by John Creasey
He rang off and stepped out of the telephone booth.
He frowned. Frowning, he was an impressive looking man. He nodded curtly to the porter at the great doors, and walked towards his car. He drove the massive black monster slowly towards the thicker traffic and, once there, beat two sets of traffic lights. It took him little more than ten minutes to reach New Bond Street. He parked it in a space vacated at the moment of his arrival, accepting his luck with the unconsciousness of a successful man.
His face was still grooved in seriousness as he walked towards a narrow street nearby, known as Hart Row. In Hart Row there were a few exclusive shops, which served the influential and the rich. In only one of these shops was a poor man genuinely welcome, but even there he could not have found anything within his pocket’s reach. This shop was the smallest of the few, narrow and single fronted, with dark, oiled woodwork, and in gilt Old English lettering on the fascia board, the single word, Quinns.
In the window a Genoese silver table, breathtaking in its beauty, stood against a background of dark blue velvet. It was just possible to see beyond, into the long narrow shop. As Plender touched the handle, the door opened and a tall, silvery haired man with the face of an archangel, bowed from the waist.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon,” said Plender, his frown deepening, “You’re new, aren’t you?”
“I have served Mr. Mannering for two years, sir.”
“Then either you’ve been out when I’ve called or I haven’t called,” said Plender. “It can’t be two years! Plender – Mr. Toby Plender. Mr. Mannering will see me.”
“If you will please wait for one moment, sir.”
Alone, Plender had time to glance at a few of the pieces near at hand, caskets and cabinets, miniatures, vases – all precious and valuable things – before the man he had come to see appeared from the dim recess of the shop with out flung hands.
“Well, well!” Mannering said. “I thought the next time I’d see you, you’d be leading the prosecution against me.”
“There’s time,” said Plender. “Well, John?”
“Brimming over.”
“Switzerland to blame?”
“I haven’t set foot in Switzerland for three years,” Mannering said, and took the other by the arm and led him towards the rear of the shop. “Don’t disturb us, Sylvester,” he said to the white haired man, who bowed his practised bow, and was at hand to close the door of a small office.
A small desk, its beauty hidden because of the narrowness of the space round it was pushed close against the far wall. Behind it was a swivel armchair, of severe office mode, and two others, rather more comfortable. Filing cabinets, shelves crammed with large books and the shining knob of a combination safe, made up the furniture.
Plender rubbed the bridge of his nose, a gesture with which judges, jurors and jail inmates all over England were familiar. His gaze raked the office, and came to rest finally on Mannering.
“Remarkable,” he said.
“What is?”
“The similarity. You only have to change the furniture, and you’d have a prison cell.”
“Homely,” Mannering said. “Sit down. Tea?”
“Thanks, later.” Plender accepted a cigarette. His eyes were still sombre, although his lips smiled. “You really look younger,” he announced. “It must be the Devil in you; he can invert the usual processes if he’s so minded, so I’m told.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Mannering.
“Wouldn’t you?” Plender leaned back in his chair and rubbed his nose again. Mannering’s smile remained, but the glow of welcome had faded from his eyes. They appraised each other, two men who had once been close friends and who had drifted, more by accident and Plender’s calling, than by design. They were about the same age, Plender at forty-one, a little older.
“You’re wrong,” Mannering announced, at last.
“I doubt it. About what?”
“Whatever dark reasoning brought you here.”
Plender said abruptly: “John, why do you do it? All this, I mean, and I don’t mean the office.” He raised his eyebrows. “The shop – daily grind – servitude. Regency period manners, a place steeped in the past and meant to be nostalgic. Why?”
“Modern business methods applied to my job.”
“Lost all your money?”
“I am still what is referred to in certain government circles as a bloated capitalist.”
“So you don’t need to run a shop?”
“For money, no. You wouldn’t understand doing a thing for the love of it, would you?”
Plender chuckled.
“Your trick. You don’t love being a counter jumper, surely?”
“But Sylvester adores it. How can I disappoint him? Besides, I like the things I buy and sell. Not worrying whether I make a profit or not helps me to enjoy it. However, the profit is there.”
“Hum,” said Plender.
Mannering said: “Toby, I told you how wrong you were – and you still are. Listen carefully.” He paused, and when the pause was almost unendurable, went on: “I never did it, Guv’nor, so help me, I never did it. It’s them perlice. Always arter me, they are, won’t let a man earn an’onest living.”
His voice changed, took on a nasal whine, and appeared to come from the side of his mouth; his lips hardly moved. He hunched his shoulders and put his head on one side, and somehow the gay and handsome man was no longer there, instead a scared yet malignant individual looked at Plender out of narrowed eyes.
He stopped; and became himself again.
Plender said; “Exhibitionism. John, listen to me, we were once close friends. The reason we haven’t seen much of each other is not that I know you were the Baron. Personally, I liked the bloke – as the Baron, I mean. But I prefer the legend to the fact. He died – remember?”
Mannering murmured: “And you don’t like his shadow.”
Plender stubbed out his cigarette. There was neither sound nor movement.
“I do not like his shadow,” he agreed at last.
“Why should you? He robbed you.” Mannering smiled without gaiety. He hesitated, and then said deliberately: “That is one thing which makes me want to take a poke at you, Toby. Then we could make up and be friends. I was the Baron and you know it. The Baron did not rob his friends. If you want convincing proof that the Shadow is a shadow and not substance, that’s it”
Plender relaxed.
“No apology,” he said. “I’d just moved. No one was to know that I lived in that house, or that my wife would lose her diamonds. You’re not your own shadow?”
“I am not”
“Not exactly my mistake,” said Plender. “I feared rather than believed it. Ever thought of trying to catch this Shadow, John?”
Mannering eyed him levelly for some seconds, then smiled faintly, lifted the telephone and said: “We’ll have tea now, Sylvester,” and replaced the receiver with great deliberation; and all the time he watched Plender, who didn’t shift his gaze. The receiver went ting. Mannering withdrew his hand, and drummed the fingers gently on the desk.
“Did Bristow send you?” he asked.
3: Mannering Inquires
Plender laughed without answering, Mannering’s smile broadened as he opened a drawer in the desk and took out a manilla folder. It was very like the one which had been on Anderson-Kerr’s desk, but not so well filled. He opened it and turned over the papers inside. Plender watched Mannering, not the papers.
“So Bristow did ask you to look in,” said Mannering.
“If he did, it was forgiving of him.’’
“Sure?” Mannering took out several sheets of paper covered with typewritten notes, and slipped it across the desk. “There’s hardly a job in which the Yard doesn’t need an expert of one kind or another. Bill’s up against the old brick wall. I can go to places where he can’t, and a buyer of jewels will be trusted where a Yard man is always shown the door. In your hand, you hold a note of every job that th
e Shadow’s done.”
Plender glanced down at it.
“So you’re already working against him.”
“Oh, no,” said Mannering firmly. “I’ve simply made lists of the stolen stuff, to make sure that I don’t buy any, knowingly. It would never do if the Yard thought I was a fence, would it? With one possible exception, this is not a job that makes me want to go after the Shadow.”
“What’s the exception?”
“The theft from Tobias Plender, Q.C. Not that I think he suffered so much, and he’s doubtless done well out of insurance. The Shadow so far has been a polite and gentlemanly thief, catching him is a police job.”
“I thought you were poacher turned gamekeeper.”
“At times,” agreed Mannering. “But I like to think it’s worthwhile. Within these four walls, why should I go after a man for doing almost exactly what I once did myself? It would make me a renegade!” His eyes were gleaming, and Plender looked rueful. “Now if the Shadow suddenly takes to violence, or steps outside his present limits, that would be a different kettle of fish. I – come in, Sylvester.”
There had been the lightest of taps at the door.
Sylvester brought in a tea tray, with the dignity and aplomb of the traditional butler, bowed, and went out.
“So I can take it you wont do anything about these jobs?” said Plender.
“Tell Bill I’m keeping a cousinly eye open,” said Mannering cheerfully. “Also tell him there isn’t any reason, so far, to think I can do much better than he has. The Shadow is good.”
“I suppose you’re full of admiration for him,” said Plender dryly.
“He does a highly efficient job. Milk and sugar, isn’t it? How’s Mary. And the boys?”
Plender had three sons. . . .
Half an hour later, when he rose to go, Mannering put the file back into the drawer, and stood up.
“Just a minute, Toby.” They eyed each other, Plender expectantly. “Any particular reason why you want to recover any of the jewels you lost?”
“There was a ruby pendant,” Plender said. .”It’s been in the family for several generations, we were both attached to it. The insurance paid for it, but”
“You might try one other thing,” suggested Mannering. “Advertise in all the newspapers. Appeal to the Shadow’s better nature. This pendant was of great sentimental value, your wife is pining for it, you know the kind of thing.”
“He’d never rise to that hoary bait.”
“He might,” said Mannering. “It would give us a new slant on him, anyhow. Remember that behind everything else, he’s building up a reputation. The public is getting almost fond of him. There’s the vague personality emerging of a gentleman cracksman. It’s probably spurious, and this might help to settle it one way or the other.”
“Could do,” said Plender dubiously. “I’ll think about it. John–”
“Yes?”
“Solemn word and all that kind of thing, you’re not the Shadow?”
“My solemn word on it,” said Mannering.
“Subject dropped. Oh, Lorna said something about fixing a foursome. Will you both come and have dinner – one day next week?” Plender flipped over the pages of his diary. “Wednesday would suit me; I think it’s all right at home. Yes?”
“You might have the pendant back by then,” said Mannering. “Yes – thanks, Toby.”
Mannering saw him to the door, and returned, pensively, to the office. Sylvester was talking earnestly to a prospective buyer who appeared to be interested in an Elizabethan casket, beautifully jewelled. Mannering sat back and closed his eyes, and was in that pose for nearly twenty minutes.
Presently he made his way to the four hundred year-old oak staircase, which he soberly mounted. On the next floor, narrow passages led to three storerooms and a small room where one of the staff slept. On the floor above were more storerooms, and a workshop in which an elderly, gentle faced man was cleaning an old canvas. At sight of Mannering he put down the wad of cotton wool with which he was rubbing the picture, and smiled a welcome.
“How’s it shaping up, Josh?”
“I’m not sure yet, Mr. Mannering. Mind you, it’s old, very old. The varnish was nearly all worn off, and the paint itself in badly cracked and dirty condition. I don’t want to do any damage – you might find it wise to send it to a restorer, Mr. Mannering – I’m only an amateur, you know.”
“You’d get a job with any restorer as an expert.” Mannering took the picture off the bench, and carried it to the window. In the patches which Josh Larraby had cleaned was something of the richness which one associated with the Dutch and Flemish masters. “I think it’s going to be good. Tired of working indoors, Josh?”
“I’m quite content,” said Larraby.
Mannering put the picture down carefully.
“I really believe you are! Know anything about the depredations of the Shadow?”
“Only what I hear in the street and read in the newspapers.”
“Try to pick up odds and ends of information about him, will you?” asked Mannering, his voice even, and without expression, “One of his victims was an old friend of mine.”
“I’m sorry to hear that I’ll inquire, Mr. Mannering, but I don’t really think I shall get any information of importance. Shall I leave everything else, and just get on to this?”
“No – fit it in, as you go along. Take what time you want for it.”
“Very good,” said Larraby. “Are you thinking of investigating yourself?”
“Not yet.”
“It doesn’t seem to me one of the inquiries which would greatly interest you,” said Larraby. There was an old worldly air about the man, and his gentle voice and precise way of speaking added to it. “I don’t think the Shadow has a criminal background, he isn’t one of the profession, so to speak Or rather, I shall be surprised if it ever proves that he is.”
Mannering shrugged.
Just after six o’clock that evening, he drove his Sunbeam Talbot to his lock-up garage in Chelsea and walked from there to his flat, in River Walk. The flat was on the top floor of a large house in a terrace. From the outside, it was ugly, inside there was little to recommend the main hall or the heavy staircase, but his own flat had an air which seemed to belong to a different world. He closed the front door and walked across to the living room; it was empty. It had the charm which came from carefully selected pieces of furniture, none of them modern, except a radiogram. One great window overlooked the river and the lights of the Embankment and two bridges were reflected on the rippling surface; he didn’t draw the curtains, but stood looking out. As he stood there, the door opened wider. Lorna Mannering came in.
She walked across the room without a word, and stood by his side. His arm went round her waist. They watched the distant river, the headlights glowing along the Embankment, the sharply contrasting outlines shown up in them. After a while, Lorna moved away and began to pull the curtains.
“Hetty never remembers,” she said. “If she weren’t a good cook, she’d be hopeless.”
“She’s like you,” Mannering said. “One in a million.”
“I thought you liked sentiment. Been busy?”
“Fairly. The light was just right, and I worked longer than I usually do.”
Mannering stood and looked at her. The subdued glow threw her features into soft relief. She was tall, her dark hair thick and wavy. There were those who said that, in repose, she looked grave; almost sullen, but none who argued she wasn’t beautiful.
Mannering switched on more lights. “Don’t overdo it. I happen to love you, in case you haven’t noticed. Sherry?” He busied himself with bottles and glasses. “Did Toby call up, this afternoon?”
“As a matter of fact, he did.”
“Dinner with him next Wednesday be all right?”
“Quite. Sherry, I think.” Lorna sat on the arm of a chair and he brought the drinks across. “What did he want?”
“Am I the Shadow? And if I
’m not the Shadow, will I help to catch the man who is? Bill Bristow is perplexed, and must be almost desperate, or he wouldn’t have sent an unofficial envoy. To the grey of your eyes, my sweet!” He drank.
“And what are you going to do?” demanded Lorna.
“Nothing, yet. Well, nothing much. I’ve asked Josh to keep his eyes and ears open. Having a man who knows his underworld is an advantage. Josh thinks the Shadow comes from high society. Toby isn’t exactly sore about his own loss, but there’s a pendant he’d rather like back. I advised him to advertise, asking the Shadow to oblige him!”
Lorna’s repose went, her beauty became vivid.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously! I think he will, too. I was firm, my dear. Emphatic. The Shadow is a police job, there’s no reason why dog should eat dog. Pity, though. If he’d knock someone over the head, I’d like to have a shot at him. I haven’t played at being detective for a long time. Where shall we go for dinner tonight?”
“We’re staying in,” said Lorna. “Don’t go after the Shadow, unless you really have to. He’s too much like the past. She forced a laugh. “Darling, what does get into us? The minute I heard your key in the door, I knew there was something different. Perhaps it was because Toby telephoned, and he started me thinking about the Baron days. I had the ghastly feeling that time had gone back ten years, and Bristow was at your heels with a search warrant and a pair of handcuffs. They were bad days.”
“A mere point of view. There were others. Mine was one.”
Lorna said: “Don’t fool yourself. Not that we have to go back ten years to feel that Bristow’s on the doorstep. He seems to pop up every few months. I wonder what would have happened if you two hadn’t taken to each other?”
“He would have made life a little more difficult, and I wouldn’t have been able to play the great detective so easily. Bill’s all right, but as worried as hell over the Shadow. He must be feeling now pretty much the same as he felt during the Baron’s heyday. Darling, we’re glooming! We needn’t. After dinner, we shall dance, and after we’ve gone to the Plenders, we’ll have a few days in Paris. I ought to go over to the Rougement sale, anyhow, and you might be able to buy a new dress. Another drink?”
