by John Creasey
Inside the hall, lit by fifty lamps in a glistening Spanish chandelier, the Plenders looked not a day more than forty. The Mannerings were the last guests to arrive. Lorna was apologetic, Toby Plender’s wife told her not to be silly and carried her off to mysterious regions. Toby Plender grinned at Mannering and, as they went to join thirty or forty men and women waiting and drinking in an ante room to the dining-room, he said with mild irony: “I see you have your name in the papers again.”
“Blame the papers. Toby - how much will you forgive me for?”
“Nothing.”
“I must telephone Bristow. I may have to go and see him. I left it until I had Lorna here, if I’d called from the flat she would have used a frying-pan on me or else refused to come alone. Unless the Devil or Bristow makes it impossible, I’ll be back for the toast.”
“That’s all right, John,” Toby Plender said, and wasn’t fooling. “Try to get back. I’ll calm Lorna down. If you can’t make it, the Old Boy will say the nice things for you. Big trouble?”
“For some people,” Mannering said.
He went to a telephone in a room where the cackle of voices sounded as if from a long way off, and where he was alone. He did not feel alone. He felt as if he were being crowded by shadows and watched by ghosts. He dialled Scotland Yard and waited, and seemed to feel the weight getting heavier; the weight which fear places upon the human heart. He did not really know why he should be so afraid. He did not know this Joy, except to recall a pretty, animated face and golden hair and a provocative little figure . . .
“Scotland Yard, can I help you?”
“Superintendent Bristow’s office, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir, Superintendent Bristow is in AZ Division at the moment.”
“Do you know why?”
“Just a moment, sir, I’ll put you through to the Chief Inspectors’ office.”
“Right,” said Mannering. “Thanks.” He waited. He had to tell Bristow - and he preferred Bristow to any policeman - that these threats had been uttered against Joy Lessing; also that she had disappeared. He could not take risks with the girl’s safety, perhaps with her life. He was sure that Bristow would handle it with all the discretion that it demanded, and wished Bristow were in his office.
A man spoke.
“Who’ssat?”
“John Mannering,” Mannering said. “I was hoping to have a word with Bill Bristow. Is he coming back soon?”
“Shouldn’t think so,” the Inspector said. “He’s over at AZ. Murder job. You’d know the poor beggar. Chap named Prinny, Abe Prinny. Did a bit of fencing, although we never caught him with the goods. Head bashed in. Shop turned inside out. Nasty job, we’d had him here for questioning, the devils must ‘a been waiting for him in his shop after we let him go. We’d searched and drawn blank. Bristow’s flaming mad, so unless it’s urgent, I’d keep away from him tonight.”
“Oh,” said Mannering very heavily. “I see.”
13: A VISIT TO EPHRAIM SCOBY
Mannering knew Bowing’s Hotel well. He also knew the porters. He had no difficulty in getting Ephraim Scoby’s room number - 302 - and none in finding his way to the room. It overlooked a square as quiet and as nostalgic as that where Lorna at this moment was discovering that he had betrayed her.
He listened at the door, made sure that he could hear no one speaking inside, and slid a pick-lock into the keyhole.
One man could take a car engine to pieces and put it together again, another could invent explosives, a third could amass fortunes, a fourth grow onions; Mannering could open doors and force locks of all kinds. He had once been an expert par excellence. He had, in fact, once been a cracksman extraordinary, to coin a phrase, and in those days he had won much notoriety and not a little fame as the Baron, who always worked strictly incognito. He regarded them as the good or the bad old days, according to his mood, and always remembered them when, as now, he turned the lock with hardly a sound.
He pushed the room door open.
There was a little lobby, with pegs for hats, coats and dressing-gown. Opposite the pegs was the bathroom, on Mannering’s left. Opposite the passage door, facing Mannering, was the main bedroom door. The bathroom was in darkness, but the bedroom light was on.
That door was ajar.
Mannering pushed it a little wider.
The smooth-faced man, his jowl darker now because of a few extra hours’ growth, sat in an easy-chair with the light above his head, and his feet up on the double bed. He had the evening paper in front of him; it rustled slightly. He wore horn-rimmed glasses. Those, his stubble and his jet black hair threw up the sallow tinge of his skin. He was quite a strong-looking character, and a half-smoked cigar was in one corner of his mouth.
“Ephraim,” Mannering murmured.
The man started. His hands must have moved fully an inch, and the paper jumped and rustled. He began to turn his head, but checked the movement, showing remarkable control of his nerves. He raised his head slightly, and looked away from the newspaper, but not at Mannering. He was looking into a mirror.
“How is dear Chas?” asked Mannering, and went farther into the room.
Now, Scoby turned to face him, taking off his glasses and blinking while his eyes refocused. In his way, he was handsome.
“If you mean Ringall,” he said, quite steadily, “you shouldn’t have made an enemy of Ringall.”
“Prinny shouldn’t have made an enemy of you, either.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The judge, the jury, the prison Governor, the death-cell warders and the hangman will enlighten you, little by little and in due course,” Mannering said expansively. “I shall give them some of the information, for I have just come from the police. They know about Joy Lessing. They know a lot of things. Don’t hurt Joy.”
Scoby said: “Have you gone crazy? Who’s this Joy?”
“Simon’s sister.” Mannering moved again. Scoby didn’t seem to be frightened, but probably was. He shifted the cigar from one side of his bloodless mouth to the other. His face still had that powdered look. He hitched himself up a little higher in his chair, and his right hand went towards his coat pocket. He was the kind of man who might carry a gun, and would use one whenever he thought that he could avoid being found out, or whenever he thought that he might be legally justified in doing so: as now, by shooting an intruder.
He gave a slow, almost a pleasant smile; gold-tipped teeth glinted.
“Why don’t you cut out the dramatics, Mannering? Let me get you a drink, and . . .”
“No, thanks,” said Mannering. He stepped round the man and rested lightly against the dressing-table. “A rat from all angles. I don’t know who or what gave you the idea that I have the Fioras. I haven’t. You were fooled. Whether you believe that or not, send Joy Lessing back, tonight.”
“This Lessing,” Scoby said, “he’s dangerous. He’s a killer when he’s tight. But never mind Lessing. I don’t know about this Joy, perhaps you’ll explain to me later. I wanted a talk with you.”
Mannering took out cigarettes.
“I’ve ten minutes,” he said.
“I want the Fioras,” Scoby told him, very slowly. “I know you have them, and I want them. I can get them the hard or the easy way. I’ve a market for them. I can afford to pay you. I can cut you in to the tune of ten thousand pounds. That’s money. There isn’t another thing I want, Mannering, just those diamonds - and you can call yourself lucky that I offer as much.”
“I do not know where the Fioras are.”
“Okay, okay, so you’ll stall,” said Scoby, and dropped the newspaper. His hand wasn’t so near his pocket now, apparently he felt sure that he wouldn’t be attacked. “I’m in no hurry. But when I’ve got those diamonds, everything will be fine, no one will get hurt. Not even you, or any girl friends. Not even Simon Lessing.”
Mannering said: “Why did you try to drown Francesca?”
“Say that again.”
> “What did you do to Bernard Lisle?”
Scoby didn’t like this. It showed in the way his eyes narrowed, and the way his hands tightened. Next moment he was normal again, except for one thing. He smiled. To smile more easily, he took the cigar from his lips.
“And they told me you were good,” he sneered.
Mannering lit a cigarette. He leaned against the dressing-table with his ankles crossed, studying the man as a bacteriologist would study a smear on a slide. He wondered whether Scoby was known to Scotland Yard, and wondered what gave him his confidence.
“Ephraim,” Mannering said, “you’re taking a lot of chances with me. Didn’t anyone tell you that I work with the police? They’ll act on my advice more often than not. And this time I could advise . . .”
“Advise nothing,” Scoby said. He put the cigar back into his mouth. “I’m on to you, Mannering. You’ve got a good game, but it doesn’t always pay off. It won’t this time. You can’t put the police on to me, and if you could they couldn’t touch me. No, sir. I’ve got alibis. They’re good, and they can’t be broken. And if you try breaking them or breaking me, I tell the police how I know you have the Fioras. If I don’t get them, you won’t keep them. Now we ought to understand each other.”
He stood up. He was solid, if inclined to run to fat, and his waistcoat was rucked up from sitting, so that his white shirt showed between his waistcoat and trousers. He pulled the waistcoat down. He was so calm and deliberate that he fascinated Mannering.
Then he said with venomous swiftness: “Now get out! Get those diamonds and bring them back here. If you don’t want trouble, do just that. Don’t try talking me down. You got a wife, you’ve got friends, there’s this Joy, there’s Lisle’s kid. They can all get hurt, and you can get hurt, too. Bring it all, Mannering. You lord it over the little fences while they take the risks, but do you know what I can do? I can kick everything you’ve built your phoney reputation on from under you. And I will. Quinns and all the rest. So get out, and fetch me the Fioras. Don’t tell the police, don’t tell anyone. Get going.”
He stopped.
The room was very quiet.
Mannering stood up, slowly. He began to smile, as if genuinely amused. For the first time, Scoby seemed to be puzzled, a little unsure of himself. He moved back to the bed, as if expecting Mannering to strike him. Mannering didn’t, but the smile turned into a chuckle, as if he couldn’t keep it back, and the situation was too funny for words.
“How the gods must be laughing,” he said. He bent down and picked up the shiny black shoes from the side of Scoby’s chair. He looked at them.
Scoby said: “What . . .”
“Hand-made, too.” He moved with sudden speed, making Scoby jump, but all he did was to pull open the door of the wardrobe. In one of the lower sections, tight in their chromium trees, was another pair of shiny black shoes. Mannering picked them up.
“What the hell are you doing?” Scoby demanded, and his voice had an edge to it. Mannering had broken his confidence.
“Collecting shoes,” said Mannering. “Your shoes. Thanks. May I borrow a case? I’ll send it back.” He picked up a small suitcase, dropped it on the bed, opened it, and turned the contents out on to the bed; there were only odds and ends. He put the shoes in and closed the case. “Thanks, Ephraim.”
“You damned fool, give me my shoes back! I haven’t any to wear.”
“Work some miracles,” Mannering said, “or do it your usual way - steal some, Ephraim.” He moved towards the passage door, backing away because he wasn’t quite sure how Scoby would react; he still thought it possible that Scoby carried a gun.
But the danger didn’t come from Scoby.
The door communicating with the next room opened and Charlie Ringall slid in. He carried the cosh. He had it raised as high as his shoulder, and crouched, as if he were going to jump. He wouldn’t be easy to handle in that first assault. The odds were two to one, and Ringall had old scores to settle.
Mannering, the small case in one hand, just flung it upwards at him. As the young brute dodged, Mannering went forward and snatched at the wrist holding the cosh. One twist and Ringall winced as if in agony. The cosh fell.
Scoby stood with his right hand at his coat pocket.
“I don’t know whether you carry a gun or not,” Mannering said, retrieving the suit-case, “and I’m not interested, Ephraim. I do know that the police found footprints on the Festival Hall Terrace last night. Yours, I think. These shoes will show. They’ll go to the police with your name tag on them unless Joy Lessing returns to her flat, tonight.” He was at the passage door, putting out a hand behind him, to turn the handle. “Then we’ll talk about other things. Joy first.”
He opened the door, with his back to it. The strain on his wrist was unexpectedly sharp. He backed into the passage suitcase in hand - but didn’t get far. He felt a hand at the back of his neck, the grip of powerful fingers, remorseless pressure which thrust him forward. He tried to turn, but a man kicked the back of his knees savagely. He crumpled up, unable to help himself. He felt himself pushed, fell into the little lobby, and then heard Charlie Ringall rasp: “Lemme get at ’im!”
He knew it was going to hurt like the devil. He covered up as best he could, but the cosh smashed on to the top of his head, then on the back, then on his jaw. He just had to take it.
He thought of a dead jewel-merchant; and Prinny with a battered head.
He thought of Toby Plender and the dinner and his speech.
He thought of Lorna.
Then all he could think about was the pain at his head and hands and shoulders beneath that savage rain of blows.
14: A DETECTIVE GIVES A WARNING
The battering ceased, and the relief was unbelievable. Mannering was conscious if dazed, breathing even if he caught his breath each time because pain stabbed through his chest. The respite continued. He heard voices, but did not understand the words. Then he did understand; two men were speaking in French.
“Go and see that he doesn’t do anything silly.”
“Are you sure you will be all right here?”
“Oh, yes, we won’t have more trouble.”
Mannering had been the victim of this kind of assault before; and after he had handed it out, there was a certain rough justice in being on the receiving end. The unfortunate thing was that Chas Ringall had received so much that day that he had hardly been responsible for his actions; he’d gone berserk.
Doors closed; odd draughts cooled Mannering’s hot forehead. Stockinged feet appeared before his eyes, and the end of a pair of trousered legs. A match scraped. Liquid went gug-gug-gug in a glass, and reminded him of Chas after being hit by his own cosh. How often, wondered Mannering, had he gone gug-gug-gug in the past five minutes.
French.
Au revoir, Ephraim Scoby had said on the telephone. The Marquis de Cironde et Bles, whose chateau had been a show-piece of the Chateau country of the Loire until it had been destroyed by fire a few years ago, had been the owner of the Fiora collection before the now murdered dealer had bought them. Odd that he could recall that and remember all the details so clearly, even remember having been escorted over the chateau some years before, and regaled with stories of the infidelity of kings.
The stockinged feet drew nearer. A foot moved and touched him on the shoulder, and pain shimmered through his head.
“Come on, get up,” said Scoby.
Mannering began to obey. He felt much worse than he had realised. Lying still had fooled him. The pains were still in his head, especially behind his eyes and at the nape of his neck, his shoulders and his left arm. His legs were all right, and he was able to use them as if they belonged to him. At last he sat up, with his back against the bed. To the best of his ability he sat still. It was the room that went round and round; stockinged feet, shiny shoes, the claw feet of wardrobe and chairs, water-pipes, a newspaper; all these were now in a deep chasm yawning beneath him now as far away as the stars.
&nbs
p; “Come on,” Scoby said. “Get up.” He stood in front of Mannering and put his hands on Mannering’s waist, a little high. “Up!”
Mannering felt as if all the blood in his body was rushing out through his head. He staggered. He felt himself drop into a chair, springs groaned and bounced. Existence was nothing but pain.
Something cold splashed into his face, and shocked him; came again, and was almost welcome. Then a telephone went ting, and Scoby spoke in English: something about some coffee. Then Scoby held a glass to his lips, and Mannering sipped some water.
He felt better; not well, but better. He began to feel in his pockets.
“What are you looking for?” Scoby asked. “Cigarettes?”
He thrust a case in front of Mannering. “Take one and get a grip on yourself, Mannering.”
Mannering took a cigarette, and remembered Bristow telling him about a stub of a Virginia One. His mind was working, some cause for congratulation. He accepted a light, and the flaring match was strong enough to hurt his eyes. He didn’t wince.
The smoke was good; soothing.
“Thanks.”
“You’ve got a lot more to thank me for than that,” said Scoby. “If I’d let him do what he wanted, you wouldn’t have a face, you’d just have an interesting experiment for a plastic surgeon. Now you know what you’re up against.”
Mannering didn’t speak.
“Listen to me,” said Scoby flatly. He sat on the side of his bed; Mannering was in the armchair. “When I say a thing I mean it. I want the Fioras. I know you’ve got them. I don’t want a lot of trouble, though. You can still get your sidekick of ten thousand pounds, if you cough up quickly. But don’t make me work for them, or you’ll be in a lot of soup you didn’t expect, and other people will get hurt. You know what I mean by hurt? A fragile little doll like Joy Lessing would really get hurt, wouldn’t she?”
Mannering managed to mutter: “Don’t you touch . . .”
Scoby grinned. “Soft-hearted, aren’t you? You do what you’re told and she’ll be all right, everyone will be all right. Don’t worry. Just don’t try bluffing me anymore. You daren’t tell Bristow anything, because of what I can tell him about you and the Fioras.” A faint note of uneasiness crept into the flat, unattractive voice. “And you couldn’t do me any harm, whatever you said to Bristow. You got beaten up, sure, but only because you started throwing your weight about. Who’s to say I didn’t find you in the room, snooping around?”