by John Creasey
“Oh, he will be,” said Lorna resignedly. “John, don’t you ever pause to think? If they discover that you were at that house—”
“We’ll find a convincing explanation. We’ve plenty of other things to worry about. A lovely damsel for whom the police are searching on our couch, and a question – what happened to the young man who telephoned me? Was he knocked over the head and taken away, together with the jewels? While we’re asking questions, we’ll also ask whether all the stuff in her room was paste, and whether young Mr.-maybe-Courtney knew that it was paste. My guess is that he didn’t. Sure there’s no hope of the girl coming round tonight?”
“None at all.”
Mannering said slowly: “Ought we to have a doctor?”
“No, she won’t come to any harm,” said Lorna, “you know that yourself. I—” The telephone bell rang.
Chapter Four
Night Call
Lorna caught her breath.
“That’s the police! Who else would call at half-past one in the morning?”
“Never heard of wrong numbers?” asked Mannering. The telephone bell was ringing in sharp, regular bursts.
“Don’t answer!” He saw Lorna snatch her hand away, and grinned. “We are in a dead sleep, didn’t you know? All self-respecting people sleep heaviest in the early hours. It takes a long time to wake them.” He moved to the telephone, and gently pushed Lorna to one side. The ringing sound was very loud.
Mannering put a hand on the telephone, yawned, yawned again, and then lifted the receiver. He yawned a third time and muttered: “Hallo?” and sounded more asleep than awake. “Hallo, who’ssat?”
“Is that Mr. Mannering?” The voice at the other end of the line was crisp and authoritative.
“That’s right,” said Mannering, and yawned again.
“Thank you,” said the man; and immediately rang off.
Mannering looked at the earpiece blankly, rubbed the back of his neck as he replaced it, and took out cigarettes.
“Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.”
“What—”
“He just wanted to know whether I was Mr. Mannering,” said Mannering. “It could have been a policeman checking that I was at home. Or it could have been someone connected with our Mrs. Courtney, just making sure that I’ve been asleep. Was I convincing?”
“I suppose so.”
“A prophet has no honour! Care to make a cup of coffee, or are you going to turn in right away?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Sleep in a chair beside the pretty Alicia, so that she can breathe sweet somethings in my ear the moment she comes round,” said Mannering. “I wonder who telephoned?”
“Never mind who telephoned. You’re not going to sit up all night; you’ll need to have your wits about you in the morning. We’ll carry her into the bedroom, I’ll sleep with her and you can sleep on the couch. If she comes round I’ll call you. You’ll get more rest that way, and won’t miss anything. I don’t think we’ll worry about coffee now. You have a drink.”
“There are times when you’re really a lovable woman,” marvelled Mannering. “I don’t mind if I do. Just a little one. You?”
“I’m going to get the bed ready,” said Lorna.
In Mannering’s bed, sleeping on her side, Alicia Hill had all the defenceless charm of youth. There was colour in her cheeks, and she appeared to be breathing naturally. Mannering didn’t try her pulse again, preferring not to disturb her. He moved away to Lorna’s side of the room, and kissed her with that strange mixture of affection, passion, and comfortable routine that makes up a husbandly embrace.
“Thanks,” he said. “Goodnight.”
He went to sleep, expecting to be called early; but when he woke it was broad daylight. He heard sounds about the flat. He lay comfortably on his back while recollection of what had happened came slowly. The couch was fairly near the wall, he was able to stretch out and press the bell for Ethel, the maid. But Lorna, not Ethel came in.
“Slept like a top,” said Mannering apologetically. “No odd murders or burglaries or anything like that?”
“No, and nothing in the newspapers,” said Lorna. “I—oh, thanks, Ethel.” The maid, short, plump, with lank dark hair and an unexpectedly bright smile, plodded into the room with a morning tea-tray. “It’s nine o’clock,” said Lorna. “Breakfast in half an hour, Ethel.”
“Yes’m. Good morning, sir.”
“What did you tell her?” asked Mannering, gazing after Ethel’s respectable back.
“That a friend called unexpectedly,” said Lorna, pouring out. “The more I think about it the crazier I think you are. If you’d called the police the girl could have told them what had happened. There’d have been no trouble and you could still have kept your appointment with the Courtney woman – nothing would keep you away, anyhow.”
“There’s no appointment. But maybe you’re right,” conceded Mannering. “Impulse is a dubious quality. But remember how anxious Mrs. Richard Courtney is to hide this family scandal from the police.”
“And think how awkward it would be for her if the police put her through an interrogation.”
“It’ll come! Don’t be sour, darling, it doesn’t suit you. No telephone calls, no nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh well,” said Mannering. “I’ll nip into the bath quickly. Keep Alicia asleep until I’m out.”
“How do you know that her name’s Alicia?”
“Call it birdsong,” said Mannering.
His bath water was ready, the tepid temperature he liked in the mornings. He whistled as he towelled himself, slipped on his dressing-gown. Going out of the bathroom he saw Lorna coming from the bedroom; Lorna didn’t need to tell him that Alicia was awake, for the girl was crying.
She was sitting up in bed, and tears flooded her eyes. She no longer looked attractive. She wore one of Lorna’s bed jackets, her hair was untidy, her hands were at her face. Mannering left her to Lorna, and dressed hurriedly. When he reached the bedroom again, Alicia had stopped crying and was saying: “I’m sorry I was—so silly.” She looked up, saw Mannering, and started. “Who—”
“This is my husband,” said Lorna. “He took you away last night.”
“Our name is Mannering,” Mannering stood looking down at Alicia, smiling cheerfully. He pulled up a chair and sat down. Lorna moved strategically away with a murmured excuse. Mannering studied the girl as she watched him. He saw the nervous way her hands were clasped, and sensed the fear which lay behind her forced composure. He sensed more – she wasn’t frightened just because she had been attacked during the night, and brought here; she had been worried for a long time. He said: “Well, Alicia, what happened?”
The girl murmured, non-committally.
“I must know more about it if I am to help either of you.”
She said sharply: “Either? What do you mean?”
“You and young Courtney.”
She gasped and drew back, unclasping her hands. He knew, then, beyond all doubt, that this affair was connected with the lovely Mrs. Courtney. He didn’t change his expression, even when she cried: “How did you know? Are you one of them?”
“No, I’m not. But I’ve picked up some odds and ends of information, Alicia. Supposing I tell you what I think I know. Young Courtney and you are friends. He asked you to look after some jewels for him. You kept them in your room, and during the night you were attacked and robbed. The thieves threatened you with all kinds of torture and made you tell them where the jewels were, but—”
“I didn’t tell them!”
“It might have helped if you had. Did they hurt you?”
“No – not really,” she said. “How do you know all this?”
“By putting two and two together. What’s young Courtney’s first name?”
“Nigel.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Oh, for months.”
“How long have you known that he’s
been in trouble?”
She didn’t answer.
Mannering said: “All right, we’ll come to that later. Was he with you last night?”
“No,” she said, and then words rushed out of her. “He was coming to see me. I thought it was him when the others arrived. He told me earlier he’d try to come, but that he might be late. He was scared last night; I think he knew that there was something the matter. He just didn’t turn up. The others—”
“How many others?”
“Two.”
“Would you recognise them again?”
“I don’t think I should,” said Alicia Hill slowly. “They wore masks – those silly carnival things. They tapped at the door. I thought it was Nigel. He has a key. I’d given him up and was in bed. When I opened the door they overpowered me. They wanted to know where the jewels were, and—slapped my face and hit me. When I wouldn’t talk they gagged me to prevent me from crying out, and then they injected something into my arm.”
“Just a sleeping dope; it did no harm,” said Mannering. “You’ll be as right as a trivet in a few hours. When did you last see Nigel?”
“About—about five o’clock yesterday afternoon.”
“Where?”
“He came to the office. It was awkward; we’re not supposed to have private visitors, but he managed it, and gave me the packet. He said I was to keep it until he came for it again – the message came to the house, about half-past nine, I think.” She pressed her hand against her forehead, and her eyes were feverishly bright. “I wasn’t sure—what was in the packet; Nigel didn’t tell me. The men asked where the jewels were, so—I guessed.”
“Was it the first time you’d heard about jewels?”
“Yes!”
“But Nigel has been in some kind of trouble for a while, hasn’t he?”
She leaned back and closed her eyes – and Lorna chose that moment to come in with tea. She said: “You go and have some breakfast, John.” He didn’t argue.
Sausages and eggs were on the hot-plate, three morning papers were by his plate. He ate and glanced through the headlines, keeping an ear cocked for sounds from the bedroom. None came. He finished, and lit a cigarette. It would be easy to call what had happened coincidence, but that was too easy an explanation. Both Mrs. Richard Courtney and her stepson had thought of getting his help – he’d learn why, later, it didn’t greatly matter now. If he took the situation at its face value, then Nigel had stolen the diamonds, intending to cash in on them, but had been prevented – by whom?
His stepmother?
It was too early to start guessing; from now on he must work on facts. And one fact refused to fit in with everything else he knew; the fact that the diamond which he’d found was a fake. Did that mean that all the stones stolen from Mrs. Courtney were fakes? If so, it might explain why she had been so anxious not to have the police on the job. She wouldn’t want her husband to know that the jewels were replicas. But he was starting the guessing game again, seeing things which might not be there. He must set aside everything except the facts, and the known facts were simple enough.
Lorna came in.
“And what kind of trouble was Nigel in?” asked Mannering promptly.
“She doesn’t appear to know much about Nigel’s trouble; she’s had enough of her own. They are in love.”
“You astound me.”
“And they have been for some time. Mrs. Courtney does not approve. Courtney doesn’t know anything about it; he’s been in America for the past six months. The beautiful shell made life impossible both for Nigel and Alicia. She went to the extent of cutting off Nigel’s allowance – which was fairly generous – and he’ll probably have to get a job.”
“Which should be good for him.”
“You can be a beast, can’t you?” asked Lorna. “He didn’t care a damn for his stepmother, but was worried about his father’s reaction to the affaire with Alicia, because she’s just a—”
“Little shop girl?”
“Filing clerk, actually. Oh, it’s a silly business, on the surface,” said Lorna. “For probably snobbish reasons the woman doesn’t want this girl in the family, so she’s done everything she can to make things difficult for them. Alicia says she doesn’t know Nigel’s actual position, but she’s realised for some time that he’s been in a financial mess. He contracted debts which were quite normal when he had his allowance, but without it – well, he’s been dunned. Yesterday, he told Alicia that he’d managed to get out of the trouble; that was yesterday morning. By the afternoon he was getting nervous and wished the jewels on to her. You know the rest.”
“Do you like what you’ve heard of Nigel?” asked Mannering.
“He’s probably all right.”
“Young men who steal jewels, pass them on to their girl friends, and leave them to take the rap, don’t reach Grade I.”
“You don’t know the circumstances.”
“I know a lot about the character of Alicia’s Nigel and don’t much like it,” said Mannering drily. “A pampered youth, to whom a bit of hard going might do some good. It’s even possible that Mrs. Courtney realised it and tried a cure of her own – I can’t imagine that she would have much time for a spineless young man, can you?”
“I’ve never known you jump to conclusions quite so vigorously,” said Lorna. “You haven’t seen the boy. You don’t even know where he is.”
“I know where he should have been last night – with Alicia guarding those jewels. He knew that someone else was after them, of course; that was why he was so anxious to sell them quickly. Well – what’s next?”
“You could go to the police.”
“Or find Nigel. I could go to his flat.”
“What chance do you think there is of finding him there now?”
Mannering laughed. “Not much. I think I’ll go and see his step-ma – may I?”
“I’ve never found a way of chaining you to me yet,” said Lorna. “What about the girl?”
“Keep her here.”
“She’s nervous about staying away from the office.”
“Telephone the office for her—no, don’t do that! The police know that she’s missing, they might be at the office already. Just let her lie low.”
“I suppose you’re beginning to see the mess you’ll get into with the police when all this comes out,” said Lorna. “I don’t see any sense in keeping away from them. If you tell them everything at this stage they’ll be reasonable. If you hold it back indefinitely—”
“Oh, not indefinitely. Just until I’ve seen Mrs. Courtney again. Then I’ll see the pundits at the Yard. They may have picked up the two bad men by now; may know where Nigel Courtney is and have the whole thing in the bag. It has been known. It’s almost certain that they didn’t pick up any of my fingerprints last night, or they’d have been on to me by now. You can’t imagine Bill Bristow sitting tight on a job like this, can you?”
Lorna said slowly: “Yes, and so can you. He might give you enough rope to hang yourself. One day you’re certain to run into serious trouble with the police, John, and it’ll start with a mystery like this – when you’ve played the fool quite indefensibly, and—” she broke off.
Mannering said softly: “And they’ll rake up my murky past. The old, old fear. I shouldn’t let it get too deep, my sweet. I—”
The front door bell rang, and he stopped speaking. The door was closed. Lorna went across and opened it a crack. By then Ethel was speaking brightly to the caller. Neither Mannering nor Lorna could see who it was, but they recognised his voice.
“Ask him to see me at once, please. I am Superintendent Bristow, of Scotland Yard.”
Chapter Five
Vision
“Oh, yes, sir,” gasped Ethel ingratiatingly. She was a recent acquisition, knew only a little of Mannering’s reputation, and had never before opened the door to a police officer. “Come in, please.”
Mannering, standing just behind Lorna, saw that Bristow was within ten feet of the
door of his bedroom; within twenty feet of Alicia Hill, for whom the police were almost certainly looking.
Mannering smiled and raised a hand in greeting.
“Hallo, Bill, nice to see you.” The couch in the drawing-room still had the blankets and piled cushions on it. Bristow would notice that. “Come and have a cup of coffee?” Did he sound free and natural? Had Bristow come filled with suspicion? He could never quite be sure what was in the mind of this spruce, almost dapper man.
Bristow smiled genially and held out his hand.
“Not a bad idea. Thanks. Good morning Mrs. Mannering.”
Mannering drew him into the dining-room …
Bristow was never simply Bristow, the efficient amiable detective, the Yard’s expert on precious stones. To the Mannerings, he brought the past with him – a dark, menacing past. It was a cloud which often dispersed quickly, but sometimes opened into a deluge of suspicion and mistrust. He brought the past which had been in Lorna’s mind that morning – of the days when Mannering had been the Baron.
Jewel thief, cracksman, constant thorn in the flesh of the Yard, darling of the yellow press, friend of the oppressed and suffering – he had been all of these; man-about-town and dilettante in one guise, the Baron on the other, notorious or famous, daring or cowardly, depending on the way you looked at it. The past had merged gradually into the present, killing the bitterness which had engendered the Baron, turning the enemy of the law into its friend, the poacher into the game-keeper. Lorna knew; and Bristow knew.
In those old days Bristow had more than suspected but had never been able to prove the truth. Between the two men there had been personal liking; the improbable had happened and they had become friends. For Bristow, being honest, admitted that Mannering had helped to solve many a thorny mystery which might otherwise have gone unsolved. Yet the past could rise up in Bristow and strain their friendship almost to breaking point.
Would it now?
Did Bristow know that Mannering had been to Liddell Street?
“One lump, thanks,” said Bristow, as Lorna poured out a cup of coffee. “Late this morning, aren’t you?”
