by John Creasey
“Not that, yet. I—” “Take that case away,” said Hackett heavily. “How can I smoke and keep a voice? What is it then, what is it?”
Beneath the bluster, Mannering saw interest. He could not admit a liking for the man yet, but Plender had appeared to be fond of the K.C.
“The Kingley murder,” Plender said, sitting down unasked. “And Brian Halliwell.”
Hackett’s lips pursed into a little button and he blew noisily.
“What d’you want to come to me for?”
“Halliwell,” said Plender.
Hackett glared at Mannering.
“Don’t be a bloody fool. There’s nothing in the case to defend. Hasn’t a chance. Been talking to Ffoulkes about it. Dinner last night. Cut and dried case, no room for doubt. Forget it. Friend of yours, Mannering?”
Mannering dug his hands into his pockets. He was close to losing his temper, but that would be a useless thing to do. It was disturbing, too, to think that Hackett had already been over the ground and talked with an Assistant-Commissioner of Police about it.
“His fiancée is.”
“Pah! Woman in the case. Strong point against Halliwell. That Willison woman wouldn’t hear of marriage to a pauper. Halliwell had to get money. Don’t tell me only a fool would have killed Kingley with that evidence against him. More fools in the world than hairs on my head. Can’t touch it, Plender.”
There were perhaps a couple of thousand small hairs on Hackett’s practically bald head, with a little fringe of hair about the ears, but the humour of the allusion was lost in the realisation that Hackett was blustering to cover his interest. Plender seemed well satisfied, and Mannering grew more hopeful.
“All right,” he said, “I’ll see Arundel.”
Hackett narrowed his eyes and glared.
“Huh, Arundel. If he can make a case of it, I can.”
“I know,” said Plender, and he seemed to lose interest. “As a matter of fact with all the stuff we have it’s hardly worth your while, Timer.”
Hackett wrinkled a fleshy, hooked nose.
“I don’t like being called Timer. And you’re lying. If you had a good case you’d have been out with it by now. What I asked Ffoulkes was: did Halliwell try to gas himself or didn’t he? Ffoulkes said yes—”
“Had Halliwell died, it would have been murder, not suicide,” Mannering said. “Halliwell had been drugged, and the room was sealed up while he was sleeping. I’ve been out this morning. I think I know the man who did it, but I’m not giving that to the police yet. There are other things to come, and if the police step in it will make my man close up like a trap.”
“The room,” Hackett said, using his booming court voice for the first time, “was sealed and locked inside. Inside, you understand, inside. The window wasn’t big enough for a man to get out of, and it was also sealed. Are you trying to deceive me, sir?”
Mannering stared, and then his lips curved. Hackett’s glare slowly disappeared, and he smiled for the first time: it was a flashing, remarkably attractive smile, and his boom dropped away.
“All right, all right, as a point of interest how did they lock the door?”
“As it’s always done—with a pair of barrel-shaped pincers. With Halliwell dead, apparently a suicide, there would have been no more interest in the case, and—”
“I’m not a child,” snapped Hackett. “If you tell me you know it was a fake suicide, I’ll believe you. If it was fake, then I’ll believe Halliwell’s innocent. If I believe a man innocent I’ll defend him. Have you told Plender all you know?”
“Yes, so far.”
“All right, unless you want to you needn’t stay.” Hackett offered his hand, and smiled again. “Often wanted to meet you, Mannering, God forgive you if you’ve sold me a pup. Goodbye.”
Mannering taxied from the Temple to Aldgate, for another talk with Leverson. He had not been followed that morning, which proved Bristow was still unsuspicious, and he could still move freely.
He had told Hackett he knew who had tried to murder Halliwell, believing it was the truth. Jackson, Greene or Kulper were responsible. The evidence of the verminous porter and his ‘proper pansy’ made Jackson seem the likeliest suspect. Mannering knew that the porter had said nothing to the police. He was the type who would go a long way to put one over the Yard. He might prove a reluctant witness. If Bristow was able to tax him with withholding information, and offer proof, the man would testify all right. There was a sound case developing for Brian Halliwell.
Mannering drew a blank with Leverson.
The fence did not recognise Kulper or either of the others from the description. That was a disturbing factor, for it proved that none of them were known criminals, and were therefore likely to be difficult to handle. Kulper seemed to be the leading light: Mannering imagined that he had a long record of crime, but he had already suspected that Greene and Jackson were comparatively fresh to the game.
“Have you seen Loffart’s wife?” Leverson asked.
“The Cat? No, now that I’m on Kulper’s tail, and the others, it hardly seems necessary.”
Leverson smiled and shook his head.
“See the Cat. She might be useful, Mannering. Particularly if she takes a liking to you, and it’s possible that she will.”
Just an hour afterwards Mannering, disguised as he had been when Greene had taken the photographs, knocked at the door of a tall, four-storied house in Lee Street, Fulham. On one side of the street were terraced houses, grey, dirty, dilapidated. On the other was a derelict factory, while behind it the river rolled sluggishly, and an occasional blare of a siren reached the inhabitants of Lee Street.
Mannering saw an oldish slattern, with her hair hanging loosely over her shoulders and her blouse unfastened at the neck to show the tops of dirty, shapeless breasts. Was this the Cat?
“Is Mrs. Loffart in, please?”
The slattern leered at him.
“Fird floor, mister, go straight up.”
The stench inside the house seemed to hit Mannering as he entered the narrow, dark passage. The paper was peeling off the wall, the doors had not been painted for years. A skeleton-thin tabby cat sat on the stairs, unmoving. Mannering stepped over it, wondering again whether he had been wise to come here. The second floor was as bad. The third seemed cleaner, and Mannering hoped that the Loffatts paid more attention to their living quarters than the people in the lower rooms.
A card was stuck to the door with a drawing-pin, and Mannering read: “Mr. and Mrs. T. Loffatt.” For Lee Street, that was high class, and Mannering tapped and felt more hopeful as he waited for the door to open.
It opened unexpectedly, and Mannering had a shock.
For the Cat – if this was the Cat – was no more than thirty: and despite the flamboyancy of her dress, and the superfluous make-up, was a woman worth looking at. As he glimpsed the room behind her, he saw modern furniture and decorations that would not have been out of place in Clarges Street.
The Cat’s eyes were heavily mascaraed, and her painted lips opened. Mannering fancied she was startled, and assumed it was because she had expected another visitor.
“Sure, I’m Kate Loffatt. Come in, mister, come in. It’s about Loffatt, I suppose?”
Mannering smiled as he entered the room. The Cat closed the door as quickly and silently as she had opened it, and went in front of him, standing with her left hand on the table, the fingers widespread. Their brilliant red nails with the long white points robbed the hand of attractiveness. The Cat’s tight-fitting woollen jumper and skirt, both light green, emphasised a full figure while detracting from its charm. Her waved hair was yellow, obviously hennaed, yet it suited her. Mannering had seen her type, the same bold-eyed, brazen but good-looking woman, at the bars of the bigger hotels and nightclubs. There he would have judged her to be a high-priced prostitute; here he was by no means certain. Her eyes, very bright and starry, and obviously treated with drops, seemed ingenuous; but he was not taken in by their brightn
ess.
He tried to get the right perspective in his approach.
“Yes, in a way it’s about Loffatt.”
“O.K. Let’s drink on it.” She turned with a lithe grace that flaunted her figure, to a cabinet fitted into one wall. As she went Mannering glanced at two or three papers on the table; and as he saw one of them, his body stiffened, and for a moment he felt panic.
For a photograph was there, a photograph of the Baron. Kulper’s photograph.
Chapter Fifteen
The Cat
Mannering did not see the Cat turn her head, swiftly and without warning, as she took a bottle from the cabinet. Her voice, deep contralto and a little hoarse, broke through his momentary stupor.
“Sure, I recognised you, Mister. No harm done. What’ll it be?”
Mannering made a big effort.
“It’s a bit early, but a whisky. When did you get this?”
“Maybe an hour ago.” She poured the whisky with a steady hand, but his eyes widened when he saw that she was drinking absinthe. “Take a seat, stranger, they’re comfortable. Here’s mud in your eye.”
Mannering lifted his glass. The Cat smiled for the first time, and showed her teeth, very large, white and glistening. She leaned forward, glass in hand, and pushed cigarettes with the other hand towards him. So far she had won all the rounds, and she was quite self-possessed.
“Let it come,” she said.
Mannering found a smile as he struck a match.
“The photograph took me off my balance.” It was as well to admit the obvious, and it might help to make her think that he was simpler than he was. “You’ve guessed who I am?”
“Sure. The Baron. How should that worry me?”
“I think we’ll understand each other,” said Mannering, leaning back and drawing deeply on his cigarette.
Kate Loffatt was in a companion chair to his, made of steel tubing and comfortably padded. The room itself was an eye-opener, but apart from the first impression he took no notice of it. The incongruity of the furniture after the dilapidated downstairs flats was startling, but did not affect the point at issue.
He was a great deal more interested in the woman.
Now he could study her, he could see that she was bigger than she appeared at first sight; not fat, but big-boned. Although she was sitting back and there was no expression on her painted face, she succeeded in emphasising the voluptuousness that was the stand-by of her type. She was certainly as hard as nails, and it was easy to believe Rummell when he said that she had been known to scratch.
“Sure, we’ll know each other.” She drawled, but her expression did not change any more than Kulper’s had done on the previous night. “And if you glim me much more, Mister, I shall be mistaking your intentions. I’m not for sale.”
Mannering smiled slowly, with real amusement.
“I fancy not. Mrs. Loffatt—”
“Kate.”
“Thanks. I’ll put my cards on the table. I know Loffatt was taken at the Elan for a job he was doing for someone else. That someone met me last night, and took photographs. If you hadn’t had the photograph I might have talked differently. Now you’ve got me in a spot. You know who I am, and I’m telling you that I’m interested because of the man with the scar. I wasn’t at Jackson’s place last night by accident.”
The Cat smoothed down her woollen skirt.
“That’s straight, Mister. I knew you’d been at Jackson’s, the Boss told me. Over the phone, that’s all. Let’s cut the cackle. What’re you after?”
Mannering had already weighed his thoughts up, and decided it was worth a gamble.
“I want Kingley’s murderer.”
She smiled again, slowly, making her face seem older.
“I’m following, all right. And the Boss has caught himself, eh? Strike me! That’s a new one.” She didn’t laugh, but she seemed amused. “Well, I don’t know who killed Kingley.”
“Was it on the programme?”
“The Boss’s? Maybe. He did the Kingley job, but I’ve heard he’s saying he didn’t kill Kingley. That’s O.K. by me, he was born bad, but not a liar. So what?”
Mannering tapped the ash off his cigarette.
“I hardly know. I didn’t come prepared for you to recognise me.”
“Well, what were you going to offer if I didn’t?”
“For information that might help me find the Kingley murderer—say a hundred pounds.”
“Show me it,” said the Cat.
Mannering took a wallet from his pocket, without hiding the fact that it contained considerably more than a hundred pounds. He counted out twenty fivers, and rested them on his knee as he put the wallet back. Her eyes followed every movement, and when he had finished she laughed for the first time.
“That’s what I call a business man, stranger. O.K. I can’t give you Kingley’s murderer, if it wasn’t Halliwell, but I can keep my tongue still with the Boss. Meaning he needn’t know you’ve called. You follow?”
Mannering pushed the hundred pounds over leisurely.
“It’s arranged.”
“Sure. But you’re trusting, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes it pays,” said Mannering. “Now you may be able to give me more information. I’ll pay for it if you can. What’s the Boss’s name?”
“That’s an easy one. Kulper.”
“Meaning that’s the name he goes by?”
“It’s the only one he’s got,” Kate said, but she was smiling with her teeth close together. “Save your breath, I’ll talk. Loffatt and others work for Kulper, and he pays well if they get put inside. Loffatt’ll have a thousand when he comes out, Kulper keeps his word that way. And he puts business in my way while Loffatt’s inside. Not that I want it. No, listen. Kulper’s got it worked out in small points, and if you’re after him you need all the luck that’s going. The photograph came my way in case I could recognise you. I’ve seen Kulper twice, but not for long, and I know Jackson and Greene. Greene’s too fresh, Mister, by a long way, but he can take a good picture. Kulper’s racket” – she was talking quickly and her voice sounded monotonous – “is a smart one. He picks the clever safe-men to do his jobs, and keeps in the clear himself. I reckon he’s been running the racket a year and more, and he’s aiming for a big clean-up. Greene’s been out here this morning, and he reckons Kulper will make the Baron do the job at Staines. Maybe he will. Now if you want to ask questions, shoot, but make ’em snappy.”
Mannering nodded briskly.
“I’d known or guessed most of that, Kate. But I’m glad to have it confirmed, and I’ll take your word that you don’t know more.” He stood up, with his hand at his pocket. “Fifty?”
“Keep your money, you can have it for nothing. But listen. If you’re going to that billiard hall—”
She broke off with an unspoken question, and Mannering nodded.
“Well, it’s your business, stranger. But when you get there, be a ‘yes’ man. It ain’t healthy for folk Kulper don’t like, or for fellers Kulper reckons are trying to put anything across him. I’m speaking plain. I’ve known men go in there, and wake up on a mortuary slab. That’s Kulper.”
Mannering felt the little pulse ticking in his forehead. It was a warning that he dared not ignore, and one that would make him a hundred times more wary than before. He felt uncomfortable under the intense stare of the Cat’s starry eyes.
“Thanks a lot,” he said. “And I’d like that photograph.”
The Cat laughed softly.
“Take it. You don’t waste words, stranger. Listen—do you have a lot of spare dates?”
“At times,” said Mannering, smiling easily.
“Well, if you feel inclined I’m on the phone, and it’s comfy here. Some folks give away what they don’t sell, and maybe I’m like that. Don’t forget to call.”
Mannering left Lee Street ten minutes afterwards. The Cat had insisted on another drink, but she had said little. Mannering had a firm conviction that he could re
ly on her silence as far as Kulper was concerned, and he respected the woman’s shrewdness. It was a facet of underworld life that he had not met before; but he was half inclined to be as wary of the Cat as Kulper. In certain circumstances she would be dangerous.
As he walked towards Wandsworth Bridge Road, where he could get a bus for the nearest station, he ruminated over the fact that he had seen more of the real crime personnel in the past few days than all the time he had been working as the Baron solely for the sake of the Baron. This was crime: people with their own set codes, as rigid as Toby Plender’s, but on a different scale. Rummell, the Cat, Greene, Jackson, Kulper, Loffatt and Micky the Wisk. Of the bunch, Kulper was by far the most dangerous. Kate Loffatt had simply confirmed his impression that the man would not stop at murder. It was true that the Kingley murder might have been done in a moment of temper, but he was inclined to think it had been carefully considered. As carefully as Halliwell had been made the scapegoat. According to the Cat, Kulper did not make a habit of lying. Well, that was as it might be, but he would not care to place too much reliance on Kulper’s word.
Mannering felt heavy-hearted as he boarded the bus, but not until he had secured a taxi at Walham Green Station did he sit back and take the photograph from his pocket. He stared at it fixedly, frowned and put it away again. It was entirely different from what he had expected; the likeness to the real Mannering was almost frightening.
Three-quarters of an hour later he was back at Wine Street, and Leverson was suggesting lunch.
“Thanks, I will,” said Mannering. “You’ll get tired of me soon, Flick.”
“I’m not worried, but you are. What about?” Mannering took the photograph from his pocket. “There’s the evidence Kulper’s got,” he said. “If it’s identifiable as me, I’ve got to go through with whatever Kulper wants, and damn the risk. He’ll send it to the Yard otherwise. Well?”
Leverson stared for several seconds at the photograph, and then at Mannering. His fresh face was graver than usual and he drummed the fingers of his one arm on the edge of his chair.
“You’ll have to go,” he said slowly. “If the Yard get that, they’ll have you. Kulper knew you were disguised all right. They’ve touched the thing up, made your cheeks thinner, and taken out the grease-paint lines. It’s a bad likeness, but it’s John Mannering, and I wish it wasn’t.”
