The Arrogant Artist

by John Creasey

  “I was told so,” Forrester muttered.

  “Who told you?”

  “That’s my business.”

  Mannering pushed his arm up tautly, painfully, and said: “Now it’s mine, unless you want a broken arm.”

  “You—you wouldn’t dare!”

  “I wouldn’t trust me,” Mannering said menacingly. “Who told you that Mannering had the jewels?” He increased his pressure, knowing he could not exert much more without breaking Forrester’s arm. There was sweat on his own forehead and on the back of his neck, and his breathing was as rapid as Forrester’s, although he tried not to let the other man know it. “You’ve one more chance: who told you Mannering had the Fioras?”

  Forrester gasped: “A man named Paget.”

  “Who is Paget?”

  “He—he lives across the street.”

  “How did he find out that Mannering had the Fioras?”

  “He knew the thief who sold them to Mannering.”

  “So your friend Paget from across the street knows the thief and thinks Mannering bought the jewels from him. Is that it?”

  “Yes!” gasped Forrester, and for the first time he showed some weakness; or at least, the effect of the pressure. “Don’t—don’t break my arm.”

  “I won’t break anything if you tell me the truth.”

  “I’ve told you the truth!”

  “Why did this Paget tell you about the Fioras?” Mannering demanded.

  “I’d told him I was going to see Mannering about—about my paintings. He warned me to be careful, he said that Mannering was a crook.”

  “Oh, I see,” Mannering said, with forced lightness. “He warned you for your own sake, did he?”

  “Yes! That’s what he told me!”

  “Very generous of him,” Mannering said with a sneer. “And Paget lives just across the street here.”

  “Yes!” cried Forrester again. “At Number 20.”

  “I want to see him,” Mannering said. “I want to know why he thinks Mannering has the Fioras.” He stood back, letting go of Forrester’s arm gradually. “Get up,” he ordered. “We’ll go across together.” He watched as Forrester climbed first to one knee, then the other; and saw the man’s body go tense. He was ready when Forrester, on one knee, twisted round and flew at him again. This time, Mannering bent his knee and, with sharp and ominous impact, Forrester’s chin struck the knee-cap. Mannering actually saw the other’s eyes roll and knew that he became unconscious on the instant. Forrester fell, face downwards. Mannering paused only for a second before checking the other’s pulse; it was fast but not abnormal. He hoisted Forrester up on to the W.C. pedestal, cut off a piece of the nylon rope and fastened the man by the ankles to the base, by the wrists to the water-pipe behind him.

  This done, he turned away.

  A moment later he listened at the door of the old man’s bedroom, and heard the snoring as loud as ever.

  He went out of the house, closed the door softly behind him, and stood in the porch. A car turned into the street from the Wandsworth Bridge Road and passed, headlights very bright; it turned a corner on Mannering’s left. No one else moved. He went across the road and checked this door, it was a Yale lock, and trickier than that at Number 17. This time he took a piece of high tensile steel out of the tool kit at his waist and inserted one end into the narrow gap between the metal lock and the side of the door. He pushed this through, slowly, and when the pressure was strong enough, each end of the steel jutting out equally on either side, the lock clicked back and the door sagged open an inch.

  Mannering pushed it wider, and listened.

  There was no sound.

  He stepped in and closed the door, which would not lock, now; so he placed a chair against it, so that no one passing in the street could notice that it was ajar. He used a torch for the first time, since there were no lights on here.

  All the downstairs rooms were empty. In the kitchen was the sour smell of unwashed baby linen. He already knew that the lay-out here was the same as that across the road; what he didn’t know was how the Paget family slept. A very faint light showed about the frame of one door facing the stairs, and he saw that this was ajar. He pushed very slowly, holding his breath. It did not creak. Then he saw a nightlight at a bedside table, Doris Paget asleep in a single bed, the child in a cot, huddled in one corner.

  Mannering found the key in the lock. He went out and locked the door, turned – and saw Paget in the doorway of the front room door.

  Paget had what looked like a pistol in his hand.

  The only sound was their breathing, and Paget’s was coming so quick and shallow, clear indication that he was badly frightened; a frightened man might well shoot first and ask questions afterwards. Mannering kept his hands in front of him, obviously empty. Paget fought down his agitation and demanded: “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m looking for the Fiora jewels,” Mannering said, in the voice which no one who knew him would recognise.

  “The hell you are!”

  “That’s right,” Mannering said.

  “What makes you think I’ve got them?”

  “I know you know who has them.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “Forrester told me that you told him.”

  “Like hell he did!”

  “He certainly did. He said you said that Mannering of Quinns had them.”

  “That’s right,” Paget confirmed, changing his attitude immediately. “Mannering has.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I think you’re a liar,” Mannering said, roughly.

  “My God. I’ll shoot you if—”

  “Because the police searched his flat and Bristow has access to his strong room, but nothing’s happened to Mannering. If those jewels had been at the flat, they’d have arrested him. And Bristow might have resigned from the police and be working for Mannering but he wouldn’t allow Mannering to keep stolen jewels at Quinns.”

  “Q.E.D.,” sneered Paget. “Come in here and let me have a look at you.” He backed further into the front room and switched on a light, which shone very brightly on to Mannering’s face and on to the gun. “Come on!” He jerked the gun and Mannering did what he was told. He felt much steadier now, and quite sure that this man knew something. “Get a move on!” Paget ordered, and as Mannering crossed the threshold of the big room, he demanded: “What’s your interest in the Floras?”

  Mannering said: “I’ve got a buyer.”

  “What do you mean, a buyer?”

  “I mean another collector with more money than he knows what to do with, and a secret collection in an underground strong room in New York,” Mannering said testily. “He’d pay a quarter of a million.”

  “Pounds or dollars?” Paget almost spat out the question.

  “Pounds. Where are they, Paget?”

  “I tell you …” Paget began.

  “They’re not at Mannering’s, someone spread that story around that they were so as to fool the police,” said Mannering almost offhandedly. “Was that you?”

  “You’ve got a nerve!”

  “That’s right,” Mannering said. “And I’ve been living on strong nerves for a long time. I want those Fioras, and I’d split fifty-fifty with you or anyone else who’s got them. Fifty-fifty,” he repeated.

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  Mannering said slowly: “You don’t, Paget. You just don’t. But you’ve got a head on your shoulders, you know that two and two make four. I wouldn’t come here and stick my neck out if I hadn’t a good reason, and my reason’s half of a quarter of a million pounds. I’ve been dealing in the hot jewels business all my life but I’ve never had a chance like this before. With that money I could retire.” He waited and watched the different expressions chasing one another across Paget’s face, ranging from doubt to hope and from hope to greed. The gun sagged, but this wasn’t the time to
take action; if Mannering made a false move now he could easily be shot and killed.

  There must be no false move.

  Whatever he did, all the time he must think of Lorna.

  He said: “How about it?”

  “I think you’re lying,” Paget said, and after a pause, he added: “What’s the name of this buyer in New York?” The hope and the avarice were the emotions which showed on his face now.

  “Topeski,” Mannering answered promptly. “Cornelius Topeski. And if you don’t believe he’s interested, look at this letter—”

  He put his hand to his inside breast pocket and took out the envelope.

  As he did so Paget raised the gun and said: “Watch it!” Mannering opened the envelope and then tossed it negligently to Paget, who grabbed with his free hand. But before he touched it the pepper billowed out in a stinging cloud, and as he cried out in pain, Mannering leapt forward and knocked the gun out of his hand. It clattered to the floor as Paget began to sneeze uncontrollably. Mannering moved swiftly outside the room, and closed the door, listening. The sneezing was muted with the door closed and no sound came from the other room.

  Mannering went back, and closed the door softly behind him, now in complete control.

  He stifled a sneeze as pepper tickled his nostrils, but most of it had settled on the floor and furniture. Paget stood against the wall, his eyes, streaming, sneezing violently without stopping, pressing one hand against his stomach to ease the strain on his muscles. Gradually, the paroxysm subsided. He wiped his nose and dabbed his eyes, looking at Mannering as if he were suffering from a dreadful cold.

  At last, Mannering said: “Where are the Fioras, Paget?”

  Incoherently Paget said something like: “I dunno.”

  Mannering raised the gun which he now held.

  “There isn’t any time to lie,” he said, coldly. “You were very interested in getting a price for them five minutes ago. Who has them?”

  “I swear, I dunno! I only know—” Paget began to talk freely, as if the turning of the tables and the sight of the gun had terrified him. His voice was thick and the words ran into one another, but the gist of it was clear. He himself was in insurance. Often, he had to deal with claims for stolen jewels, and this had brought him into contact with fences and thieves. Two days ago a man had telephoned and told him that he had the Fiora Collection and wanted a good price for it; he had also said that he was going to spread it about that Mannering was holding them.

  “Why Mannering?” Mannering demanded.

  “Doan ask me, I dunno,” muttered Paget. “Just to put the police off the scent, I dare say. Anyway, this man told me to stand by, if I helped I would get a cut of the price received. I just had to do what he told me, see. And he told me to watch Forrester when I told him Forrester was going to see Mannering.”

  “How did you know that?” demanded Mannering.

  “Julie Clarendon told me,” muttered Paget. “She said she tried to stop him, but he had a bee in his bonnet about Mannering helping him with his painting. Something happened because Mannering went to the house across the street to see Forrester’s paintings, or so he said. He came over here, too, to bring a message from Julie, who does chores for my wife. Julie couldn’t come. I thought Mannering was interested only in Forrester’s paintings, but it looks as if he was interested in something else.”

  Mannering asked, forcing himself to be patient: “Who is this friend of yours?”

  “I don’t know!” gasped Paget. “I swear I don’t know! I—” he broke off, dabbing at his eyes again and began to snivel. “I sell insurance and settle claims, and he knows I okayed an insurance claim once when I knew the real stuff was safe and paste imitations had been stolen. He—he put me on to it, and afterwards I had to do what he told me to, for fear he’d tell my company. I just had to do what he said.”

  “I want to know his name,” Mannering insisted.

  “I don’t know his name, I tell you! There’s only one thing I do know. He told me to tell Forrester to get Julie out of the house, that he wanted to do a deal with Mannering at Forrester’s place tomorrow. He said Mannering would buy the Fioras for a hundred thousand quid, and I would get a thousand if I did what I was told. So I told Forrester and he kicked Julie out. She’s not there any more.”

  “And all this just to allow Mannering to go and buy the Fioras from across the street?” Mannering said sceptically.

  “Yes, I tell you, yes! This chap said Mannering had been there about the pictures, so Number 17 was a safe meeting place. And he told Forrester to stay in all day tomorrow until he got instructions.”

  “So Forrester also does what he’s told, does he?” Mannering said grimly.

  “This man’s got some hold over him. Don’t ask me what because I don’t know.” Paget was speaking more clearly although still hoarse from the pepper. “All I know is that Mannering’s going to be there to do a deal, a hundred thousand for the Fioras – and you know a man who’ll pay a quarter of a million. Or are you lying?” Paget demanded, defiance breaking through his fear. “Are you lying?”

  He glanced down at the envelope which had held the pepper, and then fearfully into the eyes of the man he did not know was Mannering.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Plot

  “Don’t worry about that,” Mannering replied in his most matter-offact voice. “I’m not lying.” He moved to a hardback chair and sat down; until that moment he had not realised how much he needed rest. He held the gun on his lap, the finger still in the trigger-guard. “Do you know what time Mannering is coming?”

  “Twelve o’clock,” Paget muttered.

  “And Forrester will have the Fioras for him.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Paget was becoming more self-confident as the effect of the pepper wore off and as the danger from his own gun seemed to fade. “I said the exchange had to be done there, that’s all. I don’t know what part Forrester will have to play. Not much, I shouldn’t think.”

  “Why not?”

  “All that man can think about is daubing all over the place with sexy pictures,” Paget said derisively. “I could have put him in the way of earning plenty of cash but he wouldn’t go along with the idea.”

  “What was the idea?” demanded Mannering.

  Paget answered without a pause to think.

  “Doing copies of valuable paintings. That’s a paying game, if you don’t know it already. Big money paintings are copied at galleries and in private collections, and when there’s a good chance, someone does a switch. There’s always someone to buy at a good price on the underground market – like your client, Topeski, isn’t it?” Mannering nodded. “I got on to this years ago, that’s why I got to know Forrester. Let me tell you something,” Paget went on, earnestly: “I moved in here when I knew Forrester was going to be at Number 17 all the time. That’s why Julie’s got a room here, for free. She baby sits sometimes but mostly I wanted to get a hold on Forrester, only it didn’t work. I even offered him a lump sum down, whether his paintings made a profit or not – I knew they would sooner or later, mind you, I’m not Father Christmas.”

  For some incredible reason, Paget actually seemed pleased with himself.

  “And what did Forrester say?” Mannering demanded.

  “Some crap about art for art’s sake. There’s a lousy swine for you! He won’t do a few pictures and make himself a good living because it’s prostituting his art, but he’ll live on that poor kid Julie. If she didn’t earn enough for them both from her typing, they’d starve. And she waits on him hand and foot, buys the food and pays the rent, and what reward does she get? He throws her out. I tell you,” Paget went on, with still greater indignation, “that’s not a man, that’s a womanising son of a bitch!”

  Mannering, fascinated, asked quietly: “Can he do these copies?”

  “Standing on his head.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen some,” Paget answered. “Beauties they were – Verm
eers and even a Rembrandt. He—my God!” breathed Paget, standing rigid with his hands stretched out in front of him. “That’s the guy who’s got him where he wants him. If Forrester did some paintings, and they were switched with the genuine articles, anyone who knew about it would have him in a corner, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he?” Paget repeated in a shrill tone. “That’s who the guy must be.” He gulped, and moved forward, arms still outstretched, and Mannering raised the gun a fraction; but he did not think there was danger. Paget’s still peppered-red eyes were actually blazing and his mouth was wide open; obviously he was speaking his thoughts aloud. “Listen, if we catch this guy doing a deal with Mannering over the Floras, we’ll have them both as tight as a wedge. Mannering and the guy with the Fioras. Why don’t we work together, you and me? We could make a fortune!”

  “I’m too old a dog to learn new tricks,” Mannering replied, heavily. “I want these Fioras because I’ve got this ready market for them. Sure you don’t know who’s got them?”

  “Not the foggiest,” Paget insisted. “All I know is he’s an old buddy of Tom Forrester, said he’d known Tom for years, they were at school together. That’s another bloody racket, this old school tie business.”

  Mannering was very tense, but showed no sign of it. Old school tie; minor public school; Forrester and young Sangster. And another fact dawned on him, significant enough to threaten to choke him. Sir Gordon Sangster’s was a collection of rubies and emeralds, and of Dutch paintings, mostly panels. He had several superb Vermeers. As these thoughts passed through his mind, he asked: “What are you going to get out of tomorrow’s deal?”

  “Between this guy and Mannering?”

  “Yes.”

  “A thousand quid. I told you.”

  “It’s not worth the risk,” Mannering declared.

  “What is worth it, then?” demanded Paget, breathing more heavily. “Come on, tell me. What is?”

  “Helping me to lift the Fioras when they’re at Forrester’s place,” answered Mannering.