by John Creasey
“Oh,” said Mannering slowly.
Stella, now Madame Bidot, had been married to Bernard Dale for ten years. She had run off – as the newspaperman Chittering had recalled – with a Frenchman. Mannering had known her fairly well, but not so well as he had known Bernard. She was a lovely creature, if anything too light-hearted, too fond of gaiety, for her solid, dependable first husband.
“She’s badly cut up,” Britten said. “More than I thought she would be. What with Stella, Hilda and Tony—” He jumped up, and whisky spilled over the edge of his glass. “John, you’ve worked miracles before now. Can’t you see any hope? I don’t give a damn what it costs.”
“We don’t need to worry about cost, either,” Mannering said. “I’ve got everyone I know in the trade looking for the Gramercys, or any jewels remotely like them. Until we get some kind of line on them, we can’t hope to get a new one on the murder. The hell of it is—” He broke off, glaring at the window as if the evening sky were to blame for what had happened. “They might have gone into a private collection and never see the light of day for a century. They might be held under-cover for years. Or they might be cut up into little stuff no one would ever recognise. The chances of getting a lead through the jewels before Tony is tried and convicted are so small that I wouldn’t give a pound for them.”
Britten said: “That’s what counsel says. We can’t see an angle for the defence that will stand up. We’ll try, of course, but there’s hardly a hope. When Hilda realises that the case is going on to the Old Bailey, I don’t know what she’ll do. I’m scared in case she kills herself.”
Lorna said: “She won’t; women don’t.” She gave a strained laugh. “I mean, we’re tougher than you think we are, Dick. Who’s with her?”
“Oh, her mother – she’s all right from that point of view. If Bristow gets what he wants, I think the case will come up in about six weeks. The hell of it is when I think of a trial, I keep thinking of the verdict – and the hanging. It’s haunting me.”
Mannering said mildly: “You’re taking it too hard.” He refilled Britten’s glass. “I can guess how you feel, though. The odd thing is that Tony says that he doesn’t know whom Bernard bought the Gramercys for. If that’s true, then Bernard kept a lot from his partner. I know we’ve been into all this before, but it still looks as if Tony’s shielding someone. Think there’s a ghost of a chance of that being the case?”
“I just can’t make it out,” Britten said hopelessly. “I don’t mind admitting that I’d like to be given a job out of London for a bit. I know that sounds as if I’m shirking it, but I can’t help, and—” he tossed the drink down. “What I want is a bit of gay life. I feel almost guilty at daring to say so!”
“You’ll get over it,” Mannering said. “How about cash?”
Britten said: “My firm isn’t charging, of course. But we’ll need a fat fee for counsel.”
“Charge it to me,” said Mannering.
He was not called by the Prosecution or the Defence, at the trial which took place nearly seven weeks after Tony Bennett had been arrested. Nothing new had come in, and the evidence was overwhelming.
The Prosecution was as thorough as it could be, but there was a curious calmness in court, unlike the tension in most murder cases. There was a feeling that the result was a foregone conclusion.
The case lasted for a day and a half. The jury was out for twenty-seven minutes, returned a verdict of guilty, and the judge donned the black cap before he pronounced sentence.
Tony Bennett, tall and powerful, stood and looked into the old man’s lined face, watching the pale lips move as the fateful words were uttered.
Mannering also heard the words. He knew them well enough not to be affected by the phrases themselves, but Tony Bennett’s expression bit deeply into him.
Tony had a round, good-looking face, curly hair, a fair complexion and blue eyes which could be merry. When meeting him first, the chief thought one had was that he was likeable. Everyone felt that; few had had a wider circle of friends. It was something in his expression, in the cast of his countenance, perhaps, and openness which won everyone.
Yet none of his friends had been able to do a thing to help.
In the dock, listening to himself being sentenced to death by hanging, he looked incredulous. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand, more that he could not believe that it was happening to him. When it was over, he gave a funny little shake of the head, as if he were rejecting the very idea.
A woman in court began to sob. Another joined her.
Tony was led away.
Mannering left the court with Dick Britten. They walked along the narrow street together, and at the corner on Ludgate Hill, Britten said abruptly: “I can’t face Hilda. Think you—think you could?” He jerked the words out.
Mannering said: “Yes, I’ll see her.”
Hilda was at a nursing-home in the West End. Her child, a son, had been born two days before the trial started.
Obviously no one had told her the news, when Mannering arrived. She realised intuitively why he had come, and what message he had to bring. She was alone, looking so pale and pure – as if innocence touched her, and horror had no place in her life. Mannering wished she would cry, but she listened and nodded and thanked him calmly. Afterwards, she behaved as if she was not made of flesh and blood, or as if the blood had dried up, and all her thoughts and actions were mechanical.
Uneasily, he left her, foolishly warning the matron and the nurses to be very careful.
He went straight to Scotland Yard.
Bristow was in his office, overlooking the Embankment. It was a long, narrow office, the leaves of the plane trees rustled close by the open windows. The sounds of traffic from the Embankment and from the river floated in.
It was warm enough for Bristow to be in his shirt-sleeves. The inevitable cigarette dangled from his mouth.
“Hallo, John, what’s brought you?”
“You’ll say idiocy. Bill, can you arrange an interview with Tony Bennett for me? I know I’ve no legal right, but you can fix it. I don’t want to encourage him, or slip him a poisoned tablet or a razor blade!” Mannering forced a smile; that wasn’t easy.
Bristow said: “I can see what’s eating you. Everyone who knows him seems to feel the same. It’s damned foolish sentiment. No one would feel like it if it weren’t for the wife and infant.” He offered cigarettes. “How do you think you can help him?”
“I don’t know a way.”
“I must say I expected you to make a damned nuisance of yourself before this,” Bristow said, and then added with a rare rush of feeling: “And I half wish you had! But if you haven’t been able to find anything to help him with, John, I’m damned sure no one else could.” He paused. “All right, I’ll fix an interview.”
They met in Wandsworth Gaol, the following morning. Tony was already in the condemned cell. He wasn’t dressed in prison garb. He didn’t look ill – pale, perhaps, and thoughtful, but neither ill nor worried. His handshake was firm.
“Very good of you to come, John.” They knew each other fairly well as fellow dealers. Tony and his murdered partner had called at Quinns once or twice most weeks. “I know you’ve been trying to work this thing out, but . . .” he gave a curious little laugh. “It’s so silly. I didn’t kill Bernard, you know. I can hardly believe that anyone in their right senses can think that I did. Silly is the word. Or – unreal.” There was a moment’s pause, and then it seemed as if a glimmering of the real truth, of the coming horror, appeared before those blue eyes.
He gripped Mannering’s hand fiercely.
“I can’t believe they’ll hang me!”
Mannering said very quietly: “Not if I can stop them, Tony. Now, listen. We must find out who Bernard bought those Gramercy jewels for.”
“But I don’t know!” cried Ton
y. “He didn’t tell me everything – you know that. I was just the junior partner. He did a lot of work privately – secretly. Some of the biggest jobs went through without me knowing a thing about them until I saw the entries in the books. Even then, names weren’t always mentioned. You should know how it is in the trade.”
“I know,” Mannering said.
He had felt a fierce surge, less of hope than of determination to find that missing proof. The surge died before this further proof of Tony’s obvious ignorance.
“Of course, after Stella left, Bernard wasn’t really himself, was he?”
“No. He was absolutely devoted to her. John, I can’t believe any of it, you know. I don’t just mean about the hanging.” He moistened his lips. “I mean about Bernard. It’s hard to believe he’s dead. He was such a wonderful chap. I remember he came back from Chalon, after trying to get Stella to return to him. He talked to Hilda and me about it. I can almost see his face. He said: ‘The trouble is, the fellow she’s gone off with seems such a damned nice chap.’ I mean, can you imagine anyone talking like that?”
“No,” said Mannering. “No, I can’t. Wasn’t it—isn’t it—a little-known dealer on the Riviera, named Bidot?”
“That’s right. Raoul Bidot.”
“He might be worth seeing,” Mannering said.
That was less because he felt hopeful than because he had to give some slender hope.
4
Reward For Patience
Mannering told no one except Lorna that he was going to the Riviera. He was talking to Raoul and Stella Bidot at a hotel in Chalon, a Riviera resort, late the following evening.
He soon felt that it was a wasted journey. Bernard’s ex-wife did not seem happy, but Raoul Bidot was a gay, smiling, handsome man with an air which would be likely to attract any woman.
Mannering felt, as Bernard Dale had, that Bidot was a ‘damned nice chap.’ But what about Stella? Now that her first husband was dead, did she regret having caused him so much misery? It was difficult to be sure, but there was no doubt about her beauty.
Mannering flew back, still rejecting what seemed to be inevitable. But the day of the execution drew nearer.
He had never felt worse about a case; or felt that he had not really started on it. From the beginning it had been one damnable dead-end. Inwardly he was convinced that the police were going to hang an innocent man.
He discovered that Bristow and the Watford police were still making inquiries, that the dealer who was said to have called Tony to Watford was still being watched. So the police weren’t really satisfied.
After a while, Mannering felt as Dick Britten had done – he must shake it out of his system.
Ten days before the date of the execution, he took Lorna out for the evening. His gaiety was brittle. Lorna knew why, and did everything she could to help. But the evening had hardly warmed up before he seemed to forget that he was dancing with her.
“Darling,” Lorna Mannering said.
“Yes, my sweet?”
“You’re dancing with me.”
“Oh, so I am,” said Mannering. He moved his head forward and brushed her cheek with his lips. “The belle of the ball, or the despair of all debutantes!”
They were waltzing. It was not a ball but a night club which had become respectable and yet retained most of its patrons. In fact it was a pleasant place, where the food was good and the wine excellent and the service superb. Once a month, or even less frequently, the Mannerings came here. It was in Mayfair, where they could be sure of seeing someone they knew, and the purpose was to make Mannering forget a certain condemned cell.
“Who is she?” asked Lorna.
“Who?”
“The jezebel you’re looking at whenever you can sneak a glance.”
“Just a hag,” Mannering said. “Whenever I really see you properly, I marvel that I ever look at another woman.” He tightened his hold on her hand, and they laughed as they whirled about. He was very tense, all the same.
The dance stopped.
At their table, in a corner, Mannering lit a cigarette and murmured: “Tall, red-haired, green-eyed, with the gilt dress.”Lorna looked about the room, at thirty or forty beautifully dressed women, their men in black and white. She saw the only red-haired woman there.
“I see,” she said. “I suppose I shouldn’t complain, provided you continue to have such taste. She’s really lovely.”
“Thus speaks the artist in you,” Mannering said. “Before long you’ll be asking me to introduce you, so that you can suggest that she comes to Chelsea to sit for you. You’d do her justice, too.”
“Darling,” Lorna said, “is it my imagination, or do you lack a certain enthusiasm for her?”
“It’s not your imagination.”
“Who is she?”
Mannering hesitated.
Lorna saw something in his expression which she hadn’t seen for two months or more, and would be quite happy if she didn’t see for years. The last time, it had been when he had learned of Bernard Dale’s murder; the same change came over his face, the familiar curiously brilliant look in his eyes, the eagle sharpness, were all there.
“Bernard Dale’s ex-wife,” he said. “Stella Bidot.”
“No!”
“Without her French husband,” Mannering murmured.
Lorna didn’t speak.
“But with an elderly gentleman who hugs her tightly as if he dare not let her go,” said Mannering. “Poor Bernard!”
Stella seemed to evade his eyes.
For Lorna, the evening had been ruined. Yet when the band struck up a quick-step, Mannering forced a grin, and asked: “Care to dance?”They danced, but it wasn’t the same.
An hour later, Mannering opened the door of the cream-coloured Jaguar for Lorna, shut her in, then took the wheel. As he drove off, a couple appeared at the lighted doorway of the club, and he recognised Stella Bidot, once Dale, and her elderly escort. Lorna saw his lips tighten; they said little on the way to Chelsea. The evening had heightened, not eased the tension. They garaged the car and walked the hundred yards to the flat, in Green Street, near London’s river. The stars were out, but it was late and there was little noise. That came from traffic on the roads somewhere far off.
Mannering opened the flat door and Lorna entered the spacious, carpeted lounge-hall. The other rooms led off this, and from one end of the hall a loft-ladder led up to the studio, where she spent much of her time.
“Nightcap?” asked Mannering.
“I think I’ll have tea.”
“In bed?”
“No, thanks,” said Lorna.
She took off her wrap and put on slippers, then brought Mannering’s from the bedroom to the study. This was a small room, with each piece of furniture old and valuable – and here only because Mannering liked it. Against one wall was an old oak settle, which deceived every visitor, for in fact it had been transformed into a modern, electrically operated safe.
Whenever Mannering kept jewels at the flat, he kept them there.
He brought in tea.
“Funny we should see the ex-Mrs. Dale,” he said, and proved that the Dale murder was right on top of his mind. “There was a rumour that the Gramercy rubies had turned up a few days ago. Bristow asked me to have a look at them.”
“And they weren’t?”
“No. Slightly different dimensions and weights, but they were remarkably like them. I—”
The front door bell rang.
Mannering paused in pouring out tea. Lorna looked round. Mannering put the teapot down, carefully, and moved towards the door.
“Odd,” he said.
“It’s been so peaceful lately,” Lorna said, almost sadly. “I knew it couldn’t last.”
The bell rang again.
&n
bsp; Mannering left the study door open, so that Lorna could see across the hall. He heard nothing as he turned the handle and opened the door. He was cautious, possessed an instinct nothing ever really killed. He kept his foot against the door, and could have slammed it in the face of the caller at the slightest threat.
A woman stood there.
He didn’t speak, and that puzzled Lorna, for it told her how much he was surprised.
“Good—good evening,” the woman said.
“Good evening,” said Mannering at last, and stood aside. “Please come in.”
A call from anyone would have surprised him at nearly one o’clock in the morning; a call from the ex-Mrs. Dale startled and puzzled him very much. But when he ushered her into the study, where Lorna was standing, he was poised again.
“Darling,” he said, “I don’t think you know Mrs. Bidot.”
There was a strange tension in the room. The women were antagonistic, from the first instant. There was no doubt of Stella Bidot’s loveliness, and her hair had a sheen which made it superbly beautiful. She was young, too; hardly more than thirty. Over the golden coloured dress she wore a black cape; over her head, a filmy scarf. She looked from one to the other, as if she didn’t know what to say – as if she expected to find them hostile.
“Will you have a drink?” Mannering asked. “Or even tea?” He smiled.
She glanced down at the tea tray.
