by John Creasey
Lionel opened the door.
‘Chelsea – and I’m really in a hurry,’ Mannering said.
‘I’m to drive, sir?’ Lionel, delighted, shut Mannering in and darted to the other side of the car. Soon he was weaving his way through traffic with the expertise of youth, aware that there was trouble yet showing no sign of curiosity. He chose to go by a slightly longer route. Mannering noticed this, but his thoughts were on Lorna and how she must be feeling; and about Josephine.
The whole thing was absolutely unbelievable. It was almost as if he were being the victim of a hoax. That was absurd, of course, Lorna’s voice had been quite unmistakable. But Josephine—murdered.
He was almost at the end of Green Street when he realised that he was virtually taking it for granted that Josephine had been killed in mistake for Lorna; also that subconsciously he had associated this with the mystery of Deirdre Vandemeyer. There was no process of reasoning, just an instinctive association of events and ideas.
They turned the corner.
Two police cars were already outside the house, and twenty or thirty people had gathered near, being kept away from the front door by two policemen who towered above them. The house itself stood tall above a row of newer, lower dwellings and a small block of flats. Mannering had lived here during the war when the buildings on either side had been bombed out of existence, and at one time this house had stood up from the street like a single tooth in a denuded lower jaw. Lionel Spencer tooted faintly, and a policeman indicated a clear place for him to pull into behind one of the cars.
‘It’s Mr Mannering,’ he said as he got out.
‘Good morning, Mr Mannering.’
‘Morning. How long have you been here?’ asked Mannering.
‘Ten minutes or so, sir.’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Your wife’s all right, I can tell you that, sir.’
‘Thanks,’ grunted Mannering. ‘Doctor here yet?’
‘No, sir, but he shouldn’t be long now. Come with the ambulance, probably.’
Mannering nodded.
‘Come up with me, Lionel,’ he said. ‘Just to stand by.’
‘I will indeed, sir.’
There was a small lift, in which there was only room for two persons, and it climbed very slowly. As Lionel opened the door on the fifth and top floor, another policeman appeared. Beyond him the front door of the flat was open and men were moving about inside. One, with a camera, was standing almost on top of the body. Two others, with steel coil measures, were checking the distance between the extremities of the body and the door and walls of the room.
Because of the photographer, Josephine’s face was uncovered, and death looked at Mannering starkly. He strode past the men, having to step over the body, and saw Lorna in the kitchen talking to a woman whom he only vaguely recognised as the tenant of a flat below. Lorna looked pale but unhurt. Her face lit up at the sight of Mannering, and the neighbour, elderly, grey-haired and plump, said hastily, ‘Well, I won’t stay, Mrs Mannering. Do let me know if there is anything I can do.’
‘You’re very kind,’ Lorna replied.
‘Hallo, Mrs Wilberforce,’ Mannering said, summoning her name out of the recesses of his memory. ‘How nice of you to come so quickly.’
‘When I realised what had happened …’ Mrs Wilberforce began, and then she turned and hurried out, her voice failing her.
Mannering found himself in front of Lorna, gripping both her hands, looking closely into her eyes. He could see both the strain and the pain in them.
‘Did you have that coffee?’ he asked.
‘I—no.’
‘Let’s put a kettle on,’ Mannering said. He moved to the sink, while Lorna turned to a cupboard. For a few moments they busied themselves with trifling things, as the men worked outside with a kind of controlled speed which achieved striking results in very little time.
At last, the coffee made, Lorna said, ‘I was in the studio. There was a ring at the front door. Josephine …’
She related everything that had happened almost like a recitation, as if she were still suffering from shock. Mannering sat on a corner of the kitchen table, while Lorna moved about with the coffee in her hand. When she finished she stopped in front of Mannering.
‘John,’ she said, ‘Why? Why Josephine?’
Mannering looked at her very straightly. ‘This caller said: “Mrs Mannering,” didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Josephine said “Yes.”’
‘She didn’t mean she was me, she meant—’ Lorna broke off, and a puzzled expression clouded her eyes. ‘It sounded as if she were saying she was me! Is that what you mean?’
‘Doesn’t it seem so to you?’ asked Mannering.
He thought how very beautiful Lorna was, although in these moments of strain and anxiety her face was set in that sullen expression which deceived so many people. Her hair was brushed back more severely than usual, and threw her features into greater prominence. She sipped coffee, looking at him over the rim of her cup, and then said slowly, ‘So you think she was killed in mistake for me.’
‘I think we ought to assume she was until we can prove she wasn’t,’ said Mannering.
‘Poor, poor Josephine,’ said Lorna huskily. ‘Poor woman. If she hadn’t come here to work for me she would be alive.’
‘Lorna,’ Mannering said, almost sternly.
‘Yes?’
‘You’re going to have to start thinking of yourself first.’
‘As I am always telling you to do,’ said Lorna, with a wry smile. ‘How we are reversing the normal. You mean …’ She broke off, but he did not help her, he was making sure that she reached her conclusions out of the recesses of her own mind. If she did, if she believed that Josephine had been killed in mistake for her and was not simply told so by him, she would understand the significance more, would probably accept guidance and advice more readily.
‘If she was – and I don’t admit it yet, but if she was – then I’m still in danger.’
‘Yes,’ Mannering answered simply.
‘And must be careful.’
‘Extremely careful.’
‘John,’ Lorna said, ‘it’s hard enough to believe that Josephine is dead. It’s much more difficult to believe that I’m in danger. Why should I be?’
A detective had moved from the hall towards the kitchen and obviously heard the last words. He stared in, and Mannering could sense the effort he made to restrain himself from following up Lorna’s remark.
‘I’ll need to question Mrs Mannering soon,’ he said.
‘Whenever you wish,’ Mannering said. ‘Come in.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Have you heard anything about the car?’ asked Lorna.
‘No, Mrs Mannering,’ the man said. ‘I sent out your description at once, of course, but these things take time. We’ve talked to the boycyclist, but he is only six, and isn’t at all likely to help us. He didn’t see the man or the car until it brushed him off his bike.’ The detective turned to Mannering and went on, ‘I’m Detective-Inspector Toller, sir – of the Chelsea Division. I understand that Mr Bristow is on his way from the Yard and I delayed asking questions to save Mrs Mannering from having to go over it again.’
As he spoke, there was another movement in the hall, and two men stepped from the lift. One of them was a stranger to Mannering, dark-faced, dark-eyed, alert-looking. The other was of medium height, with iron grey hair and very clear, pale grey eyes. He was immaculately dressed in a grey overcheck suit, and in his left lapel he wore a red gardenia.
This was Chief Superintendent Bristow, once Mannering’s chief adversary, for long his close friend – and Lorna’s, too.
Chapter Four
Deference
As Bristow entered the hall, every man stopped doing his job, and stood still with an unusual deference. Bristow, surprised, glanced about him and then appeared to realise that this was due to the announcement of his retire
ment. He raised his hand in a kind of mute acknowledgment, stepped over the body and came towards Mannering and Lorna. His eyes were bright, and despite the lines etched deeply round them, he looked youthful and very fit.
‘Lorna,’ he said, and held out his hand. He turned to Mannering. ‘John, it was very thoughtful of you to telephone me this morning.’ He paused, must have noticed Lorna’s surprised glance, then went on, ‘I couldn’t be more sorry about this unhappy business.’ He half-turned towards Toller, and drew him in with the smoothness of a diplomatic. ‘Have you made any progress, Inspector?’
Toller, short, broad, massive and brown-faced, pursed thick lips.
‘Mrs Mannering gave us a description of a man in a pale grey/brown suit getting into a white car and going off in a hurry,’ he answered. ‘We’ve been looking for the car, of course – there’s a general call out.’
‘Car number?’ asked Bristow.
‘I didn’t get it,’ Lorna said. ‘I was trying to see the man and to make sure of the colour of his suit. I’m sorry.’
‘White cars are two a penny, grey/brown suits—’
‘It had a touch of green in it,’ Lorna interpolated.
‘With a touch of green are much more rare,’ Bristow adjusted what he was going to say quickly. ‘Anything else?’ he asked Toller.
‘Death appears to have been instantaneous, sir. Apparently there was one upward thrust with a knife-blade about an inch wide. I looked at the wound but haven’t touched it. I had it photographed and then covered up.’
‘Dr Gogarty is here now, you can check with him,’ said Bristow. ‘Any fingerprints?’
‘No, sir.’
‘The man I saw was wearing gloves,’ Lorna interrupted.
‘John, the sooner you can help Lorna remember everything she saw the sooner we’ll get our man,’ Bristow said. ‘Is there anything more you want Mrs Mannering for now, Inspector?’
Toller hesitated. ‘I would like a full statement as soon as possible, sir,’ he said, formally. ‘Mrs Mannering has been good enough to state the most crucial facts, but hasn’t yet made a statement.’
‘I’m quite prepared to make a statement at any time,’ Lorna interpolated. ‘There isn’t much more to tell.’
‘Will you be present while the statement is made and recorded?’ asked Bristow crisply. ‘Let us know when you’ve finished.’ He led Mannering out of the kitchen, like an officer going on parade. ‘It’s past time I retired,’ he muttered into Mannering’s ear. ‘I’m a bad-tempered cuss these days.’ A man passed them into the kitchen, carrying a small tape-recorder, and the door closed on him.
Bending over the body was the dark energetic-looking man – the police-surgeon, Gogarty. He was raising the shirt blouse carefully, and revealing the full, firm, marble-white belly, then the primly fitting brassiere. Beneath the left breast was the wound, surprisingly narrow and clean looking, with a slight ridge and purply-blue discoloration surrounding it. A photographer stood near, bird-of-prey-like in his eagerness to take another picture.
Gogarty looked up. He had very sharp features, and was a striking-looking man, with a hooked nose and piercing brown eyes under beetling brows.
‘Internal bleeding,’ he announced. ‘A single thrust by a man who knew his anatomy.’
‘Or else struck lucky,’ Bristow suggested.
‘If he came to kill he wouldn’t run away until he was sure he had,’ reasoned Gogarty. ‘I wouldn’t call that luck.’ He made that comment as he straightened up. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cleaner job.’
‘See what you mean,’ grunted Bristow.
‘It might be a case of practice makes perfect,’ Mannering remarked.
‘Any reason to suggest that he has done it before?’ Bristow demanded.
‘Only a guess, based on Dr Gogarty’s confidence that he knew his anatomy.’
Bristow looked almost annoyed, and then gave a reluctant grin.
‘The pair of you ought to solve this between you,’ he said. ‘I’m not needed. Do you know each other?’
‘By name,’ Mannering said.
‘By reputation,’ Gogarty replied.
They shook hands. Gogarty’s was cold and his clasp quick and firm. There was a hint of nervous tension about him, as if he were fighting back a natural emotion of impulsiveness. His lips were particularly well-shaped although thin, and they had an upward curve at the corners, as if he often laughed; yet nothing else about him suggested this.
Ambulance men arrived, squeezing their way out of the lift with a stretcher clutched between them. Mannering was glad of the chance to move away with Bristow into the room which served as dining-room and study. He perched on the settle where the press-cutting books stood, recalling that Bristow had been mentioned in practically every one of the earlier newspaper stories as the leader of the Yard’s fight against the Baron. Now he sat within feet of his old adversary, lit a cigarette and looked at Mannering through the flame from his lighter. As he lowered it and let the extinguishing cap fall, he asked quietly, ‘Well, John. What do you know about this?’
‘I’m not sure you’re going to believe me,’ Mannering said. ‘I think Josephine may have been killed in mistake for Lorna.’ He explained briefly, and went on, ‘Let me tell you everything which could have a bearing on it, Bill – but remember I am guessing. I’ve nothing to go on at all.’
‘You used to call it a hunch,’ Bristow remarked.
‘So I did.’ He laughed. ‘What a lot of bright-sounding names we use for jumping to conclusions! Now hear me out, and tell me what you think when I’ve finished.’ He related the story from the moment that he had seen Lorna looking through the photographs, what she had said that morning, all her suspicion that the Lady Vandemeyer of Harrods was not the real Lady Vandemeyer. During the recital, Bristow lit a cigarette from the butt of the first, but otherwise made no movement and showed no sign of belief or disbelief. As Mannering drew near the end, Lorna came out of the kitchen, there were background noises of Toller’s ‘Thank you, Mrs Mannering,’ and Lorna’s, ‘I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything.’ She paused in the doorway of the dining-room and Mannering beckoned her in. She drew near Bristow, stopping him from rising with a gesture, and listened intently, half frowning, as Mannering finished, ‘… I know of absolutely no other reason for an attack on Lorna – still less for one on Josephine Smith.’ He looked up at his wife. ‘And you don’t, darling, do you?’
‘I can’t really believe there can be any connection between this and Lady Vandemeyer,’ Lorna said. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine that as a motive.’ She turned impulsively to Bristow. ‘Can you, William?’
Bristow took out the stub of the second cigarette and pressed it against an ashtray.
‘If I stretch my imagination to its limit, just about,’ he said gravely. ‘Let me make sure I’m seeing this in exactly the same way as you are, John. You think Lorna is right: that the woman known as Lady Vandemeyer is a different person from the Lady Vandemeyer of four weeks ago. You think that after they met at Harrods, that Lady Vandemeyer or some associate, knowing how observant artists are, feared that Lorna had realised there was an impersonation. From this your reason that the murder of Josephine Smith was an attempt to kill Lorna and so make sure she didn’t talk to anyone about the impersonation?’
‘That’s it in a nutshell,’ Mannering approved.
‘There’s one little thing,’ said Lorna tentatively.
‘What colour?’ asked Bristow, brightly.
‘The Lady Vandemeyer I saw when painting her was the real one. She had been Deirdre Lanchester. I knew her too well to have any doubts about that. So the Harrods one was either very much changed or was someone impersonating Deirdre.’ Lorna spread her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘It isn’t possible, is it?’
‘Clearly possible,’ Bristow said briskly. He stood up and gripped Lorna’s arm in a firm, fatherly kind of way. ‘Obviously there could be a lot of other explanations, but if I were in John’s positi
on I would see it as he does. And if I were in your position I would be very careful indeed. Very careful,’ he added with emphasis.
Lorna stood utterly still.
Mannering said huskily, ‘Yes. She will.’ After a long pause, he went on, ‘Bill, do you know anything at all to suggest that Cornelius Vandemeyer is in any kind of trouble?’
Bristow looked at him thoughtfully. ‘None whatsoever.’
‘Will you check closely?’
‘As it’s a line of inquiry into this murder, I most certainly will,’ Bristow promised. ‘And I’ll keep you informed. Now I’d better have a word with young Toller and convince him that I am not going to take the case out of his hands.’ He moved towards the door, smiling drily. ‘John – one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Not a word of this must reach the newspapers: of the Vandemeyer angle, I mean.’
‘It won’t through us,’ Mannering assured him. ‘The press will assume that I’m involved in some case which has led to this, of course. Bill – one thing for you, too.’
‘What is it?’ Bristow raised his head and studied Mannering without appearing to do so.
‘I am not involved in any other case. I know nothing more than I’ve told you. The most important matter on my mind until this happened was the question of selling part of Quinns so that I would be less tied to the business, and Lorna and I could travel together more.’
‘I’m very glad to know it,’ Bristow said, smiling faintly. ‘All clear and understood, John. I haven’t anything up my sleeve and you haven’t anything on your conscience. But we’ve two problems and neither of us will be surprised if they turn out to be one and the same. You know this is likely to be my last major case, don’t you?’
‘I know,’ Mannering said.
They shook hands, a quick, almost reflex, action on both their parts, and then Bristow turned and walked smartly out of the room. Lorna stood very still, looking at Mannering who moved towards her and put his arm round her shoulders. She drew a deep breath, and seemed to hold it for a long time. Then she freed herself, and spoke in a brisker, matter-of-fact tone.