by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
Blood Red
First published in 1958
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1958-2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
075513527X 9780755135271 Print
0755138619 9780755138616 Kindle
0755136942 9780755136940 Epub
0755145461 9780755145461 Epdf
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.
Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.
Chapter One
Queer Customer
One had to enter Quinns to believe such a shop still existed.
It was almost heresy to call it a ‘shop’. The senior and the junior members of the staff called it ‘an establishment’, and others described it as a gallery. It was narrow and deep, and had stood for three hundred years and more in the heart of fashionable London, serving the same kind of customers, clients, or patrons, according to one’s choice of word.
Whatever one called it, it was a home of beautiful things, most of them very old, objets d’art of incredible rarity or extraordinary beauty. From China and Japan, from India and Ceylon, from the land of the Pharaohs and from Rome, from the darkness of Africa of a hundred years ago, from the glory of Italy in the days of Michelangelo to the savage beauty of the early days of Tsarist Russia, these precious things were cherished here for a while, and then passed on.
Often they were passed on with regret and even sadness, for all who served at Quinns loved what they sold. A vase, a carving, a painting, a piece of hand-wrought silver, a golden medallion of an almost-forgotten age – all of these would be handled reverently.
Only the present owner of Quinns, John Mannering, laughed at this solemnity, but it was a gentle, understanding laughter. He bought and sold objets which varied in value from a few to many thousands of pounds, and yet did not take himself or Quinns anything like as seriously as the staff took both. But it was good that the staff should do so, for they so impressed the customers, clients, and patrons.
The visitors to Quinns were mostly people who collected coins or jade, jewels or amber, miniatures or silver, pictures or antique furniture – these and a thousand other things. Most of them loved what they collected. It was fitting that they should enter this old, graceful shop, where the soft lighting came from many lamps, each placed so that it showed some particular objet to advantage. It was rather like entering a cathedral.
It was also fitting that the older members of the staff should be like priests and the younger ones like acolytes.
It was as well that John Mannering could chuckle about all this, once the door of his office was closed, or when he was at home with his wife in their studio flat in Chelsea, not very far from the Thames.
One of the attractions for Mannering was the variety and the uncertainty of life at Quinns. One never knew what was going to be brought in next, or who would bring it. The only certain thing was that each week, if not each day, would bring some oddity.
The day which brought Theodorus Wray was the red letter day of the year.
It was a bright morning in May, and the chill had crept into Quinns, where repairs were being carried out on the antiquated central heating system. Larraby, the shop manager, silvery haired and frail-looking, and Sylvester, the senior assistant, bald headed and plump, were rubbing their pale hands together and trying not to complain aloud, for the three younger members of the staff were bearing the chill with commendable fortitude. It was a little after ten o’clock. John Mannering was in his office, and the door was closed, a sign to the staff that he must not be disturbed.
They knew that he was studying a collection of emeralds, offered for sale by a little-known dealer.
The outside world passed Quinns by. The shop was in a narrow street, with only a few exclusive establishments, and at the far end was an open space, cleared years ago by bombing. When people walked, they walked quietly, and when they drove, they drove cautiously, because of the narrowness of the road. It should have been a one-way street, of course, but was not. So everyone took a little extra care, and the passing of cars was almost as stately as the passing of broughams and hansom cabs had been a few generations ago.
Every member of the staff was concentrating on his job: polishing, cataloguing, valuing, or simply moving certain things, and all was still and silent outside until, out of this hush, there came a squeal of tyres. Every head jerked up. In every mind was the thought: ‘smash-and-grab.’ Larraby’s hand moved, almost a reflex action, towards the telephone. A car shot into view.
The first thought of each one who saw this was that the car was passing by, because it streaked into their vision, then suddenly seemed to gather itself up, tyres still squealing, until it stopped with its driver’s door exactly opposite the front door of Quinns.
The driver was alone.
Larraby’s hand lingered only lightly on the telephone, for smash-and-grab raiders seldom came singly. For that matter, they seldom came at all, but they had been known; and sneak thieves came often, so that there was a kind of alarm drill among the staff. No word was needed, but Thomas, the largest and strongest of the junior members, went towards the door, while the others lined themselves up, not too obviously, so that a dubious or suspect stranger would have to pass each one. It was a kind of defence in depth.
The driver was a youthful-looking man.
The car was a scarlet and green Cadillac, shiny and very new.
For a moment the driver sat staring at the shop door, and Larraby’s fingers tighten
ed their grip, for he was aware that all kinds of methods were used in raids on shops like Quinns, and this might be a way of disarming them all.
Then Larraby’s fingers positively clutched the telephone, for the driver moved. The opening of the car door, the stepping out, the closing of the door – all seemed to be done in a single, lightning-like movement. A man of medium height, hatless, fair-haired, immaculately dressed in pale brown, stepped to the window. Thomas was within a few feet of the door, a dark-haired, powerful young man of twenty-seven.
The driver of the Cadillac studied the window.
This was a small one, seldom containing more than a single piece. The toughened glass was almost unbreakable. Today, the window was dressed in rich dark blue velvet, and on this reposed a single diamond ring of such beauty and such value that sight and even thought of it made some people gasp for breath. In the centre diamond there was a hint of colour, of pink; the credulous believed that this was indeed the blood of the first owner of the ring, a queen of Babylon remembered only because its glowing beauty had been hers.
There was a magnificent story which had become a legend: that the queen had been cold and arrogant, repulsing everyone by her indifference, and beloved by none, until she possessed the ring. From that day on, man had only to look at her to love and desire, and even to possess.
The fair-haired driver studied the ring much as a schoolboy might study a football, tennis racquet, or bat. He stood there for a long time – time enough for the staff to see that he was not so young as he looked – in the middle forties, perhaps. Suddenly he seemed electrified into movement, reached the door, thrust it open, and stepped inside. He arrived so quickly that Thomas had no chance to open the door, and hardly time to say, ‘Good morning, sir,’ before the visitor said briskly, ‘How much is that ring in the window?’
Thomas gulped.
A kind of shiver seemed to run through the others, having least effect on Larraby, who took his hand from the telephone but did not move away. The question was almost a form of heresy. There had been no time for reflection, no time for contemplation, no time to absorb the atmosphere, and for that matter no time to realise that such a jewel should be spoken of in a hushed and reverent voice.
‘Er—’ Thomas began.
‘Where’s the manager?’ demanded the man, still in that brisk, clipped way. He now proved to have very light blue eyes, and to have a certain rugged handsomeness. His movements were beautifully controlled. Impatience showed in his eyes when he walked past Thomas to the next youthful assistant. ‘You heard me. Where’s the boss?’
Larraby came forward as Thomas shepherded the visitor, and said, ‘All right, Thomas. Richard, I will see if I can help this gentleman.’ Massive Thomas and medium-sized Richard withdrew, leaving snowy-haired Larraby and Sylvester, and the youngest and smallest of the assistants, between the newcomer and Mannering’s office. ‘Now, sir, if you will be good enough to tell me what you require, I will be glad to help.’
‘Are you John Mannering?’
‘No, sir, Mr Mannering is—’
‘He in?’
‘I will find out, sir, if you will—’
‘He’s either in or he isn’t; someone ought to know,’ said the caller, whose fair hair showed, at close quarters, some signs of hidden grey. He slipped past Larraby so that he was confronted with the smallest assistant, who was not yet eighteen, and nervous even at the best of times. This lad had a little baby face and curly brown hair. The stranger stopped, put his head on one side, and quite unexpectedly grinned. ‘You Mannering?’
‘N—n—no, sir!’
‘All right, Henry,’ Larraby said, and in turn pushed past the fair-haired stranger. ‘Now, sir, I will gladly—’
‘What did you call him?’ demanded the stranger. ‘Mr Mannering?’
‘No, not Mannering, what did you call him?’ The caller stabbed a forefinger towards the junior assistant’s chest, and Henry seemed ready to collapse.
Larraby was equal to this as to all occasions. ‘I called him by his Christian name, sir. This is a custom among the junior staff. The name is Henry.’
‘Don’t say it,’ protested the stranger, and again he flashed that swift, vivid grin. ‘The muscle man is Thomas, the middle man is Richard, and this is Henry. That right?’
‘That is right, sir.’ Even Larraby began to perspire.
‘Tom, Dick, and Harry! You pick the staff?’
‘Subject to Mr Mannering’s approval, sir, yes, but I do assure you that the choice of names was quite fortuitous.’
‘For—too—it—tuss, eh,’ echoed the stranger. His eyes seemed to become even more pale as he narrowed them to peer at Larraby. He was silent for a moment; it was like a lull in a storm. Then he rapped, as lightning, ‘How much does he pay you?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘You heard me,’ the newcomer said. ‘What’s the matter with you folks around here; haven’t you ever heard plain English? How much?’
‘I really—’ Larraby actually stumbled over the words, and the strain was so great that no one even smiled.
No one had noticed that the door of the office was open a few inches, and John Mannering was standing at it, just able to see the customer, and able to hear every word.
‘Whatever you’re paid, I’ll double it,’ the man offered crisply. ‘You’ve got yourself a big raise. Just stay the way you are; I don’t want you any different. What do they call that tie you’re wearing – let me see, I’ve heard—Got it! It’s a cravat. Okay, you’ll always wear a cravat. How about starting right away?’
Larraby clutched desperately at his self-control. It took a great deal of clutching, and he was not able to reply immediately. Sylvester was by his side, and Henry had backed deep into the shop, as if to keep himself safely out of the clutches of this maniac.
‘Okay, so you’ve got to give notice,’ the visitor conceded. ‘Instead of notice, give money. I’ll fix Mannering; how about fetching Mannering now? I haven’t got all day to waste; I just want to buy that ring and take it away with me. You join my staff when you can.’
He glanced round, saw the opening door, and then saw Mannering. The staff also saw the owner, who was smiling, as if genuinely amused. He was very handsome, especially when smiling. He was several inches taller than the stranger, who spun round and approached him, asking with clipped brusqueness, ‘Are you John Mannering?’
Chapter Two
Deal
‘Yes,’ said Mannering. ‘Good morning.’
For the first time since he had entered the shop, the man seemed to hesitate, as if not quite sure what to say. Probably this was due to Mannering’s smile, and the amusement in his eyes. It did not last long. The caller thrust his right hand forward, and announced as if he were known by name the whole world over, ‘I’m Theodorus Wray.’
Mannering had never heard the name Theodorus, and never heard of this man, but he allowed his hand to be taken. The grip from lean, cool fingers was quick and firm.
‘Don’t know how much you heard,’ he said. ‘I’ve come for the ring in the window. How much is it?’
‘Didn’t you come for my manager, too?’ asked Mannering.
Wray glanced round at Larraby.
‘Is he your manager? He’s in the wrong job, Mr Mannering; he can’t tell me how much that ring costs! Don’t tell me you fix the price according to the customer’s bankroll. I was assured that you didn’t work that way.’
Mannering chuckled, and, chuckling, gave Larraby the straw he had been wanting. A little faintly, but with a glimmer of a smile at his lips, Larraby said, ‘I did not commit myself to entering Mr Wray’s employ, sir.’
‘The manager of a place like this must get quite a packet,’ Wray said, almost musingly, ‘but my offer stands. Whatever salary you get, I’ll double it.’
‘And you can’t say fairer than that,’ declared Mannering.
‘You’ve said it. Now, let’s get down to business, Mr Mannering. How about the ring? W
hat’s the price?’
Everyone in the shop watched Mannering, three of them with bated breath. Each knew that the approximate value of the ring was a little over forty thousand pounds; and each knew that some rich men would give twice that sum to place it in their collections. They would guard it with massive locks, steel bars, and armed men, and show it to a marvelling world once or twice a year through glass which a pile driver could not break.
Theodorus Wray thrust his arms upward, both hands clenched, and his voice rose an octave.
‘What’s going on around here? I want to buy the ring for my girl friend. I want her to have the best engagement ring that money can buy. I’ve got the money, I’ve got the girl, all I want to know is the price. How about some action, Mr Mannering? Now, give.’
Thomas, Richard, and Henry gasped.
Sylvester put a hand to his forehead and breathed something that sounded like, ‘Oh, no.’
Larraby, taking his cue from Mannering, smiled amiably. Mannering chuckled infectiously, partly because of the effect of all this on the staff, partly because of the expression in Theodorus Wray’s eyes. He had seen the same kind of look in the eyes of a tourist in France when the waiter did not understand his French. In a moment, exasperation would turn to annoyance and perhaps to anger.
‘Now what the heck—’ began Wray, sharply.
‘To a collector, that ring is worth about a hundred thousand pounds,’ Mannering said, keeping a straight face. ‘Intrinsically, the diamonds are worth perhaps forty thousand pounds. You may not approve of the distinction in values, but there it is.’
‘I don’t want it on the cheap. I’ll give you seventy-five thousand pounds for it,’ the man declared briskly.
That brusque got past even Mannering’s guard. It turned the rest of the staff into human stalagmites. It made everyone oblivious of the fact that there was a street outside and people passing to and fro, some even standing and admiring the red and green Cadillac, and one girl peering in at the shop window. She was looking towards the men and the far end of the shop, not at the diamond on the soft velvet.