by John Creasey
‘What made him come to town?’
‘He told me he wanted to see you.’
‘Yes,’ she flashed, ‘with a message from home I expect. “Come back, all is forgiven, the villain is dead!” I won’t go back. They’ve been beasts, all of them, and I’m staying here!’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Mannering said easily, and he decided on the instant to say nothing of Reggie’s story; she was in no mood to be encouraged by what might prove to be a false hope. He told her he had opened several lines of inquiry, and left it at that.
He went off thoughtfully, to find Bristow waiting outside his flat. He shook hands affably enough, as he said: ‘I hope this means you’re working with me, Mannering.’
‘As far as I can,’ said Mannering, ‘but Tring’s had an unhappy evening, I’m afraid. Well now, Bill’—they were settled in front of the electric fire—‘you questioned the maids at the Towers, of course?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any story that was interesting?’
‘They were a dull lot,’ admitted Bristow, who had no objection to giving Mannering general information. ‘Why?’
‘Reggie Sharron’s in London, down with pleurisy, and he won’t be able to talk sense, I fancy, for some days. But he gave me a garbled story of a maid who says she was in the room next to Armstrong’s, and saw him there at the time the robbery must have been under way. If she is to be believed, Armstrong couldn’t have been actively helping the thieves. Does that help?’
‘It’s queer I didn’t hear the story,’ said Bristow, ‘but there was a girl who said she’d been upstairs two or three times after twelve. A hot-water bottle had leaked, apparently.’
‘That’s the girl.’
‘She simply said she’d seen and heard nothing unusual.’
‘Was Armstrong generally suspected when you questioned her?’
‘No.’ Bristow hesitated, and stood up. ‘I’ll phone Horroby at Winchester, and tell him to check up on the story as soon as he can. I’ll send a man to young Sharron, too.’
‘You won’t get past the doctor. He caught a pretty severe chill that night.’
‘I can have someone standing by, anyhow.’
Bristow could not have implied more plainly that he was uneasy at the possibility of being on the wrong trail. He left soon after phoning Winchester.
Mannering decided to go to bed.
It was seven o’clock when he was awakened by the sharp ring of the telephone bell. In an instant he lifted the receiver.
‘Hello, John, Flick here,’ said Leverson. ‘I’ve been offered the Glorias.’
‘What?’ Manner jerked himself up on his pillows. ‘Who by?’
‘A roundabout route, I’m afraid. You’d better go to a call-box, I’m not too sure that my line isn’t tapped.’
Twenty minutes later Mannering reached a call-box at the end of Brook Street. Leverson would by then be waiting at one near Aldgate Station. They had found it useful to speak from call-boxes in the past, for Leverson and Mannering were equally liable to find their lines tapped during spells of unusual activity among jewel-thieves. Mannering knew the Aldgate number, and Leverson answered at once.
It appeared that Jake Rummell, a fence with whom Mannering had dealt on one occasion, was putting up the Gloria diamonds at ten thousand pounds. He had not told Leverson who he was dealing for, but had admitted that it was for a third party.
‘What do you suggest, Flick?’
‘Rummell won’t talk in a job of this size,’ said Leverson, ‘and I think you’d better make an offer for the stones, but tell him you’ll want to see them first. That might get you to the present owner, who isn’t likely to let them out of his hands. You’ll go disguised, of course?’
‘Yes,’ said Mannering, slowly. ‘Thanks, Flick. Thank you very much.’
So now the die was cast, the Baron would be busy before the day was out.
Jake Rummell, in the third room of a suite of three offices above a public house in Chelsea, was a big-chinned, sharp-eyed man of thirty-five. He had a blunt, direct manner, and in the traffic in stolen gems he was known to be ‘honest’. Ostensibly he was a commission agent, and he had a liking for cheap, rank-smelling cigars which occasionally gave off sparks.
Opposite him, at twelve o’clock that day, was an apparently middle-aged, portly man with greying hair. Rummell, who knew better than to ask questions of his clients, accepted him at his face value because he was a ‘recommend’ of Flick Leverson’s.
It had taken Mannering an hour and a half to put on the disguise, and an hour to elude Detective Inspector Moss, who had been on his trail that morning. Moss was the finest shadow of the Yard; his presence proved that Bristow was not taking Mannering at all easily.
‘That’s right,’ Rummell jerked. ‘Ten thousan’ smackers, on the nail, I needn’t tell yer. They’re cheap becos they’re hot. Hottasell. You know that.’
‘Indeed I do.’ It was not Mannering’s normal voice, but a high-pitched and querulous one. ‘But I must see them, my friend. You will understand, I cannot buy—er—blind is the expression I believe.’
Rummell grinned.
‘You’re there in one, Mister. Wouldn’t buy blind meself. You busy?’
‘Er—I can spare half an hour, Mr. Rummell.’
‘Quarter’ll do. Just wait ‘ere, an’ I’ll come back in fifteen minutes to the tick.’
He was back in fourteen minutes, slightly out of breath.
‘All okey-doke, Mister. The guy’ll see you. Piccadilly Circus Station, half-past three. Haymarket subway. He’ll wear a red carnation in his left buttonhole. Answers to Smith. If it’s a deal, you don’t pay him, you pay me, don’t forget.’
‘Naturally I shall respect that condition,’ said Mannering testily.
The fence would have been flabbergasted had he known that the ‘old man’ was the Baron, for among the organisation of fences in London the name of the Baron ranked high.
Mannering lunched at a public house close to Sloane Square, and at half-past two, folded his paper and left the pub, his scheme already fixed. He proposed to follow the man with the red carnation, and survey the prospects of breaking into his house.
The chance of working again, of pitting his wits against police and criminal alike, the old, old thrill of the hunt gripped him. With a cause like this – not only the possibility of getting back the Glorias, but of finding the truth of the robbery – he could work with an easy conscience, and revel in it.
He reached Piccadilly Circus and strolled up and down, careful to keep to the Haymarket subway. Three-thirty came.
He quickened his step. Was the man going to fail him, would the trail peter out? Three minutes late.
Manner found himself both angry and dismayed. He forced back his impatience, even walking out of sight of the Haymarket subway deliberately. When he came back he saw a lean man standing idly by it, fiddling with the red carnation in his left lapel.
Mannering studied the face cheerfully.
It was glowing with health, but Mannering disliked the sharp blue eyes, the thin lips, the pinched nose. Mr Smith did not create a favourable impression.
Mannering approached with seeming diffidence. He felt the cold appraisal of the man’s eyes, and knew that he was dangerous.
‘Ah—do you, by any chance, happen to be Mr. Smith?’
‘You from Rummy?’
‘From Mr. Rummell, that is so.’
‘Hmm.’ Smith hesitated, and then shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right, I’ve got the stuff. The Corner House suit you?’
‘At your convenience, my dear sir, entirely at your convenience.’
Smith sniffed, and led the way to the Shaftesbury Avenue subway. As they approached the Corner House, the raucous voice of a newsboy startled them both.
‘Big robbery – new turn. Big robbery – new turn!’
Mannering was first at the stand, and he took the paper quickly. Smith followed his example. The paragraph for which they were searching was in the Stop
Press, and as Mannering read it, he experienced a sharp tingling sensation at the back of his scalp:
‘Maid named Sanders found dead near Beverley Towers scene of big jewel robbery on Monday night. Scotland Yard officers have hurried to the scene.’
Sanders. Rose Sanders.
Mannering seemed to see Reggie’s face, and then Bristow’s. The girl who had seen Armstrong in his room, who could have given evidence that Armstrong had not been near the strong-room, dead and possibly murdered.
Mannering looked up, to see the glitter in Smith’s sharp, suspicious eyes.
Chapter Eight
The House At Barnes
Mannering’s clear hazel eyes were difficult to disguise; he kept them half-closed, twitching them frequently to prevent a close scrutiny; but Smith’s gaze was unnerving.
‘Well?’ he said sharply.
Mannering took a spotted red handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead.
‘Most—most disturbing,’ he said in that querulous voice he had assumed. ‘It makes things so much more difficult. Shall we—er—have that cup of tea?’
‘Want to forget it?’ Smith snapped.
‘Forget our little discussion? No, indeed, these unfortunate things cannot always be avoided. One learns to accept them.’ He led the way into the big hall, Smith following. It was a quiet period of the afternoon, and there were dozens of empty tables. Smith selected one in a corner, took off his hat and pushed a bony hand through his hair. The hand was unsteady, Mannering noted with grim satisfaction.
A waitress came up.
‘Er—good afternoon, my dear.’ Mannering beamed. ‘A pot of China tea for me, and—er—my friend will have—’
‘Coffee,’ said Smith. ‘White.’
‘Coffee, yes. And some plain cakes, please.’ He watched her walk off, hips swaying. No one was within earshot, but he kept his voice low. ‘Well now, Mr. Smith, Rummell gave me to understand the Glorias could be bought for ten thousand. In view of the—er—strong scent, let us now say eight.’
Ten,’ said Smith decisively. ‘Or nine and a half if you pay me and forget Rummell.’
‘My dear sir! I really can’t consider – you are not forgetting that most disquieting news? Armstrong’s death, I understand, was open to doubt, but this—tacha, tacha! How careless! Eight thousand, payment against delivery, in notes of whatever denomination you like.’
‘They’re worth three times that,’ said Smith sharply. ‘But have a look at them first, Guv’nor, and then let’s talk about the price.’
He dipped his hand into his breast pocket, and drew out a case. Mannering held his breath, one hand held forward. Mr. Smith, however, did not let the case out of his grasp. He unlocked it with a small key, tilting the gems in such a way that their red-tinted glory scintillated in front of Mannering’s eyes.
Twelve stones, all of them the deep pink shade which made the ‘mongrels’ so valuable, perfect examples of the coloured diamonds at which Fauntley had scoffed. Mannering stared at them, and through his mind flashed a dozen thoughts. Primarily amazement that Smith dared bring this string to a large public restaurant in the heart of the Metropolis, where there were more police and detectives to the square mile than in any other spot except Scotland Yard itself.
Smith did not speak for thirty seconds. He had one finger on the lid of the case, and snapped it down suddenly. Mannering heard the waitress approaching, while Smith said almost inaudibly: ‘Well?’
‘Yes, yes, astonishing.’ Mannering said. ‘I really didn’t think they would be so wonderful. No, indeed! Er—but ten thousand, Mr. Smith, seeing how dangerous—’ He broke off, beamed at the waitress. ‘Thank you, my dear, thank you, that seems an excellent selection.’
‘Nine thousand five hundred if you deal direct. Not a ha’penny less.’
‘It seems—’ Mannering poured out his tea, while pursing his lips. ‘Rather heavy, yes, the risk is worth two thousand. However, give me ten minutes to decide, please.’
He drank and appeared to enjoy his tea. Smith let his coffee stand until it was almost cold, and then swallowed it in a few quick gulps. At the end of ten minutes he said harshly: ‘Make up your mind.’
Mannering pushed the tips of his fingers together, well aware that Smith would gladly have hit him.
‘Well, I think not, my friend. I have been considering the added risks of the new—er—misadventure at Beverley. I think perhaps it will be wiser for me not to touch the diamonds for a while, at any price. A thousand apologies, my dear sir.’
The thin-faced man had gone white. He stood up, swearing viciously.
‘My dear sir!’ Mannering teetered, ‘Mr. Smith, the bill, really—’
Mr Smith was out of earshot.
Mannering signalled to the waitress, paid without waiting for change, and, hoping that Smith had taken the stairs made for the lift. He reached the ground floor as Smith barged out of the main doors.
The man who had the Glorias in his pocket was either a beginner at the game, or exceedingly subtle. His anger at the failure of the deal was alarming: now his headlong career along Coventry Street towards the Circus, without a glance behind him, suggested that he was still in the grip of overpowering rage – and that the disappointment had been very great indeed. The only apparent reason was that he badly needed the cash for the diamonds.
It was likely, of course. The more expert the cracksman the more feckless the man. Robberies were usually left until finances were in a desperate position, which accounted for much of the success of the police: jewels were too frequently on the fence-market within a few hours of their being stolen. And that the Glorias were intact, not sent to the cutters, made their early display dangerous to the thieves.
Mannering, crossing the road at the first opportunity, found it difficult to keep pace with his quarry.
He expected Smith to dive underground at the first subway, and was half-afraid that he might lose him there. But Smith went past them at the same headlong pace, finally coming to a halt at the bus-stop opposite Swan & Edgars.
Mannering beckoned a cab.
As it slowed down beside him Smith jumped on to a bus, and Mannering instructed his driver to keep the bus in sight.
The driver was good, averaging a fair distance from the bus, sometimes in front of it, sometimes dropping as much as a hundred yards behind. Occasionally Mannering could see the back of Smith’s head. For nearly half an hour the chase continued, until at Hammersmith Broadway Smith alighted.
The cabby pushed the glass partition open.
‘Keep after him, do I?’
‘If you can, please.’
‘You step out, an’ I’ll follow yer.’
Mannering jumped out quickly.
By now Smith had recovered his composure. He went more cautiously across Hammersmith Broadway, and stationed himself at another bus-stop.
A Number 9 bus lumbered up, and Smith climbed in. Mannering found his cab running alongside him, but was uneasy in his mind. Did Smith suspect he was being followed? Had that headlong rush been a clever deception?
Mannering sat back in a corner, and began to work fast. He removed the supplementary moustache with the help of a small bottle of spirit, and then cleaned out the cleverly dyed grey hair, at the back and sides of his head. Next he worked quickly at the thin rubber covering of his teeth. From his pocket he took a featherweight mackintosh. Discarding his velvet-collared coat he donned the other. By the time the bus had reached Hammersmith bridge the passenger was unrecognisable as the portly gentleman who had protested at being left to pay the Corner House bill.
Castelnau, Barnes, was familiar to Mannering. It was a wide road, with large detached houses on either side, one of the most residential thoroughfares in south-west London. Smith alighted halfway along it.
Mannering looked out of the side window, but Smith did not turn back. He reached one of the houses, easily identifiable by a fine cypress hedge, and hurried along the carriage-way. Mannering tapped on the glass, an
d the cab slowed down, enabling him to see that Smith did not stand long outside the front door.
‘That what yer want?’ asked the cabby, turning round. ‘I—Gawd!’ His face, fat and cheerful, twisted into an expression of dismay. ‘’Ere, who the hell are you?’
‘You’ve done well,’ said Mannering, and his voice was identifiable if his face was not, as he took two pound notes from his pocket. ‘Pull into the other side of the road, and then drive across the bridge and wait for me there.’ He winked. ‘A divorce job.’
‘Strewth!’ said the cabby. ‘You ought to be at the Yard, not a private dick.’
Mannering walked along Castelnau with long, springy strides, until he was within easy distance of the house with the cypress hedge.
It stood no more than thirty yards from the pavement, but the hedge hid most of the ground-floor windows. It was four-storeyed, Mannering saw, newly-painted, and giving evidence of prosperity. A large iron gateway led to the garage at the side of the house. It had no name, but was numbered 31x.
Striding past, he felt a considerable satisfaction. He reached a small row of shops, including a Post Office, where he borrowed a street directory at the counter. A few minutes searching enabled him to learn that 31x Castelnau, was owned or tenanted by a Mr. Cornelius Gillison.
At the far end of the Bridge he found the cabby. At half-past five he was deposited at Piccadilly Circus.
Gillison was dark, broad-shouldered and stocky, with a pleasant voice which did not appear to be giving Smith much pleasure at the moment.
‘So you failed to get any particulars of the man, you showed him the stones, and when he wouldn’t buy you rushed away, letting him follow you as far as the Circus, and then losing sight of him. Not,’ added Gillison bitingly, ‘a brilliant morning’s work, Smith.’
‘He wasn’t a dick, I’ll swear to that,’ muttered Smith.
‘You’re not in a position to swear to anything,’ retorted Gillison coldly. In the clear light of the room. Smith’s pale angularity showed up in marked contrast to Gillison’s swarthy face and black hair. Yet about Gillison there was, in spite of the near-black eyes, an impression of disguise, of stageyness.
