by John Creasey
‘Want me?’ Perce called.
‘Get him back,’ ordered Mannering.
‘Perce!’ shrilled Lark, then added sharply: ‘Why?’
‘We want to know who brought this.’
Perce opened the door, this time without knocking, and Lark put the question.
‘Never saw him meself,’ sniffed Perce, ‘but Lucy says he was a long streak. Quite a toff.’ He sniffed.
‘Tall and fair-haired?’ Mannering demanded.
‘Yeh.’
‘Harrison!’ exclaimed Lark.
Yes, that was it: Harrison, not Bellamy, had sent the note, there was a ring of his overbearing manner in the phrasing.
‘Come in a car?’ asked Lark.
‘Nope,’ said Perce. ‘Just walked up. Lucy was cleaning the steps. “Give this to your new lodger,” he said to ‘er.’ Perce looked at Mannering covertly. ‘Dunno what you think, Larky, but it won’t be so good if Lucy twigs. She reads the pipers, never meant ‘er to know we’d got ‘im.’
‘Okay, Perce,* said Lark, ‘I’ll look after it.’ He nodded dismissal, waited until the door closed on the lanky innkeeper, then rubbed his bony jaw. His attitude had turned full circle. He didn’t say another word about it, but he believed Mannering’s story. And he was worried on other accounts; the fact that anyone knew where Mannering was staying meant danger for them all.
‘This,’ he announced suddenly, ‘is a rum do.’
Mannering said: ‘The police may have been following Harrison. In any case, he might talk. I can’t stay here, I don’t want to see the police just yet.’
‘Fancy that,’ said Lark, with half-hearted facetiousness. Any ideas about this?’
‘Harrison took Stella and her sister away, so probably they’re somewhere in the neighbourhood. I doubt it he’d take them far. Do you know when he arrived back at Hallen House?’
‘The next morning,’ said Lark; ‘it’s in the piper.’
‘So he couldn’t have gone far. And he knows where I am and where you are.’ Mannering allowed time for that to sink in. ‘What about finding out where the girls are? You’ve friends about here, haven’t you?’
‘Plenty. I dunno that I want trouble with Bellamy or Harrison, though. I don’t want any trouble at all, cock. But those girls—’
‘You can put the question round. Perce must know a lot of people. Just make inquiries, and tell me what you find out. I’ll do the rest.’
‘You’re in easy street, you are,’ said Lark heavily. ‘The minnit the cops—’
‘Get me a box of grease-paint, Lark, and give me a couple of hours. I’ll be ready to leave after that.’ When Lark did not answer, he went on: ‘Grease-paint and a suit of old clothes and some peroxide. Bellamy’s put me in this spot, but I can get out.’
Lark rubbed his chin. Would he take the risk?
‘Okay,’ Lark said. ‘I dunno how long it’ll take me to fix it, though. The sooner you’re out’ve ‘ere the better I’ll like it.’ He turned towards the door, then swung on his heel. ‘But if you croaked Holmes—’
‘I didn’t croak Holmes,’ said Mannering.
Every creak on the stairs, every footstep outside, wore at Mannering’s nerves in the next three hours. Once he saw two policemen walking past the back of the pub, and while they were approaching he stood watching them nervously. They did not linger; but they made the ensuing waiting even more intolerable. He went over everything he had read and been told. He knew the Gazette story off by heart. He felt sure that Lark wouldn’t have talked of finger-prints if he weren’t sure the police had them. The danger in which he stood seemed to increase with each reflection. Periods of uncertainty and vacillation followed each other quickly. Was he wise to stay away from the police? Wouldn’t it be best if he gave himself up, told the whole story, and set the police searching for the missing girls?
Would that help the girls?
Bellamy would lie easily and be suave, plausible, convincing. He would deny Mannering’s story categorically and might even frighten Stella into saying she had never talked to Mannering, or gone out on the moor.
No, he couldn’t go to the police; he would have to find his own way out; for himself and for the girls. What about Lorna?
He could imagine her set face; the drawn lines of worry, the way her eyebrows would meet, how her lips would tighten and the glow would fade from her eyes.
And so the hours passed.
Just after two o’clock, when he had toyed with a heavy steak-pudding and apple-tart, Lark came briskly up the stairs, followed by the lumbering Jackie.
The door was unlocked, a measure of Lark’s volte-face.
Lark carried a black case, about the size of Mannering’s toolkit. Jackie had a brown tweed suit over his arm, and a bottle of peroxide in his knuckly left hand. He dumped the clothes and bottle on the bed and went out, while Lark handed the case to Mannering. ‘That do?’
Mannering looked inside. ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said fervently.
‘Mirror good enough?’
‘I’ll manage.’
‘Get you another,’ said Lark.
‘Before you go, there’s another thing,’ Mannering said.
‘Yeh?’
‘Can you get me a commercial traveller’s order book and some stationery? Almost anything would do. I need a plausible reason for being in Corwellin.’
‘How’d do you know where you are?’ demanded Lark. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
He was soon back with a larger mirror, but said nothing about the other things.
Mannering stripped to the waist when he was alone, mixed the peroxide, and bleached his hair; then he touched up his eyebrows and lashes, a delicate operation for which he used one of two small brushes.
His hair finished and drying, he sat down again in front of the new mirror. The fair-haired man at whom he looked already seemed unfamiliar. He became absorbed in the work with the grease-paint, watching the transformation feature by feature. Shading at his nose made it look broader at the base, and thicker at the bridge. More at the eyes gave them a slanting look. There was a bottle of spirit gum; he touched the corners of his eyes gingerly, narrowed them and kept them narrowed while the gum hardened. Lines at his chin and on his cheeks made him look older.
He forgot time …
His hair, nearly dry, looked naturally blond.
He changed into the brown tweed, and was knotting a frayed tie when the door opened and Lark came in. He saw Mannering’s back at first, but when Mannering turned round, the cracksman stepped back a pace, gaping.
‘It’s a ruddy miracle, that’s wot it is!’
‘If it caught you, it’ll catch anyone who’s only judging from a photograph,’ said Mannering.
‘It—it ain’t natural!’
Mannering chuckled. ‘You’re dead right, Larky! What news?’
Lark had been busy.
Mannering was not to come back here. If he called at the Red Lion, at the other end of Corwellin in River Street, and asked for Lark, he’d get help. Lark and Jackie were going to be ready to move from here at a moment’s notice; they didn’t trust Harrison. Mannering could stay at any one of three pubs; the Red Lion, the Corwellin Arms which was at the northern end of the High Street, or the Norman’s Head, a riverside ‘hotel.’ Perce was a ‘retired’ screwsman, and when he said retired, he meant retired; there were several other old lags about there. There was some local smuggling fom Spain and Portugal, too; that was to be the story for the crooks – Mannering was bringing silks and wines over. But he wasn’t to talk to anyone except to Lark or Perce – not even about Bellamy.
He’d fixed the order book, too. A few days ago a man travelling in cheap cigars and tobaccos had left a book and some letter-heading at the inn. Mannering could use that. There were carbon copies of some orders, and the name in the book was Browning.
‘Got all that?’ Lark asked.
Mannering repeated the gist of it.
‘You’re good,’ admitted Lark almo
st reluctantly, ‘I hope you’ll live to do business with me! Ready?’
‘All set.’
‘’Ow you fixed for dough?’
‘All right, when I’ve got my wallet back!’
Lark grinned. ‘It’s a pleasure. Any chance of your notes being checked up?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Mannering. ‘I took them from the cashbox at Quinn’s. It’s customers’ money. I’ll take the wallet but leave most of the papers and everything with my name on. Parcel them up and send them care of Chelsea Post Office, will you? And look after the emeralds.’
Lark nodded.
‘Anything else?’
A pair of cotton gloves, if you can find them. Is there any chance?’
‘Nice, useful thing for a burglar, a pair o’ cotton gloves,’ remarked the screwsman knowingly. ‘I’ll see Perce.’
He went out, to return in a quarter of an hour, empty-handed. There were no gloves that would suit Mannering. If there were any message Perce would leave it at the Red Lion that night – for a Mr. Browning. Was that okay?
‘Fine.’
Lark gave him the order book, forty Players, a box of matches and his wallet, also a battered attaché case. ‘Look better to have some luggage,’ he said.
And I could do with one or two of those tools that you took from me,’ Mannering remarked.
Lark grinned. ‘They’re in the case!’
Mannering put his head on one side, and gave a long, thoughtful smile. ‘Lark, I won’t forget this in a hurry.’
‘I won’t ruddy well let you, don’t you worry! Going out by the side door?’
‘Why not use the front? I’m a business man.’
It was strange to walk down the stairs – free.
Perce and Jackie were talking in the hall, and Jackie caught sight of the ‘stranger’ first. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. Perce made a curious little gasping sound.
Lark grinned broadly.
‘Good, ain’t it?’
‘Good!’ gasped Jackie.
‘It—’ began Perce.
And then the front door of the inn opened, and two men stood on the threshold. One of them was Superintendent Dando.
Chapter Thirteen
Dando Makes an Arrest
Mannering stared blankly at the detective and at the elegant younger man just behind him. The Superintendent ignored Mannering, and looked hard at Lark, whose hands were twitching as he fingered his chin.
Behind Dando’s plain-clothes companion stood a policeman in uniform.
Perce found his voice first.
‘S’matter, Super? Wassall this about?’
‘Don’t you know, Grey?’ asked Dando, his deep voice rumbling about the narrow passage. He did not look at the innkeeper, only at Lark. ‘I want a word with your guests. They won’t mind, I hope.’
‘Dunno why they should,’ muttered Perce.
Mannering said in an undertone: ‘Well, Mr. Grey, I’ll see you get delivery as soon as I can, but you know how difficult supplies are. Good afternoon.’ He moved towards Dando and the door.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ asked Dando. Mannering looked astonished.
‘You don’t want me, do you? I’ve only just called on Mr. Grey—’
‘Who’d you travel for?’
‘The Regency Tobacco Company. If you would like to see—’
‘Have a look at his papers, Whittaker,’ ordered Dando, and turned to Lark. ‘You’re Edward James Lark.’
‘That’s me.’ Lark had recovered his poise, and truculence crept into his voice.
Mannering handed the order book to Whittaker, who glanced at it quickly. The police could not have been watching the inn for long, or they would have known that he hadn’t ‘just called.’ The sergeant turned over the pages, closed the book and handed it back.
‘All right.’
Mannering walked out. The policeman moved aside.
‘Now, Lark,’ began Dando.
Mannering sat in a window seat in a café opposite the Corwellin Police Station. Toasted buns and a pot of tea were in front of him, and the attaché case between his feet. He could see into the street, which was almost deserted that afternoon, when most shops closed. A few cars were parked along the curb; a policeman stood on the steps of the police station. The hands of a clock on a small stone tower in the middle of the road pointed to half-past five.
Mannering had come straight to the High Street and had been at the table for nearly a quarter of an hour.
He poured out some tea.
A car drew up outside the police station, and he recognised the ‘Super.’ He had not yet fully recovered from the shock of the encounter, and its possible consequences. If Lark were detained, it might go ill with the little man.
It did not occur to Mannering that Lark would betray him; but Jackie might; Jackie’s loyalty was only for Lark. Perce Grey might also talk.
Lark and Jackie got out of the police car, and Whittaker followed them. Dando said something to the policeman on duty before he went into the police station.
Mannering lit a cigarette, although a half-finished bun was on his plate. A little waitress with untidy hair smiled, and Mannering went on with his tea. If Dando had any reason to believe that he, Mannering, had been at the inn, this disguise would lose most of its value. Dando may only have glanced at him, but policemen took a lot in at a glance. It wasn’t easy to concentrate on the three main problems: Stella’s; Lark’s; his own. Stella’s and his were connected, but Lark’s was another matter. Even if he discovered the truth about Bellamy, would it help the screwsman?00
Another car pulled up outside the police station. There was something familiar about the passenger who jumped out and hurried towards the steps. He was partly hidden by the car, but once on the steps came into full view.
Bristow was here!
So he already had the Yard to fight; as if the local police were not enough.
He finished his tea, picked up his case, and went out. Only one shop was open near the police station; a newsstand. He bought a local evening paper, the Cornshire Echo, and was not surprised to find that most of the front page was devoted to the crimes at Hallen House. Much of it was a rehash of the Gazette story, and there was nothing new to help Mannering, except a paragraph: ‘The Echo believes that the police are of the opinion’—what journalism!—‘that Mr. Mannering would not stay in the district a minute longer than necessary.’
That might well be the police theory; if so, it would help.
There was nothing about Lorna. If she had come down here, she would come openly, and stay at one of the larger hotels.
There were two in the High Street. The George, a comparatively modern building, only a few doors away from the Corwellin Arms, and an old coaching inn, the King’s Head. He crossed the road opposite The George and went into an airy entrance hall. The furniture was modern; there was nothing picturesque or quaint. No one was at the reception desk, but a porter at the end of a wide passage was talking to a page. Mannering went to the desk, where the register stood open.
Lorna had not registered here.
The porter hurried up.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’
‘Good afternoon,’ said Mannering, speaking in a low pitched, hard voice, unlike his normal one. ‘Have you a Mr. Kinnard staying here?’
‘I don’t think so, sir—’
Soon Mannering returned to the sunlit street.
The High Street widened opposite The George, and here the brown-grey stone buildings had dignity. Even a cinema, a little way along, was built in keeping with the older buildings.
He passed the Corwellin Arms, a double-fronted shop, with two bottle-glass windows and a side entrance over which was a sign: ‘Hotel.’ He sauntered along, sunning himself, until he reached the King’s Head. Here the entrance hall was gloomy, the ceiling low. It was old-fashioned, and comfortable chairs and sofas were dotted about. Brass gleamed in the poor light. A single electric lamp burned over the receptio
n desk, where a grey-haired man sat poring over his books.
The receptionist looked up.
The register was upside down to Mannering, who smiled as he asked: ‘Have you a Mr. Kinnard staying here?’
‘Kinnard, sir? I feel sure we have not. I’ll just check for you, sir.’ He ran his finger down the list of guests, while Mannering scanned it. He could recognise Lorna’s signature from any angle, and—yes, there it was! ‘Lorna Mannering,’ in her heavy, clear writing.
‘No, sir, Mr. Kinnard hasn’t registered.’
‘Then he’s probably not arrived,’ said Mannering. ‘Unless that signature—’
He turned the book round, and saw that Lorna’s room was Number 27. He scrutinised an almost illegible signature beneath hers.
‘That is Mrs. Kennedy, sir,’ said the clerk. ‘I assure you Mr. Kinnard hasn’t registered, but if you would care to wait in the lounge—’
‘Thanks,’ smiled Mannering. ‘I’ll wait here, I think.’
He sat in a gloomy corner, and a porter came up to ask if he would like the light on? No, thanks! Mannering sat back, crossing his legs.
Should he register here as Browning? It would probably be as safe as anywhere, and he would have an excuse for going to Lorna’s room. But would it really be safe? Bristow and other detectives might come in to see Lorna.
His knee was throbbing rather painfully, and he pulled a pouf towards him and put his leg up.
He smoked cigarette after cigarette, out of a paper packet. Only his wallet, which contained no clue to his identity, and the tools in the borrowed attaché case, remained of the things he had brought from Hallen House.
Was Lorna in or out?
He looked up every time he heard the sound of woman’s footsteps, but Lorna did not appear. A fussy couple came in and registered.
A young, affectionate couple made a great palaver over their baggage and held hands as they went up a flight of narrow, twisting stairs.
A tall, boyish-looking man, not unlike Harrison in build, came in briskly and waited at the desk; the clerk had left only a minute or two before. The young man was dressed in a well-cut grey flannel suit, was bare-headed, and had a broken nose which spoiled an otherwise excellent profile. He glanced about him almost furtively, failed to notice Mannering, and pulled the register towards him. He ran his forefinger down the names.
