by John Creasey
Ten minutes after Mannering had left, their front door bell had rung. She had opened the door to find a neighbour from below standing outside – a small, rather worried-looking man, who had asked nervously: “Is Mr. Mannering in?”
“He’s just gone out.”
“Oh. I—I may be making a fuss about nothing,” said the little man, “but I saw someone drive off in his car. A garage mechanic, perhaps something’s wrong with it.” He peered hopefully into Lorna’s eyes – but instead of finding reassurance, saw the onslaught of fear. He stepped forward, gaining in stature, no longer timid. “Now, Mrs. Mannering, please. What’s the matter? Can I help?”
How could anyone help?
Lorna telephoned Bristow, and the neighbour spoke to him, telling his story. Every policeman in London was on the lookout for Mannering within half an hour.
While Lorna waited.
Not knowing what it was about made her feel worse. Imagined disaster filled her mind. One day, John would go out and not return. Perhaps this was the day.
The dread had been with her, sometimes urgent and close, sometimes buried in her subconscious mind. It was the keen blade which sharpened her love for him. A man who need never know danger lived dangerously and tormented her, and now—
Hours passed in a slow massing of minutes; and then the telephone rang.
She heard his voice, cheerful and gay.
“Hallo, darling. All’s well.”
Mannering replaced the receiver in the hall of 27 Chiltern Street. Lorna’s voice receded slowly as he looked at the boy who, not long ago, had kept his head and dialled 999. A boy with Lorna’s face, her eyes, stormy and yet bright with relief, and a childish treble coming out of Lorna’s warm, soft lips.
“Are you feeling all right, sir?” asked young Derek.
Mannering made himself smile.
“Never better.”
“That’s good,” said Derek, “because you don’t look so good.”
“I expect you could do with a cup of tea,” said Derek’s mother, coming in with three cups on a tray. “Derek, don’t be so rude. If you’d had an experience like this gentleman’s, you wouldn’t be feeling so good.”
“I think Derek’s looking fine, and he had nearly as rough a time as I did,” said Mannering. “So did you, Mrs.—?”
“Peacock.”
“Thanks. You were wonderful. I’d never have got away without you.”
“Please—” Her voice broke.
“Oh, you would,” breathed Derek. “I say, sir.”
“Yes?”
“Could I—” began Derek, with great longing in his voice, but he was stopped by his mother’s sharp: “Don’t worry the gentleman now, Derek.” Mrs. Peacock, a plump and harassed forty, smoothed down her flowered frock.
“No worry.” Mannering assured her. “I can do with a lot of Derek just now. What is it old chap?”
“Could I touch your gun?”
“Eh?”
“Just touch it. It’s a real one, isn’t it? It must go off with a hell of a bang, and—”
“Derek! Your language!”
“Sorry, Mum. But could I, sir?”
“I don’t know that I want you to handle real weapons,” said his mother, but she wasn’t very definite about it. Mannering took the automatic from his pocket, set the safety catch, and handed it gravely to the boy. Mrs. Peacock was agitated and nervous, her voice was tearful.
“Derek, don’t point it, be careful. Don’t touch the trigger. Derek!”
The child’s eyes were glistening.
“Derek! That’s enough!”
“Thanks,” said Mannering, taking the gun back.
They sipped their tea, Derek still round-eyed, his mother happier, Mannering hearing Lorna’s voice as clearly as if she were in the room.
Then a man entered the hall, where a policeman was on duty, and they heard voices, then the policeman’s gruff: “I really don’t know what his name is.”
“You’ll find it’s Mannering,” said the newcomer.
Mannering placed the voice; it was Chittering, a reporter from the Morning Cry. He won his way into the room, and grinned at Mannering. He was short and chubby-looking, with untidy, fair hair. He wore a loose-fitting, brown sports jacket and a pair of baggy flannel trousers, and had an air of studied carelessness.
“So you’re at it again,” he said.
“Just poking about here and there,” murmured Mannering.
“What’s it all about? Large-scale gangster show, from what I can gather from Bristow next door, but he isn’t in one of his garrulous moods. Did you track the villains to their lair?”
Mannering laughed.
“No, they brought me here. They had some fool notion that I could be persuaded to sell stolen stuff through Quinns. When I said I wasn’t having any, they cut up rough, and I thought it time to get away. Now if you really want a story with a hero, try this—”
By the time he had finished, Derek Peacock was in seventh heaven, and his mother, at Chittering’s urgent request, was tremulously studying the family photograph album, to pick out the best photograph she could find of Derek and herself. They had learned that her husband was dead, and that this was a boardinghouse. All her boarders were out, and she and Derek had been alone in the house.
Mannering slipped away, leaving Chittering with them.
Next door he found a small army of plain-clothes men, searching every corner. He went upstairs, passing men in every room. When he reached the room where he had talked to the man with the cigar, Bristow was sitting at the desk, and a youthful-looking sergeant with a face like a Greek god was sorting out some charred papers on the mantelpiece. They looked up when Mannering entered, and Bristow, who had already seen him for a few minutes, stubbed out a cigarette and groped for a fresh one.
“Feeling better?”
“Much.”
“Seen Chittering?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That these merchants appeared to want me to sell stolen goods,” said Mannering. “It’s as good a line as any—it’ll satisfy him without getting Gloria into the news.”
Bristow grunted.
“What have you found?” demanded Mannering.
Bristow pointed to the grate, where there was a heap of charred paper and black ash, which stretched right across it. Mannering grimaced – his own disappointment was as acute as Bristow’s, yet there was something else in his mind; a reluctant admiration for the men who had worked so quickly.
“Quick, but they hadn’t time to get rid of everything,” he said mildly.
“I suppose we may get something from the rest of the stuff,” said Bristow sceptically. “The house was rented furnished, they’ve been here only a couple of months. Half-a-dozen of them lived here, and they came in and out at odd hours—odd enough to make the men on duty around here keep an eye on the place. I’ve a description of some of them.” He picked up the photograph of Mannering’s questioner, which Mannering had given him when he had called next door. “Is this a good likeness?”
“Very.”
“Should be a help,” said Bristow. “The man called himself Fenner, Wilfrid Fenner. He appears to have dealt in books—old books and manuscripts,” he added, and took a small, rather bulky book from a drawer in the desk. It was bound in faded red leather, the edges of the pages were rough and the paper was thick. Mannering looked at it with quickening interest. There were smears of grey powder on the cover, so it had been tested for finger-prints, and could be handled. The print – it was print, not manuscript – was large, with strong old-German characteristics, and there were small illustrations in red on every page; the red had not faded a great deal.
“Know anything about it?” asked Bristow.
“It’s a Johann Koelhoff, I fancy,” said Mannering, looking at the print again, but not at the title page. “Has the stamp of it, 1475 or thereabouts, and quite a treasure in its own way.”
The Greek God a
t the mantelpiece turned round.
“That’s right, sir,” he said. “1474, actually—very rare.”
“You know Detective-Sergeant Longley, don’t you?” asked Bristow.
Mannering smiled.
“I didn’t, I’m glad to. So the man, who calls himself Fenner, has a rare book shut away in his desk—that might give us a line, Bill. Lithom Hall is crammed with ’em. Gloria has a phobia about them. Are you going down there, sergeant?”
“Yes,” Bristow answered for Longley.
“I’m looking forward to it,” said Longley keenly, then went on more briskly. “There’s no old stuff here, sir—all the burnt papers are modern, you can be sure of that. Of course I can’t be absolutely sure without making a microscope and chemical test, but I think you’ll find it’s all modern, mill-made paper. Nothing special, at that.”
“Hmm,” grunted Bristow. “All right, Longley, go and see how they’re getting on outside.”
Longley went out and closed the door.
Mannering looked round the room and saw ‘his’ glasses in a corner, broken. An upturned table was on its side, the room was much as it had been when he had left. He saw the little pock-marks in the cream-papered wall, where the bullets had struck; and the light-brown door was damaged. Sitting here brought everything back vividly; too vividly.
“Well,” said Bristow heavily.
“Not so good,’ said Mannering. “Amazing what can happen in a couple of hours.”
“Did you tell me everything at luncheon?”
“I kept nothing back, William. My most solemn oath on it. This isn’t a case I know much about. I hadn’t a notion that so many thugs were involved, that it even bordered on gangster stuff—if I had, I wouldn’t have travelled about without a gun, and wouldn’t have been so carefree as I was this afternoon.”
“Well, it is gangster stuff,” observed Bristow.
“Getting plenty of it these days,” Mannering murmured.
“Far too much, but we haven’t had an outbreak for several weeks. Not a new one. That’s what worries me about this, it seems to be a crowd we’ve never suspected. How much money is there in these things?” He tapped the Johann Koelhoff.
“Plenty.”
“Enough to justify today’s show?”
“Could be. I won’t try to give that book a value, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the total value of the stuff at Lithom Hall runs into the quarter million pounds. Look up the probate papers, and make sure. There’s a Codex Amiatinus there, worth more than the Koh-inoor diamond to enthusiasts. On the other hand, they’re not so easily sold as jewels. There aren’t so many serious collectors with money, and books and manuscripts aren’t so difficult to trace—it’s fairly easy to find out where a particular one is, has been, or should be. There’s an illegal market in them, of course. Collectors don’t always care where they get their beauties from.”
“Handle many yourself?”
“A few. I’m no expert. When one comes my way, I consult Jeremiah Caldecott, who knows more about them than any man in England.”
“So Longley says. Is Caldecott all right?”
“I’d back Jeremiah with my last pound, and I don’t think anything would persuade him to handle stolen stuff,” said Mannering. “On the other hand, book-collecting can become a mania, like precious stones. Caldecott might retain a papyrus, if he could get hold of one, just for the sake of gloating over it.”
“Seen him yet?”
“About Mary Scott? No, I haven’t had time.”
“Still going on with the job?” demanded Bristow.
“Of course.”
Bristow stood up and walked to the broken window, where a slight wind stirred the curtains. The sun was still high in the west, and the gardens and houses were bathed in its bright light. Mannering sat and watched him, seeing Bristow’s cheeks working, as they always did when he was concentrating, and smiling faintly when he saw him toss a cigarette butt out of the window, and take another from his case.
“All right, John. I’ll take your word that you don’t know any more than you’ve told me. And I can’t stop you from rooting around on your own. But I want to know everything you discover. Is that clear? It’s much graver than I thought. Whether Lithom was murdered or not, is neither here nor there. Half-a-dozen ruthless, armed men are at liberty and I’ve got to get them quickly. Don’t keep anything to yourself.”
“No, Bill,” said Mannering meekly.
Chapter Seven
Jeremiah
Just after half past six, Mannering stepped out of a taxi, paid off the driver, and approached a small, single-fronted shop in Minn Lane, a narrow turning off one of the straight, narrow streets in St. James’s. There was little traffic about, although the hum from Piccadilly and the main thoroughfares nearby came clearly, like the distant murmuring of the sea.
There was nothing remarkable about Minn Lane or the shop.
The shop itself needed painting, and the lettering on the facia board was difficult to read. The window was filled with old books – large and small, of all colours, some looking almost new, some looking old and as if they might fall to pieces at a touch. There were only books – not a price was shown, not a descriptive show-card was displayed. The books were in no sort of order, there had been no real attempt at window-dressing. Dust showed in one corner where a duster had been whipped round by someone who could not quite reach as far as the window.
The closed oak door needed paint or oil. By its side was a large bell-push.
Mannering kept his finger on it for some seconds.
Then he stood on the kerb and looked up at the first-floor window which, he knew, was Jeremiah Caldecott’s office. His gaze travelled down to the faded: ‘Old Books’ on the facia board, and then to the window, which held thousands of pounds worth of paper and print.
Brisk footsteps sounded on the stairs – certainly not Caldecott’s; he shuffled. A girl opened the door, bright-eyed, smiling – a happy creature. There was a smudge of dust on her right cheek and she wore a brown smock, rising gently at the swell of her breast. Dark-brown hair, gleaming as chestnuts fresh from their husks, was drawn back from her broad forehead.
Her smile faded; then returned.
“Isn’t it Mr. Mannering?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll want to see Mr. Caldecott. You’ll find us in rather a mess. We’re taking stock—or trying to!”
Even Mary Scott could not keep a note of exasperation out of her voice.
The girl led the way upstairs, past books and dust. The books were in untidy piles on either side of the landing and the passage, and there was only a narrow aisle between them, just wide enough for one person at a time to walk through.
They picked their way to Jeremiah’s office and, compared with the landing and the passages, it was tidy. True, there were stacks of books in front of his large, roll-top desk, and two chairs were filled with them, but there was room to move. Jeremiah sat in a corner overlooking the street, and peered at Mannering short-sightedly through a pair of steel-rimmed glasses with tiny, oval lenses. He was not an old man; barely sixty; yet his lined, dry face gave him a venerable look, being almost the colour of old parchment. His hands were long and thin, and also looked as if they had drawn their colour out of the beloved sheets he handled. His grey hair was long and untidy, and he wore an old, green, velveteen smoking jacket.
“Who is it?” he asked, when Mannering was only a yard or two away from him.
“Mr. Mannering,” said Mary patiently.
“Eh—oh, yes, of course. Hallo, Mannering. Glad t’see you.” He had a habit of clipping his words and his voice was rather high-pitched. “Got something for me?” It sounded almost like the Bowery ‘sumpun’. He gave a little, chuckling laugh, and waved to a chair which was full of books. “Do sit down. All ri’, Mary. Finish for tonight. Have a bath. Go out to dinner.”
Mary disappeared, without closing the door, which was blocked open with two books. Doors were seld
om closed at Jeremiah’s. Mannering moved the books from the chair and sat down, while the book-dealer’s small eyes gleamed hopefully.
“Well? Have you found something.”
“Not for you, I’m afraid,” said Mannering.
“Oh.” A disappointed Jeremiah sniffed. “Thought you had, as you’ve called so late. Anything I can do for you?”
“Yes,” said Mannering, and promptly asked him whether he knew of any traffic in rare manuscripts, any reports of thefts which might have reached the dealer but not the police. Jeremiah was emphatic; he knew of nothing. Thieving was always going on, of course, and undoubtedly some of the stolen manuscripts went to America, but not all of them by any means. A great many remained in this country, but there was a good market for them in France and Italy too – larger than many people imagined. But he knew of nothing important enough to attract the attention of Mannering or of Scotland Yard.
He finished, and demanded querulously: “And why do you want to know?”
“Lord Lithom had a lot of books,” murmured Mannering.
“Eh? Lithom?” Jeremiah sat upright, his eyes sparkling. “Not up for auction, are they? They must be! Mustn’t miss it. Wonderful collection. Once had privilege of seeing it. Badly catalogued. Not properly looked after. Old rascal of a curator, wanted bread-andbutter, didn’t care about books, should have been in a public library. Is it?”
“Not up for auction, no. But Lady Gloria wants it re-catalogued.”
“Sensible wench. Good, good,” chuckled Jeremiah.
“And someone to do it,” said Mannering.
“Eh? Not me,” said Jeremiah sharply. “Oh, no. Far too busy. Must go to Sotheby’s next week and week after. Besides, take weeks. Months. No, Mannering, I can’t do that kind of work. Surprised you asked me.”
“I haven’t asked you.”
Jeremiah fiddled with a gold watch-chain to which was attached a magnificent Italian watch, two centuries old. His nails were long and, because he was always working amidst dust, grimy.
“So you want to take Mary away from me,” he said gruffly.
“Can you spare her?” asked Mannering.
“No.”
“Will you?”
