by John Creasey
He stood back, put his head on one side, and studied her; and it wasn’t altogether flippantly.
“You’ll do. You’re alive. She …”
“I’ve heard all about these beautiful shells before,” said Lorna drily. “She’s alive all right – or rather, she will be when the right man knows how to break down her reserve. Are going to help her?”
“It depends,” said Mannering.
“On what?”
“If the mysterious telephone caller is connected with the same business, yes. If he isn’t, no.”
“Supposing you don’t hear from him again?”
“Then the answer to Mrs. Courtney is ‘no’. And if she still wants me to play she’ll tell me a little more, and the answer will be the same again.”
“You’re on the job,” said Lorna drily. “Darling, I don’t mind. At least, I don’t mind because the most beautiful woman in London is going to try to make a fool of you. I shall mind if it leads you into trouble, and I don’t mean woman trouble. Have you ever heard of her?”
“Vaguely.”
“I shouldn’t have thought anyone could have heard vaguely about her,” said Lorna. “How come?”
“I know of Courtney. In fact he’s been to Quinn’s, several times. I heard that he had married again – his first wife died some years ago. He’s a collector and a connoisseur of gems, and he’s rich. Shall we have a look at the insurance list?”
“She came well prepared, didn’t she?”
“Even you’ll admit that she’s clever,” said Mannering. “Come on, my sweet, let’s go on with the guessing game, we’ve been at it all the evening. Did you see her properly?”
They went into the drawing-room.
“Well enough,” said Lorna. “I won’t ask you to tell me what she’s really like; I couldn’t bear it.”
Mannering laughed, went across to an oak settle in a corner of the room, unlocked it and then unlocked another tiny lock inside the lid. He moved the back panel upwards and it came away. He ran his hand along the under-ledge of the panel and a small aperture showed in the panel itself. He put his finger inside and drew out a wash-leather bag. When he opened the bag a round piece of cotton wool fell on to the palm of his hand; a moment later the cotton wool fell aside and a scintillating diamond seemed to set his hand ablaze.
“Lovely,” he said, “and the hardest thing in the world. Like Mrs. Richard Courtney.”
Lorna said: “I suppose we shouldn’t really prejudge her. I—don’t laugh, you fool!”
Mannering, still laughing, slit open the envelope and took out four folded sheets of paper; all were covered with typewritten lists of jewels and their valuation. His laughter died as he began to read. Lorna, sitting on the arm of his chair, frowned in concentration. The first five items on the list were not remarkable: each was a diamond ring, with weight and measurements and description of the platinum setting clearly shown; the value of each was less than a thousand pounds. Next came:
4 strings of perfectly matched pearls, of 110, 115, 120 and 125 pearls respectively, joined by a clasp of diamonds, with an emerald G in the centre.
A bracelet of 4 rows of matching pearls, 40 in each row, joined by a diamond and emerald clasp, matching that on the necklace.
A single pearl, set in platinum, studded with diamonds as a ring.
2 pairs of ear-rings, 1 single pearl stud, the other drop ear-rings of graduated pearls, 4 to each ear-ring.
Lorna said slowly: “Yes, he’s quite a collector.”
“Not bad!” Mannering glanced down the first page again and tapped it with his forefinger. “Five items missing – all diamonds, none of high value. That shows sense in the thief.” He turned the page over and saw the pencilled marks at the side of seven different items. “More diamonds, each of more value per piece but not remarkable … Next page …” He finished the third and the fourth pages, and dropped the list on to his knees. “Twenty-three items stolen, all diamonds – not one tenth of the total value of the whole collection. We’re in the money, sweetheart! I wonder if they were all kept together or whether these are just the pieces she had out for general use.”
“Why wear clothes if she has jewels like that?” breathed Lorna.
“I—” The telephone bell rang again.
“Your mysterious caller,” she said promptly.
“You’re taking risks tonight.” Mannering got up and went to the telephone, but he took the lists with him. “Not a bad little collection. I didn’t think Courtney went in for ice in such a big way … Mannering speaking.”
“Mr.—Mannering.” The voice, pitched low, was little more than a whisper. “I must see you.”
“Who is that speaking?” He knew.
“I called you earlier. I couldn’t stay on the line. I’ve a fortune here, I daren’t let it go until I’ve seen you.”
“All right, come and see me.”
“I can’t,” the man said hoarsely. “I don’t want to leave here, I’m being watched. Will you come and see me?”
“Where are you?”
“At a street in Kensington – Liddell Street. I’m going to Number 29 right away. Please come and ask for Miss Hill. Is that clear? Miss Hill, at 29 Liddell Street.”
“Why—” began Mannering.
The receiver was banged down; there was nothing furtive this time. Mannering replaced his own receiver, frowning, and Lorna looked at him speculatively.
“We’ll both go,” she said. “It was the mystery man, wasn’t it?”
“It sounded like him. It’s late for little girls to be out, my sweet.”
“And dangerous for little boys. If you go, I’m going – I just have a feeling that I ought to be there. You’re not really safe left on your own. Yes? No?”
“Yes,” said Mannering.
Liddell Street was easy to find; it took them less than a quarter of an hour from Chelsea by car. It was a long, narrow street of terraced houses. No one was about. Mannering saw a door numbered 9, drove on for a hundred yards, then pulled into the kerb and switched off the headlights. The purr of the engine faded into silence. Mannering opened the door and slid out. Lorna joined him on the pavement.
Stars shone out of a clear sky.
“This is Number 47,” said Lorna. “Your judgement of distance isn’t so good.”
“We’ll walk back,” Mannering said absently. He scanned the houses. Each was exactly the same, each had a little porch in front of the door, each was approached by three stone steps. Suddenly the street lamps went out simultaneously and left them with only the light of the stars and the Talbot’s side-lamps.
They walked briskly towards Number 29, Mannering watchful at every step; nothing appeared to move. The fights at two windows went out almost at the same time. Mannering shone a pencil torch on a doorway, numbered 31.
“Next door,” he said.
There was something square and pale in the window of Number 29. Mannering flicked the torch upward, and the word Apartments stood out, black on white. He led the way up the three steps and pushed the door. It was fastened. He rang the bell and could just hear the reverberating clang deep in the well of the house. He rang again, and as there was no response tapped the brass knocker; the sound was sharp and clear, but when the echo faded there was silence – no one came.
Chapter Three
Empty House?
Lorna said: “Are you sure it’s the right address?”
“Take the car,” Mannering said, “go round the block and find out if there’s a service road at the back of this terrace, if there is, come and tell me. If there isn’t, stay in the car where it’s parked now – a little nearer if you like – and wait.”
The question, “What are you going to do?” was obviously on Lorna’s lips. She didn’t utter it but hurried away. Her footsteps sounded loud in the quiet of the street.
Mannering looked at his watch; it was five minutes past twelve. He studied the lock of the door. He heard the engine of the car as it moved off. When all wa
s silent again, he looked up and down the street, but saw no movement. He turned back to the door, taking a penknife from his pocket. He had no gloves with him; fingerprints could be damning. He used the knife on the lock without touching the door itself.
Opening it took several nerve-wracking minutes. In his ears there seemed to beat the heavy tread of an approaching policeman, or a shrill cry of alarm from some neighbour who had noticed him.
The lock clicked back. He pressed the door with his forearm and it creaked open; darkness met him. He stepped inside. As he entered the hall a car turned into the street. His car? He watched. Lorna drove past, glancing towards him. She would see that the door was open, guess he had opened it. He closed the door but didn’t lock it. Inside, he could hear his heart solitarily beating. All else was silent. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, folded it in two and spread it over his right hand. He switched on a light.
The hall was tiny. A flight of stairs faced him, and a narrow passage ran alongside them. There were four doors here. Trying them gently, he found them to be locked. He went quickly up the carpeted stairs, keeping close to the wall so as to prevent them from squeaking. At the landing he put on another light. Here, five doors showed up, all closed. On each was a small white card and he looked at one and read: Arthur Bennett; at another and read: Miss Elsie Grey.
If there were someone in each of these rooms, why hadn’t the knocking been heard?
There were two problems: first, to find out what had happened to the frightened young man and ‘Miss Hill’; second, to make sure that he wasn’t trapped or tricked, and didn’t fall foul of the police. But Lorna would warn him if there were any cause for alarm. He glanced at the other cards, but none said: Miss Hill. He hadn’t answered Lorna when she had asked whether he had the right address, but—had he?
Still using the handkerchief, he tried the handle of the door nearest him. It opened. He peered into a bedroom and, in the tense silence, heard the sound of someone breathing. He crept further into the room. A girl lay on her side in bed, sleeping heavily; she didn’t stir. Mannering went back to the landing, then along a passage which led to another flight of stairs. Here the treads were covered with linoleum and squeaked as he went up. There was no light until he reached the next landing and switched on his torch.
There were four doors; on only one of them was a card. He read; Miss Alicia Hill.
He tried the handle; the door was locked.
He drew back and glanced at the next door, which had no card, and found that it opened easily. This was a double bedroom, and a man and woman lay in the large double bed, fast sleep – and breathing as heavily as the girl downstairs.
Theirs was a drugged sleep; so was the girl’s.
Mannering went back to Alicia Hill’s room and took out his knife, slipping his torch into his pocket. The lock was easy to force; the door rasped as it swung back. Darkness lay beyond. He went in and closed the door gently, and it rasped again. He listened intently, but could hear no sound of breathing. He groped for the switch and pressed it down.
Bright light shone from a hanging lamp on to a room in wild disorder.
A girl sat in an easy chair which was pushed close to the wall. Her head lolled forward, her fair hair falling straight and thick over her breast like golden armour.
Her eyes were closed, but her mouth was open, showing the handkerchief which had been stuffed into it. Mannering hardly noticed what she looked like as he gently withdrew it. He felt the girl’s pulse; it was beating faintly but steadily. He stood back, listening.
There was no other sound anywhere.
He looked swiftly round the room, and something in a corner caught his attention. It was a diamond ring, not a large stone by Mrs. Courtney’s standard, but quite large enough. He slipped it into his pocket and then went to a wardrobe which stood against the wall. From it he took a heavy coat and a pair of shoes. He put the shoes on to the girl’s feet, then raised her from the chair. It was difficult to get her arms into the sleeves, but he managed it, and buttoned the coat around her. She leaned heavily against him. No one would ever compare her with Mrs. Courtney, but she was a pretty thing; small, and well-shaped. He carried her to the door, hoisted her over his shoulder and took her down the first flight of stairs.
No one, nothing stirred.
On the ground floor was a hall chair. He sat the girl on it, then switched off the light and opened the front door cautiously. He saw the rear light of his car no more than ten yards away. The nearside door opened and Lorna leaned out.
Mannering waved.
He went back, lifted the girl and carried her outside. He couldn’t close the door behind him without touching it with his bare hands, so he left it ajar. By the time he reached the car, Lorna was on the kerb. She didn’t speak. Mannering lifted the helpless body of the girl inside, then drew back from the car.
Suddenly the sound of a cough broke the quiet. He glanced towards the end of the street. A tall silhouette, topped by a policeman’s helmet, showed against the dim light in the main road.
Mannering fought against panic.
The policeman came on, flashing his lamp at the doors.
The door of Number 29 was open; would it show up in the light? Mannering lit a cigarette deliberately, and Lorna whispered from the driving seat: “Hurry up!” it was her first sign of tension.
“Coming,” said Mannering.
He climbed in beside her. The policeman plodded slowly towards Number 29, his light flashing. Lorna switched on the engine as Mannering slammed the door.
“Take it easy,” he said.
He screwed round in his seat, seeing Alicia Hill’s corn-coloured hair as a wispy halo; the policeman’s torch showed behind her. He couldn’t be sure when the man reached Number 29.
Lorna eased off the brakes.
“Slow down at the corner,” said Mannering.
She drove slowly as far as the corner and as they turned, Mannering saw the beam of the policeman’s torch shining steadily. It was almost certainly focused on the door of Number 29.
They turned the corner and Lorna drove faster. “It’s your night for lovelies,” she said, but her tone killed the flippancy of the words. “Where are we taking this one?”
“Home,” said Mannering.
Lorna didn’t answer but turned towards the Embankment. They didn’t speak again until they reached the Chelsea house. No one was about. Mannering drew the girl from the car, hoisted her to his shoulder and carried her into the hall.
“I’ll put the car away,” said Lorna.
Mannering walked slowly up the stairs. The light was bright enough for him to see all the staircase. Outside his flat he stood with the girl over his shoulder, her legs dangling down to his knees, and turned the key. The flat was in darkness but he didn’t go in. He stood quite still, listening, for this was a night for danger. Hearing no movement, he took a chance, switched on the light and went inside. Nothing was disturbed.
They had no spare room, so he carried Alicia Hill into the drawing-room and laid her gently on a long settee. Bending over her, he felt her pulse again; it was still fairly steady. He went into the bedroom and brought an eiderdown and blankets, piling them on top of the girl so that only her face was visible. Then he went into the kitchen and put on a kettle. He was standing by the gas stove, hands deep in his pockets, when Lorna came in and closed the front door. She sent first into the drawing-room, but wasn’t there for long.
“Nice night,” greeted Mannering.
“Perfect. What on earth made you bring her away?”
“Quixoticism. Plus a possibility that when she comes round she will be so grateful that she will tell me all about everything, including young Mr. Courtney.”
“So it is that woman?!”
Mannering laughed. “I’m still guessing, but it’s a possibility. If Mrs. Courtney is the villainess, it’s a curious job. Don’t we love curious jobs?”
“Personally, I loathe them. You have brought home a strange young wom
an who has been victim of a—oh, you’ve gone quite crazy now,” said Lorna. She opened a cupboard and took out two hot water bottles. “What I mean is, you’ve landed yourself in a mess. She has been attacked, hasn’t she?”
“Yes. Her room was upside down. Robbery – nothing really unpleasant. I think the thieves, found what they wanted – all except one little thing.” He laughed, took the diamond ring from his pocket and let it lie on the palm of his hand while Lorna filled the hot water bottles. It sparkled and shone as he tossed it into the air and caught it. “One piece of ice, as they say in the vernacular. Not a very good piece of ice, if I’m any judge.” He went out suddenly, turned into his study, took a watchmaker’s glass from a drawer and stuck it into his eye. He switched on a powerful light immediately above the desk and studied the jewel, pushing it this way and that with his forefinger. He was still doing this when Lorna came in.
“Well?” she asked.
“Paste,” said Mannering. “Paste, beyond any shadow of doubt, precious! If all the rest of the stuff at Alicia’s flat was as valuable as that, it’s worth forty pounds, not forty thousand.”
“Why are you so sure that it’s the Courtney woman’s?”
“I’m still guessing. How’s the patient?”
“She’ll be all right,” said Lorna, “but I don’t think she’ll come round tonight. I had a look at her eyes; the pupils are pin points – she’s been drugged all right.”
“Yes, they’d all been drugged.”
“All?”
“A whole household. Quite a performance, in its way, and when the police get on to the job they’ll have a headache. They’re probably on to it now. I hope I didn’t leave any dabs anywhere, because if I did we shall have a visit from Superintendent Bristow before the night’s out. If I didn’t, Bristow will be all het up looking for a missing girl and wondering why someone went through her room like a tornado. The thieves went to extreme lengths, didn’t they? One of the slickest jobs I’ve ever come across, and nicely timed. The question is, of course, whether my frightened young man is young Mr. Courtney or not.”
