by John Creasey
He left Fleming at the entrance to Hyde Park, and drove to Quinn’s. He was there for only half an hour, warned Sylvester that he might not be in much during the next few days, then drove to Larraby’s hotel. Larraby was in a small, pleasant room, looking rested and refreshed.
“Feeling better?” Mannering asked.
“A new man,” said Larraby. “What can I do?”
“Find someone reliable to watch Smith and Celia Fleming,” said Mannering, “and also try to trace a Muriel Lee, who worked for Smith, anything else you can about her.”
“And after that?”
“Sleep some more,” said Mannering, and left Larraby smiling with satisfaction.
He drove to the Record office, and found Cluttering in the middle of a vast room, surrounded by myriads of typewriters and telephones, all in violent operation. He alone was motionless, leaning back with his eyes closed and a half-smoked cigarette jutting from his under lip.
Mannering said: “You’re as bad as Larraby.”
“Never,” said Cluttering, opening one eye. “He has a great regard for you. Good morning, John. Thanks for the tip last night.”
“Pleasure. How is Chloe?”
“She telephoned half an hour ago. Apparently she and Jane adored their evening out. They could mean it.”
“Didn’t you say they live together in a cottage in the country?”
Chittering opened the other eye.
“Yes. Why?”
“What are they really like?”
“Oh, quite human,” said Chittering. “In fact, nice. They’re District Nurses, you know, near Winchester. Once the home of King Alfred.”
“Discreet, loyal and trustworthy?”
Chittering leaned forward. “What is all this?”
“If I wanted to hide, or someone wanted to hide, would they play?”
“I think Chloe would do practically anything you asked, short of murder,” said Chittering. “Who’s running from the law?”
“No one, yet. Will you warn them that such an event might happen?”
“Yes, indeed. It will make their day. Do you mean to say that’s all you want?”
Mannering laughed.
“Not quite, Chitty. I’m anxious to learn what I can about Muriel Lee, who died last night – you know she worked for Smith, I presume? And I’d like to know what Bristow has been doing at Buckley Street.”
“That’s better,” said Chittering. “He’s been asking lots of questions, but he hasn’t got anywhere. He is probably coming after you with an axe, too. He had a man watching Buckley Street, and knows you went to see Smith. He can’t understand why you wanted to warn the chap of what had happened. I think you made a mistake, John. Until then, Bristow was radiating friendliness and goodwill towards you, but this has got under his skin.”
“Don’t we live by mistakes?” asked Mannering lightly.
“And frequently die by them,” Chittering said. “I’ll send a note about Muriel Lee when I’ve got all the dope.”
“Between us,” said Mannering, “we’ll probably hit the front page headlines one of these days.”
Chittering was still seeking a Parthian shot of sufficient deadliness when Mannering reached the doors. He drove straight to Chelsea. The Yard man was watching from the house opposite, but no one had followed him. He realized that Bristow was trying to cramp him. It was a pity Bristow had discovered that he had warned Smith, but the dividend from the warning would probably be big, if there was any at all.
He let himself into the flat.
The dividend came hurrying across the hall towards him – Celia Fleming, smothered in mink.
16: Soft Spot
She didn’t say anything as Mannering closed the door, just stopped in front of him, one hand outstretched and touching his. The kitchen door opened, and Hetty began to speak.
“Oh, Mr. Mannering, there’s a lady who –” She broke off, staring at Celia in disapproval.
“All right, Hetty, thanks.”
As Hetty withdrew, Mannering took Celia’s arm, and led her into the study. Beneath the makeup, there were signs of strain, but none, that he could recognise, of drugs.
He moved away from her.
“What is it, Miss Fleming?”
She said slowly: “How is my mother?”
“Badly shaken, but not seriously ill.”
“Are you sure?”
“I was told so, this morning.”
She turned from him, and he thought it was because tears had sprung to her eyes. She stared, unseeing, at the window.
“Can I give her a message?”
“Tell her, please, that I inquired.”
“I will.”
She hadn’t come for this alone, but now that she was here, she couldn’t bring herself to divulge the paramount reason.
“Why did she do it?” she asked abruptly.
“Do what?”
“Kill Muriel.”
“What makes you think she did?”
“Of course she did!”
“I still don’t know what makes you think so?”
“She’s – violent – sometimes.”
“She wasn’t violent and she wasn’t drunk last night. You ought to know that. Did Paul suggest that she’d killed Muriel?”
Celia bit her lips.
“So he did. Are you ever going to wake up to the fact that what Paul says might not always be true?”
“Oh, it’s true enough!”
“Did you tell the police this?”
“Of course I didn’t!” Her sudden anger drove away some of her fear, making her more natural. “Of course I didn’t!”
“Did Paul?”
“I didn’t come here to discuss Paul.”
“Why did you come?”
“I wanted to find out how she was. I wanted . . .” she broke off again. “That’s all. Thank you.”
“It isn’t quite enough,” said Mannering, and went across and took her hands. “Look at me, Celia.” She avoided his eyes. “Look at me,” he repeated gently, and she obeyed, but the fear was back; she was frightened of him, and perhaps also of something else. “Celia, why did you come to see me? What do you want from me?”
“Nothing!”
“That’s not true.” His pressure on her hands increased. “Tell me. I won’t pass it on.”
“There’s nothing,” she said, and wrenched herself free. “I must go. I shouldn’t have come. Just give that message to my mother.” She reached the door and opened it, and as she walked across the hall, the front door bell rang. Mannering didn’t think she heard it. She fumbled with the latch and had the door open before Mannering could help her. She pulled it wide and stepped blindly out – and a man stretched out a hand and pushed her back.
It was Paul Smith.
He didn’t look at Mannering. Smith closed the door with one hand, then suddenly moved the other, and slapped her across the face. It wasn’t a hard blow, but she cringed back, as if in terror.
Smith slid his hands into his pockets.
“What did she come to see you about Mannering?”
Mannering said: “I don’t know. She changed her mind about talking.” He went to Smith’s side and, without haste, closed his fingers round the man’s right forearm. Smith grinned, nastily, and tensed his muscles; then Mannering gripped and twisted, and Smith gasped with sudden pain. He shot back against the wall as Mannering released him.
Celia, who had flown like a wildcat at her father when he had laid a hand on this man, didn’t move.
Smith straightened up and shrugged his coat into position.
“Somehow I don’t think we’re going to be good friends,” he said. “You don’t seem to have done any harm, Celia, we’ll go now.”
“Not just yet,” said Mannering.
“I’ll go when I want to,” Smith said. His voice sharpened with a note of command. “Celia!”
She moved towards the door, without thought or volition. The man was watching her. Mannering frowned as he l
ooked from one to the other. Celia’s hand moved slowly, reluctantly, but she opened the door and stepped onto the landing. Smith started to follow.
“Not you,” Mannering said.
Smith’s lip lifted in a sneer.
Mannering said: “Maybe I can use hypnotism, too.”
Smith started, and turned round. The girl went on. Mannering closed the door behind her, and ignoring Smith went to the study. By the time he was sitting at the desk, Smith was at the door. The two men stood looking at each other, in a strange conflict of wills.
Then Smith laughed.
“You get some fool notions,” he said. “I suppose it’s no use reasoning with you. Celia’s just a dope. But she’s wonderful to look at, and that isn’t the only way she’s good. She’ll do what I tell her, I don’t have to use any funny stuff with her. Forget it.”
“Not yet,” said Mannering, “but we’ll talk about something else.”
“What?”
“Apart from wanting to see Celia, why did you come here?”
“Now you’re thought reading. Why are you so interested in me, Mannering?”
“Strong personalities always fascinate me.”
“Only that?”
“Should there be anything else?”
“I don’t know,” said Smith. “Possibly you think we might be able to do some business together.”
“What kind of business?”
Smith stared with that curious intensity, as if he were wishing to read Mannering’s thoughts. He was making a conscious mental effort, and there was stillness in the room. Mannering felt the sense of strain and knew, beyond all doubt, where Smith drew his power to influence others as he had influenced Celia.
Smith looked away, and shrugged.
“I still think you might be interested in a business arrangement, but I’d like to find out why you think so. Come and see me again.”
“I will,” said Mannering.
Smith turned and went out. The front door closed softly, and there was no other sound. Mannering drew a hand across his forehead, and it came away damp. He hadn’t enjoyed those last few minutes, and had a feeling that he might have given something away that he wanted to keep to himself. He rejected the thought, but it persisted.
Hetty came in, nervously.
“Has the gentleman gone, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I hope he doesn’t come very often,” Hetty said, with the frankness of guileless, undisciplined youth. “Will you be in to lunch?”
“Yes, Hetty – say half past one.”
“It’ll be on time,” said Hetty.
She hadn’t liked Smith, even on that brief acquaintance; had instinctively felt that there was corruption in him. Yet when Smith could have used vicious methods, with him and Larraby, he’d rejected them. Was that contradictory evidence or simply a matter of tactics?
Mannering ate a hearty lunch, and then shaking off lethargy, walked briskly to Victoria. It took him half an hour. He went on by taxi to the Post Office near Trafalgar Square, and turned to the poste restante counter.
“Mr. J. Brown?” asked the clerk, and went through a small bundle of letters. “Oh, yes, there is one.” She slipped the letter beneath the grille, and Mannering opened it before he went away. It was from Smith, who signed himself ‘C’, and the address was 60, Palling Street, S.E.1. (The Palling Garage). It read:
Come and see me again, any evening between six thirty and seven o’clock. I think we could do business together.
Mannering tore the letter up and dropped the pieces into a waste paper basket. He went out and walked purposefully towards Scotland Yard. It was then half past three. The policemen on duty at the Criminal Investigation Department building did not stop him and he went straight up to Bristow’s office.
He tapped.
“Come in,” called Bristow.
He was sitting at his desk, glancing through some papers, and the telephone bell rang as Mannering opened the door. Bristow picked up the receiver and then saw Mannering. He glared.
“Oh, it’s you, is it? I want you.” There was hostility in his eyes as Mannering entered, and he continued to look at Mannering as he spoke into the telephone. “Ask him to ring up later; I don’t want disturbing for the next half hour.”
He put the receiver down with a bang.
17: Bristow’s High Horse
No one else was in the office, and Mannering drew up a chair. The window was open, and Bristow shut it with cold precision. Standing with his back towards it, his face in shadow, his expression of hostility was hardly concealed.
“You damned fool,” he said.
“If you say so.”
“Until you’ve been inside, I don’t suppose you’ll ever learn.”
“I repeat, if you say so.”
“Haven’t you the sense not to keep getting in our way?”
“Perhaps I don’t know where you’re going.”
“You know where we’re going all right. It was crazy to go and warn Smith that we were likely to visit him. If he’s had anything to do with that murder, it gave him time to get ready for us.”
“But you always catch guilty men.”
“If we did,” Bristow said roughly, “we’d have caught you long ago. But you’ll find yourself in dock yet, never fear, and probably for something you didn’t do.”
“Rough justice at the Yard! Why the high horse, Bill?”
“Isn’t this enough? You warned Smith and the Fleming girl. You then went to Major Fleming, and did something to him – he’s twice as difficult to handle. You had visits from Smith and the girl, too.”
“Where’s the criminal offence?”
“You’re obstructing us.”
“Oh, no. Trying to help you.”
Bristow said: “Listen to me. I know you were at Smith’s flat the other night. The description tallied with the description we’ve had before when you’ve been about. That means you committed an offence and could be sent down for three years, or more. You get too damned cocky. And you assaulted several of our men.”
“Someone did,” said Mannering.
“You did.”
“Let’s draw a veil over that,” said Mannering. “What do you think I’m doing with Smith?”
“I don’t know yet. But I can tell you, you’re going to burn your fingers before it’s over. Smith is dynamite. And he’s bad.”
“A point of agreement at last.”
“Why interfere in this job?”
“I thought I was invited to help find the Shadow.”
“Forget it.”
“It stirred up my curiosity.”
Bristow said in a milder voice: “What makes you think there’s any connection between Smith and the Shadow?”
“I’m just wondering.”
“You know something that’s material evidence. Don’t withhold it.”
“Not for a split second, when I think you could use it,” said Mannering. “Bill, I came to tell you several things, one of them to beware Smith, and to find out what he was doing on the nights that the Shadow was busy. If he’s the Shadow, I’d like to see him inside.”
“Don’t you know if he is or not?”
“No. Do you?”
Bristow said: “I know that he was out on each of the Shadow’s jobs.”
“We progress,” said Mannering.
“The Fleming girl gives him an alibi for three of the nights.”
“Poor Celia.”
“And she frequently goes to Paris.”
“It’s fairly obvious that she buys her clothes there.”
“She could take the stolen stuff over, and sell it – we haven’t traced any unloading of what the Shadow stole, in England. I don’t say that happened, but it could have done. Muriel Lee was also in the habit of slipping over to the Continent – she had friends in Brussels. Did you know all this?”
“You’re telling me, Bill.”
“I’m as crazy as you are,” Bristow said, and quite suddenly, he laughed
. It was a good laugh to hear. Laughter, at the unexpected moment, was one of Bristow’s saving graces.
“John, listen to me.” He offered cigarettes from a yellow packet, “I know you wouldn’t touch anything this man Smith does with a barge pole. I think you’re doing what you think is best, but you’re asking for trouble. At the beginning of this affair, I had Anderson-Kerr sympathetic about asking your help. Now he’s dead against it. You’ll run yourself up against the Yard every time you move. Don’t be a bigger fool than you can help.”
“There may not be much difference,” Mannering said, smiling. “Have you discovered Smith’s other name and business yet?”
Bristow stopped in the act of lighting a cigarette.
“What? I – oh, that. Yes.” He concentrated with unnecessary energy on lighting a cigarette. “Of course we have.”
“I just wanted to make sure,” said Mannering. “As you know, I needn’t tell you. Bye, Bill.”
Bristow jumped towards him.
“John –”
“Appointment,” beamed Mannering. “Very remiss of me. I want to sell a diamond to a millionaire.”
Bristow didn’t follow him out of the office; and Bristow hadn’t yet got round to the fact that Smith was Caton of the Palling Street Garage,
At the flat, there was a note from Cluttering. Did Mannering know that Celia Fleming often went to Paris, that Muriel Lee had as often gone to Brussels, and that the Yard thought that there was a connection between Smith and the Shadow? In a postscript the reporter said that Chloe and Jane would “play”.
There was a change in the tactics of the police, and one for the worse. When he left Chelsea, Mannering was tailed. It did not greatly worry him, but it meant that from the moment he had disappeared, there would be an alert throughout the police stations of London.
He missed the Buick.
He slipped his tail near Piccadilly, and then went to a little shop in the Edgware Road, where Old Sol, a man who specialised in theatrical makeup and wig making, greeted him warmly. Three quarters of an hour later he left the shop in a different suit and a professional makeup which was infinitely better than that he had used the first night. He went to an all night garage, and, using the shopkeeper’s name for a reference, hired a self-driven car, a roomy and powerful Austin. He drove to Southwark, and parked the car a hundred yards from Palling’s Garage. He walked the rest of the way, arriving at twenty minutes to seven.
