by John Creasey
Robby shepherded Garielle and Lorna into the living-room, as Dawson picked himself up, and staggered to a chair.
‘I’ll get you for this,’ he whispered thinly.
Mannering said: ‘Dawson, you haven’t a chance. I know what happened last night. I know what time you saw the burglar. I know the estimated time of Kennard’s death and of your wound. The burglar had left an hour or more before the shooting.’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘He telephoned me after leaving Kennard alive,’ Mannering said.
Dawson growled: ‘He’s a liar. When Bristow hears what you’re saying—’
‘If you try and get help from Bristow I’ll tell him the whole story, and will give him the name and address of Kennard’s visitor. Do you like the idea, Dawson?’
There was a sharp rap on the door. Bristow had arrived.
Bristow came in with a sharp imperiousness, frowned at Mannering, then caught a glimpse of Dawson. ‘What’s this?’
‘A small altercation,’ Mannering explained blandly. ‘Dawson was shot at. He wanted to take the bullet away, and we argued.’
Bristow’s gaze travelled to Mannering’s sling.
‘Oh, he didn’t do all the damage,’ said Robby. ‘I hit him.’
Bristow looked at Dawson.
Dawson said thinly: ‘I didn’t trust Mannering to take the bullet out and let you have it. He forcibly prevented me from leaving. I want to charge him with assault.’
‘Oh no,’ said Robby. ‘Three witnesses will prove who started it.’
‘Three?’ demanded Bristow.
‘Mr Mannering, Miss Lee and myself.’
Dawson said: ‘I won’t stay here another minute, I’ll see you at my flat.’ He stalked across to the door, handing over the bullet as he passed.
Mannering opened the door and closed it behind him. Bristow’s frown faded, a smile replaced it.
‘Now let me have it all,’ he said.
Mannering told him, quickly, leaving out only the taunt about Dawson killing Kennard. Bristow listened intently.
‘Now you know the whole story and you have the bullet,’ Mannering went on, ‘it will be interesting to find out if it came from the gun which was used against Kennard.’
Bristow said heavily: ‘John, listen to me. I warned you off this case. I’m always warning you, and you take no notice. One of these days you’ll go too far – much too far. I haven’t been here before because I hoped you’d come to your senses. I can’t hold off any longer. You’ve evaded my men, and that means you’re working on your own. I’m going to give you twelve hours to make up your mind to tell me the whole truth. If you don’t—’ Bristow weighed the bullet in his hand. ‘If you don’t, you’ll run into serious trouble. Graver trouble than you ran into last night.’
He stared at Mannering’s sling.
Mannering didn’t speak.
‘Did you see the gunman?’
‘Only a glimpse. “Small and pale” is the best I can do.’
Bristow nodded and went out.
Chapter 16
Boyfriend
Mannering picked up the receiver.
‘Hallo, John Mannering speaking.’
The voice of a young man answered him.
‘Mr Mannering, I wonder if you can spare me a few minutes? I’m a friend of Daphne Kennard. More than a friend, really. Will you see me?’
‘If it is important, certainly.’
‘Say in a quarter of an hour or so, at your home?’
‘Yes, but don’t be later,’ said Mannering. He rang off, smiling. ‘A boyfriend of Daphne. What on earth is going to happen next?’
‘One of the delights of being married to John Mannering is that you never know,’ Lorna said shortly.
‘I’m not even sure what’s happened already,’ Robby White said. ‘How deep did I put my foot in it, John?’
‘Something in that letter you sent to Kennard worried Dawson. That, and something that Powell knew. I wonder if Powell told you everything,’ Mannering added abruptly.
‘He didn’t strike me as being the type to keep much to himself,’ Robby said. ‘He was mad about the way his sister and brother-in-law had been treated, but to think he was mur dered—’ Robby broke off.
‘The more I think about it the worse it seems,’ said Mannering. ‘We have (1) the racket in real estate, (2) your challenge to Kennard, (3) Dawson’s rejection of it, when you would expect to hear from Kennard, (4) your letter to Kennard, which Dawson undoubtedly saw, and which seems to have started the trouble. Was Powell in danger in South Africa? Or is there anyone at your office you can rely on to go and see her?’
‘My right-hand man will fix it,’ Robby said. He went across to the telephone and put in the radio-telephone call to Johannesburg. He turned, a minute later, with a grimace. ‘Three hour delay.’
‘That’ll make it nearly midnight,’ said Lorna.
‘At least it’ll give us time to go and have some food,’ said Robby. ‘As soon as Daphne’s boyfriend has come. Sooner, in fact. I’ll go ahead with Lorna and Garielle, and you follow.’
‘John and I’ll have supper here,’ said Lorna. ‘You take Garielle out. I can’t feed all four, because the flat’s closed officially.’
Robby’s eyes brightened.
‘Can you put up with me, Garielle?’
Garielle considered.
‘I’ll try,’ she said.
The door closed on Robby and Garielle, and their footsteps faded. Lorna was in the kitchen preparing supper when the bell rang.
Mannering moved to the door and opened it. The young man standing there thrust his hands out blindly and staggered into the flat. Blood spattered his face and clothes and there was blood in his dishevelled hair. Mannering ran water quickly, sponged his face, made sure there was nothing more serious than bruises and the cut lip, then half-carried his visitor into the study, helped him into an easy chair, and stood back to look at him. His left eye was puffy, but the right had a directness which Mannering liked.
‘What happened?’
‘I was—attacked. Two men—’ He broke off.
‘Where?’
‘Round the corner from here,’ the young man said. ‘Left my car there, got out, and two chaps set on me.’
Mannering poured out a finger of brandy, and watched the youngster down it at a gulp.
‘You’ll be all right. Have you seen Daphne lately?’
‘Just before I telephoned you,’ replied the young man. ‘She’d just had a row with Dawson. He came in in a flaming temper, bawled at her, said if she ever set foot in your flat or shop again he’d belt the hide off her. He didn’t scare Daphne, though. She asked me to come and see you and find out what had happened. She thought it better that way, as you’d said something about her keeping Dawson sweet.’
Mannering moved across to the telephone, flipped over the pages of the directory, found the number of Kennard’s house and dialled it. He had to wait for some time for an answer.
A voice said: ‘This is the residence of the late Sir Paul Kennard.’
‘Miss Kennard, please,’ said Mannering.
‘I think Miss Kennard has gone out. If you will hold on, I will make sure.’
Mannering held on, covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said: ‘What’s your name?’
‘Eh? Mine? Harrison – Ralph Harrison. Look here, what do you want Daphne for? If Dawson finds out that you’ve called up, he’ll raise hell. He—’
‘Are you there, sir?’ asked the telephone voice.
‘Yes.’
‘Miss Kennard has left, sir, but did not say where she was going. She packed for a long weekend, I understand. Can I leave a message for when she returns?’
‘No, thanks.’ Mannering put the receiver down slowly and turned to Harrison. ‘Did she say anything to you about going away for a few days?’
‘Great Scott, no!’
‘Well, she’s gone.’
‘That’s absurd. She wouldn’t have d
reamt of going away without telling me.’
‘Well, that’s the official story. I don’t know what it adds up to, except that I don’t like it.’
The door opened and Lorna came in, smiling and gay, to announce that supper was ready, and if they didn’t start on it soon the omelette would be ruined.
Supper over, Mannering suggested that Harrison should return to St John’s Wood, where he was staying, and wait. After a certain amount of argument Harrison agreed to do this.
Mannering saw him off, and returned to the flat.
‘What do you think happened?’ Lorna wanted to know.
‘Someone at the house heard Daphne telling Harrison to come here and report,’ Mannering said. ‘He was attacked, to delay him, while Daphne was taken away.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘See Dawson.’
Lorna said: ‘John, why not see Bristow? The situation is as black as it can be. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t tell Bristow everything.’
‘There’s one very good reason,’ said Mannering, ‘and that is Bristow’s own remark that Dawson has friends in high places. What Bill was really saying was that his own hands were tied, and that it was up to me to fix Dawson.’
Lorna didn’t answer.
‘I’ll have a quiet word with him after I’ve seen Dawson,’ Mannering went on. ‘When Robby gets back ask him to see Chittering, or see him yourself. Find out what you can about Ralph Harrison, at this address. All and everything there is to know – parents, background, all that kind of thing, especially how he came to meet Daphne. Will you?’
‘But you can’t drive with that hand!’ cried Lorna with a touch of triumph.
‘I’ll hire a car. Will you ring for one for me?’
Lorna pushed her chair back.
‘John,’ she said. ‘Be very careful.’
He smiled at her gently, kissed her, and slipped from the room.
No one was on the landing; nor in the hall.
He reached the street. The police car had gone; so had the man from the house opposite. He waited for two minutes before a private hire car arrived, with a driver whom he knew.
‘Hallo, Higgs. Moynham Square, Number 27.’
‘Okay, sir.’
Mannering sat back and watched the passing lights without really seeing them. Lorna’s anxiety nagged at him. On impulse he tapped at the window.
‘Stop at the next telephone booth, will you?’
He dialled Bristow’s home number. There was no answer. He got his money back and dialled the Yard. Bristow was in his office.
‘Now what do you want?’ demanded Bristow gruffly.
‘Bill, can you contact the Johannesburg police quickly? A woman named Hayden lives in the Houghton district. I don’t know her address, only that she’s Rhoda Hayden, and has a blind husband. You might find out if there’s been any trouble, and if there hasn’t warn the Johannesburg police that there might be.’
‘Who is the woman?’
‘Powell’s sister.’
Bristow said: ‘I’ll do what I can. I’ll want to see you in the morning.’
Soon, the taxi drew up outside Kennard’s house.
‘Shall I wait, sir?’ asked Higgs.
‘Yes. If I’m not out in an hour, ring for me. If you don’t get a satisfactory answer, telephone my flat.’
He went up the short flight of steps and rang the bell. A manservant opened the door.
‘Good evening, sir.’
‘Good evening. Is Mr Dawson here?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the footman. ‘It is Mr Mannering, isn’t it? He said you were to go straight up.’
So Dawson had guessed he would come.
Mannering stepped towards the stairs. The door closed. Another man appeared at a door on the right. There was no sound in the house. Just two men, one watching, one following; and the light from the chandeliers.
Chapter 17
Defiance
Mannering walked into Kennard’s room, and saw Dawson at Kennard’s desk. It was typical of the man that he had stepped into the dead man’s shoes without hesitation. His right eye was swollen and his lips were puffy, but he still looked formidable. As the door closed, he looked up.
‘You can sit down or you can stand up, I don’t give a damn either way. But one thing’s clear. You’re going to get off my back, and get off fast. Daphne’s walked out on me, and it’s your fault. I didn’t murder Kennard, no matter what lies you told her.’
Mannering said: ‘Before I’m through I’ll prove it.’
‘Now let me tell you one or two things. You were here last night. You are the burglar who killed Kennard. Would you like me to tell your friend Bristow?’
Mannering smiled and sat down.
‘What odd ideas you’ve got. Care to call Bristow now? He’s at the Yard. I’ve just spoken to him. He’ll be here in an hour, unless I call him back.’ How he wished that were true.
‘You damned fool!’
‘Now listen to me,’ said Mannering evenly. ‘Where is Daphne?’
‘She walked out on me.’
‘So? Well, I’m going to report her missing, for a start.’ Mannering paused. ‘Unless she is at my flat by midnight, I’ll release the story to the Press that she’s missing.’
‘I’ll deny it!’ blustered Dawson.
‘The story will be out by then; a denial will merely make you look silly.’
‘We’ll see who looks silly,’ sneered Dawson, so furious that his words came out in a rush. ‘You burgled this house last night, you killed Kennard—’
‘No use,’ said Mannering. ‘I can produce the man who came here.’
Dawson said thinly: ‘I don’t believe you.’
He moved his chair back a few inches, slipping his right hand into an open drawer. Mannering sat quite still. The man was killing mad, but – would he take a chance here?
He tensed his body, hardly breathing, watching the slow reappearance of the hand, now holding a gun.
‘I could shoot you where you sit,’ Dawson said.
‘So you could,’ said Mannering. ‘And earn a life sentence for it. Do you think I’m fool enough to come here without letting Bristow know where I am?’
He stood up abruptly.
‘Midnight, at my flat,’ he said. ‘And I’ll have a police cordon round it, to discourage tricks.’
He turned his back and went towards the door. He believed that he had judged the right moment, but Dawson might shoot, Mannering reached the door and touched the handle.
‘Mannering!’
He turned his head. Dawson was standing by the desk, both hands in sight – empty.
‘Well?’
‘I don’t know where she is.’
‘Then it won’t do any harm if she’s reported missing,’ said Mannering.
He opened the door and stepped on to the landing, aware, as, he walked slowly down the stairs, of watching eyes, not at all sure he would get out alive. Dawson was a dictator in his own small way and among his group of yes-men. Defied, he was frightened and infuriated and dangerous – more dangerous because his mood would be unpredictable. Mannering thought of the girl in this man’s power.
‘Mannering!’ screeched Dawson from behind him.
Mannering turned.
Dawson’s hands were raised, and there was froth at the corners of his thin lips.
‘Don’t show your face in my house again or I’ll smash it to pieces. I’ll make pulp of you. Get out, get out!’ His voice reached a note of screaming hysteria.
Mannering reached the front door and started to open it.
He felt the cold night air stinging his damp forehead. He closed the door behind him, then stood for a moment, savouring the fact that he was still alive. Higgs was waiting by the side of the car.
‘All okey doke, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Mannering slowly. ‘All okey doke. Scotland Yard now, Higgs.’
‘Right away, sir.’
Bristow, in his offi
ce, was in his shirtsleeves. He glowered.
‘As if I haven’t enough on my hands, looking after you and trying to find the killers you’re hiding. What is it?’
‘All hell’s loose, Bill. In one man. He’s dangerous, pathological, and a killer. I think he’s killed several times and he’ll certainly do so again. His name is Dawson.’
Bristow groped for cigarettes.
‘Go on.’
‘I think he’s kidnapped Kennard’s niece. I’ve told Dawson that if she’s not at my flat by midnight I’ll report to the Press that she’s missing, but you need a start over the Press.’
Bristow grunted.
‘What else do you think?’
‘That he killed Kennard.’
Bristow lit a cigarette and flicked the match across the office viciously.
‘I’m watching him, as closely as I can. I can’t get too close at this stage.’
‘But you want me to.’
Bristow didn’t answer, Mannering stood up.
‘Right, Bill. Now we know where we stand.’
Bristow looked ready to say more, but was stopped by the ring of the telephone.
‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘Hallo?’ His voice grew sharp, and he shot a word at Mannering. ‘It’s the Johannesburg police.’
There was a long pause, until the call came through.
Bristow listened, and then said slowly: ‘When? … I see … instantaneous?’
Mannering listened intently, hanging on every word, but he guessed what was coming.
Powell’s sister was dead.
Bristow rang off at last, and sat back in his chair.
‘Mrs Hayden was shot. So was her husband. Are you sure she was Powell’s sister?’
‘Quite sure.’
Bristow wiped his forehead.
‘John, don’t beat about the bush. What do you know of Dawson?’
‘Exactly what I’ve told you. You saw for yourself that he had the opportunity to kill Kennard, didn’t you?’
Bristow said slowly: ‘He had that all right, but I can’t find any reason why he should. The Kennard Line and all its associated companies are making money. Dawson and Kennard have been friends for years. Kennard often went away for months and left everything in Dawson’s hands – he trusted him completely.’