by John Creasey
Mannering kept a straight face. “I’m committed to find out and to tell him if I get any news of the other jewels.”
“No further?”
“And I’m expected to pass on any relevant information which might reasonably be expected to help him to find a criminal or criminals.”
“Expected?”
“Sooner or later.”
“Look here,” said Lessing fiercely, “I want to help Francesca, but I don’t even know how to begin. Will you help her? Bristow obviously wants to prove that her father’s mixed up with crooks, and I’d like to try to prove that he isn’t. You’d be working on the same job from a different motive, and I - er - I’d pay any fee, within reason.” He coloured, hotly. “I don’t want to cheat the law, but . . .”
“Let’s leave all this until we see what happens next,” Mannering suggested. “I’m with you part of the way.”
“How do you mean?”
“Helping Francesca.”
“That’s all I want.”
“We may not always see eye-to-eye about what is going to help her,” Mannering said dryly. “Call me later, Simon, will you?”
“Yes, all right,” Lessing said, and turned to the door. Doing so, he caught a glimpse of a portrait on the wall opposite the desk; the portrait of a man who was the spit image of Mannering, but dressed in the fashion of a Regency buck, powdered hair and periwig, scarlet stock, ruffles and red satin coat. Lessing glanced at Mannering, then back at the picture. “Good lord,” he said, “that’s uncanny!”
“Most natural likeness in the world,” Mannering told him. “My wife painted the face from life, and the clothes from a costume piece. She changes the clothes about once a year, the face is paint inlaid in paint.”
Lessing went off, chuckling; momentarily lighter-hearted.
Mannering saw Larraby talking to a short man with very broad shoulders and a completely bald head. He went back into the office, put the calipers, tweezers, scales and watch-glass away, and picked up the little piece of cotton-wool. Then he studied the book. There were seventeen large jewels in the Fiora Collection, and twenty-two small ones. The small ones could never be identified if they were taken from their setting, but unless the larger stones - all diamonds - were cut down, they could be identified against the book’s description of the work of the Dutch genius, van Heldt.
Mannering picked up the telephone.
In a few seconds Lorna answered.
“Hallo, my sweet,” said Mannering, and made words more than casual endearment. “Bill Bristow’s been here, and Francesca’s in trouble.”
“Oh, John, no!”
“Yes. Someone pushed her in the river. She’s all right except for shock - Bristow’s having her looked after.”
“But why . . .?”
“That cross her father gave her was stolen,” Mannering went on. “A stolen diamond was found on her, too. I’m to probe, which means that I’m in temporary favour at the Yard. Simon Lessing is all emotionally anxious, if he can be believed.”
“Any reason to doubt him?” Lorna was quick.
“Every artist loves a nice boy! No. But Lisle didn’t come to the party. That might possibly have been to avoid me, or it might have been to avoid one of the other guests. Or for totally different reasons. Busy today?”
“I can see I’m going to be.”
Mannering chuckled. “Blessed be those who foresee the future. Go round to Francesca’s flat, will you? Tell the maid how sorry you are, is there any way you can help, and with low cunning compile a list of the names of the people at the party. And pump the maid, looking for anything odd or unusual about Bernard Lisle, or odd and sinister or even mildly mysterious callers. You know.”
“I’m not a bit sure that I want to play detective,” Lorna said. “I suppose you’re going to visit your unsavoury friends?”
“Say that to Simon Lessing, and he’ll agree with you warmly!”
“If you really think it will help the girl I’ll see what I can do,” promised Lorna, with obvious reluctance. “Don’t go and do anything silly, we’re going to the Plenders tonight.”
“These parties . . .”
“It’s their anniversary, and we have to change for dinner. Don’t be back a minute after six,” Lorna warned.
Mannering went upstairs to a room on the third and top floor, where he kept some clothes. Larraby, the manager, often slept in a small room opposite this. Mannering whistled softly to himself, took off his perfectly cut suit of honey brown, dressed in another, of grey, which fitted where it touched. It had the look of a City man’s week-end suit, the knees were baggy, the pockets sagged, the cuffs were beginning to fray. This change alone made a startling difference to his appearance. He could change it a great deal more, but this wasn’t an occasion for showing his prowess, only for looking less conspicuous than he would if he wore his usual clothes in the East End. He transferred cigarettes, lighter, wallet, money and all other oddments to the old suit, and went downstairs. Larraby and the bald-headed, broad-shouldered man were still deep in conversation. The stranger was not English.
Trevor, a tall young man in black coat, striped trousers, dark, flat hair and pronounced widow’s peak, hastened to open the door for Mannering. “When will you be back, sir?”
“I don’t know, Trevor. Hold the fort.”
“Don’t worry about that, sir.”
“Don’t worry about that,” mused Mannering, and marvelled at the spirit of that young man, who did not look at all like a hero. Six months before, when Mannering had become involved in a case which had started off much less ominously than this one, an assistant at the shop had been murdered. Here was another case with danger obviously in the offing, and Trevor would “hold the fort”! In spite of all the railing at modern young men, there were a lot of Trevors.
And Lessings.
Mannering walked towards the parking lot, passed the Rolls-Bentley, for he no longer looked qualified to sit at the wheel of such opulence, and eventually came to Piccadilly and waited at a bus stop. It was now midday. Piccadilly was crowded, both here and at the Circus a little farther along; ten minutes in that maelstrom and a saint could become a misanthrope. Two small, brassy-haired girls wearing shoes with absurdly high heels eyed Mannering with open admiration, and a tall, classy woman carrying a French poodle pretended that she wasn’t. He went to the top deck of a Number 96, found a front seat free, sat down and lit a cigarette. London unfolded in front of him. Scurrying people risking death beneath the wheels of bustling taxis, monstrous buses, perky little private cars. Here and there the black-and-white daubs of zebra crossing held up the impatient, and people walked across these disdainfully; only at such places did they seem to be in no hurry.
Fleet Street was crammed. The crowds thinned at Ludgate Hill, massed again on the step of St. Paul’s, where a military band was playing something from Grieg, and where office workers thronged the steps and the space between the pillars, eating sandwiches, listening, smoking. At the Bank traffic and people seemed to be going in three directions at once. Looking down on the narrow confines of the City streets, it was like peering down upon a myriad of Lilliputians.
And someone, a person who had been and almost certainly still was a cypher in London’s nine millions, had pushed Francesca Lisle into the river, believing that she would drown.
It would take a hard, ruthless man to kill such beauty.
They were nearing Aldgate. Mannering could see the old pump at the end of this road, still ready to quench the thirst of parched Londoners as it had been for generations. A few hundred yards along, and the character of London would change. Here in the city there lived, by day, the black-coated barrier between West End and East. Mannering’s odd friends lived mostly in the East End. They would probably be glad to see him, although one or two, perhaps with stolen jewels on the premises, would wonder if he were actually on the look-out for those jewels, and would wish him to hell.
These would be the more outwardly overjoyed at meet
ing him.
Somewhere there lay hidden a clue to the attack on Francesca; to her father’s disappearance; and to the murder of a man who had been murdered for the Fiora jewels. The old, dead man had been a friend of Mannering, and he had suffered savagely.
So there were two good reasons for wanting to find a clue; justice and vengeance for an old man, and help for a young girl.
It had been four years or more since the murder, and there had been no clues to the killers until now. It might take another three years to find the next clue; or it might be found this very day.
Mannering climbed down the stairs as a clippie called: “Allgit.” He beamed at her, and she rounded her eyes and said: “Ta-ta, sir.” He swung on to the pavement, one of the East End crowd, dressed no better and not so well as some of the others, ears quickly tuning themselves to the cries of hawkers, barrow-boys and newsboys. He walked briskly. Across the road, the wholesale butchers were beginning to close their warehouses, but great, raw-looking carcases or mammoth sides of beef hung, dripping. Here kosher and Gentile butcher lived next door to each other, here the masses swarmed, here lay the main hope of finding more about the Fiora jewels.
Mannering made three calls and drew three blanks.
He entered the fourth shop, in a side street near Whitechapel Library, and knew that he had stepped into a place of fear. He was greeted by a frightened man, a little, middle-aged chap, almost a dwarf, with a face which could have qualified him for a clown at any circus. This was a hump-backed, black-eyed dealer in jewels, who had the look of a confirmed rogue.
In a way, he was.
In a way, he was as clean as a policeman’s whistle. He gave a square deal, he was a reliable friend to many; even the police liked him, in spite of the fact that they hadn’t yet caught him with stolen jewels.
When he recognised Mannering, he actually shivered.
8: A HALF-TALE OF A FRIGHTENED MAN
“Hallo, Prinny,” greeted Mannering, and smiled as if in the gloom of the overcrowded shop he hadn’t noticed that the proprietor was so frightened. But he was asking himself why, and could not stop his own heart from beating faster. Could this be the luck he needed; to find a clue at the fourth instead of the fortieth visit? “Nice to see you again. And you look as if you’re prospering.”
He offered his hand.
The man named Prinny took it, gripped nervously with icy fingers, and let it go.
The shop was a junk-heap. On one side, tray after tray of cheap broken jewellery, old watches, clocks, china, hideous brass pieces, knives and forks, all over-laden with dirt and dust. On the other was the “furniture”. In the middle was a narrow path, covered with a strip of narrow linoleum with its original red-and-brown surface worn off, and at the end of the shop a little counter with a hatch leading to it. Behind the counter was a door to the downstairs room and the stairs to two rooms above.
“Hallo,” said Mannering, as if surprised. “Aren’t you feeling too good?”
“Good?” echoed Prinny, in a plummy voice. “First I see the Devil himself, and then who do I see? I see the father of the Devil.” His voice was a thin wail. “Do me a favour, Mr. Mannering, go away from here, put a notice on the door you won’t ever come back. Will you do that jus’ to please me?”
Mannering said sympathetically: “You must have had a shock. Which particular Devil came to see you?”
“Mr. Mannering,” gabbled Prinny, more plummily than ever, “I don’t want to lie to you, I don’t want to be bad friends with you. I jus’ don’t want to see you now. Tomorrow or next week or last week, that would be fine, but not now, please. You make me talk, and I don’t want to talk. So be a pal, go away, please.”
“Who was it, Prinny?”
Prinny wrung his hands.
“Now the limpet has competition, and always it happens on the wrong day! All right, all right, ask me what you want to ask me, and if I want to answer I will answer, and if I don’t . . .”
“Fioras, Prinny?”
“Oh, what have I done to deserve this?” groaned Prinny. “What gets into you, Mr. Mannering? Is it second sight? If you would do me a favour, jus’ go away. Have I ever harmed you?”
“So you’ve been offered some of the Fioras?” Mannering murmured.
Prinny looked appealingly into his face. Prinny’s black eyes were shiny, as with tears of pleading. His skin had a yellowy pallor. He was Punchinello without knowing that he could make the world laugh by just being himself. A frightened Punchinello.
“I’ve just been asking myself, Mr. Mannering, what to do for the best. That’s what I’ve been doing. And I know the answer now, I’ll talk to you about it, but heaven help me if anyone finds out. But I know a man I can trust, don’t I?” He kept wringing his hands, and the hard skin made a slithering sound. “As God’s my judge I’m not wicked, you know that. I never buy a single article knowing it to have blood on it. If I tell a man where he might find a buyer, well, is that so wrong, Mr. Mannering? If I didn’t tell him someone would, wouldn’t they?” He looked as if he were about to burst into tears. “But he’s a clever devil, he—”
Prinny stopped.
He was looking past Mannering towards the door, and something that he saw outside made him stiffen, and cut across his words. Mannering didn’t look round. Prinny licked his lips.
Then he seemed to wince.
“Mr. Mannering,” he begged, “be a friend, go away, let someone know I didn’t tell you a thing, not a thing. Be that kind of a pal, Mr. Mannering.”
“All right, Prinny,” Mannering said, very mildly, “but don’t get yourself into trouble. Bristow is on this job. There was attempted murder last night, more blood on the Fioras. Don’t be scared into helping people who might get you hanged.”
“Jus’ go away,” Prinny implored, “that’s all I ask.”
There was nothing to be gained by staying now. Obviously Prinny had been visited by someone who terrified him, and was in dread lest he should be thought to be making a deal with the owner of Quinns.
So he was probably being watched.
Mannering turned away. To the little dealer, he must have looked enormous. The ill-fitting suit was big across the shoulders, too. He opened the door and went out, nodding to Prinny, who had retired to the doorway behind the counter. Then Mannering turned right, towards Whitechapel Road.
Looking into a newspaper shop next door was a youngish man. Mannering had one swift look at him. He had a sallow, clean-shaven face with a dark dusting of stubble nothing could banish completely, smooth features, a well-cut suit and a new Trilby hat of navy blue. This man didn’t look at Mannering. He stared at the magazines and paperback books in the window, and could undoubtedly see Mannering’s reflection. Mannering did not give him a second glance, but walked past, taking long strides, making his gait look a little unsteady.
He stopped at the corner. Traffic rumbled by. A cyclist cut in too close to the kerb, and made him dodge back. That gave him an excuse to look round; the well-dressed man had disappeared.
Mannering crossed the road, which was cobbled, very hard on the feet and slippery too. Opposite, there was a public-house, near it a cafe. Big enamel dishes were in the window with sausages, tomatoes, eggs, onions, hamburgers and rice pudding, all cooking - everything but the rice was sizzling in fat. Mannering went in. The smell of frying, hot and choky, struck at him overpoweringly. Farther along, forty or fifty men and a few girls were sitting close together on long benches, hot food in front of them. Nearer the door was a long service counter, opposite it some stools and a shelf. A few people sat here, eating. Mannering ordered sausages and tomatoes, helped himself to a knife and fork, which were spotlessly clean, although bendable without much effort. He squeezed into a place opposite the counter, from where he could see Prinny’s shop. It was ten minutes before the good-looking man came out of Prinny’s, and by that time Mannering had finished eating.
The man came his way.
Mannering kept where he was. A girl with fluff
y hair was between him and the window, so he wasn’t likely to be noticed if Prinny’s visitor crossed the road here. A small car, a black Austin saloon, slid towards the man, who got in. Mannering could not see the driver. He moved swiftly outside and stared after the car.
“K42AB,” he said aloud; and repeated the number, then scribbled it on a small pad which he slipped from his breast pocket.
He looked towards Prinny’s. No one was near that shop or the newsagent’s, except a man on the other side of the road, lounging as a bookie’s runner might lounge. Mannering didn’t get a good look at him, he was too far away, but he carried away a mind picture; including gingery hair.
He moved quickly towards a telephone kiosk, but a man was talking earnestly into the mouthpiece, and holding a copy of the Evening News Racing Special up against the box. He might be an age putting on his money; instead, he finished almost at once, and left.
The kiosk smelt of vinegar and fish and chips.
Mannering dialled Quinns; Trevor answered in his best Bond Street manner, Larraby came on the line sounding like an angel.
“Josh,” said Mannering briskly, “get hold of a runner who knows his way about the East End, and have him keep tags on Prinny. He’s scared and he’s being watched, and I’d like to know who by.”
“I think I know just the man for the job,” Larraby said promptly.
“I don’t mean Josh Larraby,” remarked Mannering dryly. “Anything turned up?”
“I - ah - have had to change the window,” Larraby told him smugly. “Senhor Costelho is leaving London by air tonight, and wanted to take the jade with him. I thought of putting . . .”
“Congratulations! Fix that runner first and the window afterwards,” said Mannering. “Leave it empty if you must. ‘Bye, Josh.”
He rang off.
No one showed any special interest in him. A policeman, strutting past, obviously remembered his face, but couldn’t place him; the man kept looking back. Mannering saluted him with the haste and humility a policeman might have expected from an old lag, and crossed the road to the bus stop. At any other time he might have felt a snug sense of satisfaction, for there were hopes of progress. He felt no satisfaction at all. He didn’t like it when the Prinnys of the world were so frightened. He wanted to know why Prinny was scared, and was pondering ways of finding out.