by John Creasey
“In the same case; Brian always keeps it in a special pocket, and as the case is rarely out of his sight it’s pretty safe. Brian’s always so devilishly hard up—” She stopped, colouring quickly. “But I mustn’t bother you with it any more, Mr. Mannering, although if you could find anything I’d be extremely grateful.”
“I’ll do all I can,” promised Mannering. “But surely your aunt saw the report of the burglary? Mr. Halliwell’s name must have been mentioned.”
“Well, no, she practically only reads the social columns.”
“A perfect summing-up of Mrs. Willison,” thought Mannering. “And if Kingley’s know that young Halliwell is always hard up, it might make them very thoughtful. It would make me think, not to mention the police. I wonder if the girl’s picked a loser?”
He would have wondered still more if he had known that Brian Halliwell was in London, not in Cornwall, and had he been able to see him in Kingley’s study, about the time that Lady Fauntley and Mrs. Willison joined the others, it would certainly have occurred to him Halliwell was protesting his innocence almost too vehemently.
Matthew Kingley, of Kingley’s Limited, – perhaps the oldest and most reputable firm in Hatton Garden – was at times inclined to be too trusting. He took the usual precautions, of course, but Halliwell was not the first young man who had succeeded in getting a post with Kingley’s Limited more because he needed work than because he was an expert salesman.
Halliwell had a good enough reputation. Educated at Eton, it had been confidently expected that he would enter the Navy, where his father and grandfather had served before him. The Halliwell finances had suffered badly in the slump, however, and Brian had been compelled to give up all idea of a Naval career. He had not proved a marked success in an office, and when it was suggested that Kingley could employ him, he had been doubtful of getting the job. Kingley’s failing had served Brian perfectly. He had not been a brilliant employee, but he had no notable failures. The affair at the Maycourt Hotel had been the first approach to disaster.
Kingley had held the interview in his private house.
Kingley was a small, grey-haired man, with tufts of hair at his brows and sprouting from his ears. His pink and white complexion suggested a sensitive skin and great care with his diet. His eyes were rather prominent, but friendly. He had a soft voice, and an old-fashioned habit of rolling his phrases.
Halliwell, above middle-height and sturdily built, was rugged rather than handsome, and by no means characterless to judge from his square chin and his wide-set blue eyes. He was standing in front of the old man’s desk.
“But I give you my word, Mr. Kingley, I know nothing at all about it until I reached the office! Hang it, if I’d known the case was empty I would have telephoned from the hotel, to you and the police. It stands to reason.”
Kingley shook his head.
“My dear Halliwell, nothing stands to reason. I don’t like having to force this unpleasant interview upon you, but I am not entirely my own master in the matter. The police tell me that there is no evidence at all that anyone else burgled the hotel that evening. No stranger was seen—”
“Damn it,” Halliwell half-shouted, “who was there to see them? And the fellow would take good care he wasn’t noticed, wouldn’t he?”
“Please, please! There is not the slightest reason why we should get agitated. I am stating the opinion of the police, not my own. They told me, frankly, that on the surface it appeared that you had taken the stones, and that the talk of a theft was a—er—bluff, I think is the word they used. Only by an earnest request has it been made possible for me to talk to you here, instead of the police questioning you at—er—a police station. Now, Halliwell, for your family’s sake, please tell me the truth. If you took the stones because you are short of money, perhaps in debt, return them, and I will undertake to satisfy the police. I will even help you out of any urgent financial trouble.”
Halliwell’s cheeks were turning a dark red, and his eyes looked angry.
“I see. So you think I took them?”
Kingley shrugged his shoulders; his white hands were spread over the desk, fingers wide apart.
“My boy, it was as much my fault as yours if you did. The temptation was a considerable one, and many excellent young fellows have fallen to just such a mistake. The world may not—”
Halliwell’s lips were quivering, and his fists were clenched. “I didn’t take the damned things! I’d no idea they were gone, and they were certainly in the case when I booked my room at the Maycourt. Someone followed me, opened the case and took them out. That’s what I told you in the first place, and it’s true. I don’t care a damn what the police say. I didn’t steal them! Is that enough?”
Kingley was looking even more troubled.
“I am quite prepared to accept your word for it, my boy, but you will, of course, have to suffer from the suspicions of the police.”
“They wouldn’t harass me if you told them you were sure I was innocent,” snapped Halliwell, his temper dangerously out of control.
Kingley’s voice hardened.
“You are forgetting yourself, Halliwell. As I have told you, I have a responsibility to my co-directors—you know that as well as I do. Unless the jewels are found there must be a wider inquiry.”
“The damned things were insured, weren’t they?”
“That is beside the point. And in any case, the insurance company will be anxious to learn the truth. Once you leave here, Halliwell, I can do nothing to help you.”
Halliwell’s voice grew suddenly hoarse.
“Unless I admit taking the stones, you mean? Supposing you asked the police to find the Baron, instead of accusing me?”
“Nonsense! Inspector Bristow himself tells me that the Baron certainly did not commit the crime.”
“Seeing that the Baron has been working for years, and they have never found him, how do they know that? Anyhow, someone took them. I wish to Heaven I’d never accepted your job.”
Kingley stood up abruptly.
“That is enough, Halliwell. You can show yourself out. Your month’s cheque will be posted to you tomorrow, and from then onwards the matter becomes entirely your affair.”
Halliwell was standing very still, his expression that of a man who saw his last hope dwindling. He hesitated for a second, and then stepped forward, hands going out in appeal.
“I—I’m sorry I got rattled, sir. This means absolute ruin for me. The police know I needed money, and—and you can persuade them that I didn’t take the jewels. Hang it, I only needed a hundred pounds or so, and—”
“I’m sorry,” said Kingley coldly, “there is nothing I can do.”
Halliwell swung on his heel. Kingley sat watching him, until the door of the well-furnished study closed. Then the diamond merchant shrugged his shoulders, took a set of keys from his pocket, and opened his safe. From his pocket he took a single diamond, wrapped in cotton wool, and put it to rest beside two piles of Bank of England notes, and several other un-set stones. The bright light above his desk scintillated on them before he closed the door.
Just an hour later Kingley’s butler, coming to enquire if there were further orders for the night, got no answer, and opened the study door. He found Kingley lying against the desk, and the hairy tuft at his right ear was covered with blood. The safe was wide open and empty.
Chapter Three
Missing and Wanted
Chief-Inspector Bristow had reached his Chelsea home at ten o’clock, after an hour spent in questioning the man found at the Elan Hotel, without results, half an hour spent in assuring the victim of the theft that his gems would be recovered, and twenty minutes discussing the case with Superintendent Lynch. Lynch had been in an easy chair at Hampstead, grunting comments into the telephone.
The only time the Superintendent had shown keen interest had been when he had asked: “Do you think this ties up with the Maycourt affair, Bill?”
“It’s ten to one that was Halliwe
ll.”
“The odd one does turn up,” Lynch had said; he was something of a philosopher. “Look round it, will you, and we’ll try again in the morning. Tired?”
“It’s a month since I had an evening at home,” Bristow had grumbled.
“That’s a lie, you had two in succession last week. Eh?” Lynch’s voice had grown dimmer. “Hold on, Bill. You there—? My wife wants to know when you and Mary can come over for a day—a Sunday, yes. Free next week? All right, old man. Goodnight.”
Bristow had grown less disgruntled. Lynch was a good man to work with, and he always took his fair share of the worst cases. He was wrong, however, in linking the hotel jobs together; just as wrong as he, Bristow, had been in worrying about the Baron. Bristow felt fairly sure of both things.
Mannering had done some risky things in his time, but he would never be such a fool as to sit outside the manager’s door while an accomplice was inside, under arrest. Besides – Bristow was a cautious man, and had made inquiries – Mannering had been on the Acquania. The liner had not called at Cherbourg, and Mannering had had no chance of flying to London in time for the Maycourt burglary.
Young Halliwell had no alibi, and virtually no defence. Bristow was inclined to take it for granted that another likeable youngster had kicked over the traces.
On the day of the Elan burglary Mannering’s Lagonda had been seen at Kingston, just after six o’clock. It had been seen again at Putney, and had driven into the Elan’s parking-place at ten minutes to seven; there were several independent witnesses to that. Mannering seemed clear enough on both jobs. On the other hand, Mannering had the wit to appreciate that similar methods would not always succeed. It was just possible that he had finished working on his own, and was using accomplices. If that were so, he would have alibis for all the crimes of which he was suspected.
With his coat off, slippers instead of shoes, and a pipe going well, Bristow pondered over this possibility until he grew drowsy. At eleven o’clock he glanced at his wife, who was reading a thriller.
“Ready, Mary?”
“I’ll just finish this chapter.”
Bristow nodded, and stared at the ceiling. One of the difficulties of C.I.D. work was the hopelessness of getting a complete rest. He wished Halliwell would confess. It would make the Maycourt affair much simpler. The fellow found at the Elan was a well-known cracksman, named Loffatt. He rarely ventured high-class hotel work, but he had certainly opened the safe in Fallon’s room while someone else had been waiting for the jewels. No doubt he hoped to escape a long sentence as the gems were not found in his possession. His story of having entered the room by mistake was worthless.
Brrr-brrh.
Mary Bristow’s head jerked up, and Bristow said: “Oh, damn!”
The telephone was in a corner of the living-room. Mrs. Bristow, plump, pleasant and resigned to sudden calls, went into the scullery to brush Bill’s shoes, while Bristow took up the receiver.
“Yes, who is it?”
“Sergeant Tring, sir. I thought you’d better know at once, sir.”
“What’s the matter now?” Bristow was not usually short, even with the estimable but slow-thinking Detective-Sergeant Tring, who was an expert on finger-prints and searching, but somewhat disconcerted when he had to think deeply without help.
“That Halliwell–Kingley case, sir. Kingley’s been found dead, shot through the head, but there seems no suggestion of suicide. That’s what K.A.I. Division says.”
“Hampstead, eh?” Bristow thought of Lynch. “Have you told the Superintendent?”
“No, sir, I thought you—”
“Ring him,” said Bristow, “and then get over to Kingley’s place. Is it hot?”
“Pretty well, sir. Kingley’s house was only ten minutes from the Divisional station—the butler says it was a quarter to eleven when he found the body.”
“Humph, I’ll be along,” said Bristow, and rang off. “Mary, I’ve got—oh, good girl.” He smiled at his wife, brushed a hand still holding the pipe across his lips, and kissed her. “Looking forward to retirement?”
Mary laughed.
“You’ve got another ten years yet, Bill, and it doesn’t do to be too anxious. What is it?”
“Not sure yet,” said Bristow, who knew that she hated the days spent on murder cases. She had a suspicion that there was always a possibility of the police being shot if they discovered too much, and a ravenous reading of thrillers fed the conviction. “That Kingley jewel affair, I think. Do you know where my cigarettes are?”
Mary had learned from experience that it was useless to suggest he should wait long enough for a cup of tea or coffee, and Bristow was grateful for her understanding. He had forgotten her, however, by the time he took his Morris Ten out of the garage next to the house for a cross-London run to Hampstead.
Kingley was rather a nice, inoffensive fellow, as far as Bristow knew him. Kingley’s had surprising little trouble, except with defaulting salesmen. That was a weakness of the old man’s, of which Halliwell seemed to have taken advantage. Apparently it had brought Kingley to this violent end.
“We ought to have pulled Halliwell in,” Bristow said to an empty King Street. “But it would have meant a stink if he is all right.”
He reached Hampstead in half an hour, driving through roads clear of traffic. Lights were blazing from Kingley’s house, which stood in its own grounds of half an acre or more. Bristow had been there several times. Three cars were standing in the drive, and he recognised a Squad car as well as Lynch’s. The third probably belonged to the doctor.
Lynch had only just arrived. He was standing with his hands in his pockets and looking pensively down at the body of the murdered jewel merchant. A big man. Over-inclined to stoutness, Lynch dressed expensively, and yet always appeared untidy. He was pursing his thick lips a little and the bright light over the desk made his hair seem greyer and thinner than usual.
“Hallo, Bill.” He had not looked up, but he was uncanny in recognising people. “Pretty nasty. Thought I’d come over, as it’s in my home territory. Dead about an hour, the surgeon says. One shot. No one heard a thing. The photographs have been done, and Tring’s busy.”
Tring, a gangling, melancholy man of slurring speech, was occupying himself spreading a light grey powder on various objects in the room, and then brushing it off carefully with a small camel-hair brush. Bristow went towards him.
“Getting anything?”
“Plenty. Too many,” said Tring, holding up a black leather wallet, where a dozen or more finger-prints showed clear and grey. “All perfect. I like shiny surfaces.”
“Tried the door and window?”
“The door’s next,” said Tring, “there’s nothing on the window.”
Lynch turned to Bristow. “Let’s get into the next room. I’ve asked for Kingley’s partners to call here. They all seem worried. The safe’s empty, and apparently he had a lot of stuff here.”
“Did he?” said Bristow heavily.
“Looks hot, eh? Halliwell’s been here tonight.”
Bristow stopped searching for his cigarette-case.
“Halliwell, eh! We should have held him. You’ve put a call out?”
“Yes, a general. He’s not at his hotel yet, but that’s not surprising.” They were entering the morning-room, convenient for their use, and Lynch added an aside. “Kingley was a widower, and there’s only the servants to worry about. There’s a son in Australia.”
“Hmm,” said Bristow, and pulled up short as he saw someone else in the room, a pale-faced, well-fed looking man, who held his arms stiffly at his sides. Bristow could see that he was a butler.
“Sit down, Makin, sit down.” Lynch hoisted himself to a corner of the table, one leg swinging, the other leg on the floor. “Now take your time, and tell us just what happened tonight. Start from the time Mr. Kingley came home. What time was that?”
“As—as usual, sir, about six-thirty.” Makin’s voice was hoarse, but whether that was nat
ural or brought on by emotion Bristow could not tell. “He had dinner at seven, alone as usual, sir. He was in his study from—from a quarter to eight until nine-fifteen, sir, reading. I—I came in several times, when he rang for me.” Makin finished breathlessly, as though the statement had been stored up for hours.
“What did he ring for?”
“A—a light ale, sir, he always had one half an hour before dinner—and then some matches, sir. And—and the last time to say Mr. Halliwell was coming.”
“Were there any phone calls?”
“None, sir, at least I didn’t hear any, and the bell’s very loud. Everything—everything seemed quite as usual, sir.”
“At what time did Mr. Halliwell arrive?”
“Just after nine-thirty, sir.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary with him?”
“Well—well hardly that, sir. He seemed worried, but then this burglary, sir, it would upset him, wouldn’t it?”
A point in Halliwell’s favour, thought Bristow.
“What time did he leave?”
Makin lifted his hands from his sides in an appealing gesture that suggested he had no desire to talk.
“I—I don’t know, sir. I—didn’t hear him go.”
“Don’t you usually show the callers out?”
“Not always, sir. Not business callers. Mr.—Mr. Kingley was most considerate, sir, and did not disturb the staff unless it was necessary.”
Bristow was frowning; he could not forget young Halliwell.
“I see,” Lynch went on after a pause. “Did you hear anything of the conversation?”
Makin was intertwining his hands now, and he looked thoroughly unhappy.
“W-well, sir, I had to go to the front door for the post, sir, about a quarter to ten. I heard Mr. Halliwell shouting, but I didn’t catch what he said. There were no letters for Mr. Kingley, so I didn’t need to interrupt, sir.”
Lynch rubbed his chin slowly, making the stubble rasp.
“Shouting, eh? Can’t you hear everything from the study when voices are raised?”
“Not—not very clearly, sir.”
