The Missing Old Masters

by John Creasey

  The big man looked at his companion. ‘You sure he brought them away?’

  ‘He must have done.’

  ‘You didn’t see him with them.’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘So they could have gone up in smoke.’ The man’s voice was coarse, but he spoke with authority while Anstiss was on the defensive.

  ‘He wouldn’t let them burn—not Mannering.’

  ‘He let the cottage burn.’

  Anstiss sounded almost desperate. ‘What’s the matter with you? I put the petrol up there and started the rags smouldering; no one could stop the place going up in smoke. What are you getting at, Lobb?’

  Lobb.

  The big man spoke with great deliberation. ‘If he didn’t take the paintings, who did?’

  ‘But he must have taken them. There was no one else.’

  ‘No one?’ asked Lobb, coldly.

  There was a long silence, followed by a belated gasp from Anstiss.

  ‘Are you suggesting I took them?’ ‘I’m asking who did, if Mannering didn’t?’

  ‘I’m not a double-crosser!’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Lobb quietly. ‘It would go hard on anyone who double-crossed me, Annie, and don’t you forget it.’ After another pause, Mannering heard a stirring of movement as if the big man were getting up. ‘Let’s see if he’s awake,’ he added, in the same laconic yet menacing way.

  Mannering, now fully conscious, sensed that the man was approaching stealthily and sensed the viciousness in his tone. He opened his eyes a fraction. Lobb was drawing at a cigarette and making it glow very red.

  Taking the cigarette from his lips, he began to lower it. Through his lashes, Mannering could see the way his thin mouth was twisting, had the impression that the prospect of what he was about to do gave Lobb real pleasure.

  Mannering waited until the cigarette was only six inches above his forehead, then shot his right arm up, clenching the other’s wrist in a vicious twist. Lobb leapt in the air with surprise and pain, cannoned into Anstiss and they both went sprawling. Mannering swung himself off the bench, snatched up a moss rake and thrust it against Lobb’s chest, pinning Anstiss beneath him. Wriggling free, Anstiss jumped for the door, but Mannering, driven by a sense of desperation and knowing that he must win, caught him and flung him against the wall. Thinking and acting with controlled speed, he picked up a coil of rope. Standing over the man he made a noose and, almost in the same movement, dropped it over Anstiss’s shoulders.

  ‘No!’ shrieked Anstiss. ‘Don’t—don’t hang …!’

  Mannering jerked the rope down as far as his elbows, inch by inch, and drew it tight, made a double knot, then wound the end of the rope round a big hook in the wall. All the time he kept watch on Lobb, who was slowly recovering but still nursing his wrist. The expression in his eyes warned Mannering, who saw him move stealthily towards a scythe, its blade glistening from recent use. Mannering swung round, pushing the rake against his chest.

  ‘Touch that scythe and I’ll claw your face with this.’

  Lobb went still.

  He was a powerful, ruggedly good-looking man, with attractive curly hair, pale grey eyes and a square chin with a deep cleft. Only his thin mouth spoiled him. He was dressed in a thick, knee-length coat, open at the neck to show a collar and tie. Despite his stillness, there was no fear in his gaze, only wariness.

  ‘Get in the corner behind that mowing machine,’ Mannering ordered.

  Lobb didn’t move.

  ‘Now,’ Mannering said, very softly and he drew the rake through the air, inches from Lobb’s face. Lobb glanced towards the machine, half turned as if to go for it, then grabbed the handle of the rake just above the prongs and pulled savagely.

  Mannering let the rake go. Lobb’s strength was such that he pulled the head with great force against his neck, and for a moment must have been in agony. He dropped the rake. It clattered to the cement floor and Mannering stepped over it, took Lobb’s right arm, twisted it behind him and thrust it upwards in a hammer-lock. Pushing his captive behind the mower, Mannering manoeuvred the heavy machine so that Lobb couldn’t get out without climbing over it. Then, back at the bench, he picked up the rake.

  ‘Now, what were you saying?’

  ‘My God,’ cried Lobb hoarsely, ‘I’ll see you under the ground for this!’

  ‘No doubt those are your amiable intentions; whether they’re carried out or not is another matter. Who are you acting for?’

  ‘If you think you can make me talk—’

  ‘If I can’t make you talk I can make sure you get three years for assault, five years if you’ve a record. Who pays you?’

  ‘I pay myself.’

  ‘Lobb,’ said Mannering slowly, I’ve only to open that door and shout, and I can have the police here in twenty minutes. Miss Joanna might have persuaded me to let Anstiss go, but no one will persuade me to let you go until I know what this is all about. Who pays you?’

  The pale light gave Lobb’s eyes a baleful gleam. He tightened his lips until they almost disappeared, and breathed heavily through his nostrils. Mannering sat back on the bench, ankles crossed, rake to hand. Startlingly through the quiet came the hooting of an owl.

  ‘Made up your mind?’ he asked at last.

  ‘So you want to know who pays me,’ Lobb said harshly.

  ‘I mean to know.’

  ‘Nobody pays me.’

  ‘That’s true!’ gasped Anstiss.

  ‘I get what I can where I can find it and I sell to the highest bidder,’ said Lobb flatly. ‘You’re in the trade, you don’t need telling how many dealers and collectors will buy without asking questions. I’m my own boss.’

  ‘He is, at that!’ cried Anstiss.

  ‘And I use a lot of little men like Anstiss to do my running for me,’ Lobb went on. ‘They find out where the paintings are, I give them the once-over, and if I know where I can place them quickly, I buy. Anything else you want to know?’

  ‘What makes you think you’re a judge of paintings?’

  ‘Fifteen years in the biggest gallery in Europe.’ Lobb gave a curiously one-sided grin. ‘I was an art student at the Slade, I was at the Beaux Arts in Paris, I can copy nearly everything anyone puts down on canvas, but it’s hard work. I got tired of doing copies for a pittance while other men made fortunes out of them, so I went into the business myself. Don’t make any mistake, Mannering. I know paintings; I’m an expert. Got a job for me at Quinns?’ The grin became a leer. ‘And I’m not an old lag, like your manager Larraby.’

  If he knew that about Larraby, how much more did he know? Mannering wondered.

  ‘He’s telling you the gospel truth,’ Anstiss muttered.

  ‘Who do you want Colonel Cunliffe’s paintings for?’

  ‘No one special,’ said Lobb. He straightened up and there was boldness in his manner. ‘How about an even split, Mannering?’

  Mannering didn’t answer.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re as honest as they say you are,’ Lobb jeered. ‘Otherwise, what brought you down to look over that old woman’s paintings?’ When Mannering still did not answer, Lobb went on: ‘Shy of committing yourself?’

  ‘Which of you attacked Eliza Doze?’ demanded Mannering coldly.

  ‘I didn’t meant to hurt her, just put the wind up her,’ gabbled Anstiss. ‘I wouldn’t have touched her if she hadn’t come for me with a poker; it was self-defence, really, that’s what it was—self-defence.’

  ‘What was the idea?’ asked Mannering. ‘Steal the paintings and then set fire to the place and pretend everything was destroyed?’

  ‘Now why should we do that?’ sneered Lobb.

  ‘For insurance,’ said Mannering.

  ‘He’s bright, Mannering is,’ said Lobb. ‘The only one who’d get the i
nsurance money would be the Colonel; where would I come in?’ He gave a snort of a laugh, and glanced at Anstiss almost gloatingly. ‘He doesn’t know, see? I told you he didn’t. Okay, Mannering, we’ve talked enough. Hand over the paintings and go back to London and I’ll let bygones be bygones. Make any more trouble and the first thing I’ll do is prove it was Miss Joanna who stole those pictures. Make a nice juicy scandal, wouldn’t it? Take it from me, if I go to jail, she will too.’ When Mannering said nothing, he went on: ‘I’ll do a deal. I’ll pay you twenty-five per cent of the proceeds. How about it, Mannering?’

  Chapter Seven

  Thief?

  If Joanna had stolen the paintings, this would explain much that was mysterious about her behaviour. But why should she steal them?

  Mannering could not be sure that Lobb had told him the truth, but they couldn’t stay here all night. Either he had to send for the police and charge the two men, or he had to let them go. Given half a chance, Lobb would try to make him give up the missing paintings, would use any method in his attempt, but that was a risk Mannering was prepared to take.

  He was committed to Cunliffe, too. If he went to the police now, the whole story would come out.

  ‘How do you know Miss Joanna took the paintings?’ he demanded.

  ‘She told me so,’ Lobb asserted, jeeringly.

  ‘Told you?’

  ‘That’s right, Mannering—she told me.’

  ‘How did she know you might be interested?’

  Lobb laughed. ‘You’d be surprised how many people know me. I knew she needed money so I got the message through to her.’ There was a sneer in his voice all the time. ‘Want to shop her, Mannering?’

  Mannering thought quickly. He was obviously going to get little, if any, further information from Lobb, and none at all from Anstiss; and if he turned the two men over to the police, that would involve breaking his promise to Colonel Cunliffe.

  Still holding the rake, he got to his feet and moved towards the door. Then he turned to Lobb.

  ‘I should like you and your friend to stay here for ten minutes. If you make any attempt to catch up with me, then I shall hand the pictures and you and Anstiss over to the police. Is that understood?’

  Slowly, he leaned the rake against the wall, and went out into the night, conscious of the stare from two pairs of eyes. As he closed the door the owl hooted again. Through the trees he could see some lights at the Manor; it would not have surprised him had Cunliffe sent someone to look for him, but no one was about. He reached the pale gravel of the path and stepped out briskly towards the house. Soon he was ringing the bell at the front door. Almost immediately the elderly manservant opened it; obviously he had been waiting. He looked very tired.

  ‘Did I keep you up?’ Mannering asked.

  ‘It’s quite all right, sir.’

  But he chained and bolted the door as Mannering crossed the hall.

  Mannering looked into the room in which he and Colonel Cunliffe and Joanna had talked before dinner, but it was empty. At any other time he would have been surprised by Cunliffe’s neglect even of an unexpected guest; now, he decided to go up to his own room. As he reached the foot of the main staircase, however, Cunliffe appeared at the balustrade.

  ‘My dear Mannering, I’m so sorry. Shall I come down or will you join me in my study? Ah—capital,’ he continued, as Mannering went upstairs. ‘The police telephoned you,’ he added, a shade apprehensively. ‘The Yard?’ asked Mannering, surprised. ‘No, the Salisbury chaps. They want you to call them back—a Chief Inspector Fishlock.’ He led Mannering into a large, book-lined room, and Mannering looked about him appreciatively. ‘Would you care to use this telephone? And how about a night-cap? Or if you’d prefer coffee …?’ He left the sentence in mid-air.

  ‘A brandy would be very pleasant,’ Mannering said. He reached the telephone and saw a note: Will Mr. Mannering please telephone Salisbury 12121. Cunliffe busied himself at a corner cupboard as Mannering dialled the number and asked for Chief Inspector Fishlock.

  ‘Fishlock speaking,’ a man said in a brisk voice. ‘My name is Mannering.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr. Mannering. Thank you for calling.’ Fishlock spoke in a businesslike manner. ‘A taxi driver named Arnold brought in a parcel which he said you asked him to hand to us.’

  ‘That’s quite correct,’ Mannering agreed. ‘Is it lost property, Mr. Mannering?’

  ‘I’d like you to hold it until I come for it,’ Mannering said. ‘I’d no place to put it here in Salisbury and the banks were shut. If you care to telephone Scotland Yard …’

  ‘Oh, we know who you are,’ said Chief Inspector Fishlock. ‘But it isn’t customary for us to keep any parcel or package here without opening it and checking the contents.’

  ‘Do that if you wish,’ Mannering told him. ‘Only don’t disclose the nature of the contents to anyone, will you? I think I came across a rare discovery in Salisbury.’

  ‘I see, sir. Well, no names, no pack-drill, if you know what I mean—but we should hate a gentleman of your reputation to come down here and be cheated.’

  ‘You wouldn’t hate it more than I would,’ Mannering said drily.

  Fishlock chuckled dutifully, and wished Mannering goodnight.

  Cunliffe had gone into a small ante-room, but appeared almost as soon as Mannering replaced the receiver, bringing brandy in a glass big enough for Mannering to cup with both hands. He sniffed the bouquet appreciatively, while studying his host. Possibly due to his preoccupation with his own affairs, Cunliffe did not appear to have realised how long Mannering had been out, nor that his shoes were muddied and that his clothes were rumpled.

  ‘I’ve given a lot of thought to the problem of the missing paintings,’ Cunliffe said. ‘Mr. Mannering, if I ask the insurance company to accept you as the official investigator, not the police, do you think they would agree?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘And would you agree?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cunliffe, with great relief. ‘I really am most grateful. And now, is there anything I can do to help?’

  Mannering nodded. ‘Are there photographs of the missing paintings?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, photographs in colour and a full description of each. I had a number of copies made some years ago, for the family and a few close friends. When would you like them? Tonight?’

  ‘Is it possible?’

  ‘Of course. Excuse me for a moment.’ Cunliffe went into the ante-room again leaving Mannering to think over his encounter with Lobb and Anstiss. Taking everything into account, Mannering felt that so far the edge was with, rather than against him.

  A few minutes later Cunliffe returned. ‘Here we are!’ He put a beautifully tooled leather volume into Mannering’s hands. ‘I don’t want to sentimentalise, Mannering, but these seven paintings do have a very great personal value for me. Their loss would be …’ He broke off.

  ‘I quite understand,’ Mannering said. ‘I’ll do everything I can to get them back.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ Cunliffe said. ‘Very kind. And it will be entirely confidential?’

  ‘As I’ve promised,’ Mannering assured him.

  Twenty minutes later, with murmured apologies and renewed thanks, Cunliffe retired to bed. Outside his own room Mannering hesitated for a few seconds, then opened the door very cautiously.

  There was no need for caution; no one was there. He had not really expected anyone, and yet …

  He examined the window, and saw that he could secure it so as to have it open a few inches without the slightest risk of anyone getting in. He checked the door and locked and bolted it, checked the bathroom, and felt assured that no one could enter that way, either. At least he could rest in peace tonight.

  And he was exhausted!
r />   He undressed quickly, got into a hot bath, soaked for ten minutes to ease the stiffness he was beginning to feel after his exertions with Lobb and Anstiss, and was in bed within a quarter of an hour of getting out. Visions of all that had happened passed hazily before him, and the roaring of the fire at the cottage seemed to echo through his mind. It was odd that he had met so many strange people, yet not the old woman he had specifically come to see.

  Eliza Doze …

  Doze, Doze, Doze … doze, doze doze …

  He drifted into sleep, warm, snug, the ache seeping out of him.

  He slept …

  And he became aware of something, someone, touching him, of a hand at his mouth, at his head. He did not start, for waking had come gradually, and now every faculty was alert.

  ‘Mr. Mannering!’ It was the voice of Joanna, whispering. ‘Mr. Mannering!’

  Joanna’s hand was over his mouth to prevent him from crying out, Joanna’s other hand was at his forehead, as if to soothe him. Her lips were very close to his ear. ‘Mr. Mannering, wake up.’

  He spoke quietly. ‘What is it, Joanna?’

  She started back, violently.

  ‘You’re awake!’

  ‘Not with intent,’ Mannering said. ‘What is it?’

  She took her hands away and moved from the bed. She wore a dressing-gown of some light-coloured material, over a filmy nightdress. It could not have been chosen more cleverly to show the girl at her most seductive.

  Seductive?

  ‘Mr. Mannering,’ she repeated in that pleading voice, ‘please listen to me.’

  Mannering sat up. ‘I’ll listen.’ He arranged a pillow to his greater comfort, and studied her. He could not rid himself of the feeling that her diaphanous covering had been arranged deliberately, as part of an act. Yet she looked too young, too innocent, to behave in such a way.