by John Creasey
James Halliwell was a different type altogether, apart from his age.
There was an intangible air of the sea about him. He was bearded, and his skin was rough and inclined to be coarse. Behind steelrimmed glasses his grey eyes were anxious and apprehensive. He covered his anxiety well, the only sign of nervous tension being the way he played with a button of his coat.
The introductions were hardly over when Lady Fauntley bustled in, flushed and a little breathless.
“Good morning, all; I do hope I haven’t kept anyone waiting. Why, Gertrude, I hardly expected to see you this morning; I was coming over this afternoon, a little chat about Marion did seem wise; these young people are so difficult, aren’t they? So headstrong.” She broke off, panting and smiling. “Oh dear, I can see I’ll have to go on a diet again, Gertrude—”
She sat down close to Mrs. Willison, and Peter Lake’s eyes twinkled. Mannering turned to James Halliwell with relief. Lady Fauntley would keep Gertrude busy until the essentials were over.
Marion kept her voice low.
“You’ve heard about—Brian and me, Mr. Halliwell?”
The old man nodded, the button twisting furiously.
“From the police. Brian—Brian told me there was someone, I had no idea who. I only wish we had met in—in happier circumstances, my dear. You—you’ll stick to him?”
The girl’s lips tightened.
“I shall, don’t worry about that. And—Mr. Mannering is going to help us.”
Halliwell turned abruptly, and Peter Lake broke in with a smile.
“Turning sleuth, John?”
“I’ll turn you out,” retorted Mannering, and he told Halliwell, as he had told Marion, of the discovery at the Maycourt and his own belief that it eased the situation for the suspect. “If he would only come into the open,” exclaimed the older man, “it would be such a relief. I—I don’t believe Brian would have done a thing like this, but—but he was careless about his friends. He wouldn’t listen to caution, of course.” Mannering remembered that a ‘friend’ had taken Halliwell away during the alleged robbery at the Maycourt.
“What kind, Mr. Halliwell. Do you know any of them?”
“Oh, several.” He mentioned three or four names of youngsters who divided their time between London and the Riviera. Halliwell’s chief objection to them was their expensive habits, which his son could not afford to follow. Mannering knew the names, but thought little of the chances of getting help through them.
One thing seemed certain: Mr. Halliwell had no idea where his son might be, and a contact with the friends seemed advisable. Mannering was anxious to be busy. He was entering the affair with more feeling than he had expected, for he was forming a liking for the older Halliwell as well as Marion Delray.
Lady Fauntley suggested that Mr. Halliwell should stay at Portland Place, and he felt that he could hardly refuse. Her complete disregard of the way in which the news would be received by others – probably including her husband – amused Mannering. Peter Lake, alone with Mannering for five minutes, looked really startled.
“That’ll finish her with mother. Entertaining the father of a murderer—social suicide, old man!” He grew serious quickly. “Mother’s all right, but it’s as well Marion’s away for a bit. This engagement with young Halliwell’s been a source of trouble for a long time. Didn’t know him, did you?”
“No. Do you?”
“Met him once or twice. Decent youngster, I always thought, and I couldn’t see what there was against him. Apart from cash, of course. Seeing that Marion’s got plenty in her own right, that didn’t seem to matter much.” Mannering frowned at a new discovery.
“Marion’s rich, eh?”
“Mother’s a trustee, and there’s another about somewhere. Marion inherits a hundred thousand or so from her father, when she’s twenty-five. Quite a stretch yet. I say, John, do you think Halliwell was after her cash?”
Mannering shrugged.
“If he was, and the chances were fair, I can’t see why he should have started jewel-snatching. It’s another complication, though. You had a good impression of him, you say?”
“Oh, yes, carried it well, straight bat and all that. As far as I could see, mind you.” Lake looked worried. “I’d hate Marion to come a cropper. Quite fond of the kid, and she’s broken out a lot lately. But it looks bad against Halliwell, although that might be as well for her. Well, here come the ladies, and I’ll be going. Good luck if you try to find Halliwell.”
He shook hands, but Mrs. Willison omitted the courtesy. She swept out of the house with her chin in the air, and Mannering laughed to himself.
Ten minutes afterwards he went out, calling Leverson from the nearest telephone kiosk, and Leverson gave him the first real fillip.
“I’m glad you called, John. I’ve had two of the rubies offered. Through Rummell, and he’s expecting a call from you, as Miller. Will you go along?”
Chapter Seven
‘Mr. Miller’
A tall, heavily-built man with thick, rounded shoulders stepped from a cab at World’s End, Chelsea. He wore a pair of morning trousers cut rather too narrow from the knees downwards, a black coat with one or two pieces of cotton and strands of hair, a bowler hat that showed dark hair tinged with streaks of grey, and his face looked full and a little pasty. He paid the driver and added a twopenny tip, and then walked slowly towards a public-house on a corner, graced by the name of the White Lion.
He was Mr. James L. Miller, of 18 Lanchester Street, Barnes.
Officially he was a representative in cotton goods. His calling took him away from home a great deal, and months at a time passed without him appearing at Barnes, a factor that his housekeeper considered admirable.
What she didn’t know was that she kept house for John Mannering, and that Mr. Miller, in other spheres, was the Baron.
Over six months had passed since the Baron had made up as James L. Miller, and at the cloak-room at Piccadilly that morning he had taken longer than usual over the task. The result was excellent. His dark tan had gone, there were lines at his mouth that Mannering had never possessed, and greasepaint had succeeded in making his face look fuller. A little shadowing under his eyes suggested that he might be a victim of insomnia.
Occasionally his lips parted, but his usually gleaming teeth did not show. Actually they were hidden under a thin rubber colouring, which looked natural and made the teeth yellow, with two of them apparently in need of a dentist.
Mannering reached the pub, and looked about him. A bus was standing in the side street, and its driver and conductor were talking of the afternoon’s big race. A dozen people passed him, and on the opposite side of the road there was a small cluster of tradesmen’s barrows. The only sign of the law was a stolid constable standing on a corner and looking contentedly about him.
Mannering stepped to a side door of the pub, and opened it. He had not visited Rummell before, but Leverson had given him full directions.
The door opened into a narrow passage, and a flight of stairs, with another door at the top of it. In black, peeling lettering ran the words:
Jake Rummell—Commission Agent.
Mannering turned the handle, and as the door opened a pimply-faced boy looked up from a counter in a small cubbyhole. He looked away again and went on with his task of stamping envelopes. Mannering went ponderously inside, and glanced sharply at the youngster. His voice was hoarse and a little querulous.
“Is Mr. Rummell in, my boy?”
“What’s yer nime?”
“Miller—he is expecting me.”
“Oke, he said go straight in,” said the boy casually, and lifted a flap in the counter. “That’s the daw.”
He tapped on the door, and this time found himself in a small office, where a girl with brilliantly peroxided hair was staring at him, her fingers poised above a typewriter. The pillar-box red of her lips was startling, and she had a high-pitched, whining voice.
“You Mr. Miller?”
“That’s right.”
“Go straight in—sir.” The ‘sir’ came reluctantly.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Miller with a little bow, and this time he stepped into the office of the redoubtable Rummell.
He had a surprise.
He had expected someone on the wrong side of fifty, but instead he saw a fresh-faced man of thirty or a little more, sitting in a swivel-chair, writing quickly. His suit was blue, a shade too light, and with an ostentatious pattern. His tie was a vivid yellow. There was no doubt that Jake Rummell possessed a love of the flamboyant. As Mannering entered he put his pen down and jumped up briskly.
“Mr. Miller?”
“Yes, I-—”
Rummell’s hand shot out. It was cold and hard, and the grip was firm.
“Sit down, please. Fag? Cigar?” Mannering looked at the cigars and took a cigarette hastily. Rummell’s metallic voice was coming again.
“Here, I’ve a lighter, don’t waste a match. Very glad to see you, Mr. Miller, always nice to have new clients.” He selected a cigar and faced Mannering. He had a square face, with a well-developed forehead, a thin, pinched nose and unexpectedly full lips. His jaw was bony and prominent, and when he spoke the movements had a slight tendency towards the left side of his mouth. The cheap cigar streamed smoke, and occasionally sparks.
He clapped his hands together sharply. “Sorry to have to make you wait a bit outside—lot of doors, but sometimes necessary. Well, sir, what can I do for you?”
Mannering sat back, acting his part of a middle-aged man to perfection. Against the brisk businesslike manner of Jake Rummell he seemed like a ghost from the Victorian era. He was able to admire Rummell’s caution. The police would have a long job to get from the front door to this desk, and a great many things could be done – and hidden – while they were coming. Yet Rummell had recently served a three-year jail sentence; precautions were not always sufficient to save disaster.
“Mr. Leverson told me, Mr. Rummell, that you have had some rubies offered you. It is possible they are the results of the burglary at Hampstead last night.” Rummell nodded briskly.
“That’s right. Wasn’t going to touch ’em. I’m still close to a ticket, and a murder touch is a bit more than I like just now. Leverson’s call just saved ’em going back. Well, sir?” Mannering crossed his legs. “I want to try and trace the thief,” he said. Rummell cocked his head on one side. “Leverson wouldn’t send me a dick, but why you want to get that, not the sparklers, I don’t know. How much is it worth if I can put you on to the fellow?” Mannering hesitated, and then smiled slowly. “About half of what you’re going to ask, I expect.”
Rummell jerked his head up, and then laughed, loudly and harshly.
“Pretty fly, eh? I was going to ask fifty, but a pony’ll cover it. Can’t help you so much, after all. A deal?”
Mannering took out his wallet and began to count one-pound notes on the desk. Rummell watched until ten were down, and then started talking in his sharp, staccato-like manner.
“Micky the Wisk put ’em up to me. Asked four thousand. About right for me—twelve, fourteen thousand between them on the Bond Street market. Following?”
“Eighteen—please continue.”
“Know Micky?”
“I’m afraid not—excuse me, was that twenty-one or two?”
“Call it two,” said Rummell with a wide grin, showing that his teeth were white but small and well-spaced. “Micky the Wisk has been flying a big kite these days. Come into a fortune or something. Spending twenty a week, was earning three-four when I went inside. I can’t make out where Micky is getting his dough from. Not the game, he ain’t fast enough. Him and Loffatt—”
“Twenty-five—what was that last name, Mr. Rummell?”
“Loffatt,” said Rummell, and Mannering remembered the man he had seen arrested at the Elan Hotel. “Pinched last night. He and Micky run together. Never seen a stone worth more than a hundred from either. Suburban jewellers is their racket, not the high-spot stuff. But they’re in money. Listen. Loffatt’s been promised a thousand for standing the rap on this, if he keeps his trap shut. He can. Meanin’, someone’s backing Loffatt an’ Micky the Wisk a lot. More than I would,” said Rummell with another of those hard, jerky laughs. “That’s not my funeral. Got enough?”
Mannering had pushed the twenty-five pounds towards the fence, and was now sitting back and regarding the man with narrowed eyes. He had learned a great deal more than he had expected, and he was getting hopeful.
Micky the Wisk had been able to offer the stones that had been stolen from Kingley on the night of the murder. He was connected with the man under arrest for the robbery at the Elan – a robbery where the thief had been caught, but without the jewels. It showed a smart organisation, and Rummell knew someone was paying both men. They were working under orders, and it was likely that the orders had come from the man who had killed – or arranged the killing – of Kingley.
“You are being very helpful, Mr. Rummell. Someone is employing—er—Micky the Wisk, what a remarkable name, and Loffatt. Anyone else, to your knowledge?”
“Nope. But the Cat would know.”
“Who is the Cat?”
Rummell bared his teeth.
“Loffatt’s old woman, Kate. Does fur warehouses, best in the game. Ninety-one Lee Street, Fulham—down by the bridge. Loffatt tells her everything, and she runs him. If anyone knows who’s working the same alley as her old man, and who’s backing it, the Cat will. Watch her, she scratches.” Rummell grinned, perhaps reminiscently. “But she’ll keep her mouth shut.”
“I see,” said Mannering. “But if she is in the pay of these other people, won’t she—er—give me away?”
“Depends. How much are you ready to pay?”
“For the man’s name? Say a hundred pounds.”
“She’ll do it for you. She won’t touch the narks, that’s all. I’ll tell her you come from Flick, an’ you’re all right. She’s on the phone. Want any more?”
Mannering blinked a little.
“How—how long have Micky the Wisk and Loffatt been working?”
“Maybe six months. No more. Micky was in the Park with me up till March. Parkhurst,” he added unnecessarily for Mannering’s benefit.
“Thank you. You know nothing more?”
“Mister, I don’t waste words. I’ve told you all I know.”
“Thank you again,” said Mannering slowly, but he was thinking fast, trying to accustom himself to the idea that there was someone pinning a jewel-thieves’ organisation, and wondering whether young Halliwell could be the man. “Have you got those rubies, Mr. Rummell?”
Rummell grinned derisively.
“What do I look like? Wouldn’t hold ’em for five minutes, but I can put my hands on ’em. Want ’em?”
“I will advise you.”
“Have to look smart. They won’t stay on the market long, they’re too hot. Reckon Micky’d take fifteen hundred, and I’ll sell for you at two thousand. Now if you’re really in the market, Mr. Miller, how about some green spots? Got a basketful, over from Paris. Year-old job, cold as mutton. No danger, and the lot’s up for five thousand. Dirt cheap at the price.”
He swung round from his chair, and fiddled with a cabinet against the wall. Every movement was jerky but deliberate. In a few seconds he was streaming emeralds from a wash-leather bag, and they winked and shone upwards, green and lovely. Mannering’s love of gems tempted him strongly, but he forced the desire back.
“Thank you, not just now. I—”
Mannering broke off.
Rummell switched the emeralds from the table and into the bag in a flash, while a low-pitched buzzer sounded from the door. Rummell’s lips had tightened. He pushed the bag into the cabinet, and then jumped up, as brisk and decisive as ever.
“The cops, mister—come on.”
Mannering jumped up more quickly than Mr. Miller seemed capable of doing. There was a second door, and Rummell opened it. They stepped
through quickly, and the door automatically closed. By Mannering’s head was a small window: Rummell stood on tiptoe to look through.
Mannering could see a police car, and two men getting out of it. He recognised one as a sergeant who worked against the Baron from time to time, and his pulse was racing. The danger of the encounter hardly seemed to matter just then.
Rummell tugged urgently at his sleeve.
“Come on. That’s Dyson, he won’t get a smell.”
He seemed confident, despite his haste. They hurried down a short flight of steps, and then across a small courtyard. Crates of empty beer bottles were piled up by a door through which Rummell led him. In a few seconds they were in the public saloon of the White Lion, and Rummell dropped into a chair.
“Two pales, Charlie.” The barman nodded, and pulled the handle of the tap. There were two busmen, just off duty, and three or four nondescript-looking occupants of the saloon. Rummell pushed a glass of pale ale to Mannering, and grunted: “Get some down you, they might come in.”
“Are—are they likely to find the emeralds?” Mannering asked nervously, trying to keep the manner of Mr. Miller.
“Sure, they’re likely! Tring would, but Dyson ain’t too good at searching. See that Johnnie Walker on top of the till?”
He nodded his head towards the bar, and Mannering saw the bottle, one of five in a row.
“If the neck shows red, I’m for a stretch again. A sixer, sure’s I’m here. You don’t have to worry, they don’t know you’ve been up there. But if she shows, loose yourself from me.”
The man’s voice was low-pitched, and only Mannering caught the words. He could see the veins on the fence’s forehead sticking out like whipcord, but it was the only sign of anxiety that Rummell gave. The other occupants were talking of the newly-started football season, and Chelsea’s prospects: Mannering was thinking of the thoroughness of the arrangements.
If the drawer – built into the wall of Rummell’s room – was opened and the emeralds found, it would show the red light in the neck of a bottle of Johnnie Walker. The ingenuity of it was startling. Rummell, of course, would get away the moment the red showed, but he probably knew he had little chance of keeping out of the police hands if stolen goods were found on his premises. That was why he did not run immediately: he wanted to be sure of his position before he made any effort to get away.
