the East End, Wine Street and Flick Leverson.
The past sat beside him.
Leverson, the tall, silvery haired, one-armed fence, cultured, mellow, incomparable judge of precious stones, known by the police but never caught, was a man with a mind which made Tring seem addle-pated and Bristow second rate. But it wasn’t fair to compare them or anyone with Leverson, who stood head and shoulders in any company. The one thing Mannering did not know about him, was the real reason why he had turned bad. But that was a nonsense word to use about Flick; he was a man to trust and a man to love.
Lorna knew he could be trusted implicitly.
The Baron had gone to Leverson in the early days, selling his loot; through Leverson, who had identified him, he had seen a picture of himself as he had been. The calm, friendly voice and the insistent questions: ‘Are you sure you ought to be doing this, Mannering? Oughtn’t you to give it up? It isn’t your field – oh, you’re brilliant at it, but it’s a spendthrift brilliance.’
‘Not bad, coming from you,’ Mannering had said.
‘Never mind that. I always had a kink, but you haven’t. You were hurt and took revenge out of society, but no hurt ought to rankle for so long. What kind of a life will it be for Lorna?’
He’d won; and hadn’t taken long to win.
Soon afterwards, Leverson himself had retired; but a dozen times he had been mentor, friend and confidant, amused at the Baron turned detective, amused at the irony of Bristow working both with and against him; a job like this would appeal to Leverson. But, why had he suddenly called Lorna? What did he want? He probably knew a lot about the Adalgo, would guess that Mannering had it in the window to attract attention, but why—
Mannering turned into Wine Street, a wide thoroughfare with neat, tall, red brick houses on each side, gateway to the slums of the East End.
The first person Mannering saw was Larraby.
Chapter Thirteen
THE FENCE AND THE DIAMONDS
Mannering pulled up and Larraby approached. Another car turned into Wine Street, but neither of them appeared to notice it.
‘Well? What’s this?’
‘Mr. Mannering—’
‘I thought you didn’t know Leverson.’
‘And I did not, sir. But I made inquiries after I left Chelsea, and learned who he was and where he lived. I thought perhaps you would come here, and hoped that I would be able to help.’
It sounded plausible. Mannering opened the car door and got out.
‘Have you seen the police car at the end of the road?’ asked Larraby.
‘Yes,’ said Mannering. ‘And the policemen in it have seen you.’
‘I’ve nothing to fear from the police now,’ said Larraby. ‘What are you going to do, Mr. Mannering?’
‘We’ll see.’
Was Larraby’s explanation too plausible?
Mannering rang the front door bell; there was no answer.
As he stood on the doorstep, with Larraby behind him and the police watching from the corner, the past came upon him again. He had first come here by night, with jewels for which he asked a heavy price. Fantastic years!
Forget the past, and deal with the present!
He rang again. There was no sound inside the house.
‘It is puzzling,’ Larraby murmured.
Mannering said: ‘Stay here, will you?’
He walked towards the farther end of Wine Street, to an alley at the back of the house, approached by a narrow service road. He did not glance round, but knew that one of the policemen from the car was following him. He wished it were dark.
The gate which led to the small back garden of the ex-fence’s house was closed. Mannering thought he saw the policeman at the end of the alley. The windows were closed. He went up to a long, narrow one, which was in Leverson’s snail dining-room. The curtains were drawn, and he could not see inside.
He tried the window, but it was locked; so was the back door.
The gate in the alley opened, and a plainclothes policeman appeared, a young, fair-haired man.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
‘Hallo?’
‘Have you any right on these premises?’
‘Yes,’ said Mannering, ‘the right of a friend of the owner.’
The man said: ‘Oh.’
Mannering stood on tip-toe and peered over the net curtain at the kitchen window; no one was in sight.
‘Did you expect to find someone in?’ asked the detective.
‘Yes,’ said Mannering. ‘Obviously no one is, so I’ll go back.’
They went back together. The detective returned to his car, and Larraby stood quietly outside the house.
‘No sign of anyone, Mr. Mannering?’
‘Nothing. We’ll go back to the flat.’ But he didn’t want to go back, he wanted to get into that house.
A two-seater car turned into the street, and Forsythe was at the wheel. News? Mannering was sick with anxiety. The reporter pulled the high-powered car up with a squeal of brakes, and waved.
‘Hallo, hallo! I thought I might find you here, as you weren’t at the flat, and—’
‘Where did you leave my wife?’
‘Eh? Why, here. No trouble, is there?’
‘She isn’t here now. I haven’t been able to get an answer by telephone since half past six.’
‘Well, I expect she’s on her way back, said Forsythe, reassuringly. ‘I tried to make her tell me why she was coming, but clams run in the family. She’s all right. Can you spare me half an hour?’
‘Just now, I want to find my wife.’
‘My dear chap! Leverson’s an old friend of yours, and he’s pretty sound,’ said Forsythe. He grinned. ‘A truly reformed character! There are several things I’d like to talk to you about, Mannering – including one that will surprise even you.’
Mannering only wanted one surprise: to see Lorna come out of that house.
‘What is it?’
‘The police have released the two charmers
.’
Mannering said sharply: ‘Sure?’
‘l am a fact-finder by trade. Odd, isn’t it? They’ve also questioned a man named Harding and his son, and let them go. They won’t give the Press a statement. Any new slant from you? You know the line – the police won’t play, so we play with the police.’
‘You’re smart enough to think up new slants for yourself,’ Mannering said. ‘You met Lorna in Green Street, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. She wanted a cab, so I offered her a free lift. She was uncommunicative, but pleased, I gathered – very pleased. I guessed you’d sold the Adalgo, or something. I thought you’d sent for her, knowing how you can play on the emotions, and—’
‘I didn’t. ‘
‘You’re really worried, aren’t you?’ Forsythe observed, frowning.
Another car turned into the street; Bristow’s old green Morris. It looked antiquated, but had a supercharged engine, and was as deceitful as its owner could be. Bristow paused to have a word with the men in the other police car.
‘Teddy, do something for me,’ Mannering said quickly. ‘Go back to the flat and wait for me.’
‘Damn it, with the police on the doorstep—’
‘If there’s a story, you’ll get it.’
Forsythe frowned. ‘It would have to be some story, John. All right. Where’s the key?’
Mannering gave him one. Larraby, who had heard all this, started to speak, but stopped himself.
Mannering said hurriedly: ‘My wife and the maid ought to be back by now. There might be a message from one or other of them. Off with you, before Bristow comes.’
‘May I go with Mr. Forsythe?’ asked Larraby.’Why not?’
‘Come on, if you’re coming,’ said Forsythe.
The engine roared, and Larraby got in. The small car moved at speed, and Forsythe waved to Bristow, getting no response.
Bristow’s car pulled up, by Mannering.
‘You’re very interested in Leverson’s house, aren’t you?’ asked Bristow. ‘Quite like old times.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? Are you interested, too?’
‘I am,’ said Bristow. ‘What are you doing here?’
