by John Creasey
Bristow nodded slowly, comprehendingly.
“Thanks,” said Mannering warmly. “Bill—Gloria used to be—delightful. She’s hardly recognizable today.”
“I’ll send a chap down tomorrow,” said Bristow. “The local people will be told about it. His name’s Longley. Remember him?”
“Vaguely,” said Mannering. “Sergeant Longley—made a bit of a name for himself when you were chasing after Anstruther’s lost Shakespeare folios, didn’t he?”
“Yes. Books are his hobby.”
“Just the man. How long can you spare him?”
“Now don’t go too far,” said Bristow, “even if it is summer, we haven’t men to waste. A couple of days at the most, unless he finds something to work on.”
“Is he a susceptible young man?”
“He won’t go ogling Gloria Barclay if that’s what you mean,” said Bristow.
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of Gloria. But I know a nice young lady who also knows a great deal about books and rare manuscripts, and I think she would be willing to help,” said Mannering. “I want to get some young blood into Lithom Hall, so I’m going to arrange for this young lady to go down to catalogue the books—most are in the upstairs library, it’ll take her several weeks. Your Longley will be an expert, consulted for the first day or two.”
“I see.” Bristow accepted a cigarette, lit it, and blew a streamer of smoke past Mannering’s face. “And what are you going to do?”
“My dear chap! I’ve set the wheels of the law in motion, and deserve a nice long rest.”
“I could tell you what you deserve,” said Bristow heavily.
Mannering entered the small hall of his flat-and-studio which was on the third floor of a house near the Embankment, looked round, found no one about, and saw that the ladder leading to the studio-loft was in position. He climbed up, cautiously. The ladder creaked, but when he pushed back the hatch, he saw his wife’s back towards him; she was intent on her work. He could see part of the palette in her hand. She wore a dark-green smock, the sides of which were daubed with paint, and her dark hair – not unlike Gloria’s just now, because it was hanging to her shoulders – hid the canvas on which she was working. Mannering eased the fall of the cover, and it made little sound. He climbed up, and all noise ceased because a carpet covered the thick flooring. He stood a little to one side, and saw the portrait – of a middle-aged man who struck him as being like the popular conception of Mephistopheles.
“A bit savage, isn’t it?” he remarked.
Lorna Mannering jumped wildly, and her brush dropped as she swung round. Her dark-grey eyes were vivid; in her alarm she was lovely.
“John!”
“Sorry, darling,” said Mannering contritely, “but I love seeing you look like that.”
“You fool!”
“Yes, all that and more,” said Mannering. “But answer me. Isn’t that a bit savage?”
“Cartwright is savage, underneath,” said Lorna, “and he’ll like it.”
“Oh, no doubt,” said Mannering. “Anything which suggests that he is not as other men are will appeal to Cartwright. Nice bit of work,” he added, patronizingly. “Not far short of your best, darling. As the years pass, you get better and better.”
Lorna looked at the bruise, as he spoke, but made no reference to it.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “Now go downstairs and make me a cup of tea, will you? I want another ten minutes’ peace.”
“Yes, dear,” said Mannering meekly. “And will Madam have tea up here or will she come down?”
“I’ll come down,” said Lorna. She was already back at her work.
Mannering went downstairs and entered the small, modern kitchen. The flat was small and comfortable. Their maid was out that afternoon; the maid was excellent, but had talent and ambition. She sang. She had once won third prize at a super cinema which staged variety shows to encourage local talent. Her boy friends – for she was a pretty thing – had bamboozled her into believing that she was another Deanna Durbin. Her arias went badly with Lorna’s painting; so she was lucky with afternoons off.
Mannering made tea, looked into three square tins before he found some cakes, put them and the tea on a tray and took it into the drawing-room, the one large room. Most of the furniture was period; mixed periods, Mannering was no purist. There were some good water-colours on the walls, and in front of the window was a large chesterfield; by the Adam fireplace were two wing-back easy chairs.
Mannering put the tray down on a table in the window.
The Luftwaffe had knocked down a number of houses in the vicinity, and in so doing had given the Mannerings a clear view of the Thames, a glimpse of Albert Bridge, and a sense of detachment from the rest of London. The sun struck a corner of the window and blurred the glass of one of the water-colours, while Mannering sat down and closed his eyes. His head was still muzzy.
Lorna came hurrying down the ladder, and into the drawing-room; she had not even taken off her smock.
“John, what’s happened?” she said.
“Happened?”
“Your head!”
“Eh? Oh, that. Bumped against a tree,” said Mannering lightly. “I’d almost forgotten about it.”
“You won’t forget that in a hurry,” said Lorna, coming nearer and examining it closely. “Your eyes are bloodshot, too. What were you doing last night?”
“I could never drink hard and get away with it,” mourned Mannering.
“Darling, I want to know.”
Yes, she always wanted to know – for better or worse.
She looked and spoke as she had often done in the far-off days, when she had learned that he was the Baron. He’d watched the struggle in her; between love for him and hatred of some of the things he did. Ever since, the struggle had gone on, although now, what she hated was the danger he often courted. She was happier if it could be shared.
So he talked; more freely than to Bristow.
She had known Lithom fairly well – in fact she had painted his portrait – and knew Gloria slightly.
“And what are you going to do?” she asked at last.
“Move down to Lithom for a bit, perhaps, and it might be a good idea if Gloria suddenly discovered an urge to be painted. I’ll see if I can fix that.”
“You really think she may be right about the murder?”
“She’s got to be, there’s no other cure!”
The flippancy rang hollow, and they fell silent.
Lorna looked towards the river, which was sparkling in the sun.
It was easy to read her thoughts; the old hatred of danger; the plight of Gloria; the fact that forces stronger than himself would draw Mannering deeper into the affair.
“Have you any plans?” she asked abruptly.
“I’m going to see Jeremiah Caldecott. You remember that dazzling vision he’s just brought into his shop, to encourage young men with more money than sense to enter in and browse among his fusty tomes?”
“Mary Scott, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I’m going to ask him to release her for a few weeks, to go down and catalogue Gloria’s books,” said Mannering. “So if you see me in earnest consultation with an exciting young thing, you’ll know that it’s just a matter of business.”
“Ought you to send her down there, if it might be dangerous?”
“Oh, I don’t think there’ll be much danger for her. There’s been no sign of any for Gloria. I’ll tell her that there might be a risk attached and leave the decision to her.”
“Supposing Caldecott won’t release her.”
“He will,” said Mannering confidently, and jumped up – and cried out. “My Lord! I shouldn’t move so quickly.” His head was filled with a beating dynamo of pain.
“If it hurts enough, it might teach you not to stick your neck out,” said Lorna. “Will you be back when you’ve seen Caldecott?”
“I must go back to Lithom. Darling! I’m waking up. You’ve nearly finished with old Meph.
upstairs, so you come.” He was suddenly gay, enthusiastic. “You must. I thought you’d be another week on Old Harry—you see how quickly you work when I’m not here to beguile you. Yes?”
Lorna looked at him long and levelly; and as she started to say yes, he pulled her close.
Mannering sat at the wheel of his car, outside the flat. Lorna had stimulated him; in every way it had been a good day. Bristow’s interest was aroused, and he had the green light from both to go ahead. And, deepest cause of satisfaction, there were grounds for thinking Gloria was right. Now if Caldecott and Mary would play—
Two years ago, Caldecott had been robbed of some precious folios, including two Shakespeares, and Mannering had helped to get them back. Mary Scott, a distant relative of the book collector and dealer, was country born and bred; she was the daughter of a country parson, and Caldecott was worried lest London life palled. Mannering had not thought of Mary until he had reached Scotland Yard.
He saw a man walking slowly towards him on the same side of the road, but paid him no attention.
He let in the clutch and eased off the brakes as the man drew nearer. Then he noticed a taxi crawling towards him, with its flag down. Better let it pass. He tightened the brakes and the taxi drew slowly nearer. Curious – but he hadn’t yet sensed danger. He saw the walker glance at the taxi-driver – a quick, meaning glance, suggesting collusion.
Then both looked at Mannering.
Warning flared up. But here, in broad daylight, there was surely no danger. Yet he slipped his hand into his coat pocket and gripped his long, gold cigarette-case.
The cab and the man were still several yards away. Mannering’s expression was one of bored impatience, and he heightened the effect by waving at the cabby, as if to hurry him. The walker drew nearer; he also had his right hand in his coat pocket.
Had he a gun?
Or had the night’s events coloured his imagination? Why shouldn’t this happen?
The cab pulled up just in front of the Sunbeam-Talbot.
The walker stopped by the side of it.
Mannering looked at the walker, a fellow of medium height, wiry, strong-looking, with sultry, dark eyes and a long, narrow chin – a face which it would be difficult to forget. The man rested a slim, sallow hand on the door of the car; the window was down.
“Can I help you?” asked Mannering stiffly.
No one else was in sight. Grey houses looked drab and aloof.
“Sure,” said the other laconically, and raised his right arm, with the elbow crooked. There was an automatic in his hand; that, and the slow, deliberate approach, did odd things to Mannering’s nerves. A shot – just one – would kill him, and the gunman would be away in the taxi before a single street door opened.
“Get out,” the man said.
Mannering smiled broadly, hiding his tension.
“But I don’t want to get out.”
“Maybe you don’t, but you’re going to.”
So murder wasn’t intended. Yet.
Talk gained time – time at least to wonder why they’d come, what they wanted – and time to decide whether to resist. By going, he might learn much.
He took out his cigarette-case.
“You’ve a nice, direct manner,” he said. “Smoke?”
“Don’t talk so much.” The man turned his right side towards the door and showed the gun again; this time, he did not push it back into his pocket. “I want to talk to you. If you won’t come—”
He didn’t finish.
The cigarette-case was warm between Mannering’s fingers. He could bring it down on the hand resting on the window and do away with immediate danger. He glanced at the cabby – and saw a gun in the man’s right hand. The muzzle rested on the wheel. So they would shoot him unless he obeyed.
“All right,” he said.
He lit a cigarette; he needed one.
The man opened the door and Mannering switched off the engine and slid out. He still held on to his case, the thought of resisting died hard; he killed it. He even hoped that Lorna wouldn’t look out of the window, and raise the alarm.
“No tricks,” said the man. “You’re getting into that taxi.”
Mannering stepped off the pavement into the road. His companion went ahead, opened the door of the cab, and stood on one side. Another man sauntered along the pavement. As Mannering got into the taxi and sat down, he saw the newcomer open the door of the car and climb in. So they were going to drive that away; there would be nothing to warn Lorna.
Careful, clever planning lay behind this.
He tried to relax as the cab moved towards King’s Road. They were near the corner when the Sunbeam-Talbot overtook them. At the same moment, a neighbour from one of the lower flats turned the corner and recognized the car. He stood staring, puzzled at seeing another driver at the wheel.
Mannering leaned forward, hoping to make the man see him, to make some sign.
His captor kicked his ankle.
Mannering sank back, the ankle stinging.
“That was a silly thing to do,” he said. “I didn’t like you much from the beginning, and I don’t like you at all now.”
“You don’t have to,” the man said. “Don’t talk.”
They turned the corner and went right, towards Sloane Square and Victoria. Once they swerved to avoid a cyclist and the two men were thrown against each other. A quick lunge, a jab with his elbow, and he could win a chance to fight; he let it go.
The man did not speak; obviously they were not to have their conference in the cab. Traffic flowed past in the opposite direction, but the cab overtook most cars and buses going towards Sloane Square. At the Square, they turned left, and were soon lost in that rabbit-warren of streets which would lead eventually to Hyde Park Corner. Along here only an occasional car or cab was in sight, and few people were on the pavements. No one showed any interest in them, except a man in a narrow brimmed bowler hat and with a furled umbrella, who waved wildly, thinking the cab was disengaged.
The cab slowed down.
Mannering’s captor took a pair of dark-lensed glasses from his pocket.
“Put these on,” he ordered.
Mannering hesitated; the gun poked into his ribs.
He put on the glasses.
There were thick side-pieces, more like goggles than spectacles, and when they were on, there was only a glimmer of light at the sides. The new darkness, amounting to blindness, was a trick he hadn’t expected; more evidence of careful planning. He fidgeted with the glasses, as if to get them comfortable. They were a shade too small; luckily, they fitted below his bruise.
He heard other engines beating near him, this was only a traffic block. Then came a burst of speed, they swung round corner after corner and he could picture the empty streets and tall, terraced houses. There was no hope of taking note of the turnings, of judging where they were; one chance gone.
They slowed down again.
He moved his right hand—
It was gripped in vice-like fingers, his arm was thrust upwards and then behind him in a hammer-lock; agonizing and crippling.
The cab stopped, and the man whispered into his ear: “Get up—and move forward.”
Chapter Five
Twenty Questions
The pain in Mannering’s arm increased as he moved; another wave of pain made him fear the bone would snap. He groped with his other hand, and touched fingers. A man on the pavement gripped his wrist, pulling him towards the door. Then the pressure on his arm eased, and the man in front of him said sharply, “Step down.”
Blinded by the glasses, Mannering moved cautiously. His heel caught on the edge of the running-board, he would have pitched forward but for the support of the man in front. At last he stood on the pavement; two women were walking along, little heels going tap-tap-tap-tap in brisk unison, and growing fainter.
A gate squeaked on its hinges.
“Careful here, steps,” said his guide.
One – two – three – four –
five steps, and then a wiry mat beneath his feet. Another squeak, and he knew that the front door of the house was opening; so he wouldn’t be able to see the street; even if he dislodged the glasses, the glare would dazzle him. He went on, and greater darkness fell on him, even the glimmer at the sides of the glasses was blotted out.
The door closed.
He was a prisoner, and helpless – and little more than half-an-hour ago, he had been joking with Lorna, had been telling himself that he had plenty of time to make plans!
The man behind him took his arm again, just above the elbow. They were steel-like fingers, giving a hint of the pain they could cause.
“Mind the stairs,” growled a man in front. “Step up now.”
One – two – three – … he counted.
… Fifteen – sixteen.
“All right,” the man said.
The other, holding his arm, had not spoken since they had left the cab. Now he guided Mannering, those fingers giving silent orders. They turned right and walked along a carpeted passage which led from the landing; their muffled footsteps were uncanny. They paused, presumably outside a door, and he heard a sharp tap.
A man called: “Come in.”
Even through the door, there was a quality in that voice which Mannering would not easily forget. It wasn’t deep or harsh, but had a peculiarly penetrating tone.
Mannering could imagine the man’s character from that tell-tale voice; hard and cruel and ruthless; bad.
The door opened immediately and he was taken inside.
“We’ve got him,” said his captor, superfluously.
