by John Creasey
“A night with friends. We put one up here, and were chattering until the early hours. You look as bright as ever, Bill.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m too busy.” That could be a lead-in to a request for help; the improbable could happen again. “How are you fixed?”
“Up to my eyes.”
“Oh, I don’t want to add to your burdens,” said Bristow, taking a cigarette from Mannering’s proffered case. His easy, natural manner was suspicious in itself – as if he were here chiefly to disarm Mannering. “I don’t want you to add any to mine, either.”
Was that a threat? Or a warning?
“I’m all orthodox, these days,” murmured Mannering.
“Not while you’ve breath in your body! Your wife knows better than that.” Bristow sipped his coffee. “I looked in because I thought you may have heard a rumour or two, John.”
“I shut my ears to rumour.”
“You wouldn’t shut your ears to this one.” Was it imagination, or did the amiability in Bristow’s eyes turn to frostiness. “There’s some big stuff on the market. Have you heard anything about the Carla pearls?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“I’ll see you again before you go,” said Lorna, pleasantly, to Bristow. She hated to leave; but if she stayed too long, he would probably wonder why. Bristow drew deeply on his cigarette when she went out.
“I mean, have you heard that the Carla pearls are on the market?”
“No. They’re too big for me, anyhow – one of the most valuable collections in the country.”
“Nothing’s too big for you,” said Bristow. “It’s only a rumour, you understand. Courtney, who owns them, has been in the States for some months; the rumour may have sprung from that. He didn’t take the collection with him, of course – or, at least, they weren’t found in his luggage. It was gone through pretty thoroughly by both sides. Now rumours have reached two or three dealers that the pearls are on the market. Sure you’ve heard nothing?”
“No.” It was easy enough to meet Bristow’s eye.
“If you do, let me know, will you?” asked Bristow. “It was hinted that his wife was putting them on to the market. Do you know her?”
“We’ve met.”
“Remarkable woman,” said Bristow ruminatively. “Quite a beauty, too, and with a somewhat mysterious past – I don’t like people with mysterious pasts, do you?” Mannering grinned. “I don’t know a great deal about her, except that she’s been living the life of a recluse lately, then suddenly appeared in trade circles – whether trying to sell or buy jewels I don’t know. When did you meet her?”
“Last night,” said Mannering unexpectedly.
Bristow leaned back and chuckled; a deep chuckle of satisfaction. He put down his coffee cup, and took his cigarette from his lips. Mannering, watching, knew now why Bristow had come.
“What time?”
“Latish last night. About two minutes to ten.”
“What did she want? To buy or sell?”
“To recover.”
“Oh!” said Bristow, and his smile vanished. “So she’s lost some stuff has she?”
“She was mysterious. I am not to know the whole truth until I decide whether to help her.” Mannering rubbed his chin, and elaborated misleadingly: “Valuation was the ostensible reason, but when a wealthy woman makes a call on a stranger at ten o’clock at night to ask him to value some jewels, the stranger smells a large rat. I did. She was very vague, but obviously anxious that I should play.”
“Are you going to?”
“I want to see what she looks like in daylight.”
“Do that,” said Bristow. He lit a second cigarette from the stub of his first. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed! I’d like to find out what she’s after and what’s been happening. When I tell you that recently we’ve had her watched, and knew she’d come here last night, you’ll know that we’re seriously interested in her.”
“Hmm, yes,” said Mannering. “But what’s my cue? Work for her? If so, it’ll be on condition that I don’t disclose anything; she made that plain.”
“You’ll be judge of what you disclose,” said Bristow lightly. “You’re not fool enough to take risks with the Carla pearls; you’re becoming quite a sensible chap.” He stood up. “What time did she leave?”
“About half-past ten.”
“Was she alone?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever met her stepson?”
“No. She mentioned that she had one.”
“Hmm,” said Bristow. “Well, see what you can learn from the lady, John, and, above all, don’t let her down!” He laughed and shook hands again. When they reached the hall, Lorna came out of the next room; and a slot in the wall was open. “Watch this young man,” said Bristow, almost skittishly, “he’s reaching a dangerous age. Goodbye!”
Mannering closed the front door on Bristow. Lorna said: “Well, well!” and led the way back to the dining-room. Mannering poured himself out another cup of coffee and leaned against the table, drinking it, watching Lorna.
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough. How much does he suspect?”
“Not enough. If he dreamt that Alicia Hill was here he wouldn’t have been in that elephantine mood. Poor old Bill! It was one of his least successful efforts; too open and sincere by far and much too skittish. In effect, he said that he knows Mrs. Courtney’s after my help, and warns me to be wary. Nice of him. He knows a great deal more than he said, or the Yard wouldn’t be keeping a close watch on the lady. He doesn’t know we know what happened at Liddell Street – he believes that we’ve just had a visit from Nigel’s step-ma. Also, he wants me to dig out all the information I can. Not very obscure, is it?”
“The time to watch Bill Bristow is when he pretends to be as friendly as that,” said Lorna. “John, trouble’s building up fast. After this, how are you going to tell him what happened last night?”
“Why tell him?”
“Alicia will if you don’t. They’ll have to find her sooner or later, and she’ll tell her story factually. You may think that you’ll be able to persuade her not to, but if I know that girl, she’ll crack under police questioning in five minutes. She’s a simple little thing.”
“Hmm, yes,” said Mannering. “There was once a man who said something about believing only half what you see and nothing of what you hear. Try it with Alicia – there are hidden depths. As, possibly, with her Nigel. I’d better go and see what Ma Courtney has to say this morning – I can’t refuse to play ball with her now, can I?”
“You be careful,” said Lorna. “And find out something about Nigel Courtney. Alicia will be off her head with anxiety if she doesn’t hear from him soon.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mannering humbly.
Before he left, he found the telephone number of Nigel Courtney’s flat in the directory but could get no reply. That didn’t surprise him. He walked briskly to the garage, whistling. Bristow’s visit had stimulated him. It wasn’t only that; it was the mystery, the unexpected opportunity to get his mind working. Here was a puzzle which could be solved; here were people, and combinations of events, not always what they seemed. There was nothing in the world that cheered him up more. Lorna was reasonably happy about it, too. She would stop being happy the moment ‘real’ trouble developed; which meant violence. There was no indication yet of real violence, only of crime – and fear.
Fear? Was there any evidence of fear? Nigel Courtney had seemed afraid, but might have acted that way to arouse Mannering’s interest. Mannering smiled amiably as he nodded to a policeman near the garage where he kept the Talbot, and inserted his key in the lock. He turned it – and nothing happened; the door was unlocked. Lorna had put the car away and Lorna was usually very careful, but she’d had plenty on her mind the night before. Yet – it wasn’t like her. He was prepared to find that the car was missing, but as he opened the door he saw its shiny blackness and sleek lines.
That was al
l right …
As he moved forward towards the front of the car he heard a rustle of movement from his right. He turned sharply. A man leapt at him out of a dark corner, a weapon in an upraised hand. There was no chance for Mannering to defend himself, no chance to avoid the blow.
He fell at once, losing consciousness.
Chapter Six
Honoured Guest
He was in a moving car.
It was dark – and his head throbbed and beat furiously, his eyes were hot and painful. He tried to open them. There was some light, but not much; yet it hurt his eyes and he closed them again quickly. He shifted his position. He thought something touched him, but couldn’t be sure – and he didn’t greatly care. He must keep still, or his head would get worse. The car moved smoothly, but the tiniest jolt went through him. He found himself gritting his teeth. He opened his eyes again, but he couldn’t see well enough, in the gloom, to know whether he was alone.
A hand touched his.
“Swallow that,” a man said.
‘That’ was pushed into his hand – a tablet. He opened his eyes. All he saw was the pale blur of his hand and the whiteness of the tablet.
“It won’t hurt you; you’ll feel better after it.”
Mannering raised the tablet to his mouth, and then withdrew it.
There was no reason to think that the tablet was lethal. If they’d wanted to kill him they would have done so at the garage; a few more blows like the one he’d received would have finished him. So, logically, the tablet would help him. His hand trembled when he put the thing to his lips again. His body, arms and legs seemed weak. He tossed the tablet in, but it stuck in his throat and made him cough. Coughing turned his head into a ball of agony. He gulped, and the evil-tasting thing broke in his mouth.
“Take a sip of this,” the man said.
Something was pressed against his lips. He held his head back. He glimpsed the cap of a vacuum flask and the pale hand of the man by his side. Water trickled into his mouth and washed the tablet down. He turned his head slightly. He was alone with the man in a large car – there was plenty of room to stretch their legs. The blinds were down at the windows and at the partition which separated him from the driver.
Mannering leaned back.
After a while the swaying motion of the car seemed easier. His head was no longer splitting with every movement and the pain in his eyes was less insistent. When he looked about him he was able to see more clearly. The man by his side was a little fellow, Mannering would recognise him again. He didn’t look at Mannering or show the slightest interest in him.
Mannering closed his eyes again.
First thought – to escape. But the car was travelling at a good speed. Did that matter? The blinds were down, the driver couldn’t see what was happening behind. This man was too casual. A sudden attack would probably overcome him; it shouldn’t be difficult. One well-timed, well-placed blow – certainly he couldn’t make a fight of it. He had the sense to know that.
The man said; “You just take it easy, Mannering, and don’t make any trouble for yourself.”
Mannering didn’t speak.
The car turned off the road – a main one, judging from the number of cars which hummed past – on to a rougher surface. Mannering put his hand up to his head, and prodded gingerly. When he took his hand away and examined his fingers there was no blood on them.
“You’ll be okay, if you’re careful,” the man said. “We shan’t be long now.”
That meant that if Mannering were to try to escape this was the time. But he wouldn’t have a chance unless he could take the man by surprise; that wasn’t likely. And – was it the wisest thing to do? Even if he could get away, should he? If he escaped, where would he be? Somewhere in the country, a few miles from his intended destination, but without any way of discovering that destination. He’d know little or nothing more than he did already – except that he had run into the trouble Lorna had feared.
Was the car a Rolls Royce? Or a Daimler? Something big; something which a wealthy man might run – these weren’t little, chiselling crooks. No crooks who were after the Carla pearls would be small timers; they had big ideas.
Mannering settled back in his corner; the sensible thing was to wait. At least he would see someone else, and this man had made no attempt to conceal his face.
The driver changed gear. The car turned left, on to an even rougher road. A drive to a private house? The road led upwards, he could feel that. The man by his side stirred, and for the first time showed a gun. He didn’t draw attention to it, just slipped it into a pocket in the door of the car.
The car stopped.
“This is where we get out,” said the man. He had an unimpressive voice which held neither emotion nor culture; just a quiet, ordinary English voice without venom or malice. He leaned across Mannering, but before he touched the handle the door opened. A stocky man in chauffeur’s uniform stood back. Mannering’s companion climbed past him, and the chauffeur put a hand inside to help Mannering. Mannering needed the help. His legs bent under him; he would have fallen but for the man’s support. The chauffeur had a square, heavy face, which was quite expressionless. They were at the bottom of a short flight of wide, stone steps. Mannering could just see the porch of a house.
The chauffeur helped him up the steps to a large, richly-decorated hall. The walls were white-panelled, and hung with several excellent landscapes. A staircase with a wide sweep curved graciously upwards. All the white doors round the hall were closed.
“Stand still a minute,” his car-companion said. “You’ll be all right; don’t rush it.”
That meant they were going up the stairs. The thought of climbing them was an immediate horror. They started off, Mannering’s arm held firmly. They reached a landing. The sun shone through a stained-glass window which threw glowing colours on to the walls and spread brightness everywhere; this was a house of beauty.
They turned into a wide passage, passed two closed doors, reaching a third, which stood ajar. Mannering’s companion pushed it wider open and then stood aside.
“In you go,” he said.
It was a huge room; light; delightful; luxurious. There was a double bed; big, graceful, off-white furniture; a pale grey carpet. Mannering’s feet sank into the pile. One large window had a wide bay.
“You’ll be all right here,” the man said, and without another word turned and left the room.
Mannering stood a couple of yards from the door, and heard the lock click. There was something decisive and final about that sharp sound. He turned and stared at the door, without realising it, his gaze fell on the keyhole and the lock. It was just a lock that might be found in any house. There were few things easier to open if you knew how. He kept staring at it – and then suddenly he laughed. It was little more than a breath of sound, but he wished he hadn’t given it, for it seemed to lift his head off his shoulders. He stood quite still until it had steadied again, walked slowly towards a large armchair and lowered himself into it. Sitting down brought relief and comfort. Gradually his head stopped swimming, and the numbness which held no pain, returned.
What time was it?
He glanced stiffly at his watch. It was a quarter past one.
He’d left the flat at half-past ten. So he was about two and a half hour’s drive from the centre of London, which meant between seventy and eighty miles away from Chelsea – perhaps a little more, judging by the speed of a powerful car.
He thought of London.
Lorna would expect him back by one o’clock or so. She wouldn’t be surprised if he were delayed but she would soon be on edge, expecting to hear from him. He shifted his position, supporting himself on the arms of the chair until he was steady enough to stand. Not bad. He went slowly to the window. The room overlooked a large flower garden and sweeping lawns. Daffodils and early tulips crowded the great borders; here was beauty.
He turned and walked freely about the room, testing and strengthening his limbs. In on
e corner was a narrow door, unlocked. It led to a large, perfectly appointed bathroom, with a door on to the passage. This was locked. He returned to the chair, and sat down.
When a man as wealthy as the owner of this place resorted to crime, it was big crime.
The owner? He was at the old game of jumping to conclusions, and was old enough to know better. The owner might know nothing about this kidnapping. There was something missing in the room; the little oddments you would expect to find in a room which was regularly used. Photographs, for instance, and other trifles. He went to a beautiful writing table in a corner, sat down, and opened the drawers; none was locked. The top drawer was the widest; he wasn’t surprised to find a photograph in a frame, face downwards. He drew it out, but before he looked at it heard footsteps in the passage – muffled yet audible. He sat quite still, his head turned towards the door.
The footsteps passed.
He brushed his hand over his forehead and found it damp. He wasn’t going to enjoy this visit because he wasn’t in complete control of himself. Drug or no drug, it would be some time before he was able to throw off the effects of that clout over the head.
He turned the photograph right way up.
Beauty, in the guise of Mrs. Courtney, stared up at him.
Chapter Seven
Home Ground?
There she was, as unmistakable as the Mona Lisa; and she was smiling. In this photograph there was the hint that her smile had shown the previous night. It held a promise – but of what?
He put the photograph down, the face, looking upward, continuing to influence him, and drew out another. It was of an elderly man, not old, but much older than the woman. Probably Richard Courtney. It was a kindly face. Good? The eyes were clear and grave – perhaps gravity was the predominant expression. He was a man whom you would respect, a man whose strength of character showed through the pasteboard.
Across one corner was written: To Thelma.
Mannering stood the photographs up and looked at them in turn. Husband and wife? It would be easier to believe that they were father and daughter. How old was Thelma Courtney? Certainly not much more than thirty.
