The Blood Diamond

by John Creasey

  ‘Can we hold Mannering?’

  ‘We couldn’t make any charge stick.’

  ‘Then don’t chance it, yet. If it weren’t for Larraby, you’d be less certain of Mannering’s part. What about Larraby?’

  ‘He sticks to his story.’ Bristow hesitated. ‘It’s nonsense, of course, but I’ve heard some rumours about him having a brother who resembles him. If we get Larraby, we’ll get Mannering – that’s about the size of it.’

  Anderson-Kerr said: ‘Well, don’t forget to let Tring make the charge, when it comes.’

  Bristow laughed, but wasn’t amused. ‘I’m not so sure. Tring talked too freely to the Press, gave far too much away. Have you seen the papers?’

  ‘Yes. Will it do much harm?’

  ‘Forsythe knows pretty well as much as we do - and but for Tring, no one would know who Lopey really is. Remember Forsythe is in Mannering’s pocket, too.’

  ‘Discipline Tring yourself,’ said Anderson-Kerr.

  Bristow nodded, and went out.

  He heard voices as he paused outside his own office. Tring’s voice was raised, giving vent to a spate of bitter vituperation, but occasionally he recognised the voice of Forsythe.

  ‘Damn it, you gave me the stuff and didn’t say it was off the record,’ Forsythe said.

  ‘I forgot. You ought to have known. You—’

  Bristow thrust open the door. Tring glared, Forsythe turned from a desk to Bristow, with a broad smile.

  ‘Hallo, Super! I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘There’s a waiting-room downstairs for you people,’ said Bristow, sharply. ‘If you come upstairs again without my permission, I’ll ask your paper to keep you away from here. Clear out.’

  Forsythe’s face dropped.

  ‘Oh, come! Tring had already told me—’

  Bristow pushed the door wide open. ‘Out.’

  Forsythe shrugged, and went out briskly; grinning.

  Bristow closed the door, sat down, and lit a cigarette. Tring watched him as if hypnotised. After a pause, Bristow put his hands flat on the desk.

  ‘Tring,’ he said, ‘if you give any statement to the Press without authority, I’ll have you relegated to sergeant’s rank. If ever I hear you talking about Mannering or anyone else to the Press as if you believed him guilty, if ever I hear you giving out hints for journalists to write up in their scandal sheets, I’ll have you drummed out of the Force. I’d like to wring your neck!’

  Tring licked his lips.

  ‘Can’t you open your mouth?’ snapped Bristow.

  Tring opened and closed it.

  ‘All right – get out,’ growled Bristow.

  Tring started to speak again, changed his mind, and turned to the door. Then he spoke. He intended to speak under his breath but the depth of his feeling made the words audible.

  ‘You’re too fond of Mannering, that’s what your trouble is.’

  ‘Tring!’ bellowed Bristow.

  Tring jumped a foot, and spun round. Bristow got up, his face white.

  ‘Repeat that,’ said Bristow. ‘Don’t mumble, repeat it.’

  Tring drew in his breath; and suddenly, words tumbled from his lips.

  ‘All right, I’ll repeat it! I think you’re too fond of Mannering. If it was anyone else you’d have them here, you’d give them hell, that’s what you’d do. But because it’s Mannering, you let him get away with murder. I don’t care what happens to me, it’s all wrong. Right’s right, that’s what I say, I always have and I always shall. Right’s right.’

  ‘I—see,’ said Bristow flatly. ‘All right, Tring. You can go. Remember that if you make any statements to the Press without my permission you’ll be disobeying orders.’

  Tring tightened his lips, and went slowly towards the door and out into the passage.

  Bristow didn’t feel so sore as numbed. Was Tring right? Had he allowed himself to be influenced by personal liking for Mannering? Would he have been harsher with someone else, and taken more chances? Had Mannering been Leverson, or any other man suspected of crime, would he have left Mannering free? Would he have insisted on getting a warrant and leaving a man in Mannering’s apartment, to take his statement before he could conspire with his wife? Or was it the simple truth that Mannering always beat him to it? Mannering knew the law inside out, had powerful friends in Fleet Street, and used a form of blackmail – make one mistake with him and the Press would scream it from the housetops.

  But, Tring was half right.

  Tring would have taken chances, because he was so bitter. Bristow wouldn’t, because of that personal liking. It was there all the time, he couldn’t define it and couldn’t ignore it.

  What was he? A recruit from the police college or a Yard chief with twenty-five years service behind him?

  Prove the case against Larraby and he’d prove one against Mannering. All right, he’d prove one!

  Larraby was at Cannon Row, the low roofed, grey forbidding police station so near Scodand Yard that it seemed part of the same headquarters. He called the sergeant-in-charge-of-cells to say he was on the way.

  Nothing would shake Larraby’s story; the Mannerings had befriended him, and he had not been to Guildford. Bristow was dry when he’d finished talking, Larraby almost exhausted but as stubborn as ever.

  Tring was in the canteen when Bristow went for a glass of beer. Tring studiously avoided him.

  Bristow telephoned Mannering’s apartment, was told that Mannering would be laid up for the better part of a week, and detailed a man to watch Green Street day and night and to note all visitors. He was not justified now in doubling the guard; the greatest danger was over with the arrest of Lopez and the others. There was plenty of high-pressure routine work, and it was a relief not to have to watch Mannering.

  The case against Lopez and the others for the murders of P.C. Harris and Leverson, built up remorselessly. Beneath a floor at Bingham Street, they found the gun with which the policeman had been shot and there were bloodstains on the butt; Lopez had beaten Leverson to death with the same gun.

  But there was no evidence that he or any of his men had been to Addel & Co.’s Lander Street shop; the murder of Bray was still unsolved.

  Lopez refused to talk.

  There was no evidence that any of the Adalgo family were in England. Nor was there evidence against the Addel women or the Hardings.

  The name of Marjorie’s sister-in-law was a coincidence almost too obvious to be significant; the fifth and other Duchess of Adalgo had been named Zara. Zara Addel’s story was simple, and couldn’t be disproved. Bristow knew what Mannering knew about her. She had lived in France most of her life, lost her parents during the war, when she had married Marjorie’s brother. He had been killed, and she had come to England to live with Marjorie. She had no interests that Bristow could trace, except at the gown shop. The Hardings and the Addels had met through Paul; love at a party and at first sight. There was no reason to doubt the truth of any of this.

  He sent a routine request to Surete Generate in Paris for all possible information about Zara, expecting that it would be at least a week before he received any answer.

  Marjorie Addel’s story of her presence at Guildford was unshakable. She said she had no idea why she had been taken there. She had been going to see the Hardings, after her release from Scotland Yard, and as she was walking along a quiet street, a car had pulled up alongside her and she had been bundled inside. Investigation brought forth two witnesses who had seen the incident. Her story seemed genuine enough, and Barnes didn’t know why she’d been kidnapped, except that it had been on Lopez’s orders. Harding Senior maintained the story which Paul Harding had told Mannering; suspicion of his father handling smuggled jewels could have accounted for Paul Harding’s first nervousness of the police; could also have explained Marjorie’s fea
rs.

  No reason, thought Bristow bitterly, and every reason; someone was lying.

  Larraby – or a man who might have been Larraby – had been seen in Harrow Street, near the house where his wife and daughter lived. Bristow couldn’t trace a brother, but picked up rumours that Larraby had one, who was abroad.

  The Bray murder and the whole story gradually faded out of the newspapers . . .

  Nothing faded out of Tring’s mind, and Bristow found himself muttering an almost daily incantation: fix Larraby, fix Mannering.

  The telephone bell rang in the apartment, and Mannering heard Lorna answer it. She wasn’t long before she came in.

  He looked up from the bed.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Paul Harding.’

  ‘Oh-ho!’

  ‘He says his father is still very anxious to see you.’

  ‘Needing help?’

  ‘He didn’t say so.’

  ‘Did you ask him here?’

  ‘No,’ said Lorna. ‘I don’t want him here.’ She went to the door. ‘Did you expect a call from them?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They want the Adalgo.’

  Lorna said: ‘I’d gladly give it to them,’ and went out.

  Three days later, Mannering stood at the side of his bed and said: ‘Watch me pirouette, my sweet!’

  ‘Sit down, you fool!’

  ‘But I can stand, look. I can walk. Look!’ Mannering took three short steps, then rested on his sound leg and bent the right knee gingerly. ‘How long have I been in this dungeon with an ogress for company?’

  ‘Three days, precisely. >From beloved wife to ogress, in seventy-two hours.’

  ‘Rather a nice ogress.’ Mannering limped across the room to Lorna’s side. ‘Wearing a troubled frown, it’s true. Why? Has Harding called again?’

  ‘Marjorie did, they’re changing the bait.’

  Mannering laughed: ‘No love for her now? What’s really the trouble?’

  ‘I suppose it’s Josh.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Bristow won’t come and tell us all about everything, so we don’t know whether Josh has a chance or not.’

  ‘We know he’s still under remand.’

  ‘Yes. Any other reason for gloom?’

  Lorna poked her fingers through her hair.

  ‘Not really. It’s over and yet it isn’t over, I feel as if we’re going to get a nasty shock one of these days. John, could Larraby have lied?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If Bristow proves that he did, then you and I—’

  ‘Come under deep suspicion for harbouring a crook, but we’ve been under suspicion before.’

  ‘Not quite like this.’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘Darling, why pretend you’re all happy and gay?’

  Mannering laughed.

  ‘Would it help if I were glum and depressed? My mind won’t depress, anyhow, I think you’re right, there’ll be another flare-up, and when it comes there’ll be plenty of smoke but we won’t get burned. I hope. The oddest part of an odd affair is the virtual disappearance of the Addel-Harding combination from the scene. Forsythe can’t get a line on them beyond what we already know, and the police doubtless have it on their dossier. A nice, respectable if superior little crowd. If Bray hadn’t died, they wouldn’t even be on the suspect list If Marjorie hadn’t come to see me – well, she did and I’m wasting our breath. And now Harding pere wants to see me. When do you think I can get up?’

  ‘What day is it?’

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘Three weeks next Friday.’

  Mannering chuckled, and kissed her.

  There was always a policeman in Green Street; always a feeling of being watched. After the third day, Mannering expected visitors – Paul Harding or the girl - and was disappointed because neither came. But Paul Harding telephoned each day, anxious and inquiring – and inviting. This, Tring and Larraby were the three main topics of conversation, until, on the seventh day, Lorna came into the bedroom and saw Mannering fully dressed.

  ‘Doctor said I could,’ he protested before she said a word.

  ‘He didn’t say you could go to Guildford.’

  ‘Coming?’

  ‘How did you guess—’

  ‘I heard you asking Forsythe for directions when he rang up last night.’

  ‘What else did you hear?’

  ‘That he hasn’t found a picture of a male Adalgo, and doesn’t understand why you want one.’

  ‘That’s easy. If it’s the face I expect, we won’t have to ask many more questions. What else did your eavesdropping tell you?’

  ‘That Forsythe is spending a lot of time at Guildford, and concentrating on Marjorie. Can’t you get her ripeness out of your mind?’

  ‘No. Can you?’

  ‘I wish we’d never heard of her. Don’t go, John. Take me out to dinner.’

  ‘There’s our old Josh, too.’

  Lorna said: ‘Oh, you’d better go. Have one more day’s rest, and—’

  The telephone bell rang.

  ‘That’ll be Paul,’ Lorna said. ‘Why do they keep ringing?’

  Mannering shrugged, and went to the telephone.

  ‘Perhaps my voice fascinates him. Hallo – hallo, Forsythe. Any news?’

  Forsythe said: ‘Go to the Hardings’ house, John, make it snappy and take a gun. I told you how to get there, last night. I can’t stay.’

  It was a warm morning with a cooling breeze. The Talbot had been polished during the few days of rest until it shone like a mirror. Mannering drove, glad to be at the wheel, to feel the easy freedom of his leg. It was his first real outing since his accident, and he enjoyed driving at speed along the Guildford Bypass. He was amused when he drove up the High Street, and glanced at the clock under which he had met Lopez’s man. The urgency in Forsythe’s call was dulled by the drive. The two mysteries still unanswered were the murder of Bray and the identity of the second party raiders at Green Ways. Were they connected?

  ‘Top of the hill, straight on, third right and first left,’ said Mannering, glancing at a list of directions which Forsythe had given him. ‘Should I have telephoned Harding to say I was coming? Pity if he’s out!’

  ‘Getting conventional, darling?’

  ‘Ogress,’ said Mannering. ‘I—hallo, look.’

  He had turned off the main road and, at the next corner they had to take, which should lead them to The Lees, was Forsythe. He glanced round, recognised them on the instant, and swung towards them. Mannering slowed down.

  Forsythe exclaimed: ‘Give The Lees a miss for a jiffy – I’ve got something else.’ He climbed into the back of the car, and dropped on to the seat. He was breathing heavily, and as Mannering passed the end of the road where The Lees stood, he glanced along it almost nervously.

  Mannering took the next turning, and pulled up.

  ‘Now what’s all this about?’

  Forsythe patted his chest heavily.

  ‘I’ll have to go into training, or stop smoking, or something! Sorry. I was coming to phone you again, and I didn’t want to waste time. Also, I didn’t want to be seen. You’re going to thank me for this.’

  ‘For a newspaperman you take a hell of a time to get to the point,’ Mannering said.

  Forsythe said: ‘Believe it or not. Item one, I’ve seen Larraby’s double.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘No!’ cried Lorna.

  ‘I saw him with my own eyes, and couldn’t believe them at first. It’s not Larraby. Even if our Josh weren’t cooling his heels at Brixton, it still wouldn’t be him. But the likeness knocked me over. He left the Hardings’ house, in a fast car. On a dark night anyone could be muddled. Item two: th
ere was a Guildford policeman watching the house until half an hour ago. He’s vanished. This is the first time the house hasn’t been watched; I’ve a lovely feeling the bobby’s been biffed on the head. Say thanks.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  THE MAN WHO WAS NOT LARRABY

  Mannering said: ‘Yes. Thanks.’ He grinned crookedly at the excitement in Lorna’s eyes. ‘Meet my wife, who didn’t want me to come.’

  ‘Josh wasn’t lying,’ sighed Lorna.

  ‘There isn’t a shadow of doubt,’ said Forsythe. ‘This merchant came out of The Lees, as bold as brass. I hopped along to call you, aiming to get back in three jiffs. And I ought to be on my way,’ he said. ‘Drop me down where you picked me up, will you?’

  Mannering let in the clutch, turned, and drove slowly to the end of the next road, talking all the time.

  ‘Keep a careful watch, especially after I’ve gone into the house. I’m going to see Harding, and if Larraby’s double comes back it won’t do any harm.’

  ‘What about Mrs. John?’

  ‘I’m going with him,’ said Lorna. ‘I don’t trust him with lusciousness which tempts him daily by telephone.’

  Mannering patted the back of her hand.

  ‘You were coming,’ he said. ‘Now you’re not. You’re going to wait for me in the car, because I might want to get off in a hurry and you drive quite nicely.’

  Forsythe grinned.

  ‘Drop me here and have your fight alone,’ he said, and looked round. ‘Hallo! I see a man wearing a black hat and brown shoes. Did you know Tring was on your tail?’

  ‘Tring’s always on my tail,’ said Mannering.