by John Creasey
“What about the others?”
“I haven’t learned much about any of them, but all three were Jewish—and the two men escaped from Germany before the war. The woman was the wife of an American collector of precious stones. The Record people say they haven’t been able to trace any relationship or connection between the woman and any of the men. The only significant thing is that Yule was the old man’s grandson.”
“Have you discovered anything more about Kenneth Yule himself?”
Elizabeth Warren leaned forward. Her hand moved and touched his, as if she wanted to wrench the receiver away from him; her fingers were cold on the back of his hand.
“A little,” Lorna said. “Larraby came in half an hour ago and has a report. Yule was orphaned when he was quite young, and went to Repton and Oxford. He joined the R.A.F. and did well—he won the D.F.C. in Cyprus. His grandfather was killed a few months before Yule left the Service. Yule went to America and was there for six months, clearing up the estate.”
“That’s his history—what’s his reputation?”
“A gay dog. One girl after another, until he met Fay Goulden.”
“Still think he’s in love with Fay?”
“The evidence—” began Lorna, but Mannering didn’t hear the rest. Elizabeth Warren struck at his hand, knocked the receiver away from his ear. She leaned forward, eyes blazing, mouth open.
He put the receiver close to his ear again.
“Sorry, I missed that.”
“We mustn’t stay talking. Can you come back at once? Bristow said it was urgent. He asked me not to tell you more over the telephone, but—it’s Julia. She’s asking for you. She’s at St. George’s Hospital.”
Elizabeth Warren sat beside Mannering, huddled in a musquash coat, shivering now and again although it couldn’t be with cold. The police car followed, and although Mannering drove fast he made no attempt at evasion. He didn’t talk until he was away from the common and driving towards the by-pass. Passing lights shone on the girl’s pale face and glistening eyes.
He said suddenly: “In love with Kenneth?”
She didn’t answer.
“So you are. And he’s in love with Fay. It’s how things happen, and it won’t hurt for long.”
She said: “He can’t be in love with her!”
“You think he’s gone to her now, don’t you?”
She didn’t answer, and he needed no answer. Her story, or part of it, was as clear as the white streaks on the road which showed starkly in the headlights. The speedometer touched seventy. The warm fur was close to his arm, but a keen wind cut through the driving window. He wound it up slowly, swerved past a rumbling lorry, saw the twin orbs or the car behind him in the driving mirror.
“It’s really a good thing,” Mannering said gently. “He’s bad, I’m afraid—as bad as they come.”
She turned her head abruptly: “That’s not true!”
“He’s nearly as bad as Fiori.”
“Don’t say that!”
“What do you know about Fiori?” Mannering asked.
She said: “I hate the sound of his name, I hate everything about him.” She shivered again. “I’m not going to talk, I’ve nothing to say! I’d kill myself rather than let Fiori get me.”
“Why?”
“Because I know—what he’s done.”
“Are you sure that Kenneth doesn’t work for him?”
“You must be crazy! Of course he doesn’t, he hates Fiori. He’s afraid of him, anyone who knows Fiori must be afraid of him, but—Fiori killed a—a close friend of his, killed—”
“His grandfather.”
“So you know that?” She was startled, and turned to look at him. Lights flashed by, the car was in darkness one moment, brightly lit the next. “Yes. The Tear belongs to Kenneth. It belonged to the old man, so Kenneth has every right to it. He’s been looking for it for years.”
“Why?”
“It’s his!”
“He’s wealthy. One diamond more or less would make little difference to him. He doesn’t know much about jewels, does he?”
“He’s learned a lot since he started to look for the Tear” Elizabeth said. She talked of the diamond as if it were a familiar thing and she knew it well. “He was even going to buy it. I’ve helped him look for it. We know what happened to the others who were supposed to have it, we know what Fiori did. And in spite of having to fight against Fiori, Ken’s kept on. He wouldn’t let anything stop him.”
“Oh, he’s a fighter.”
She didn’t respond to that.
“Why did he start going round with Fay Goulden? Because he knew she would inherit the Tear?”
Elizabeth cried: What?” and started so violently that she knocked his arm. He lost control of the car and it swerved towards an oncoming lorry. The lorry passed within a few inches, a vague shout came from the driver. Elizabeth took Mannering’s hand, pulled at it, dug her fingers into his knuckles until it hurt. “That’s not true! It can’t be true!”
“Take it easy or we’ll crash.”
Her grip slackened, but she didn’t let him go.
“It’s quite true, Elizabeth. Jacob Bernstein left everything to Fay Goulden. As he owned the Tear before he died it belongs to her, not Ken. It’s no use talking about it belonging to Kenneth; Jacob had a legal right to it.”
“It can’t be true,” she whispered. “He wouldn’t do that. Not Ken, he wouldn’t do that.”
Mannering tried to sound casual. “Do what?”
She didn’t answer. Her hand fell from his, between them, he could feel it limp against his leg. “Do what, Elizabeth?” he asked again, but she was silent, When they passed beneath a lamp he looked at her. She lay back, chin thrust forward, her eyes closed, her pallor dreadful. He pulled into the side of the road. The police car passed and drew up in front. He felt the girl’s cold hand and knew that she had fainted, this wasn’t just an act. He stretched to the back of the car, pulled up a rug, folded it behind her head, so that her neck was supported. He had no whisky flask. Her handbag lay on her lap. He opened it, but there was nothing of use there.
A policeman got out of the car in front and looked back, as if wondering whether to come and find out what had happened.
Elizabeth’s pulse was beating faintly and her lips moved as she breathed. There was nothing to worry about, no reason why Mannering shouldn’t drive on. He opened both the front windows wide, let in the clutch and started off, driving slowly at first and giving the police car plenty of time to catch up. It was very cold, now. They were at the end of the by-pass and he turned towards Roehampton and Putney. At the top of Putney Hill she stirred, whimpered a little as if she were dreaming. At the foot of the hill, as they drove on to Putney Bridge and across the Thames, her eyelids flickered.
He gave her a few minutes respite, then said: “Better?”
“I—I’m all right.”
He didn’t ask more questions; she wouldn’t answer, because she was completely numbed by what he had told her. Why?
Lorna opened the door at the flat, Larraby hovered about the kitchen door and Susan’s shadow showed on the floor. Mannering said: “Hallo,” and led Elizabeth Warren in. Lorna took charge of the girl and helped her into the drawing-room. Elizabeth seemed unable to move her legs freely. Lorna helped her to sit down in an easy chair, pushed a pouffe beneath her legs, and said to Mannering: “Who is she? What’s happened?”
“Yule’s house-keeper, and she’s had a shock,” Elizabeth took no notice of them. She stared blankly ahead of her. He drew Lorna aside and lowered his voice. “Don’t force her but encourage her to talk. She’s in love with Yule, is afraid he’s deserted for Fay. The shock came when I told her that Fay was old Jacob’s heiress. Direct questions won’t—”
“I’ll manage.”
> “And you also want to know where she thinks Yule might be. Any news of Julia?”
“Bristow telephoned again a quarter of an hour ago and I said you’d called up and were on your way. I didn’t tell him where you were.” Lorna brushed the hair out of her eyes. “You can’t see Julia like that, she won’t recognise you.”
“That’s one reason why I came here first.”
Ten minutes with cleansing cream and a rough towel brought back the normal Mannering. Ready to leave, he glanced into the drawing-room where Lorna was looking through a magazine and Elizabeth sat with a cup of tea at her side; she didn’t seem to have tasted the tea. “I’m off.” Lorna nodded, Mannering went out and Larraby hurried out from the kitchen. Was there anything he could do?
“Stay here and entertain Susan, and make sure that you shout ‘police!’ if any strangers look in.”
Mannering drove fast through the deserted streets to the hospital. A detective-sergeant in the hall came forward: “We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Mannering.” He led the way along wide corridors which smelt of disinfectant, and rubber flooring muffled their footsteps. The man had no time for talking, made no comment when Mannering asked how Julia Fiori was.
They went up one flight of stairs, along another passage and round a corner. A policeman in uniform stood outside a door. He opened the door as they approached, and subdued light came from the room beyond. Mannering stepped in and saw Bristow sitting by the side of a single bed, a doctor in a white coat standing near him.
All he could see of Julia was her eyes and mouth.
Her head and face were heavily bandaged; so were her shoulders. The room was warm, a sheet and blanket were spread over her as high as the breast. He could see the outline of her body as far as the knees, below that the bedclothes were flat. He felt a surge of horror that went through him like a knife. Julia’s legs had been amputated. Julia’s. He drew back, knowing that those great eyes were turned towards him. She was conscious in spite of what had happened.
This didn’t make sense; none of it made sense. How could such horror have come upon Julia in the short time since he had seen her? Why wasn’t she still unconscious, under the anaesthetic? He moistened his dry lips, stepped forward and saw her right arm move; her right arm wasn’t bandaged. She drew it gently from beneath the blanket. There was an angry red scratch on the white skin, and two dark bruises. The fingers moved weakly; she was beckoning him to go nearer. The bandage over her face covered her chin and her nose; the smell of the anaesthetic was very strong.
She moved her lips. “John.” He lip-read rather than heard the word.
The doctor drew back, Bristow stood up. Neither spoke to Mannering. Bristow turned away from Mannering’s single, searing glance. Mannering knelt down on one knee and took Julia’s hand gently. He remembered her as she had been when they had examined the paste Tears; as she had been at Toni’s. Tall and lovely, superb body, superbly gowned. Now she was a wreck.
“What can I do, Julia?” He spoke softly, close to her, wondering if she could hear. The doctor said: “I doubt whether she can hear you.” Mannering bent closer. “What can I do?” She didn’t move now. Her fingers rested in his, there was no strength in them. He knew that she was dying; it wouldn’t be long before she had gone.
She whispered: “Look after—my child. Ella, look after Ella. Please. Don’t let him hurt her.”
Ella?
“I won’t,” Mannering said. It was useless to speak, because she couldn’t hear him. She was looking into his eyes, not at his lips.
He forced a smile, drew back a little so that she could see the whole of his face.
“I’ll look after her—I’ll look after Ella.”
Ella? He’d heard the name in this case before, but where? Who was Ella?
The whisper came again. “Look after Ella. Don’t let him hurt her. Please don’t let him hurt her.” He had to put his ear close to her lips to hear the words. Bristow crouched low over the other side of the bed; Mannering could hear his heavy breathing.
“I’ll look after her.” He smiled again with his eyes.
And Julia also smiled.
Chapter Twenty-One
Yule or Fiori?
Mannering said savagely: “If that’s your idea of being clever I don’t like it. Why the devil didn’t you tell me how she was?”
Bristow didn’t answer as they walked briskly along the passage, away from the ward where Julia lay dead. Two nurses passed them. They reached the hall and went outside; Bristow’s green Morris and Mannering’s hired Austin were parked round the corner in Grosvenor Crescent. Bristow spoke for the first time.
“We’ll use my car.”
“You can use what car you like. I’m going home, in mine.”
“Taking it hard, aren’t you?”
“That was a piece of senseless brutality and I don’t like it. What did you think I’d give away if I knew how bad she was?”
“You’ve worked your own way in this job, I’ll work mine,” Bristow said. “It did her no harm and it shook you. I’m all for shaking you because I don’t like the way you’re behaving. Where have you been tonight?”
“Doing a job you should have done. Looking for Kenneth Yule.”
“We’ll find Yule.”
Mannering snapped: “So he’s missing.” A cold wind blew up Grosvenor Place, traffic hummed towards the Park. Two or three men hung about in the shadows of the building. Police, or Fiori’s men? Mannering looked bleakly round him and knew that it was futile to behave like this with Bristow, but he couldn’t keep back anger when feeling like this. It was partly shock.
“If you’re going to Chelsea I’ll come with you,” Bristow said grudgingly, as they reached the car park.
That would mean that Bristow would see Elizabeth, and she was in no state to be questioned by the police. Mannering said: “Oh, I’d better come your way, I might get some sense out of you.” They got into Bristow’s car and Bristow drove off. They didn’t speak until they got to the Yard and were on the way to his office. It wasn’t unlike the hospital, except that there was no smell of antiseptics.
Ella Carruthers! The name Fay Goulden had used at the Hula Club.
Mannering missed a step. Bristow looked at him and said: “Now what?”
“I’ve placed Ella. Did you hear what Julia asked?”
“You’re to look after Ella—her child.”
“Or Fay Goulden.”
“That’s right. Formed a high opinion of you in the short time you’d known her, hadn’t she?”
Mannering said: “Now I get it. You thought Julia and I were old friends, thought you’d prove that if you sprung it on me. This time you’re wrong. I’d never met her until yesterday.”
“And she chooses you for her last request!”
“She could have chosen you.” They reached Bristow’s office. Bristow pushed open the door and switched on the light, offered cigarettes, then pressed a bellpush in the desk. A uniformed constable appeared at the door.
“Yes, sir?”
“Get me some tea and sandwiches. Want anything, Mannering?”
“No, thanks.”
“Tea for two, sandwiches for me.” Bristow ordered. He dropped into his chair, staring up at Mannering bleak-faced, hard-eyed. “Yes, she could have asked the police to look after her daughter, but she didn’t. She chose you, and the only possible reason she could have had for choosing you was that you know something which we don’t—something she didn’t want us to know.”
Mannering said: “Daughter?”
“That’s it. Daughter. She was married twice, and Ella was a child of the first marriage. Didn’t you know that?”
“No, I didn’t. And I don’t know why she chose me instead of you, except that she can’t be impressed by the job you’ve done, after what happe
ned to her. What did happen?”
“The lift at Clay Court crashed when she was getting out of it, just after you’d left the place. Didn’t you hear the crash?”
Mannering remembered.
“Yes, I heard it. I thought there’d been a car smash.” He felt hot; two minutes after she had left him she had been injured as horribly as Fiori had injured any of his victims. At least she hadn’t known what was coming, hadn’t suffered the same torture. Her voice and her face were clear in his mind. He had said that he would report tomorrow, and she had asked: “Will you?” and turned away. She had not expected to see him again. He felt heavy of heart; vengeful.
“Who did it?”
The lift had been tampered with, someone fixed it while she was in it. A simple job by anyone who knows the lift mechanism, almost impossible for anyone who doesn’t. It had been planned beforehand, they were waiting for the right moment.”
“Catch anyone?”
“No.”
Mannering said: “I’ve stopped being happy about Lorna. I’ll look after her myself.”
“Talk is easy. The job was done from the basement. There’s a side entry to the basement, it was watched but no one we know to be associated with the case went in that way. There was plenty of time for the killer to get out before we knew what had happened. The question is, who wanted to kill her? Yule or Fiori?”
Mannering said: “Possibly both.”
He didn’t think that it was Yule. He felt suddenly convinced that Julia had died because he had visited her so often, because she had gone out with him that night. He had told her that he was inviting her to danger, and that hadn’t stopped her from accepting. Enrico Fiori knew that she had known too much about him, was afraid that she would talk, and had silenced her. This was Fiori’s job, and Bristow asked: “Yule or Fiori?” He was in no mood to wrangle with Bristow. He felt suddenly tired and flat because he had no idea where to find either man, and Bristow was obviously in the dark.
“Anything else?” he asked.
