by John Creasey
He felt worried as he reached Clarges Street, and took a quick bath to get rid of the last traces of grease-paint. Then he made a parcel of his tools, and addressed it to an accommodation address where he would call for it later if he needed it.
Just an hour after he had reached Clarges Street he took a cab for Portland Place.
The Cab pulled up behind a car standing outside the Fauntley house. Mannering paid his man off, turned, and then stopped in the middle of a step. In that moment the whole of his world seemed topsy-turvy, but only a few tradesmen and the cabby were there to see his momentary pause.
He would have recognised the car in a thousand; it was Chief-Inspector Bristow’s red and black Morris Ten.
Mannering walked slowly towards the steps of the house. Two minutes before he would have heard the twittering of the sparrows in the small shrubbery, felt the cooling breath of a light wind. Now it was concerned with only one thought: Bristow was here.
Mason opened the door promptly, as though he had been in the hall.
“Good morning, sir. Miss Lorna is in the drawing-room.”
“Alone?”
“No, sir. With Miss Delray and—a gentleman from the police, sir.”
Mannering nodded and passed over his hat and stick. For a moment he was tempted to call himself a fool. Of course, Bristow had come to see the girl, and it was pure chance that he had chosen this time of the day. Even Bristow would not be crazy enough to suspect the Baron was busy because the unofficial fiancée of a wanted man had visited Portland Place.
It was bringing the affair close home, however, and he would have an opportunity of crossing swords with the Yard man again. His confidence returned.
He stopped as he reached the door.
“How long has the Inspector been here, Mason?”
Mason frowned.
“Perhaps six minutes, sir? Miss Lorna has only just gone in to see him.”
“Good,” said Mannering, and Mason announced him.
Lorna was standing by the window, behind Marion Delray’s chair. Bristow was in front of the younger girl, spruce and upright. He was frowning a little, probably because Mannering had arrived; Bristow rarely welcomed John Mannering.
Marion no longer looked barely out of school. It might have been that a brown tweed skirt and cream blouse made her look older, but that could hardly explain the serious expression in her blue eyes. She looked composed yet worried and determined; her eyes lighted up when Mannering entered.
“Don’t get up,” said Mannering, smiling at her.
“’Morning, Lorna. Hallo, Bristow, what’s brought you here?”
Bristow fingered his tie.
“A matter of business, Mr. Mannering.” When strangers were near he was punctilious in his mode of address, a fact Mannering had always appreciated. “I would like a few words with Miss Delray—alone.”
Bristow covered his inward annoyance as he spoke. He had spent some time finding Marion Delray, and the last thing he had wanted was to meet Mannering with her.
Mannering offered cigarettes, and when two were alight – neither woman accepted – he sat down in a chair opposite Marion. He was frowning a little, but he settled himself as if for a long spell.
“Is that ‘alone’ necessary, old man?”
He saw the flash of irritation in Bristow’s eyes, but he had no intention of letting the Inspector talk with Marion by herself. The police had discovered her engagement to Halliwell, of course, and Bristow was here to get all the information he could. Mannering had no liking for the interrogation of the girl in the circumstances; and he had a particular anxiety to prevent Bristow from learning the Baron’s part in the affair.
Bristow withdrew as gracefully as he could, and proved to Mannering’s satisfaction that there was nothing serious about the inquiry.
“Oh, I can waive it. Now, Miss Delray, you tell me that you last saw Mr. Halliwell yesterday morning, and that he was leaving for Cornwall. That’s right?”
“Yes.” Marion’s voice was steady enough.
“You know now that he didn’t go to Cornwall?”
“You tell me so,” said Marion, and Mannering secretly applauded. Bristow smoothed his moustache.
“It’s true, I assure you. He was at his hotel from twelve o’clock until five, when he left. He was seen at Gray’s Road, Hampstead, at nine-fifteen, and he was somewhere between those times. You’re sure you didn’t see him?”
“I saw him yesterday morning at eleven o’clock, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since,” said Marion quietly.
“Thank you. Now, Miss Delray, it’s important that we get in touch with him quickly. He has to answer a few questions, and the quicker the points are cleared up the better it will be for all concerned. Can you tell me of any place where he might have gone?”
Marion’s eyes were wide and candid.
“No, Inspector. He has no regular home, and he always writes to me from various hotels. His father lives in a Bournemouth boarding house, but perhaps you know that.”
Bristow nodded slowly. He was coming to the conclusion that it would be impossible to get a line on Halliwell from the girl. Probably it would have made no difference had Mannering not arrived, but he was anxious to know whether Mannering was in the affair at all. He cropped up too frequently.
Bristow was reasonably sure that Mannering was not concerned in the murder. He might have committed the robbery, and Kingley could have been killed by Halliwell subsequently. That was a possibility, but not one in which Bristow believed.
Mannering knew it would pass through Bristow’s mind, and broke in gently with information that he had been at Portland Place between eight o’clock and eleven, with Lorna, Marion Delray, Lady Fauntley and Mrs. Willison. That knocked Bristow’s tentative theory on the head. He satisfied himself with extracting a promise that the girl would tell him immediately if she heard from Halliwell, and moved towards the door.
“I’ll show you out.” Mannering followed him, the door closed behind them, and they faced each other in the passage. Bristow looked austere.
“Mannering, I hope you haven’t started again.”
“I never did start,” said Mannering promptly, “and I doubt whether the Baron’s connected with this affair. But I’m rather fond of that girl, Bill. She’s a friend of Lorna’s and I’d like to see her happier. What’s Halliwell’s position?”
Bristow rubbed his moustache thoughtfully.
“I wouldn’t give much for his chances. Three thousand pounds in bank notes, all notes stolen from Kingley’s safe, were found in his room at the Maycourt this afternoon, in a cavity drilled in a wooden bed-post. So were the jewels he said had been stolen from him, apart from one or two. This was with them, but I didn’t need to show it to the girl after she admitted her engagement.”
Bristow slipped his fingers into his waistcoat pocket, and drew out a small ring-case. A moment later a solitaire ring glinted in the sun streaming through the hall windows.
Chapter Six
Action
Mannering looked at the ring thoughtfully. The advertisement had claimed it to be worth fifty pounds. He doubted whether it would have been sold for more than thirty pounds by any jeweller. As the Baron he had played with single jewels worth a hundred times its value, and yet that solitaire was the point of contact between him and the affair of the murdered diamond merchant.
That was insignificant, however, against the evidence the ring provided.
With a good proportion of the loot from Kingley’s house, it had been found in a bed-rail hiding-place that Mannering knew had been empty two hours before. The man in the handkerchief must have put the stuff there, and that was reasonable proof that the intruder had not been Halliwell. Halliwell would never have been such a fool as to go back to replace evidence almost strong enough to convict him of a part in the murder.
The stolen valuables had been deliberately planted in that room to ensure that Halliwell would be held responsible for their theft. That w
as all the justification the Baron needed for playing his part, and he felt more satisfied.
“Thanks, Bill.” He gave nothing away as he spoke. “You’ve told the girl nothing?”
Bristow was a little too formal, as he always was when caught out in an act that might have been called sentimental.
“I saw no need, Mannering. The evening papers will probably have the full story, as Superintendent Lynch wants the Press to help in the search for Halliwell. However—”
Mannering gripped the Inspector’s arm.
“You’re a soft-hearted old devil, Bill. But for all that, I shall probably have to break the news gently. So three-quarters of the cash and the smaller jewels have turned up, eh? You’ll get a pretty strong case now.”
Bristow nodded. He had no objection to discussing this case with Mannering.
“Unbreakable, I think. Halliwell was there all right. Finger-prints would have proved it even if the butler hadn’t been able to testify. There was a quarrel. Motive’s strong enough, particularly as Halliwell was in a foul temper—motive apart from the stuff taken, of course.”
“Found the gun?” asked Mannering.
“No-o. But we will, when we’ve got Halliwell.”
“Not much doubt generally then?”
“I can’t see even Hackett pleading a case for Halliwell on the evidence,” said Bristow. “Of course there are things to be filled in yet, but an attempt was made to get at the stuff at the Maycourt. The man got away, but—”
“So Halliwell left three thousand pounds and some jewellery in the one place where it would be found and used as evidence against him,” said Mannering dryly. “If you’re looking on that as a decisive factor, Bill, I shouldn’t be too sure about Mortimer Hackett, K.C.” He chuckled, and lifted a hand with one finger pointed at Bristow’s head. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen of the jury! The accused is a man of intelligence, proved beyond all question of doubt. This crime, on the statement of the prosecution, has been carried out by a man little more than a fool. A fool, gentlemen—is the prisoner a fool? Look at him—remember his reputation, his record. One of unblemished character, a character still without a stain. Would that man, gentlemen, have gone back to his hotel, deposited part—I say part—of the ill-gotten gains, the money taken at the price of a man’s life, money that could only lead to the gallows, would that man have committed an act of such incredible idiocy? But I am insulting you, gentlemen, by suggesting that you might consider it for a moment. He—did—not! Someone else, the man or woman whom the police have so signally failed to find, put the money and the stones where they were found—Bill, Hackett would make hay of you.”
Bristow was scowling, made doubtful against his will.
“That’s as it stands at the moment, Mannering, but there’ll be an explanation. Halliwell doesn’t seem too bright to me, so far, or he would never have gone back for the stuff.”
“Please yourself,” said Mannering. “It looks to me as though he’s been put up for you to shoot at, while someone else gets away with the job. It’s too obvious, Bill.”
But the words hardly sounded convincing. It was Bristow’s short, derisive laugh that stiffened him against a growing doubt. He wanted to believe Halliwell innocent.
“Not everyone’s as tortuous as you, Mannering.”
“Nor everyone as naive as our Bill Bristow, eh?”
Bristow scowled, and turned to the door.
“You’ll see. By the way, we had a visit from Halliwel;’s father this morning. Badly cut up. Er—”
“I’ll see him,” said Mannering quickly. “Hardly able to stand the expense of a trial, is he?”
“Not without realising his capital. Well, I must be going.”
Mannering let the Inspector out, and went back slowly to the drawing-room. Bristow had expressed his complete faith in the identity of the murderer, and almost in the same breath put in a plea for the father. Yes, Bill Bristow was a good sort. Mannering wished he could be on the same side, but whatever happened eventually, Bristow and the Baron must be antagonists at this stage.
The planting of concrete evidence at Halliwell’s room convinced him that there was more to the affair than met the eye. With a ready-made victim on their hands, motive, probable intent, and a missing suspect, the police would hardly be expected to look further until Halliwell had been interrogated. If, afterwards, there were reasonable grounds for doubt as to his guilt they would have to continue their investigation; but Mannering wondered whether the grounds would appear to them as reasonable. Halliwell had damned himself by disappearing.
Had he disappeared willingly?
That thought opened out a new prospect, and Mannering was beginning to feel the rising of excitement, a zest for the fray. That it was different from his other brushes with the law was an advantage.
Marion jumped up from her chair as he returned to the drawing-room.
“Has he gone? Did he—”
“Take it easy,” smiled Mannering, dropping into a chair and smiling at her. Her blue eyes were wide, and for a moment she was the child of the previous night again. “I wish your Brian had had the good sense not to run away, Marion.”
“But I’m sure there’s a reason for it!”
Mannering did not emphasise the apparent explanation.
“Yes, but we’ve got to find him. Do you know of anyone with a good reason for wanting him in trouble?”
“Good heavens, no! I—” she broke off. “I didn’t know his friends well, of course. He may have had. Mr. Mannering, you don’t think—”
“As we’re likely to be working a lot together,” smiled Mannering, “we’ll make it John, it’s easier to say. I think someone is deliberately trying to cause trouble for your Brian. The latest developments make it clearer. Some of the stuff—including your ring and some of the bank notes—have been found at Maycourt. Only a fool would have left it there.”
He stopped.
The news was broken, as easily as he could do it, and for a few seconds there was silence in the drawing-room. Marion’s lips closed tightly, and she was breathing heavily. He saw an expression almost of horror in her eyes. When she spoke it was in a whisper.
“Oh, dear God! They found it there. It—it will finish him. I—”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” said Lorna, getting up and sitting on a pouffe near the girl. “Leave that to the police and the papers. You believe in Brian, don’t you?”
“I do.” The girl’s voice was louder and defiant.
“So do we,” said Mannering cheerfully. “This is a discovery that will help more than injure him, once we get to the truth of it. Cheer up, my dear, cheer up!”
Marion was fighting to keep back the tears.
“It’s—it’s so difficult. I don’t know what I’d have done without you and Lorna.”
“You don’t have to. You’ve no idea where Brian might be, of course?” Mannering kept hammering at that point, but he believed she had told the truth.
“None.” Marion gulped a little and forced a smile. She fumbled with the box of cigarettes near her, and Lorna struck a match. “Supposing he gets in touch with me, what do I do?”
“Find me at once,” said Mannering. “I—”
He broke off, as the telephone rang. Lorna picked it up, and he saw from her sudden frown that it was no one she wanted to hear. The voice at the other end was coming loudly through the microphone, and Lorna held the receiver away from her ear.
“Not quite so loud, please.” She covered the mouthpiece and turned to Mannering. “It’s Mrs. Willison. Mr. Halliwell’s there, and she wants Marion at once.”
“Tell her Marion’s prostrate, and will they come round?” Lorna nodded, and as the cackling from the earpiece finished she spoke convincingly. There were one or two further cackles, evidence of argument, before Lorna said: “In twenty minutes, then.” She closed down, and turned to Marion. “Will you see her?”
“I suppose I’d better.”
“How old are you?” asked M
annering easily. “How old?” The girl looked startled. “Twenty-one-and-a-bit. Why?”
Mannering smiled. Here was a chance to restore her confidence.
“Then you needn’t see her if you don’t want to, and she can’t do a thing to force you. It’s not important. I somehow can’t imagine your aunt being helpful at the moment.”
“She’ll be hateful,” said Marion Delray slowly, “but I can manage her. Did she say Peter would be coming?” The question was for Lorna. “No. Who’s Peter?”
“Her son. Adopted son, really. He’s about the only thing that’s made Aunt Gertrude bearable lately; you’ll like him. Perhaps,” she added, turning to Mannering, “you’ll know him.”
“Peter who?”
“Lake. You know, the motorist—”
“I should say I do know Peter,” said Mannering, and he felt suddenly much more cheerful. “I didn’t know he was in London. Hasn’t he been to the Berlin rally?”
“Yes, he got back last night. I hope he doesn’t try to persuade me to go back. I don’t think I can stand it.”
“Leave Peter to me,” said Mannering with confidence. It was little more than a quarter of an hour later when the callers arrived. Mrs. Willison, angular and more sour-faced, forcibly expressed her disapproval, and Mannering hoped Lady Fauntley would return quickly from her shopping expedition. Halliwell’s father, and Peter Lake, were different propositions. It was a difficult meeting, but Mannering played the part of host, and Lorna started to do her best with the older woman.
Lake, who was one of those shortish, very broad men, with heavily-packed shoulders, kept a serious face with difficulty. He had close-cut, thick hair that would stand up abruptly, a fresh-coloured and somewhat pugnacious face, with a scar on the nose and right cheek that was plain but did not disfigure him. It was a relic of a crash in the Monte Carlo rally of three years before. Lake had taken third place after driving two hundred miles when he should have been in hospital, and the performance had captured the popular fancy. His hands were spotless, but the nails were broken in places, a sure sign of a motorist who was not beyond doing his own share of the mechanic’s work.
