by John Creasey
“Into the arms of the police, waiting for an excuse to interrogate you, yes,” said Mannering.
Smith said: “You’d better come with us, Celia, but leave when I tell you to.”
Automatically the girl turned, and came back, leading the way into the opposite flat. The electric fire was glowing, and the room struck warm. Smith closed the door and stood with his back against it and his hands in his pockets; too much the picture of nonchalance for it to be entirely real.
“Well, what’s it all about?”
Mannering said deliberately: “You had a difference of opinion with Miss Fleming’s father this evening. I took him back to his hotel. In the room was a dead girl. She’d been strangled.”
Smith’s smile faded and his lips set in a straight line. The girl moved forward with a shocked exclamation.
“Murdered,” Mannering said.
“Who – who was it?”
Smith said sharply: “There’d be more point in asking what this has to do with us.”
Mannering said: “Fleming quarrelled with you in front of a couple of hundred people. The police will want to know what that quarrel was about, bearing in mind that it might be linked with the murder.”
“Why?”
Mannering shrugged his shoulders.
“It does not need very much imagination to foresee that Superintendent Bristow will be interested to learn that Fleming quarrelled with a man whose flat was mysteriously burgled recently.”
“Why did you trouble to come and warn me?”
“I thought you’d like to know.”
“What do you expect to get, in return?”
Mannering said: “Personally, nothing. My interest is in Fleming. I don’t believe he killed that girl, but I think he might find himself accused of it.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“Does that stand for Celia?” asked Mannering lightly.
“I hate him!” Celia’s voice was low pitched. “I don’t care what happens to him.”
“Is this all you’ve got to tell me?” Smith demanded.
“There is a little more. Fleming knew the girl.”
“Is that so?”
“So did you, if Fleming told the truth, and I think he did. The police are aware of this.”
Smith said gently: “Now you’re making it interesting.” He crossed to a cocktail cabinet. “What will you have?”
“Whisky, please.”
“Celia?”
“Nothing,” she said, “I think I’ve had enough tonight. Who was the dead girl?”
“The name is Muriel Lee,” Mannering said.
“No!” cried Celia.
Smith’s hand was quite steady as he poured the drinks, and his voice was even as he added: “Soda?”
“Please.”
“It couldn’t be Muriel!” breathed Celia. “Why, I saw her tonight, she was here!” – she caught her breath.
“To the death of the murderer,” said Smith, raising his glass, “Celia, darling, I think you’d better go and lie down. It’s been a difficult evening for you.”
“I – I’d like to hear what happened.”
“I’ll tell you, later.”
“Very well.” Without glancing to left or right, she walked automatically to the door. Smith opened it for her. He waited until the door opposite opened and closed, before returning to his chair.
“Now tell me why you came,” he said.
“I’ve told you. A friendly warning.”
“Why be friendly towards a stranger?”
“You never know when strangers might come in useful,” said Mannering. “I wanted to get to know you better, anyhow. That was an impressive entry you made at Lulu’s and I liked the way you behaved after Fleming took a smack at you.”
“I still haven’t been told the truth,” said Smith.
“Possibly,” said Mannering, “but you know as much as I’m going to tell you tonight. It’s quite a lot. As Muriel was here earlier this evening, the police will have a double reason for wanting to see you. Also, they’ll probably discover that you weren’t at Lulu’s until late. They probably won’t state in so many words that you had time to kill Muriel, but the suggestion will be there.”
“They’d be crazy if they thought that.”
“I’ve had a lot to do with the police,” Mannering said. “Their craziness quite often pays off.” He finished his drink and went to the door. “Mind if I go? I’d rather not be here when Bristow arrives. Of course, you could tell him that I’ve been, but that’s up to you.”
He went to the door.
Smith said: “I’d like to know what’s in your mind.”
Mannering opened the door, slowly. “I’m to be found at Quinn’s by day – Hart Row, Bond Street – and River Walk, Chelsea, by night. If you want to know how to cope with Bill Bristow, let me know. I might even work for you, for a stiff retainer.”
He beamed, waved, and went out.
He heard the opposite door click; and knew that Celia had been listening.
No one was in the street when he reached it, and he drove straight to River Walk. There were no telephone messages. He left a note for Hetty, to say that he didn’t want to be disturbed in the morning, and went to bed. He was curious but not dissatisfied. He owed Chittering a big debt; he had puzzled Smith, and would probably get a visit from him. He was likely to become a confidant of the Flemings, unless they were charged with murder, and he doubted whether Bristow would feel justified in taking that step yet.
Then he remembered he had forgotten his nightly call to Lorna.
Next morning, all the newspapers had the story of the murder, but the most detailed was in the Record. The article was signed: Record Star Reporter, Chittering had obviously been first on the spot He had mentioned Mannering, like two of the other newspapers, but there was no mention of Smith or the incident at the club.
Mannering glanced through them all as he drank his tea, and was thoughtful while he shaved. An unusually silent Hetty brought in his breakfast. There was no doubt she disapproved of these late nights while the mistress was away. At half-past ten Mannering telephoned Bristow.
“Now what is it?” Bristow was abrupt.
“How’s Fleming?”
“You can read, can’t you?” asked Bristow.
“But my papers don’t say what happened after he’d been questioned.”
“He’s at the Milne Court Hotel.”
“Good. But why so sharp with me, Bill?”
“One of these days I’ll get sharper,” growled Bristow. “I’m going to see you later in the day, anyhow. If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll keep out of this affair.”
“I heard you,” Mannering said gently.
He did not believe that Smith had talked, but it was possible that Bristow had sent a man to watch Buckley Street, and that the man had taken the number of Mannering’s car. He telephoned Major Fleming, but was told that he was not taking calls. He rang up Sylvester, was assured that there was nothing of importance in the post. It was eleven-fifteen when he entered the Milne Court Hotel.
None of the day staff recognised him, but as he passed the open office door, the manager leapt to his feet.
“Mr. Mannering!”
Mannering waited, smiling.
“Mr. Mannering, have you come to see Major Fleming?”
“I’d like to.”
“He won’t take telephone calls; he won’t answer when we knock at his door. He’s moving about, but – it’s worrying, Mr. Mannering, very worrying.”
“Have you told the police?”
“I’m not sure that I’d be justified, although from our point of view the whole affair couldn’t be more unfortunate.”
“Yes,” agreed Mannering. “It couldn’t be more unfortunate from the dead woman’s point of view either. Where is Mrs. Fleming?”
“In her room, with a nurse – quite prostrate. Quite prostrate.”
“Thanks.” Mannering moved towards the lift, leaving the man
ager staring distractedly after him.
The second floor was deserted. He went to Fleming’s room, and listened; there was no sound. A maid came along, looking at him curiously, and paused, as if she were about to speak. Mannering put a hand to his lips. The maid went past, and Mannering tapped sharply.
There was no response.
Mannering said: “Fleming, this is Mannering. I want to see you.”
Immediately there was a move inside the room, and the key turned in the lock. Mannering expected to see a haggard man and saw instead that Fleming was spruce, distinguished, freshly shaven. There were scratches on his cheeks, and his right eye was slightly bloodshot, but these were the only signs of his daughter’s attack.
He closed and locked the door.
“Why the precautions?” asked Mannering.
“I’m tired of being asked to find another hotel,” said Fleming brusquely. “I shall do violence to that man if he comes again! I’ve enough on my mind. My wife’s in a state of prostration. This murder is hanging over me, and – “he broke off, shrugging his shoulders.”Mannering I’m extremely glad to see you. I doubt if the police will be persuaded that Smith knows anything about this murder. I’m quite sure that he will have an alibi. I’m equally sure that he committed it. If that could be proved, his holdover my daughter might be broken. Will you take the case?”
“Which comes first – proving Smith a murderer or saving Celia?”
“Celia.”
“I’ll take the job,” said Mannering.
15: Celia Takes a Trip
Fleming lit a cigarette, and smoked for some minutes without speaking. At last he said: “That’s a great relief. I believe you can do a lot that the police can’t.”
“I didn’t make any conditions, but there is one,” said Mannering. “That you tell me all the truth.”
“Naturally.”
“Without any reservations. For instance, why are you so nervous of the police?”
“Wouldn’t you be, in a spot like this?”
“That isn’t your only reason. If it were, you’d be anxious but not really worried. If you didn’t kill Muriel, you’ve nothing to fear in the long run, and you know it. Your nerves spring from one of two things – a guilty conscience or a skeleton in the cupboard.”
Fleming said stiffly: “I’m not anxious that the police should probe too deeply into my domestic affairs.”
“Why not?”
“I suppose I’ll have to tell you, Mannering, but I’m taking a chance. There is something that no one else knows, except one man. My wife . . .” Fleming hesitated, and when he went on, the words came reluctantly. “My wife has a criminal record.”
That statement was so unexpected that Mannering simply said: “Oh.”
“I thought it would surprise you.” Fleming’s lips twisted wryly. “I hope I needn’t go into details. I didn’t know it myself, at the time of our marriage. I didn’t know until I saw an example of it, myself. I’m terrified, and I don’t use the word lightly, in case the police take her fingerprints. Do you happen to know if Dominion criminal prints are held at Scotland Yard?”
“Not unless the criminal’s been active over here, or the inquiries for him have been made here.”
“If you’re sure, that’s another relief,” said Fleming. “Mannering, I know that my wife didn’t kill Muriel, although you may not be so sure. I’d been with her, all the evening. We weren’t separated for more than five minutes, at the Lulu Club. But she served a sentence of imprisonment for manslaughter in South Africa. When she has had too much to drink she loses her self-control completely. She isn’t sane. I’ve had specialists, psychiatrists – they can do nothing. The only thing that helps is to stop her from drinking.” The words came out slowly and painfully. “I hope you can see why I’m nervous.”
“And who is the other man who knows this? Smith?”
“Yes,” said Fleming.
“How has he used the knowledge?”
“Blackmail. It started with money, when we were in the same regiment. That is why I blame myself for Celia. I let them meet, and when Celia showed that she was being dominated by the man, I should have let him do his damnedest to me. Instead, I tried to reason with him. He stopped demanding money, and started to threaten that he would tell the truth about my wife unless I let him have his way with Celia. I thought he meant marriage.” Fleming laughed, harshly.
“Has your wife thrown any of these violent fits lately?”
“No. She’s perfectly all right normally, but if she gets at the bottle – Mannering, I’ve known Celia deliberately set out to make her drunk. Smith’s told Celia what to do, and she’s obeyed him. She’s no longer got a will of her own. God, how I hate that man!”
“Where do you think hate will get you?”
“Oh, you can talk. For years I’ve been repressing my feelings, keeping up a front, hoping that something would happen, that he’d tire of her – and all the time I’m getting nearer to boiling point. Lately, Smith has been sending messages through Muriel Lee.”
“What about?”
“Just reminding me to keep away from Celia. It’s a sordid business, Mannering, but now you have the truth. I thought I’d hidden my fear pretty well. Do you think Bristow realised it?”
“Probably, but he almost certainly thinks that it’s because you know more about the murder than you’ve said. What did Bristow say to you?”
“Not a great deal. He wanted to know my movements last night, and I told him everything, including the quarrel. He wanted to know how well I knew Muriel, and I said that she was a friend of my daughter. That’s all. He asked me if I were planning to return to Guildford. I told him that until my wife was better, I would stay here.”
“Did he question you closely about your movements before you left the hotel, and when you returned?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you return – a little after ten o’clock?”
“My wife left her powder compact behind.”
“Did you both come back to find it?”
Fleming closed his eyes, and went into one of those long silences; and again Mannering waited patiently.
Then: “I told Bristow that we both came back and both went into the room. That wasn’t so. We both came up in the lift. I waited while my wife came along here for the compact. I didn’t join her, because she was upset. She’d been reading over some of Celia’s old letters, written before Smith took an interest in her. It upset her, and I know from experience that she recovers more quickly if she’s on her own. She was here for about fifteen minutes I suppose. Bristow wanted to know why we took so long, and I made excuses. I –”
Mannering said abruptly: “I think I’ll change my mind, and leave you to work this one out for yourself.”
“Mannering!”
“Well, why not? If you’re going to lie to me, what can I do to help?”
“But this is true. I’m telling you that Margaret could have – killed the girl.”
“Earlier, you said, you hadn’t been separated except for five minutes at the Lulu”
Fleming raised his hands and dropped them, in an almost pleading gesture.
“Yes, I know. It’s so difficult to realise that I’m talking to someone I can trust and not to the police. But I’ve given you the whole story now, Mannering, this is true.”
Fleming’s grey eyes were clouded and anxious. It robbed him of something of his good looks but didn’t hide the likeness between him and his daughter. He had something of her intensity, too.
“Forget it,” Mannering said.
“You’ll help?”
“I’ll do what I can. And you’ve got to make sure that you tell the police exactly the same story today as you told them last night. There’s one other danger, too – that when your wife recovers, she’ll give a different explanation of the return visit.”
“I don’t think she will,” said Fleming. “I think it’s the true one. I know it is possible that she came back here and saw Mur
iel, but she wasn’t drunk or anything like it, she was just upset by reading those old letters. The police have a nurse with her, of course, as soon as she’s fit enough to make a statement, they’ll get it but we’ve nothing to worry about with that. I’m convinced that Smith killed Muriel.”
“Just to turn the screw on you?”
Fleming laughed; and it was an ugly sound.
“Oh, not just that I told you I hated him. He hates me, just as much. He knows that I’ll never stop trying to win Celia back. He also knows I’ll try to prove that he’s a rogue and a thief. I’ve made him look a fool in public several times, I’m doing all I can to make him lose his temper, if he once does that, he’ll start to weaken. After the last occasion, he said he’d put me where I couldn’t do him any more harm. This is what he meant,”
“It could be,” Mannering said. “I wouldn’t rate the chance very high. If he killed Muriel, it was because he wanted to get rid of her, and he framed you as an incidental. He took a big risk, if he actually did it. Is there anyone else who’s playing this hate game with you?”
“No.”
“Do you know anyone else who’s working with him?”
“Only a woman, a kind of housekeeper. Mrs. Morant – she’s quite harmless, as far as I know.
“What was the relationship between Smith and Muriel?”
“I don’t really know. Probably she was his secretary.”
“He has a legitimate job, then?”
“Oh yes, some kind of a mail order business. Personally, I think it’s a blind.”
“Do you know for a fact he’s a thief?”
“Indeed I do. He rifled the Mess funds. I made good the losses. That’s how it started – I found out what he’d done and was going to report, and he told me that he knew about Margaret, my wife. It’s seven years ago, now,” Fleming said. “Seven years. If it weren’t for Celia, I think I’d have killed myself long before this.”
“Well, if you commit suicide now, you’ll be confessing to the murder of Muriel Lee,” said Mannering, “so think again. Will you let me know when next Bristow come to see you, and make a careful note of the questions he asks?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Now, if I were you, I’d go and have a breath of fresh air,” said Mannering.
