The Arrogant Artist

by John Creasey

  Copyright & Information

  The Arrogant Artist

  First published in 1972

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1972-2015

  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

  0755124014 9780755124015 Print

  0755133757 9780755133758 Kindle

  0755134133 9780755134137 Epub

  0755145321 9780755145324 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

  The Young Couple

  “Oh, Tom,” the girl pleaded. “Don’t, please don’t.”

  “Of course I’m going to tackle him,” said the young man, angrily. “Parasites like Mannering owe the world something.”

  Quick as a shot, the girl retorted: “But you’re not the world! Even if he is a parasite, he doesn’t owe you anything.”

  And, that said, the young man and the young woman stared at each other, in fact glared at each other, in Hart Row, Mayfair, outside the far-famed shop named Quinns. They were, as becomes, or at least is common to the young, absorbed only in themselves. Neither was the world, but to each there were times when the world seemed empty but for them, as it did now.

  They did not realise that they were being observed by three pairs of interested eyes.

  And they did not realise that every whispered and muted word, even their heavy breathing, could be heard inside the shop. For the gilded Old English lettering above the dark oak fascia of Quinns concealed two microphones which, when alive, picked up all the sounds from outside the window. Usually these sounds were muted for the loudspeakers in the long, narrow, shadowy shop were turned low, but one of the assistants always listened and, when the talk outside seemed to concern Quinns, turned up the volume and switched on other loudspeakers.

  A young man in his early twenties stood by the microphone control at the back of the shop, concealed by a partition of beautifully carved oak, once the head panel of the bed of an Italian prince; in the carving there were several holes through which the whole shop could be surveyed, with all its treasures. At one side, moving a polishing cloth gently, even lovingly, over a Regency walnut chest, was another young man; both of these, in pale grey suits of Edwardian cut, had a touch of elegance very different from the appearance of the now-angry youth outside the window.

  In the doorway of an office across a narrow passageway from the dead prince’s bed panel a third man stood, listened and stared. He was William Bristow, a grey-haired, fit-looking man in his late fifties, not long since one of Britain’s leading policemen and now the manager of Quinns. He had been about to leave the office of the owner of Quinns – one John Mannering – as the couple had started talking and, in his wisdom, the youth had turned up the volume, Bristow now stood with his fingers on the handle of Mannering’s door.

  Mannering could hear but not see.

  A remarkably handsome man who seemed ageless but was in fact in the middle-to-late-forties, he sat at a bow-fronted Queen Anne desk, behind books and files and telephones, smiling faintly, even sardonically. For it was he who was being called a parasite.

  All who watched and all who listened now waited for the effect of the girl’s ‘You’re not the world’. This had been very sharp and the young man with her held his breath as if he knew that whatever he wanted to say, he must control it.

  At last, he answered: “I am going to see him. He makes a fat living out of art and artists, and indirectly he owes a lot to all artists. But—” he now drew back, raising his hands with a dramatic gesture. “You don’t have to come. You don’t have to stay here. You don’t even have to see me again.”

  He spun round towards the shop door.

  By this time Mannering had become so curious that he joined Bristow at the door and looked towards the window. In it was a single painting, an English landscape by Constable, and the window was cunningly lighted so that the glow reflected on people looking in at the window; for often a man or woman’s expression when outside gave a clue to the individual’s intentions, even though a mask seemed to fall over their faces whenever they came inside. This young man’s face was sharp-featured, his dark hair long, his lips set. The girl, who was golden-haired, petite and shapely in mini-skirt and black bolero, looked less hurt than sad, and her voice was very clear.

  “If you go in and bother Mr. Mannering or anyone in the shop you won’t see me again, Tom.” And after the briefest of pauses, she went on: “I mean it.”

  He turned away from her and pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  “Bill,” murmured Mannering, “nip out and see where the girl goes, will you?”

  “Right.” Bristow’s reflexes were as good as those of most young men, and he turned towards the rear of the shop, a hallway and the back door. Mannering heard that click shut as he himself stepped into the shop. The young man on duty at the amplifier switched off as the stranger entered by the front door, while the other assistant stepped forward from the fifteenth century chest he had been polishing to accost the newcomer. Outside, the girl peered in for a moment, then turned and disappeared.

  “Good morning,” said the Edwardian-clad young man, who had between-coloured hair so immaculate that it might have been a wig, and a complexion so perfect that it might have been a woman’s. “May I help you?”

  “I want to see John Mannering,” declared the stranger.

  There was much arrogance in him; and there was pride. Closer at hand he had somethin
g of the look of a hawk, and his grey eyes something of a hawk’s brightness. His dark hair was coarse but groomed and clean. He wore a lambskin bolero-type jacket over a vivid blue shirt, and tight-fitting Levis, while his brass-studded shoes had high heels built far under the instep.

  “I am afraid Mr. Mannering sees callers only by appointment,” replied the Edwardian exquisite in his beautifully modulated voice. “And he is not free today.”

  “He’s here and he’s free,” rasped the caller. “And you know it.”

  “Indeed,” said the exquisite, whose name was Rupert Smith. “If you will leave your name—”

  The caller growled: “My name is Forrester,” and as he spoke he moved forward swiftly, obviously intending to push past Rupert Smith.

  Mannering, now behind the royal screen, saw everything with graphic clarity.

  The long, narrow shop; the furniture and pictures and show-cases containing jewellery, the pictures on the panelled walls, the miniatures, the china and porcelain: each in its way was a treasure. The passage running down the middle of the shop was clearly defined with deep red carpet. There were little recesses, or bays, on either side in which one could get closer to anything of especial interest. There was no room for two people to pass at the middle aisle unless one or the other stepped aside; and the man who had introduced himself as Forrester obviously expected the dandy to do so.

  Rupert Smith did no such thing.

  Mannering, quick to observe danger signals, saw the two lithe young bodies tense; saw arms bend, swift movement without fuss; in a way they were like fighting cocks. The assistant close to Mannering drew in a hissing breath and stepped towards the passage but Mannering put out a detaining hand. In the heart of the shop the two men were at grips, but neither spoke. It was as if each saw the other as an adversary with whom there must inevitably be a trial of strength. The young faces grew tense and pale. Two pairs of eyes narrowed, two pairs of lips set tight. Neither of them appeared to breathe but both began to sway in unison.

  There was a gasp.

  Suddenly, Forrester went hurtling back, losing his balance. With quite startling speed Rupert Smith passed him, reached the door, pulled it open until it was caught by a floor-catch, spun round in time to seize Forrester’s right arm and to hoist it up behind his back in a hammer-lock. Instantly, he spun the other round and thrust him towards the street. There had been scarcely time to realise what was happening but now Mannering saw Bristow close to Quinns front door.

  Bristow asked clearly: “What’s all this?”

  Mannering did not wait to hear more but turned and followed the route which Bristow had taken. Clear fluorescent light shone on the panelled walls, a narrow, twisting Jacobean staircase, the wall of which was beamed with oak hundreds of years old. He went out in an alleyway, which stopped just beyond Quinns on the left at a reinforced concrete wall of a mammoth office block, and ran into Hart Row at the other end. It was only a few steps, and he ran until he saw the fair-haired girl standing in a shop doorway on the other side of Hart Row. She did not see him, she was so intent on what was happening at the front entrance to Quinns.

  Mannering turned the corner.

  Bristow was standing on one side. Forrester was on the pavement, with Rupert Smith blocking the doorway. Several people were in the narrow street, two of them glancing over at the three men. As he approached, Mannering heard Bristow say sharply: “That’s enough, unless you want us to fetch the police.”

  “Police,” sneered Forrester. “All they’re for is to defend you and your bloody kind.”

  “Mr. Bristow,” interrupted Rupert with great deliberation, “told you you had said enough.”

  Forrester glared. His face was pasty white, his thin body at great tension. Now Mannering could see that his cheeks were hollow and he had not only a lean but a hungry look. His hands were tightly clenched, and he began to speak again. Before he uttered more than a growling “I” the girl passed Mannering, light-footed, swift, graceful, and she stood in front of Forrester, speaking in a low-pitched but authoritative voice. Mannering noticed that her golden hair was brushed and clean, but her mini-skirt was loose and her stockings had huge ladders. Her black, much embroidered bolero, was much too big for her.

  “Tom, let’s get away at once.” She took his arm and pulled, and although he resisted it was only token resistance, for immediately he began to follow her.

  Mannering was quite sure that he saw tears of vexation in his eyes.

  He, Mannering, said in his most casual, friendly voice: “Hallo, Bill. Am I too late for something?”

  The young caller spun round. The girl dropped his arm. Bristow was taken completely by surprise, while Rupert Smith spoke with admirable composure.

  “Good morning, sir. I didn’t realise you would be back so soon. I told this gentleman you could only see callers by appointment.”

  After a pause while he smiled at both Forrester and the girl, Mannering said: “Well usually that’s true enough, but there’s no one else waiting for me, is there?”

  Bristow was slightly slow on the uptake.

  “Er—no, John, there isn’t.”

  “Then if it won’t take too long, and as he’s here, let’s go into my office,” said Mannering, and he stood aside for both young man and girl to pass.

  She was staring at him with an expression of overwhelming gratitude; her eyes were actually moist. The bolero was fresh and clean but patched; so was a dark green blouse she wore beneath it; even the brown tweed mini-skirt was both frayed and patched. She had a rather broad nose, up-tilted, and nice green-grey eyes, free from eye-shading, and a fresh but undoubtedly hungry look; too thin despite the grace with which she moved. Suddenly the shop was crowded and Mannering took the girl’s arm to make room for them to walk side by side, while he called to Jonathan Armitage, the other Edwardian exquisite.

  “Will you make some coffee and bring some biscuits, Jon? I missed breakfast.” That was as white a lie as he had told for a long time. He opened the door of his office and ushered the couple in, while Bristow hovered, meaningfully. This office was also the entrance to Mannering’s strong room, which was approached through a large opening in the floor covered, at the moment, by a winged armchair. Mannering had no fears about this couple but ex-Chief Detective Superintendent Bristow, so recently of New Scotland Yard, took nothing for granted. He came in and pushed up chairs for the young couple while Mannering offered cigarettes, which both refused.

  Tom Forrester had the grace to look ill-at-ease, whereas the girl sat back with a sigh of relief; she wasn’t exactly beautiful but if her cheeks had been a little fuller and if she were even lightly made-up, she would be most provocatively attractive.

  Bristow went out, leaving the door ajar, for at Mannering’s foot was a push which would raise instant alarm if there were any cause. Now Mannering sat back in a swivel chair, the only contemporary piece of furniture here, and looked from the boy to the girl. At close quarters Forrester was undoubtedly little more than a boy.

  “Well—” Mannering began.

  “Mr. Mannering—” said the girl.

  “It’s so bloody unfair!” burst out Tom Forrester.

  “Oh, Tom,” breathed the girl. “Tom, don’t, please.”

  “But it is!” cried Forrester. “And you know it is! The fact that Mannering’s been damned decent doesn’t make it just, you know it as well as I do!” His voice was low-pitched and aquiver and his lips were quivering, too.

  He had a huge, unwieldy chip on his shoulder, and that wasn’t unique among the youth of the day. The girl had such a steady courage, and that wasn’t unusual either. Now she looked at Forrester in acute vexation, one hand raised as if she could slap him.

  “Is anything just?” asked Mannering lightly. “Or isn’t it mostly the luck of the draw?” He leaned forward and went on earnestly: “I don’t mean to be flippant, I really mean that seriously.”

  “Oh, it is luck!” cried the girl.

  “Then all I can say is
that you’ve been damned lucky, Man—Mr. Mannering.”

  “Ah,” said Mannering, eyeing Forrester levelly. “I suppose that’s true. If it is really luck to have elementary good manners. I wonder if you realise how insufferably rude you’ve been since you came into this office?”

  Forrester jerked upright, obviously astounded. At first the girl was startled but she soon relaxed, a smile playing about her lips. They sat in silence for at least half-a-minute, before Forrester leaned back in his chair and said: “I’m sorry,” in a gruff voice.

  On that instant, as if it were a cue, the door opened wider and Jonathan Armitage came in carrying a tray with coffee, cream and sugar and a dish piled high with biscuits in several varieties. The gaze of both girl and youth turned towards this plenitude as if the effect were mesmeric, and Mannering had no doubt that both were famished. So as soon as the tray was on the desk he held out the biscuits for the girl to take and busied himself asking ‘black?’ or ‘white?’ or ‘do you take sugar?’ while they took biscuits and tried not to gobble them down. It was astonishing how quickly they relaxed and how soon colour came into their cheeks and a glow in their eyes. When a telephone call came from another London dealer Mannering dragged it out so that the biscuits could be devoured without his noticing; when he had finished there were just four left, one of each variety.

  He poured out more coffee for them and himself, remembered his story of missing breakfast and ate the remaining biscuits: enough was enough. At last, looking from one to the other, he asked: “Well now—what is it you think I can do to make life a little fairer?”

  They were both taken aback again, but after a moment Forrester actually laughed at this mild joke against himself. Soon his sober and earnest mood returned, and he started to speak. But the girl spoke first, silencing him.

  “Tom is an artist,” she stated. “A painter. And—well, he desperately needs some commissions, or a job to keep him going while he paints.”