A Good Read

by John Creasey

  He was, nevertheless, a reasonably contented man, happily married, satisfied that his Assistant Commissioner trusted him, and confident that he could get the utmost out of his men. The C.I.D. was undoubtedly understaffed, but what staff it had was highly trained and efficient.

  He sat in his sunlit office, overlooking the Embankment, just after midday on that June morning. His desk was so placed that he could see the Thames, the great building across the river, a part of Westminster Bridge with its three-lamp standards, and part of the Embankment. The leaves of the plane trees growing close to the window were a light-green, casting a shadowy tracery, which moved in the gentle breeze, on the window and his desk. His was a large and airy room in the new building, furnished with two desks, a book-case, a few photographs of long-dead C.I.D. Chiefs, two filing cabinets and, of course, all the impedimenta of an office.

  Bristow’s chief grouse was that the higher he rose in the Force, the more time he had to spend at his desk. He preferred to be out on the job.

  He was alone in the office; Detective-Inspector Gordon, who usually occupied the other desk, was suffering from an attack of summer ’flu. That meant more detail and desk work for Bristow. But the short summer nights had brought the usual slackening of the crime wave, and there was a welcome lull in more audacious crimes.

  The telephone bell rang.

  Bristow lifted the receiver, taking a cigarette out of his mouth with his other hand.

  “Superintendent Bristow speaking.”

  “There’s a gentleman asking for you,” said a man with a quiet voice. “A Mr. Mannering, sir. He asks whether you can spare him a few minutes.”

  “Mr. Who?” Bristow’s voice rose.

  “Mr. Mannering, sir—Mr. John Mannering.”

  Bristow looked out of the window as he said slowly: “All right, ask him to come up. He knows the way, you needn’t send anyone with him.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Bristow replaced the receiver and reached for another cigarette from an open packet. He lit it from the stub of the first, then pressed the stub out on an ash-tray, drawing hard at the fresh cigarette.

  All this was slow and deliberate – like a man who had received a shock, and was fighting to overcome it. Gradually a contemplative look replaced the one of surprise and he rubbed his nicotine-stained moustache with his forefinger.

  The last time John Mannering had entered Scotland Yard it had been as a thief.

  He had visited this room; stolen – or rather burned in this very grate – some important evidence, then escaped. It was the most daring thing a daring man had ever done. Had the police used the evidence which Mannering had destroyed, an innocent man might have been hanged, but—

  Bristow’s thoughts went farther back, to the time when all England had been agog at the activities of a cracksman called The Baron; a high-spirited and reckless jewel-thief, who selected his victims with great care, robbing the unworthy rich and helping the poor. The Baron had blazed like a comet in the sky, setting the police at Scotland Yard and throughout the country by the ears, a laughing, devil-may-care knave who caught the interest of the press and the hearts of the people. They dubbed him Robin Hood, and laughed with him at the police; they followed the stories of his escapades breathlessly. He had been a criminal whom few disliked – but who was bound to be trapped.

  The police hadn’t caught him.

  After a while, no more stories were told about the Baron, thief; but about a Baron who worked for the law, although not with the police; who helped to solve many crimes; and thus he entrenched himself more firmly in the affections of the people.

  At the same time, a certain John Mannering became known as a collector of precious stones; a jewel-expert who was occasionally consulted by Scotland Yard. Very few dreamed that Mannering and

  The Baron were one and the same.

  Bristow knew, but he had never been able to prove it.

  To the world at large, Mannering had for long been known both as a jewel-expert, and the owner of Quinns, that small, fashionable antique shop in Hart Row, off Bond Street. He was well known and well liked. He had married a woman more renowned than himself; Lorna Mannering’s paintings were hung every year at the Royal Academy; her portraits were sought after by all who wanted to be in the fashion and to bask in reflected glory.

  All these things passed through Bristow’s mind.

  Now Mannering was coming up the stairs.

  “Come in,” said Bristow.

  Mannering entered; smiling.

  Bristow knew him as if he were his own son. The dark hair and hazel eyes which held gay laughter, the crinkling lines at eyes and mouth, the tall, lean figure, the immaculate clothes – yet Bristow had another shock. Mannering’s right eye was bloodshot, and one temple red and puffy; it looked painful.

  “Hallo, Bill,” said Mannering, mildly.

  Bristow stood up.

  “What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Man must work to eat, you know, we can’t all be policemen.”

  “I mean that bruise,” said Bristow.

  “Oh, come. No need to call a bruise like that a bruise, it’s a whacking great lump. And is it tender! My head feels as taut as a drum, and I have blinding flashes across my eyes, which make me quite unsafe at the wheel. That’s why I bumped into a car in your yard, I hope I didn’t damage it.”

  “So do I,” said Bristow. “It was probably the Assistant Commissioner’s.”

  He offered his hand; he hadn’t meant to.

  There was no actual change in Mannering’s expression, but as he shook hands, he seemed to relax; he hadn’t been sure of his welcome. He sat down on an upright chair, and took out his cigarette-case. Bristow couldn’t keep his eyes away from that livid bruise.

  “Who did that?”

  Mannering lit his cigarette.

  “A little man in black whom I didn’t see properly, and he scampered off as fast as he could go, leaving me as dizzy as a lizard in a twister. It wouldn’t surprise me if he isn’t the chap who killed Lord Lithom, although I can’t really be sure. Queer thing is, it’s left me hungry. You wouldn’t care to lunch with a bad man would you?”

  “Meaning whom?”

  “Dull this morning, aren’t you? Meaning me.”

  “Where?” asked Bristow.

  “Oh, all the right places, or any of them. Bott’s. Cherry’s. Pallerino’s—yes. I think perhaps Pallerino’s, all the notorious people eat there. Film stars and cabinet ministers, master-criminals and financiers—you know the kind of place. Yes?”

  Bristow considered.

  “I’d heard you’d been poking about,” he said, “and managed to bribe someone to let you see the report on the autopsy of Lord Lithom. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  Mannering placed a finger in close proximity to his tender temple, but made no comment.

  Bristow pushed a bell-push which was set beneath the edge of his desk, a sergeant came in and said: “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going out, Petherick, and if I should be wanted, I’ll be at Pallerino’s. Don’t call me there unless it’s urgent.”

  “Very good, sir.” The sergeant turned away, caught sight of Mannering’s face out of the corner of his eye, and stared. The door closed. Bristow reached for his hat, on a chair.

  They walked downstairs together, and out by the main exit of the new building. Several cars were parked close to the wall. One was Mannering’s Sunbeam-Talbot, another, a homely green Morris concealing a super-charged engine.

  “I’d better drive, I think,” said Bristow.

  “So do I,” said Mannering. “I really am sorry, Bill.”

  “It’s all right,” said Bristow, surprised, “I’m being taken out. It isn’t often—”

  Then he saw the dent in the off-side wing of his car. He went forward and examined it; the car was still road-worthy. He shot Mannering a glance of mingled reproach and anger. “You’re not safe to be out on your own.”

  “Our poli
cemen are so wonderful,” said Mannering. “I’ll pay, and I know a garage where they repair black marketeers’ cars, so they have to look slippy.” He climbed in next to Bristow, who drove out of the yard in silence. Mannering did not speak again until they were moving along the Embankment towards the Houses of Parliament. Then he said: “Bill, it’s a nasty business. An excess of evil, nothing quite normal, little you could put a finger on, and yet I thought it necessary to drive from Berkshire this morning, just to take you out to lunch.”

  “You’ve driven up from Berkshire, with that head—you’re a bigger fool than I thought you were!”

  “Well, you see, she’s young and charming.”

  “Who is?”

  “Lithom’s daughter. And she has nightmares.”

  Bristow negotiated the traffic at the end of Westminster Bridge, and forgot to return the salute of the constable on point duty who held up the traffic for him. He cut across the corner and then round Parliament Square and along Great George Street into St. James’s Park. The grass was looking beautiful, flowers were brilliant, most of the signs of wartime damage were gone. Office workers thronged the grass and crowded round the lake, admiring the water-fowl, or sat or sprawled on their backs, sun-bathing, luxuriating.

  “You are one big nightmare,” announced Bristow.

  “Yes, I know. Only these are the real McCoy. You see, she walks in her sleep, too.”

  “Very interesting,” said Bristow.

  “And last night she walked into the study and saw a corpse on the carpet, gore oozing from a cut throat. I went to investigate shortly afterwards and found only a spot of blood and a mysterious merchant whom I took for a servant. When the girl was pacified, I went innocently to my room, and the pseudo-servant cracked me over the head with this, and made off.” Mannering drew from inside his coat the ebony ruler.

  “My night for mistakes, William, but he wore gloves so I haven’t destroyed prints. I discovered one or two odd things, to save my reputation.”

  Bristow said: “What else, then?”

  “Finger-prints on book-cases which haven’t been used for weeks or more. Creaking noises. That spot of blood, and a carpet which looked as if someone had been having a nap on it—or else had decided to lie down and die right there. You know how a carpet with a thick pile can look when it’s been trampled on. Just where Gloria said she saw the body, too.”

  “Blood? Or red ink?”

  “Oh, sceptic,” said Mannering, and drew out an envelope. “I cut off the pile and preserved it. I also left instructions with a reliable butler, named Wirral, to lock the study and to take away the key, and to have no cleaning done in there for a day or two. If I’d had any equipment with me, I’d have tried to get prints, but I hadn’t. Silly of me, as I was going down to comfort poor Gloria, but I’m always doing silly things.”

  Bristow grunted, turned the car into a side street and drew up beside a drab grey building, outside which stood a massive commissionaire in a uniform that would have looked well in The Gondoliers. The commissionaire hurried forward and opened the door. As Mannering got out, the man caught sight of the bump, and his eyes widened.

  They stepped out of the greyness of London into the glow of luxury. Pallerino’s avoided ostentation, but succeeded in looking a fit place for millionaires. Discretion was the keynote; discretion and light-oak panelling, magnificent comfort, concealed wall-lighting, a cool atmosphere and sleek, well-fed waiters moving quietly among the many tables, most of which were occupied. A portly man, who looked like a Grand Duke in evening-dress, came up and inclined his head and gave Mannering a warm welcome. He led them to a corner table for two, so placed that no one could overhear what they said, and glanced at Mannering’s head but did not stare. As soon as they were seated, his myrmidons came up, and the Grand Duke murmured: “The Bollinger ’36, M’sieu.”

  “Fizz, Bill?” asked Mannering.

  “Not for you with that head,” said Bristow. “I’d rather have a can of beer myself.”

  Mannering smiled apologetically at the Grand Duke.

  “I’m sorry, Edouard,” he said. “But I’m not well and my friend is angry with me. He recovers his usual serenity better on beer. What do you suggest to follow?”

  They went seriously into the question of food, reached full agreement which was transmitted to one of the Grand Duke’s underlings, who scribbled as swiftly as ever one of Bristow’s shorthand writers, then disappeared. Before long, there appeared for Bristow a plate of soup which silenced even him, and for Mannering, a pâté.

  At last, Bristow asked bluntly: “Why come to me, John? You usually think you can handle a thing like this a lot better than we can.”

  “Not fair,” declared Mannering. “Some things are allergic to large boots and the mills of the law, and an amateur like me can do better, whether you believe it or not. There are other times when I wouldn’t compete with the Yard for a million pounds, and some when it seems to me that we could work nicely together. It’s a long time since we’ve done that.”

  “If a crime has been committed, it’s our job,” said Bristow flatly. The waiter appeared again and ministered to them, and Bristow went on immediately the man had gone. “When I heard that you’d seen the autopsy reports, I went closely into the death of Lord Lithom. There’s no indication that it was foul play. He was riding over broken country, something scared his horse—or it put its foot in a hole—and over he went and broke his neck. No one was near him at the time, and the body wasn’t found for nearly ten hours—by which time his daughter was alarmed and had informed the local police that he was missing. No one, as far as the local police could discover, had any reason to want him dead.”

  “So the possibility of foul play was considered?”

  “It always is.”

  “Not very seriously, in the provinces, when it’s a clear case of the accidental death of a big wig,” said Mannering.

  Bristow gave a reluctant little laugh.

  “All right. They went into it closely, and even asked our advice. The reasons—an anonymous letter saying that he’d been murdered. We went to a lot of trouble to find out who wrote that letter, and traced it to his daughter. Her nerves were already cracking, so we didn’t worry her about it.”

  “Kindly souls, policemen,” murmured Mannering. “You couldn’t find a suspect of any kind?”

  “The only person in the world to benefit much from Lord Lithom’s death was his daughter,” said Bristow flatly. “There was no male descendant anywhere in the family, so the title died out and she inherited everything except for a few charitable bequests.” Bristow said all this between mouthfuls, and there was a far-away look in his eyes, but whether that was because of the death of the Earl of Lithom, or because of the genius of Pallerino’s chef, no one could have guessed. “She got the house, the grounds, the London house—which has been shut up since the old man’s death—all the goods and chattels and the money amounting to nearly half a million after death duties were paid. But she was already wealthy in her own right; there was no motive for her to commit murder. In any case, she was at the house all day. No shadow of doubt about that. Usually she went riding with him, but that morning she had a headache so he went alone.”

  “Curious,” said Mannering.

  “What’s curious about a headache? Haven’t you got one now?”

  “But she wasn’t bumped on the head. Anyhow. I didn’t suggest that Gloria’s thick head was curious, even the good-living and the righteous get bilious attacks. She suffers from migraine, and was flat out that day. The curious thing is, that on one of the rare days that Lithom was out on his own, he was killed. He was riding where they always rode, the ground was as familiar to his horse as it was to him.”

  “Anyone can imagine a mystery if he wants to,” said Bristow.

  “No fear of you doing that on this particular job,” observed Mannering. “You’ve got it all sewn up, no possibility of error. But you believe the evidence of your own eyes, don’t you?” He placed
a finger close to the bump again.

  Chapter Four

  Talk of a Nice Young Lady

  Bristow finished eating, and leaned forward, looking closely into Mannering’s eyes.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Send a man down to Lithom Hall tomorrow morning. Not a local yob, even if he’s good, because the servants might recognize him. Ostensibly, he’ll be there to re-catalogue some of the books in the study and the library. Gloria’s been talking of having that done for some time. It should be a man who knows something about old books and manuscripts. Can you find someone?”

  Bristow didn’t answer, and Mannering went on: “He should examine the corner of the study closely, check for finger-prints there and on the light-switch and on the door-handle, and find out whether any prints discovered are on your records. Then you could ask the local police to find out whether a car was seen near Lithom Hall last night, about half past three. Say between three and half past—”

  “If you’d telephoned at once—”

  “But I was non compos mentis, because of my battered head,” said Mannering reproachfully.

  “You didn’t need a battering to make you non compos mentis,” said Bristow, sourly. “Why didn’t you telephone?”

  A waiter came up with Stilton cheese on a silver dish, and some cheese biscuits which had the look of another era. Bristow took some absently, and sniffed appreciatively.

  “Why didn’t you telephone?” he demanded again.

  Mannering said: “I’m really worried about Gloria. I have it on the authority of the greatest mental specialist in the country that she may never recover. He thinks her chief hope is to prove her right, but she mustn’t be encouraged to think that she is, unless there’s a reasonable chance of proving it. If I’d kicked up a fuss last night, it would have been all over the place by this morning. She would be in seventh heaven, only to drop with a hell of a big bump if it petered out. Last night’s show might be nothing to do with her father’s death. I want to find out what it was about, without letting Gloria know what we’re doing—yet. I don’t want Lady Bream to know yet, either. She’s an old dear with a will of her own, and might decide that Gloria ought to know. My Aunt Maggie is in a mood to clutch at any straw to cheer up the ailing Gloria. Aunt Maggie doesn’t believe in new-fangled methods, but she’s scared stiff lest Gloria should develop chronic melancholia. So, finesse is indicated.”