The Blood Diamond

by John Creasey

  ‘Well, it’s you he’s after.’ Forsythe got out, waved to Tring and strolled towards The Lees. It was a big, grey-faced house which stood in its own grounds, not pretty, not ugly. A high grey wall surrounded it.

  Mannering did not speak again until he pulled up outside.

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ conceded Lorna.

  ‘This time, yes. Tanker will entertain you, my poppet. I won’t turn into the drive, and you won’t be seen from the house if you stay here.’

  ‘John, do you know why they want to see you?’

  ‘I’ve told you – for the Adalgo.’

  Mannering left her at the wheel and walked along the drive of The Lees. It was a solidly-built, late Georgian period residence standing in well kept grounds. A youngish gardener was working among the flowers, which made a riot of colour in the bright sunlight. The gardener touched his cap and remarked that it was a nice day.

  ‘Wonderful!’ agreed Mannering.

  It was wonderful. He hoped he could see Larraby’s face when he was told of this. He felt on top of the world; anxiety wouldn’t last much longer, now.

  He reached the massive, green-painted front door, and pressed the bright brass bell.

  There was a long pause before he heard footsteps inside. With Tring nearby, and Lorna and Forsythe within hail, the signals were at ‘go’s But for a missing policeman . . .

  A woman was hurrying towards the front door, quick taps on a wooden floor.

  Zara Addel opened the door, sleek, lovely, remote – and suddenly frightened, at sight of him.

  She backed away when she saw who it was, and her hands rose to silk clad breasts which shimmered with her agitated breathing.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Mannering brightly.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Is Mr. Harding in? Not Paul, his father. He’s asked me to call.’

  ‘Yes, I—I think so.’ She had expected someone, but certainly not Mannering, and she wasn’t sure of herself. ‘Will you please come in?’

  She was more beautiful than he had realised; regal, too.

  Mannering stepped into a spacious, well-furnished hall. Zara left him and ran upstairs. As she disappeared, Mannering looked round keenly. Some of the furniture was in the rococo Spanish-Moroccan style. A Spanish shawl, a lovely shimmering thing, hung on one wall.

  Minutes ticked by; he thought a lot about a missing policeman, about Harding’s daily message, the spider’s invitation to the fly.

  Then a door opened at the head of the stairs, and Paul Harding came running down.

  ‘Hallo, Mannering! This is wonderful!’

  ‘Nice of you.’

  ‘We’d given up thinking you would come,’ said Paul. He looked boyish, delighted and eager. ‘My father won’t keep you long.’ He pushed open the door of the drawing-room wider, and stood aside for Mannering to pass.

  ‘I see you’ve other guests,’ said Mannering.

  ‘Oh, hardly guests. Marjorie and Zara are staying here, they’re almost members of the family.’ Paul was brisk, proffered cigarettes and offered a drink.

  ‘It’s a bit early,’ Mannering demurred.

  ‘Oh, not for a small one,’ insisted Paul. ‘Whisky?’

  He busied himself with the drinks, and looked twice towards the door, doing everything jerkily; a man on edge. There wasn’t a sound outside. Mannering glanced about this lovely room, and saw a small portrait, by itself on one wall. A crest on the frame was like a crown for the head.

  It was the portrait of a young man, a handsome, dashing rakehell of a man – not Larraby, but as Larraby might have been, twenty years ago.

  There was a word worked into the crest: Adalgo.

  Harding brought Mannering a whisky and soda.

  ‘An end to crime! But you thrive on it, don’t you?’

  Mannering laughed. ‘Is your father still buying?’

  ‘Oh, odds and ends,’ said Paul. ‘He’s not a big fish, you know, just likes a few sparklers about him.’ The laugh which followed was forced, he looked at the door again. ‘He doesn’t go in for it as you do, but he’s always wanted to meet you. That’s why—I think he’s coming!’ Paul stepped quickly to the door, as someone came down the stairs. Mannering moved so that he could see into the hall as the door opened.

  Marjorie Addel appeared.

  ‘Oh, hallo!’ exclaimed Paul. ‘It’s you. Where’s the old boy?’

  ‘He’s coming,’ said Marjorie. She was agitated; was she always like this? Her blue eyes were like deep pools. ‘Mr. Mannering. I want to apologise.’

  ‘Great Scott, why?’

  ‘For—for the way I behaved to you. It was crazy, I was beside myself.’

  Then Harding came in.

  He walked slowly, to impress. He was shorter than Paul; as short as Zara and – beautiful? That wasn’t an absurd thought. He was a lean, grey haired, perfectly built man, and gravity sat on him like a clock, with something more – confidence, poise, self-possession – he had them all. He was exquisitely dressed; he didn’t really belong here, had no place in this day and age.

  He bowed.

  ‘This is Mr. Man—’ Paul began.

  ‘Yes, Paul.’ Harding smiled. ‘We will send for you and Marjorie.’

  ‘But—’ Paul began to protest.

  ‘Come on, Paul.’ Marjorie took his hand; as she passed Harding, Mannering had an absurd feeling that she would genuflect as before a presence.

  The door closed.

  Harding said: ‘I feel sure we shall understand each other.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Mannering murmured.

  ‘Have you brought the Adalgo?’

  Mannering said: ‘Did you think I would?’

  ‘Of course. That is why I sent for you.’

  ‘Well, we all make mistakes.’

  ‘In the past and present and future,’ Harding said. His voice was mellow and aloof; like Zara’s. ‘I make few mistakes.’

  ‘I wonder.’

  Harding laughed; it was an icy sound.

  ‘You will find out You are going to give me the Adalgo diamond.’

  ‘Well, well! A free gift?’

  ‘As barter. The Adalgo for your freedom.’

  It was warm in the room, but Harding, like his voice, was cold. Mannering watched him, fascinated and almost afraid.

  ‘You treasure freedom,’ Harding said. ‘You can have it for the diamond. You see, I know all about you.’

  He believed that; he made Mannering believe it. The room wasn’t hot, it was cold.

  ‘That is why I invited you here,’ said Harding. ‘As I say, I make few mistakes. I knew you would come eventually, Mr. Mannering. I have learned a great deal about you since our paths first crossed.’

  Mannering said: ‘Is there much to learn?’

  Harding’s eyes were grey, clear as polished steel. There was a smile on his lips but none in that steel.

  He had expected the visit; he’d been sure it would come.

  ‘I have also made a close study of criminal law,’ he said. ‘That is necessary when one goes a little too near the dividing line between the legal and the criminal, a habit common to most collectors of precious stones. I know what is evidence and what is hearsay. What you and I talk about is hearsay, not evidence – you can safely discuss the truth with me, as freely as I can with you. I have been wanting the Adalgo diamond for some time – before you bought it. I did not know for sure that it was in your possession until recently, when you made such an ostentatious display of it in your window. Why did you do that, Mr. Mannering?’

  ‘Candles attract moths.’

  ‘I have no wings to singe,’ said Harding. ‘I have been seeking the Adalgo diamond for a very close friend of mine.’

  ‘Ho
w close?’

  ‘Perhaps the phrase “a relation by marriage” will satisfy you?’

  ‘It’ll pass.’

  ‘My wife, who died when Paul was born, was the second daughter of the Duke of Adalgo,’ said Harding, calmly. ‘At the time of our marriage I had interests in Spain. The Adalgo family were and are my friends. But I do not think I need to go into great detail about them, Mr. Mannering. You know who they are, you know that they claim the Spanish throne, you know that they are never likely to ascend it unless they become so wealthy that they can press their claim. One of my tasks has been to make sure that they become so wealthy.’

  ‘Pedro Lopez had a cut at that.’

  ‘Lopez was never more than a mercenary – a good mercenary, yes, with the gift of oratory and the gift of organisation. But he lost his faith, soon after the Civil War. Since then he has been interested not in the fortunes of the family but of himself. You know the story of the imitation Adalgos and their sale as the genuine diamond, I presume.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you think Lopez was responsible for planning that?’

  ‘Wasn’t he?’

  ‘No. I gave him instructions. Afterwards, he betrayed me and worked on his own. Consequently he is in prison, awaiting trial for murder. I don’t think any man would enjoy prison, do you?’

  ‘Who killed Bray?’ Mannering asked, flatly. ‘Remember we’re being honest with each other.’

  ‘It is beside the point. I want to impress on you the fact that I am loyal to the Adalgo family. Whatever you have paid for it, whatever your legal right to it, the Adalgo diamond belongs to the Adalgo family.’

  ‘A case might be made out, but they sold—’

  ‘They did not sell it, Mannering. It was stolen from them by another bunch of the royal family. It was always the property of the House of Adalgo.’

  Mannering laughed, and lit a cigarette. The laugh jarred, even on himself. This calm, coolly aggressive man had the same immature frankness as Marjorie; a form of naivete, but it wasn’t childish and it could be damning.

  ‘Let’s agree that it’s morally theirs,’ he said. ‘It’s legally mine. It’s value—’

  ‘It cannot be valued in terms of money. Listen to me. I knew what Lopez was doing. I wanted him to get the diamond, and planned to take it from him. That is why I arranged a visit to Green Ways on the evening you were there. Unfortunately the police came too soon. Did you give the diamond to him?’

  ‘I didn’t go to the house.’

  Harding smiled; he was utterly sure of himself, as if he didn’t consider the possibility of failure.

  ‘You did, Mannering, and I can prove that you did.’

  ‘So you can work miracles and prove what isn’t true.’

  Harding smiled gently.

  ‘Yes, I could prove it, even if it weren’t true. I have many friends, Mannering, who will swear black is white, if it will help the cause. I have others in high places and with influence internationally. There have been two campaigns running side by side. The one, you know about – Lopez, with his cunning and his treachery and his idiocy. He had no idea that I realised that he was going to—what is the word?—ah, yes, doublecross me. True, he forced me into making one of my few mistakes, by persuading me that the diamond in your window was not the Adalgo, and convincing me that Bray had the one I wanted. That is why I sent Marjorie and Paul to get Bray’s gem from you. They were nervous, they did badly, but by the later talk of smuggling and Paul’s most unfilial suspicions of me, there was an adequate explanation. You will also want to know why I told Paul to tell of my quarrel with Bray.’

  Mannering said: ‘I’m dying to know.’

  ‘It’s better that you should. When you know it all, you will realise the inevitability of giving me the Adalgo. I did quarrel with Bray. The police were bound to find out. So, I sent Paul to tell you of it, believing that it would excite your curiosity and bring you to see me. I did not know that Bray was dead until I saw the newspapers.’

  ‘Lies,’ said Mannering.

  ‘Truth,’ retorted Harding. ‘I believe that Lopez had discovered that I was watching him very closely, and killed Bray to make difficulties for me. He chose the shop, because it would embarrass Marjorie and Zara, and he thought that would distress me. It distressed the girls, that is all. There was really no need for them to worry. Remember that I have friends in high places, Mannering. I do not suggest that those friends could persuade the police to connive at crime, but Scotland Yard dare not hold me or any of my friends without the strongest possible evidence – and their evidence was not strong enough.’

  Mannering said lightly: ‘You don’t know the Yard – another of your mistakes. They let you go for one of two reasons: either they were satisfied that on the evidence they couldn’t legally hold you, or else they gave you plenty of rope with which to hang yourself.’

  ‘If that satisfies you, believe it.’

  ‘It satisfies me. Why did you quarrel with Bray?’

  ‘When I believed that he owned the Adalgo, I wanted him to get it back from you and to withdraw his request for you to sell. Being in financial difficulties, he refused. It was an unfortunate, unnecessary interlude—’

  ‘Which will get you hanged.’

  ‘There is far less risk of me being hanged than of you going to prison,’ Harding said. ‘Haven’t we talked enough? I want the Adalgo or I shall give the police all the proof they need about your adventurous past. I should be sorry, because I like a man who flouts convention.’

  Mannering went to the cabinet and poured himself a drink.

  ‘Yes, you need that,’ murmured Harding. ‘Where is the Adalgo?’

  Mannering sipped his drink.

  ‘Where is Larraby’s double?’

  Harding’s eyes turned towards the portrait. He hesitated, at a loss for words for the first time.

  Mannering said gently: ‘I might hand the diamond over if I know the truth about that. Where is he? Who is he?’

  ‘Mannering—’

  ‘No statement, no Adalgo.’

  Harding said softly: ‘Very well, Mannering. You are looking at a portrait of the Duke of Adalgo, The man you know as Larraby, a love child, is his half-brother. And he knows it.’

  ‘And the Duke was out last night?’

  ‘He—’

  ‘Knocking policemen over the head, too.’

  Harding said coldly: ‘It was unfortunate but necessary. I doubt if identification can be assured, but His Highness is already flying out of England, for safety’s sake. Now will you give me the Adalgo.’

  ‘No,’ said Mannering.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  THE BARON AND THE PAST

  Harding said harshly: ‘You blind, stubborn fool! Don’t you realise what I can do to you? Do you think I’m bluffing? You’ll give me that diamond or I will give the police all the evidence they need that you are the Baron. Are, do you understand, not were. I’ll bring it up to date, I’ll have your name dragged through the muck, you disgraced and your wife dishonoured. I mean it.’

  ‘Yes, you mean it.’ Mannering went across to the photograph and studied it, his back to Harding. The man strode towards him.

  ‘Mannering—’

  ‘Nice chap,’ said Mannering. ‘The Duke and you – both very nice chaps. You mean it, all right, there isn’t a foul trick you wouldn’t play. Nor the Duke. I do not like you, Duke d’Aldago, and I do not like your friends.’

  Harding said in a quivering voice: ‘You will not insult His Highness. You will—’

  ‘I’ll spend the rest of my life in jail rather than let either of you get away with this,’ said Mannering. ‘Poor old Josh! Tricked, cheated, harassed, frightened – he’s as fine as they come. He wouldn’t betray you or his fine feathered relative by a hint or whisper
. He’d rather go to jail. He knows his so-called brother is fixing this latest job on him, but won’t make the statement which puts him in the clear. Now there’s a man worth knowing.’

  Harding said: ‘Be a reasonable man, not a sentimental fool. Larraby was lost from the family for years, and had no idea who he was. He was approached some time ago and asked to help in the cause, but refused. He was married to a silly little woman, he had what he thought was a safe job, and he wouldn’t risk it. He did once try to steal some jewels from me, said they were his birthright. But he is a timid, slow-witted fool.’

  ‘And worth about twenty of you.’

  ‘He stole—’

  ‘You make me sick,’ said Mannering. ‘You make me think of crawling things and corruption. You have the nerve to sneer at Josh for his one mistake while you plan murder and violence, and use blackmail – get away from me, I might break your neck.’

  Harding backed away, then stopped himself abruptly.

  ‘If you think I’m afraid of you, Mannering, you’re—’

  ‘Oh, you’re not afraid. You’ve proved it. Bloodsucking spider in the centre of his web, using your own son, Marjorie, Zara, Lopez – anyone who’d fallen foul of your web, before you’d take a risk yourself. You hadn’t even the guts to come and see me. Who is Zara?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Who is Zara?’

  Harding said: ‘The Duchess. Mannering—’

  ‘Was the gown shop used as a royalist meeting place?’

  ‘Yes.’ Harding’s face was chalk white and his lips quivered. ‘I’ll have that diamond or you will go for trial. I can produce that evidence.’

  ‘You can produce it until the cows come home,’ said Mannering. ‘No diamond. Sit down.’

  ‘Man—’

  ‘Sit down!’

  Harding backed to a chair and sat on the edge.

  ‘And keep still, my fine royalist, or you’ll get hurt. I can hardly keep my hands off you as it is. Be quiet and listen, for a change. You think I’m a man with a past and think you can say hey presto and bring the past to life. You can’t, and no one can. The police are so tired of people saying that I’m the Baron that they’ve a special file for the anonymous letters and mimeographed replies. My past will stand anyone’s scrutiny, in dock or out of it. Remember that.’