by John Creasey
Mannering was sweating.
Seconds ticked by, and Rummell ordered another pale ale. Mannering could not keep his eyes off the neck of the Johnnie Walker. He stayed where he was, not because it was necessary, but because the police would be watching outside the pub, and he did not want Mr. James L. Miller scrutinised too closely by Bristow’s men.
Ten minutes passed, and Rummell began to talk, his strain easing.
“That’ll cover it. Thank Gawd it was Dyson. They’ll be coming for me in a minute now, but I’ll be O.K. Scram, Mr. Miller, look me up any time, and don’t forget to be careful with Kate Loffatt. I—Well, I’ll go to hell!”
He jerked himself from the table quickly, and Mannering hardly followed his movements to the bar. The whisky bottle was normal enough, but the swing doors of the pub were opening. Mannering turned his head.
Chief-Inspector Bristow entered the White Lion, smart and precise as ever. He stood for a moment on the threshold, taking in all there was to see, from the talkative busmen to Mr. James L. Miller.
Chapter Eight
Word from Halliwell
Mannering nearly made a false move. To find entering the saloon the one man he wanted to avoid as Miller unnerved him for a moment. He drew a sharp breath, and moved his head round quickly. He stopped in time and kept staring idly, his heart jumping.
Bristow moved quickly across the room to Jake Rummell.
Rummell was smiling widely, his wide-spaced teeth gaping. Mannering gave the fence full marks for nerve. Rummell’s manner, and Mannering’s interest in watching Bristow at work with someone else, eased the tension.
Mannering was surprised, for Bristow sounded affable and he kept his voice low.
“Hallo, Rummell. I’d like a few words with you.”
“Oke,” said Rummell. “What’ll you have?”
“It’s on me.” Bristow put down a two-shilling piece and ordered a Worthington and a pale ale: obviously he knew Rummell’s taste. Rummell glanced round the room, and selected a table two removed from Mannering’s. He stared at and past the Baron, and sat facing him. Bristow perforce had to turn his back to the bulky Mr. Miller, and Mannering appreciated the fence’s subtlety.
“Shoot,” said Rummell, almost too bluffly.
Bristow kept his voice low, but Mannering could hear the words, straining hard while trying to look disinterested.
“We’ve just pulled Micky the Wisk in, Rummell, and he was seen with you this morning. What did you buy from him?”
Rummell grimaced derisively. Mannering was on tenterhooks, for the fence seemed to be overplaying his hand.
“What, an’ yer knows I’m only just out? Take it easy, Mr. Bristow. I ain’t that kind of a mug.”
Bristow persevered.
“Quite sure?”
“I’m as sure as I’m sitting here, Mr. Bristow. Micky never offered me anything serious, anyhow. If he ‘ad a packet, he says, can I handle it? I says no, I’m on the up-and-up. He says that’s dandy because he ain’t got nothin’.” Rummell winked, and Mannering believed it was meant as much for him as Chief-Inspector Bristow.
Mannering wished the wink had not come. Bristow was working fast to have found the trail as far as Micky the Wisk – the limit of his own discoveries. But had Micky let out more than Bristow revealed? Had he given Rummell away? Rummell seemed confident, but that was no guarantee.
Bristow finished his Worthington, and pushed his chair back.
“All right, Rummell, but it’ll go hard with you if you’re lying. And next time it’s six.”
“Six wot?” demanded Jake Rummell bluffly. “’Ave one on me, Mr. Bristow, to show there’s no ill-feeling.”
“I haven’t time,” said Bristow, “thanks all the same.”
Mannering fancied there was a twinkle in the Chief Inspector’s eyes as he left the White Lion. The barman stepped to the window and looked out; the two busmen went off. Rummell stayed where he was until the barman turned round with a grin.
“They’ve gorn, Jake.”
“All okey-doke then,” said Rummell, jingling coins in his pocket. “One all round on me, Sid.” He hitched his chair towards Mannering, and lowered his voice. None of the other occupants of the saloon paid the slightest attention, while Rummell was obviously in high spirits.
“Easy, see? Be careful of old Bill Bristow, Mister, that’s a tip. He’s smart even if he is the right sort for a dick. Micky won’t blow his mouth, though, and it was just a try-on. Anythink else you want to know?”
“Just one thing. Do you know anything about Halliwell?”
“Not a word. And listen, keep off the Cat fer today; Bristow might be looking around Lee Street. Time for another?”
“I don’t think I will, thank you.” Mr. Miller smiled and bowed a little before shaking hands and leaving the White Lion.
As he boarded a bus going to Victoria he felt a considerable relief from tension, and yet was uncertain and full of misgivings. To sit close to Bristow without the man suspecting his real identity had its points as a joke, but Mannering preferred things to be less precarious. The knowledge of Bristow’s nearness on the same line of investigation was disconcerting.
Mannering had formed the opinion that Rummell was trustworthy, although probably a sharp man in a deal. The fence had arranged his precautions cleverly, and yet he had been resigned to capture. Outside its bearing on the Halliwell case, the meeting with the man had a queer effect on Mannering.
He had never possessed that resignation, yet Rummell, Loffatt, Micky the Wisk and probably hundreds of others who made their living by crime, took it for granted that a few years behind jail doors would come. It was part of their life, just as a trip to the Riviera or to the States was part of his. They took their punishment uncomplainingly, and for the most part they had no more intention of doing bodily harm than the average man in the street. The professional criminal was rarely a murderer: by the same token, the murderer often had a blameless past.
Like young Halliwell, for instance.
The bus reached Victoria. Mannering walked to the nearest cloakroom, removed his rubber teeth-cover and the greasepaint, and managed to rub most of the grey from his hair. The padding in the back and shoulders of his coat was easily removed, and he put it in a small case he always carried while James L. Miller. Apart from the unfamiliar cut of his clothes, he was John Mannering again when he took a cab to return to Clarges Street.
He had made progress; and he felt still more satisfied after another telephone talk with Leverson. Kate Loffatt, or the Cat, could be relied on to give information in exchange for ready money, and she was a safe confidant. Leverson promised to send the woman a message, after warning Mannering to make sure that he did nothing to create the impression that he was working under cover for the police.
Mannering smiled at that.
“I’ll be careful of that, Flick, but are there any of the kidney you don’t know?”
“Not many,” said Leverson soberly. “I’ve been in the game for forty years, Mannering, and you get to know people and things after a long spell. Goodbye.”
Forty years! All of them except four during the war, Leverson had worked for the criminal classes against the police; and all he had to look back on with regret was a two-year sentence for fencing. Even that had followed a split by someone who had wanted him put aside for a year or two.
Mannering, in grey tweeds of happier fit, walked from Clarges Street to Portland Place an hour later. He wanted to tell Marion what he had learned, and he felt that a talk with Lorna was advisable.
Mason admitted him. At the same moment the drawing-room door opened, and Lorna appeared, dressed for out-of-doors. Mannering knew she had been waiting for him.
“What’s happened now—?”
“It’s Halliwell.” She whispered so that Mason heard nothing. “He’s in a Paddington Hotel. Can you come?”
“Where’s Marion?” Mannering spoke sharply.
“Her aunt just rang through, and she’s talk
ing to her. She’s all ready—we’ve had our coats on for an hour. Do we go, or—”
“Steady a bit,” urged Mannering. “You’re getting excited, darling, and we’ve got to take this easy.” He pushed open the drawing-room door, hearing the cackling from the telephone and seeing Marion standing impatiently with the phone inches from her ear. Mrs. Willison was probably working off her annoyance. Mannering closed the door as he asked: “Just what happened?”
“Halliwell telephoned the Willison’s house.” Lorna looked flushed and hot, much more excited than he had expected. “Peter Lake answered the call, and took a message for Marion to get on the phone to the hotel—Renman’s, near Paddington Station. Lake came through to Marion with the message, and when she phoned she found it was Halliwell. He’s asking for money to get away.”
“Damned young fool,” said Mannering, but he felt sympathy for the youngster he had never seen. “She was sure it was her Brian?”
“If you’d seen her face!” Lorna smiled for the first time, and they heard Marion say good-bye into the telephone at last. She was not as excited as Lorna outwardly, but her eyes looked hot and her voice trembled.
“Lorna made me wait for you. But please let’s get off straight away. I’ve got a hundred pounds in cash, it ought to be enough for him, and—”
“My dear girl,” said Mannering sharply, “if you give Halliwell a hundred pounds he’ll try and get out of the country, be caught at a port, and under arrest in less than a day. It’s a certainty. No, don’t interrupt, come here—”
He stepped to the window. Marion, suddenly flushed, bit back a sharp retort as she followed him, and he pulled back the curtain. On the far side of Portland Place a two-seater car was parked, with a peak-capped chauffeur at the wheel.
“Yes, but—” began Marion.
“The police,” Mannering said simply. “And there’ll be others waiting, to follow you whether you go out by car or on foot. If there’s one sure way of stepping into trouble, it’s to go to Renman’s Hotel for Brian.”
“But—I’m—going!”
“Not if we have to lock you in a room,” said Mannering deliberately. “Look here, Marion, we want to do the best by Brian; you’re simply asking him to hang himself. Things are bad enough as they stand. Take a hold on yourself, and show what you’re worth. Go out shopping with Lorna, and let the police follow you on a wild goose chase. I’ll see Halliwell.”
“You will?” She gripped his arm.
“The police will hardly expect me to go after him,” said Mannering, although knowing that it was quite possible he would be followed. Confidence in his ability to dodge any man Bristow put on his heels buoyed him up. “Give me a note for Halliwell, and sign it so that he’ll be sure it’s genuine.”
Marion looked both defiant but uncertain.
“But, what will you do?”
“My best to make him go to see the police,” said Mannering.
The girl’s self-control broke then.
“No, you won’t do it! I’m going to see him and to help him get away. I must!”
“All right,” said Mannering abruptly. “Lorna, it’s a perfect afternoon for the river, we’ll go. If Marion is determined to be mixed up with murder, and take the chance of being an accessory after the fact, let her. I—”
Marion was clenching and unclenching her hands, but she gave way like a thoroughbred, and not simply because Mannering threatened to withdraw his help. She had to agree with him, against her will.
“You’re right, I suppose. All right. But—but can’t I see him first?”
“I’ll see what I can do with Brian,” promised Mannering, his manner relaxing. “You’d better get out at once, and keep away from the Paddington area. And before you go, here’s some news. The Kingley murder was one of a series of crimes, and I don’t think Halliwell’s experienced enough to have organised them. Feel better now?”
“Thanks, a lot.” The girl’s eyes were warm and friendly, and Mannering felt satisfied as the girls left the room.
Five minutes later he saw them driving off, in one of Fauntley’s Austins. Beads of perspiration on his forehead were the measure of his fear that Marion would prove obstinate, and that would have been an obstacle too strong to overcome. The police would have had no difficulty in tracing her to Halliwell, and he was convinced that he needed to see the youngster before he could estimate Halliwell’s worth.
He saw the police two-seater follow the Austin, and then sent Mason for a London Directory. Renman’s Private Hotel was at the back of Paddington Station, on a corner and probably easy to find. As he closed the Directory he heard a snorting roar from outside. The window was open, and the din of a car-engine that should have had a more efficient silencer shattered the quiet of the street.
Mannering stood up in time to see the bonnet of a Talbot racing model come to a standstill. Peter Lake jumped out, and Mannering waited, smoking thoughtfully, until the caller was announced.
Lake looked wind-blown and excited.
“Hallo, John, where’s Marion?”
“Gone shopping. Why the devil don’t you buy a silencer?”
Lake grinned fleetingly.
“My tourer’s out of service, and I decided it was time to hurry. Has she told you about that call?”
“Yes, why?”
“It suddenly dawned on me that the little ass would probably try to see Halliwell, and she had to be stopped at all costs. She hasn’t gone there?”
“You’d have been an hour and a half late, if Lorna hadn’t succeeded in impressing her with my omniscience,” said Mannering grimly. “I’m going to see him now.”
Lake stared.
“Good God, you of all people. But—”
“I want to persuade him to give himself up,” said Mannering. “Coming?”
Lake dug his hands deep down in his pockets. Judging from the fresh oil on his flannels he had been working on the engine of his tourer. A key and some coins jingled mournfully.
“Well—oh, all right, I’ll take a chance. But supposing the police have located him? Look bad for us, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s all right,” Mannering said lightly. “I’ve a pull with the Yard, and they’ll believe in our good intentions. We’ll use that monstrosity of yours, if it’s safe.”
“I’ll need to fill up if we’re going far.”
“Paddington,” said Mannering.
There was neither the need nor the opportunity for talking as the racing car twisted and turned through the traffic towards Paddington Station. Mannering had made sure that no police were on their heels, and in any case he doubted whether any follower could have kept pace with Lake. The man’s driving was superb if disconcerting, and he had the devil’s own luck with the traffic lights.
“First past the station and first again,” said Mannering at last, “assuming the map was right.”
“I’ll try it.” Lake swung the wheel, and the second turn came sooner than he expected. He wrenched the Talbot round again, and the racer leaned over perilously. Mannering could have put out his hand and touched the road. Lake flashed white teeth as he straightened out, and then trod sharply on the brakes. Mannering, unprepared, lurched forward, banging his head on the windscreen.
“Bit sudden, but we’re here,” said Lake calmly and before Mannering could speak. “Want me to come in?”
“Park the car a hundred yards away—in the station yard’ll do if you can get there without breaking your neck—and then come in. Halliwell’s calling himself Johnson.” Mannering left protests until later, but his forehead smarted.
“Right, old son.” Lake cocked his head on one side humorously. “Marion’ll owe you a lot when this is finished.”
“I don’t know yet,” said Mannering. “She may want to curse me.”
Renman’s was not the hotel he would have chosen for comfort and good feeding. It had a derelict-looking exterior, and the porter who greeted him was grimy and in patched and dirty clothes. There was no clerk, and a bee
r-stained table with a few bunches of keys served as a reception desk. The registration book was open, thumb-marked and greasy, and five lines from the last entry was scrawled: ‘H. Johnson—Room 39.’
The porter leered, revealing pale gums.
“Wanta booka room, sir?”
“Mr. Johnson’s expecting me,” said Mannering, passing over a shilling. “Is he in?”
“S’far as I know. Fird flaw, sir” – the porter was rubbing grimy fingers over the tip – “second daw on the left. That’s firty-nine, sir. All right.”
Mannering found the steep stone steps leading to the third floor hard going. The place was filthy, the smell enough to make him sick. He was seeing the seamy side today in more ways than one.
Room 39 was in a dark, narrow passage, and Mannering’s footsteps echoed sharply. He reached the door and tapped, but no answer came. He tapped again, his eyes narrowing, and still there was no response.
Had Halliwell gone?
Mannering’s lips tightened. He slipped a small file from his pocket and bent over the door. The key was inside, and turned. He pushed it back cautiously, heard it drop sharply on the floor, and then started to pick the old-fashioned lock. It was forced after a few seconds of scratching, while no other sound disturbed the silence.
He pushed the door back sharply.
There was a rending, tearing sound, and then a wave of gas that seemed to him like a solid wall. He dodged back, half-stifled, but not until he had glimpsed the figure of a man spreadeagled on the bed.
Chapter Nine
Suicide
Precious seconds were lost as Mannering tried to get a breath or two of clean air, and to stop choking. The gas was billowing into the passage, making it almost as foul as the room, but when he had recovered from that first shock he went back in the room with a rush.
The window was at the side of the bed, sealed up with tape or gummed paper. Mannering doubled his arm and cracked the dirty glass with his elbow. The pane broke with a sharp report, and a gust of clean, cool air swept in. He breathed deeply by the window, and then turned round. The man on the bed was motionless, his mouth open a little, his skin grey near the mouth and nose. Mannering snatched a towel from a handrail, dropped one end in a jug of water standing on a chipped marble washstand, and then laid it lightly on the other’s face. He was holding his breath again, for the gas in the room would take minutes to clear; but he had to get Halliwell out in a hurry.
