by John Creasey
“Not even a few words?” asked Lynch, and Makin drew a sharp breath. Obviously he hated to talk about Halliwell.
“Well—well, sir, it wouldn’t be fair to say I heard it, because I can’t be sure. But it sounded as though—as though Mr. Halliwell was saying Mr. Kingley could help him, and wouldn’t, sir. I—”
“Come, come, man, the fact that they had a quarrel doesn’t mean Mr. Halliwell shot his employer. Let’s know just what you heard, Makin.”
“There was nothing more, nothing at all I assure you. And that was most indistinct, sir.”
“All right,” said Lynch, and waved his hand. “Stay within call, Makin, we might need you. Thanks,” he added as an after-thought.
Makin closed the door behind him, and Bristow nodded slowly.
“It looks like Halliwell.”
“Yes.” Lynch shrugged. “Well, the Press’ll be here soon. And those partners. Ring up the Maycourt and see if Halliwell’s back yet, will you? I sent King and Arlen to wait for him there, but they were to let him go up to his room and report to the office. Ah—” Lynch smiled gently as the front door bell rang. “The partners, I hope. Now we’ll know what’s missing.”
There were a great many things missing.
Next morning, the Sun as well as the other dailies, contained a long account of the Hampstead murder. A list of the stolen jewels and bank-notes appeared, with a photograph of a curly-headed, rather feckless-looking youngster; underneath was the caption:
Brian Halliwell
Halliwell was wanted by the police for questioning in the Hampstead murder case, said the Wire. It went on to describe the circumstances of the burglary at the diamond merchant’s house, and to show by every inference possible short of libel that Halliwell was wanted for the murder of Matthew Kingley.
Mannering read several reports as he finished an early breakfast. Time and time again he had thought about the incidents of the previous night. No word from Marion Delray had suggested a double purpose in her visit, while Lorna had assured him that the invitation had come, unprompted, from her mother. Lorna had laughed a little at his insistence, and had finally convinced him that Lady Fauntley was interested in Marion; the rest had been pure chance.
The affair had seemed unlikely to cause him further worry; but now all his misgivings were aroused. There was a connection between the Maycourt robbery and the Kingley murder. The Baron had become involved in the robbery by a newspaper needing a sensation; surely he need not be dragged into the murder?
The Yard, of course, would throw its net far wider with a murder case than with a minor jewel robbery. The mention of the Baron in the Press might bring Bristow to see Mannering, if only as a formality.
Apart from the fact that he might be forced into the affair solely to defend himself, he could not get the memory of Marion Delray’s face out of his mind. She would be badly hit by the later case, whether Brian was guilty or not.
If Halliwell was guilty, he had made a thorough job of it. More than four thousand pounds in banknotes had been stolen, with some treasury-notes. In addition three rubies and two diamonds of a total value of thirty-four thousand pounds were missing. Apparently Kingley had recently bought the jewels, and they had been held at his house temporarily. He had been negotiating privately for their sale, and might have needed them at any time during the evening. According to the Sun, the police had information to that effect from Mr. Arthur Fells, and Mr. Arnold Graham, the two remaining partners in King-ley’s Limited.
Jewels worth more than five thousand pounds apiece were sizeable, if not unusually big; large enough at least to arouse the interest of any man seriously interested in gems. Mannering was beginning to doubt whether young Halliwell would have been fool enough to take such noticeable and easily recognisable stones. On the other hand, if he had made a habit of stealing the company’s goods he would have had a safe outlet for resale.
“Hardly likely,” said Mannering aloud. “If he pinched the others and had a market, there wouldn’t have been a trickle to Leverson; they’d have all gone the same way. If I could find the stones I’d probably get an idea who took them.”
He scowled and told himself not to be a fool. The matter was one for the police, and a pair of blue and appealing eyes was no justification for his interference.
Where was Halliwell?
Bristow and a great many others echoed that question, for Brian Halliwell had not returned to his hotel, and the police had failed to locate him. As far as Mannering knew he might have been found in the past few hours, but if he had deliberately hidden, the search might last some days. The longer he was away the blacker the case would look against him, and it was already fairly strong.
A sharp knock on the door coincided with his last drink of coffee. He was expecting to see Lorna, and she came in quickly.
She was frowning, and Mannering guessed why.
“Hallo, John.” Her kiss was half-hearted, and she looked hard at Mannering. “You’ve heard about this, of course? Halliwell, I mean?”
“Yes, but you’re up early, darling, it’s hardly half-past eight.”
“I’ve heard from Marion, and I had to come over. The poor kid’s frantic. She’s had a violent quarrel with her aunt, and she rushed round to us before we were up. Mrs. Willison’s heard about the advertisement.”
“That was inevitable,” said Mannering. “And Marion—”
“She’s sure Halliwell didn’t do it.”
“Yes,” said Mannering. “She’d hardly think otherwise. But it’s not so certain as that.”
Lorna’s smile was fleeting and disconcerting.
“I’m breaking all the rules, darling, but you could find those stones quicker than the police. Leverson would help. It wouldn’t be dangerous, and if we proved they came from Halliwell—well, that would be that. But if they didn’t, if Halliwell’s innocent, it would haunt me if anything happened to him. I—”
Mannering was thoughtful.
“If I need an excuse for getting busy, it’s here, eh? I’d like to find those stones, but—Anyhow, there’ll be no harm in looking after Marion. If she happens to know where Halliwell is, make her talk. If he’s innocent, he’s taking the surest way of looking guilty I know.”
“And you?”
“I don’t know,” said Mannering fretfully. “Last night I would have said ‘No’ without thinking twice, but it’s beginning to worry me, and—damn it, I want to. But I’ve always wanted to, and I’ve told myself often enough the Baron’s finished. Yet a job like this—”
Lorna knew that only caution held him back, that he was already thinking of the chances of working again as the Baron, with a cause to fight for, and reward enough in the thrill of the game. She now wanted him to fight, although earlier she had hoped that he would forget the Baron.
She left him to reach his decision unaided.
Chapter Four
Contacts
When the door closed behind Lorna, Mannering remained motionless in the middle of the room. His lips were parted a little for some seconds and then he laughed as he went to the cocktail cabinet. The electric clock showed exactly nine-thirty when he lifted a mild whisky-and-soda.
“To the Baron,” he said solemnly, and drank it at a stretch.
His decision was made, but he did not feel as happy as he had in the moment of exhilaration when he had turned to the cabinet. There was fascination in working on his own against the police, exhilaration in the memory of past triumphs, and thrills in his narrow shaves with Bristow.
There was, however, a cold realisation of the dangers of failure. To fight for a cause sounded well, but when the cause was not remotely connected with him it lost something of its savour.
There was another vital factor in his decision.
He might be forced into the affair whether he acted or not; he might even find circumstances working against him. If he started at once he would have a chance of getting information to help both Halliwell and himself.
He smiled
a little.
There were other things. Old contacts—old friends. It was six months since he had seen most of them, but it seemed six years.
He chuckled again as he filled his cigarette-case, but thoughts and fancies were running through his mind. He saw from the papers that Bristow was working on the Kingley murder. Lynch would be with him. They were the Yard specialists on jewels, and the oldest antagonists of the Baron. If Bristow once suspected the Baron was busy, even in a tentative fashion, the hunt would be hot and strong for Mannering.
Confound the hunt! Lorna had been right, the best way of finding who had stolen the stuff from Kingley’s safe was to discover who sold them, and then trace back. The first contact was Leverson.
The streets were already warm when Mannering walked sharply along Clarges Street. September was doing its best to prove that summer was still in England, although the time was not yet ten o’clock. It was like a breath of the past when he glanced up and down the street automatically, as though Bristow might have put a man to trail him already.
Only a road-sweeper, a milkman and two well-dressed women were in sight.
At the corner, a taxi was returning quickly to the main roads more likely to provide a fare, and Mannering raised a hand. The cab swerved in, brakes squealing.
“Aldgate Station,” said Mannering.
“Right y’are, sir.”
Piccadilly, the Circus, side streets into High Holborn, Cheapside, the Bank, Fenchurch Street and Aldgate Pump. The Baron had ridden that route a dozen times with stolen gems in his pocket and the fear of the police on his heels. He was smiling reflectively when they reached the station, and he presented the cabby with an extra half-a-crown. The man tossed and caught it.
“Many thanks, sir. Can I wait?”
“I may be an hour.”
“I’ll pull in be’ind the others on the rank, sir, and ’ave a look at the runners in the three-thirty.”
Mannering nodded, but he could not help wondering whether there was any motive in the cabby’s consideration. It was hardly likely, but the instinct of the Baron was now alive in him, watchful and suspicious of everything slightly unusual. He turned sharply down by the station, towards Wine Street. Flick Leverson lived in that quiet side road, in a house out of keeping with the rest of the neighbourhood. Leverson was hedged in by two doctors who doubtless believed their neighbour, reputedly a specialist in antiques, was as blameless as themselves. Mannering had always walked from the station in the past, and he wanted to relive the past that morning.
A white-capped head showed for a moment at Leverson’s downstairs window. Before he had knocked on the door a maid opened it, smart, smiling, obviously pleased.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Hallo, Janet.” Mannering shook hands. “You keeping well?”
“Yes, thanks. It’s a long time since you’ve been here, Mr. Mannering.”
“I’m reformed,” said the Baron, and Janet smiled more widely. There had been a time when only Janet had stood between the Baron and the police: Janet had won.
She opened the first door leading from the narrow hall, and announced him. Mannering entered a low-ceilinged and pleasant room, filled with bric-a-brac of exceptional value. It represented an assortment of periods, but the Chippendales and the Sheratons were genuine, and there were old Dresden and Sevres pieces on the walls. The windows were open, but a small fire burned in the grate. Leverson always burned a coal fire.
He stretched his right hand out, gripping Mannering’s warmly. The left arm hung stiffly at his side: it was artificial, Mannering knew, a reminder of Flanders in 1916.
Leverson was a big man, if smaller than the Baron. His hair was getting more white than grey, his fresh face, with the pleasant, blunted features, seemed to have grown appreciably older in the past six months. The years showed more on Leverson than the Baron.
“Well, Mannering, it’s good to see you again, but I half expected it after your call yesterday. The same connection?” He offered cigars and cigarettes as he spoke, and Mannering selected one of the latter.
“Too early for heavier stuff, Flick, thanks. Yes, it’s the same connection. It’s deepened, though, the Kingley murder’s part of it now.”
Leverson frowned.
“What fools men are, Mannering. Kill—kill—kill. And there’s no purpose in it—Kingley didn’t put up any kind of fight apparently. Shot from behind—the man could easily have knocked him out. Or used your old friend, ether-gas, if he could get it. He’d find something similar, anyhow. Are you starting again?”
“I don’t know,” said Mannering. “If I were wise I’d keep well away, but there’s a big hunt for this fellow Halliwell, starting from the advertisement.” Leverson leaned back, a finger crooked and tattooing on the arm of his chair. Janet tapped on the door as Mannering finished. As she brought in coffee and biscuits, Leverson spoke as though she was not present.
“So you don’t think it was Halliwell?”
“I think it’s open to doubt, and I want to trace the stones. And I’d like to find out if there’s a link-up between the three jobs.”
“Three?”
“The Maycourt, last night’s Elan robbery, and Kingley’s.”
“What makes you think it’s the Elan?”
“I don’t, but when hotel robberies go in pairs, there’s always a chance they’re connected. Bristow took this fellow Loffatt—do you know him?”
Leverson spoke decisively.
“Loffatt’s a good man with his fingers and tools, but he’s not capable of tackling a job at the Elan on his own.”
“So someone’s working him?”
“There’s no doubt of it.”
“The same someone might have been behind the Maycourt theft?”
“Ye-es.” Leverson rubbed his cheek slowly. “But I wonder why you say that? The two jobs were different, Mannering. The only similarity is the fact that they were at hotels. And it’s an even longer stretch to associate the Maycourt job with last night’s Hampstead affair. The methods were entirely different.”
Mannering nodded, for Leverson, as well as the police, could categorise different burglaries with uncanny accuracy. It was possible for them to name the likely man in four out of five jobs, and to be right nine times in ten.
“They’re different, but Kingley’s are affected both times—and so is young Halliwell.”
“That’s right enough,” said Leverson. “If Halliwell did them both—but that’s not what you want to find.”
“I’ve no objection to finding it,” said Mannering, “providing I can really be sure. Well now, the Kingley stuff might reach you. Usually you’d turn it down, of course” – Flick Leverson had certain strict rules, and he never bought stones where murder had been committed in the theft: it was not so much fear of being arrested as an accessory after the fact as a strict code against murder – “but this time—well?”
“I can hold it, or have it held,” said Leverson. “And I’ll put a feeler or two out. Rummell’s off his ticket, by the way, and he’ll start working at once. He might get them. Shall I speak to him?”
“If you will.” Mannering knew that next to Leverson, Rummell was the biggest jewel fence in London. Rummell had none of the scruples of the other man, but in his way he was fair-dealing. He had just finished his ticket-of-leave period after a three-year sentence for receiving, but he would take up the threads again as though he had returned from a pleasure cruise.
“Right,” said Leverson, and then added thoughtfully: “I suppose there’s nothing at Halliwell’s room to show one way or the other?”
Mannering frowned.
“I haven’t been. The police must have looked over it by now, and I don’t think they’d miss much, for or against Halliwell.”
“That’s likely,” admitted Leverson. “But they might leave it pretty well as it is, hoping Halliwell will go back for the stuff. And they might not put the same construction as you on anything they find. But confound it, I’m suggesti
ng you go to the Maycourt when the police will have the place sealed up! You’ve a devilish persuasive manner, John.”
Mannering tapped a cigarette on his case thoughtfully.
“So have you. A look at Halliwell’s rooms might be instructive if I can get there before the police have cleaned it right out—it might even help if they’ve been through it properly. I’ve known them miss some pretty obvious hiding-places.” He laughed softly. “It’s a poor-class place for the Baron, but just on an errand of inquiry, I think it’s worth while.”
“Shall I phone you later or will you call me?” asked Leverson. “I’m half-wishing I hadn’t suggested—”
“Fiddlesticks!” retorted the Baron. “It’s just what I wanted. I’d better give you a call from a kiosk, in case Bristow’s on the watch.”
Ten minutes later he bought an early evening paper, and found a cab. The man who had brought him was not on the rank, and his suspicions in that quarter seemed unfounded.
There was a column about the murder, but no reference to an arrest. Nor was there any word that the police had visited the Maycourt Hotel. Mannering was inclining more to the theory that the authorities were setting a trap in the hope that Halliwell would return. That would make the Baron’s task more difficult, but the police would hardly be expecting a visit from a cracksman of his experience.
He collected a small kit of tools – all normal car or household items that anyone might possess – and a small make-up box before leaving Clarges Street for Waterloo. From the cloakroom at the station he collected a small case containing a rope ladder, and in another cloakroom he wound the ladder about his waist and then used the grease-paint to alter the lines at his mouth, chin and eyes, and rubber cheek-pads that made him look much fuller-faced than John Mannering. No one would have recognised him without a close scrutiny.
If by chance he was caught he would pretend an exceptional personal interest, and whatever went wrong, there would be nothing to connect him with the Baron. The fact that the police would be on guard gave a savour to the attempt, a breath of the past again. It was possible that he would find enough evidence at the Maycourt to judge whether Halliwell was worth further effort, even if he found nothing definite about the murder.
