by John Creasey
“Where were you last night? Did you help her dress?”
“Yes. She went out to dinner. Mr. Kenneth took her, she was very happy last night, but this morning—”
“Kenneth who?”
“I don’t know. She always calls him Kenneth, he’s been here several times.”
“Is he young, or old?”
“Oh, young. Ever such a nice boy. They’re in love, head over heels, they are. I went to bed at midnight, like I always do. I didn’t hear her come in, but when I went in with her tea at nine o’clock she was in an awful state.”
“What did she say?”
“She didn’t say anything about what happened or why she was upset! She said she’d had too much champagne last night, but I knew there was something else. Then—then a man came to see her this morning, but he didn’t stay long. He told me to send for Mrs. Fiori if you came.”
“How did you know me?”
“Your picture’s in the paper.”
Mannering believed that she told the truth, even when she said that she didn’t know the name of the morning caller. He had just said that Mrs. Fiori had sent him, and the name Fiori was open sesame in this flat. She didn’t know whether anything had changed hands, she hadn’t heard anything that the visitor had said to Fay. When Mannering had called the first time she, had gone to the door, peered through the letter-box, then told the man who was there.
“What was he like?” Mannering asked.
She burst out: “I’m no good at describing people, but he had a red face and a big moustache!”
That fitted the man who had set Mannering off on his morning trail.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Mannering said. “But if I catch you out in a lie you’ll probably know what the inside of a prison cell is like again. You’re mixed up in a nasty business.”
She jumped up from her chair, dropping the sewing, stretching out her hands towards him. “You won’t tell anyone I’ve talked, will you? I might lose my job. Then I’d have to go back to the old life again. You don’t have to tell them, do you?”
“No. What were you in for?”
She passed her tongue over her lips. “I did a bit of shoplifting.”
He took her chin in his hand and forced her head back.
“I may want more from you before this is over Ethel. If you help me, I won’t let you down.”
He released her, turned, and went out of the flat. He stood by the closed front door, listening; she didn’t come into the hall after him. No one appeared to be watching, so he went softly down the carpeted stairs to the next floor; no one was about. He came back, and went to Mrs. Fiori’s flat. He rang the bell, but there was no answer. He rang again, keeping his finger on the bell-push for a long time, but no one came. He drew back, hand in pocket, feeling for his knife. One blade was broad and not made of steel but of mica. He opened it, and began to work on the lock. Here in the broad daylight streaming through a landing window, and in full sight of anyone who came up the stairs or from the lift, it was an invitation to trouble, but he might not have a chance like this again. The mica crept between the lock and the door, gradually pushing it back; there came a sharp click, the sound he wanted to hear. The whirring of the lift sounded clearly. He left the door ajar and walked swiftly to a recess which was large enough to hide him.
The lift stopped at a floor below.
He went into the flat and closed the door. The lock wouldn’t catch properly, the disadvantage of this method of lock-picking, so he shot a bolt. The flat was planned on exactly the same lines as Fay’s. He looked into every room and found no one, but received a dozen vivid impressions. There was no futuristic nonsense about Mrs. Fiori. This was a well-furnished apartment, full of charm and good taste. The furniture was modern but distinctive, each room furnished in dark, shining walnut. In the main bedroom there were twin beds, but apparently only a woman was using it for the time being. There were no man’s brushes on the dressing-table, only women’s clothes in the wardrobe which stretched across one long wall. In this were two fur coats – a brown mink and a Persian lamb – several fur wraps, a dozen evening gowns, afternoon dresses by the dozen. Only a really wealthy woman could afford such clothes.
One drawer in the dressing-table was locked. Mannering pushed in a skeleton key attached to the knife; a quick flick of the wrist and it was open. Inside were trinkets hardly worthy of the name jewels. He passed them over quickly; bangles, necklaces, ear-rings, all imitation gems, beautifully made but worth very little; it was hard to imagine Julia Fiori wearing paste jewellery. He came to a long, narrow jewel-box, which wasn’t locked, opened it and started back.
Inside lay five diamonds set in platinum petals, each exactly alike, large and gleaming; and each might have been taken for the Diamond of Tears.
Not one was real; he had been a fool to think one might be.
Yet each was beautifully made, and approximately the right measurements for the Tear. He took measurements of two with a pair of pocket callipers, jotted them down on his notebook and put the gems back. The discovery had slowed him down. He locked the drawer, went to the hall and listened, but heard no sound outside. Back in the bedroom, he searched every piece of furniture, but found nothing of any significance. He went into the drawing-room, where quiet blues and golds were restful, glanced through an unlocked bureau and all likely hiding-places. Nothing he found told him anything about Julia Fiori or her husband.
Was there a safe?
He didn’t find one, but on top of a cupboard in the kitchen was an old deed box; unlikely hiding-places were the safest, and this box was locked. He used the skeleton key again, but had much more difficulty opening this lock. At last it opened. Inside were important-looking legal documents, some tied round with red tape. They were mostly title deeds, in the name of Julia Fiori, who owned houses and flats in the West End of London. Then one address caught his eye – 47, Wine Street, London, W.1.
Toni Fiori’s café was in Wine Street, and his house and shop was owned by Julia. The deed of transfer was dated five years ago. Mannering put this with the others, finding smaller documents beneath it – certificates of birth and marriage. Five years ago, about the time of the transfer, Julia Howlett had married one Enrico Fiori, who was described as a “British-born Italian.”
At the time of her marriage Julia had been thirty-one, which put her in the middle thirties now. Other papers held no significance, but at the bottom of the box was a small loose-leaf notebook. He looked through it. Only a few pages had been used, and on the last of these he saw the name of Jacob Bernstein. He read swiftly, and discovered that these were extracts from the old man’s will.
There was nothing here that he need take away, but much of vital interest. Mannering relocked the box and put it back on the top of the cupboard, then hurried to the front door. Anyone who knew the ways of cracksmen would know how the flat had been entered, but he had to face that. He opened the door cautiously, and immediately heard the lift. He saw the top of the lift appear, then Julia’s braided hair.
He closed the door but didn’t bolt it, slipped quickly through to the kitchen, then stepped on to a fire escape which also served as a tradesmen’s entrance. He went down quickly, glancing at the windows of the other flats, from which he might be noticed. He tucked his chin on his chest and hunched his shoulders, reached the paved backyard and went quickly towards an open door. It led to a narrow passage, thence to a cobbled mews, which gave on to Park Lane.
No one followed him.
He took a taxi from the corner, went to Victoria, and took another taxi to his Chelsea flat.
The folly and the value of that visit to Julia’s flat were equal. Julia would guess who had been there. She had warned him, and talked of sudden death; would she be given to idle threats? It wasn’t likely. But he had discovered in an hour more than the police could have found in a week.
There was no room for regrets, but –
The taxi turned the corner and he saw a small car parked outside his flat, facing him; on the windscreen was a single notice: “Press.”
Lorna was out, but Chittering was in the study, which was filled with a blue haze of tobacco smoke. He wore the same old raincoat, battered trilby and bright shining brown shoes. His broad grin was friendly.
“Welcome, hero!”
“What have I been doing now?”
“Something you wouldn’t want Bristow to know,” said Chittering. “What did you expect from that little Morris?”
“How much did you get?”
‘I’m not yet sure,” said Chittering, wrinkling his nose. “I hung about for an hour. Then a little chap came and drove it off, Italian or Spanish—I wouldn’t know which. You know the type. Dark hair, sallow face, wasp waist, spiv written all over him. He left the car at Green’s Garage, Charing Cross Road, and then walked to a café in Wine Street owned, I’m told, by a certain Toni Fiori. Know anything about Fiori?”
“No. Do you?”
“I gathered from a newsboy at a nearby pitch that Toni Fiori thinks no end of himself, and doesn’t make his fortune from that café. Not that you can tell, there’s a fortune in food and the food is good—or so I’m told. I’ve asked my research department to find out what it can about Fiori. How much will you give me for the report?”
“A tip. This job is dangerous.”
“How dangerous?”
“I don’t know how far this goes but it isn’t as simple as it looks—not just murder of Bernstein for robbery.”
“Evidence?”
“You’ll have to take my word. But you can give your research department another job.”
“It’s just waiting for jobs.”
“There is a nice young man named Kenneth. I don’t know what he looks like, whether he’s dark or fair, rich or poor, and I don’t know his surname. But I do know that he’s supposed to be in love.”
“I said research, not romance department.”
“He’s in love with a young woman who will inherit Bernstein’s fortune; and there is a large fortune. That’s off the record, don’t go writing sensational articles about it.”
“Where does the sweet young thing live?”
“At Clay Court Mansions—Number 21. She was out with Kenneth last night, and I doubt if he’d take her to Lyons Corner House or the Trocadero.” Mannering took out one of the photographs of Fay. “There she is—will you get some copies made and then have a talk with your Society gossip columnist and find out all you can about her and Kenneth?”
Chittering studied the photograph.
“Very nice.”
“She’s scared out of her wits, and she’s probably frightened that something drastic will happen to her. You can do this research much more easily than I can, and the police won’t be surprised at you probing. I don’t want them to know what I’m up to yet.”
“I shan’t tell them. Have you seen this?” asked the reporter, taking a folded copy of the Daily Record from the pocket of his raincoat. “All the latest news; if you want the facts read the Record.” The headline was about Bernstein’s murder, and the sub-heading ran: “Murderer Gets £100,000-worth of Jewels.” There was a picture, not of man or woman but of the Diamond of Tears, and in a heavy black type a potted history of the diamond and of the three men and one woman who had owned the Tear and died violent deaths. The Tear was valued at £55,000; the other jewels were listed. Bristow and Gordon had made good use of the little black book.
“Not bad,” said Chittering.
“What else do you know?”
“London’s being turned upside down. Every man the Yard and the Divisions can spare is on the job. Every fence in the City and the West End is being checked, jewel dealers everywhere have a description of the stolen stuff, a full release has been made to the Press. The official statement is that the police are following up an important clue and expect to make an arrest shortly. Unless they’re going to arrest you.”
Mannering said: “Not just yet.”
“Is the Tear still here?”
“Was the Tear ever here?”.
“I am not normally a cautious man,” said Chittering, his blue eyes rounding, “but I sleep sometimes and I’ve slept on this. I was a fool not to take that jewel to the police last night and you’ll be a bigger fool if you hide it for long. They mean to get the man who has the Tear because they think the man who has the Tear killed Jacob. Go warily, John.”
“Thanks.”
“Meaning you’ll do exactly what you want to. I admit being relieved that I can’t give evidence of seeing the Tear in this flat. How’s Lorna taking it?”
“As you’d expect.”
“You’re a dangerous couple when roused,” said Chittering. “When will the inheritance of lovely Fay be made public?”
“Bristow will probably want to keep it secret—and don’t forget he’s almost certainly watching Fay.”
“According to what I was told at the Yard, a woman was seen to come out of Jacob’s shop or one near it, John. Could she have been Fay, I wonder? If she’s going to inherit a fortune she’d have a pretty big motive for killing Jacob. Also, according to a whisper from the garrulous Gordon, you’re suspected of knowing that the girl was at the shop and letting her escape. Gordon breathed the word ‘accessory.’ What have you done to Gordon? He hates your guts.”
“That’s because of what I haven’t done for him,” said Mannering. “Don’t worry about Gordon. Thanks for all you’re doing. You’ll find it’s worth the trouble.”
Glittering grinned. “It’s a good job I’ve a soft spot for your wife; if it were only you I’d stand by and watch them catch you.” He slouched towards the door, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his raincoat, curly head bare and untidy. “When you get anything I can print don’t sit on it, will you?”
“No.”
“How convincingly he lies,” marvelled Glittering. “How Lorna lives with you I don’t know. I—”
The front door bell rang, cutting across his words. He murmured: “Bristow, maybe,” and moved back into the study.
Mannering opened the front door – and saw Julia Fiori.
She was alone.
Chapter Nine
Julia Warns
Julia Fiori didn’t speak, but gave Mannering time to collect his thoughts. He whispered: “Come back in ten minutes,” and then raised his voice so that Glittering could hear; blocking the doorway with his great frame. “Oh, thanks. Yes, I’ll sign.” He took out his wallet, extracted a slip of paper and made it rustle – and Julia made no attempt to force her way in. She turned away and he closed the door and slipped his right hand into his pocket. Glittering came bobbing out.
“No police?”
“Just a letter by special messenger.”
“Love or secret?”
“Both. What’s your editor’s mood these days?”
“It depends on the international situation. If it’s bad he’s as happy as a lark. If it’s good, and he can’t scratch up a headline, he makes life miserable. Why?”
“You might find one or two specially written articles helpful,” Mannering said, and went to the door. Julia would have had time to reach the street by now, and Glittering obviously suspected nothing. “You can sign them.”
“Not if you wrote them—they’d be dynamite.” Glittering left, waving from the head of the stairs. Mannering went to the kitchen and poked his head inside.
“Make tea for two, Susan.”
Pretty fair hair on a broad head, and an attractively freckled face, turned from the dresser towards him.
“I didn’t know you’d both be in, sir.”
“We shan’t. I’ll answer the bell when it rings next.”
“Very good,” said Susan.
Mannering went back to the study and stood looking over an empty site where there had been gracious Georgian houses. He could see as far as the Embankment, where traffic crawled, and to the River Thames, sluggish and silvery in the afternoon sunlight. He could also see the end of the street, but there was no sign of Julia Fiori. He hurried upstairs to the attic which was Lorna’s studio. A faint smell of paint met him. Hair cord carpeting was spread over the boards, a dozen or so unfinished canvases stood with their faces to the wall, an empty canvas was on the easel near the great skylight from which the north light came. Here Lorna spent much of her time; on a rostrum covered with blue carpet her sitters sat for weary hours – famous and unknown alike.
Julia Fiori was walking from a corner, alone. No one else was in sight, and this was a good spot for seeing most of the street. Had she really come alone? Another window of the attic overlooked the back garden of the house; that was empty of watching eyes. As he turned away the front door bell rang, and rang twice again before he opened it.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fiori,” Mannering said mildly. “I thought you’d prefer not to talk with the Press present.”
Mannering led her to the study. She used a costly perfume, walked with delightful ease, was dressed in a black two-piece suit, in the height of fashion. Her wide-brimmed hat stood out beyond her shoulders.
She didn’t look round.
“What did you take?” she asked.
“Nothing. From where?”
“I don’t believe you. From my flat.”
“Have you missed anything?”
“Not yet,” she said, and went to sit down. She was superbly confident; a superb woman, showing no hint of annoyance or exasperation. “I told you as clearly as anyone could that you were asking for trouble, Mr. Mannering. Why didn’t you take my advice?”
“Perhaps I like trouble.”
“You won’t like this kind. What did you find out—apart from what Ethel told you? She’s told me all about that.”
