by John Creasey
‘Buff’ was an unbelievable name for the man who blocked Mannering’s path but he answered to it, looking up into Mannering’s face with a truculent ‘you haven’t heard the last of this yet’ expression. Then he turned to Vandemeyer and they both moved into the study. Wells, still agitated, led the way up the second flight of stairs.
Mannering’s quarters had been cleaned and polished; everything shone. There were fresh towels in the bathroom, newspapers by the side of one of the armchairs Wells put the two suitcases into the bedroom, then stood back. He looked more human than before, less of an automaton.
‘You took my advice about being on time,’ he said.
Mannering smiled. ‘I always take good advice.’
‘I’ve some more for you,’ said Wells. ‘Don’t cross Buff.’
Mannering didn’t respond.
‘He’s a bad man to cross,’ Wells went on. ‘Believe me.’
‘I can imagine it,’ Mannering said. ‘I might be a bad man to cross, too. You could pass that on to Buff. Who is Buff, by the way?’
‘He’s Sir Cornelius’s personal servant,’ answered Wells. He did not make any further reference to Buff or give any other warning, merely stating, as he went off, that a cold lunch would be sent up to Mannering at one o’clock. Mannering unpacked, already positive about one thing. Buff was much more than a personal servant; any man who dared attack his employer’s daughter and then get away with it, must have a very tight hold over his employer.
And Vandemeyer was behaving as if he were being blackmailed.
As he worked, Mannering realised it was very quiet up here, the only sound being the hum of distant cars.
He made a thorough search of his apartment and came across books with the name Gillespie on the flyleaf, a comprehensive collection on all branches of the antique, jewel and objets d’art business, all well-thumbed. He moved each one and looked behind it, and then searched beneath and behind the bed – and he found the first thing he was looking for: a tiny microphone, built into the wooden head panel. It was so small that only close scrutiny would have revealed it.
He found another beneath the table where the telephone stood, another on top of a cabinet in the kitchen, yet a fourth in the side of a carved oak fireplace. Satisfied there were no more here, he went outside and inspected his landing. There were ‘bugs’ in the banisters, others at the newel post. He raised a picture on the well-lit landing and found another, went closer to the study and found one behind a bracket on which stood an early Limoges figurine.
His office was thoroughly covered; not a word could be uttered in this house without it being overheard and recorded. It had been installed for a long time, for Gillespie in the apartment, not simply for him.
Who spied on whom?
Vandemeyer on Buff, or Buff on Vandemeyer? Or was there a third person of whom he knew nothing?
Very satisfied with his discoveries, he enjoyed an excellent cold lunch, with coffee as good as it could be. Wells’ wife was obviously a good provider.
He was at Vandemeyer’s study at one minute to two, tapped, and tried the handle. The door was locked. He stood aside as footsteps sounded down below, and Vandemeyer said, ‘Yes, I will be in for dinner, Deirdre.’
‘Not for tea?’
‘I doubt it,’ he said.
‘Will Judy be back?’
‘I don’t know,’ Vandemeyer said. ‘I really don’t know.’
He started up the stairs and Mannering had a foreshortened view of Deirdre – enough to see how attractive she was, not to see her expression. She disappeared into a front room.
‘Ah, there you are,’ Vandemeyer said to Mannering. He unlocked the study door, preceded Mannering, then locked the door behind him. ‘I want to get some things from my safe,’ he went on. ‘I don’t want anyone to come in while we’ve got them out. Are you settling in comfortably?’
‘I think so, sir,’ said Mannering.
‘Only think so?’ Vandemeyer asked sharply.
‘Two things have rather troubled me, sir,’ said Mannering, ‘and I think you should know about them.’
‘What are they?’ demanded Vandemeyer.
‘In the first place, the man whose name, I understand, is Buff, was obstructive and offensive, and I wouldn’t like to feel that he would go on behaving like that.’
‘How obstructive and how offensive?’ demanded Vandemeyer slowly.
‘Enough to make me feel acutely unwelcome, sir.’
Slowly, Vandemeyer nodded.
‘I see. I will attend to that. What is the other matter?’
Even now Mannering hesitated, and yet he knew that what he was about to say was unavoidable. Vandemeyer may have been told of the two incidents, and if he had, he would expect Mannering to mention them. For a second time he felt as if he were guilty of a kind of betrayal as he answered.
‘Soon after I left here yesterday a young lady whom I had seen in this house warned me not to work for you. It was a most unexpected and unwelcome encounter and it made me wonder if there was resentment at my engagement. The encounter with Buff increased that uncertainty, sir. I am fully prepared to give you of my very best, but if I am to be obstructed – I am sure you will understand me, when I say that it might be wiser for me not to start.’
Vandemeyer said, ‘I must say you are remarkably frank.’
‘It isn’t wise to be otherwise, surely.’
‘No.’ Vandemeyer picked up a pencil and began to play with it. ‘I will be equally frank. My daughter regarded Gillespie, your immediate predecessor, as a very close friend. The relationship between them was like uncle and niece. She did and does resent his dismissal, but I have no reason to believe that she will in any way blame you for it. She might well try to prevent me from replacing Gillespie.’ Vandemeyer gave a rather brittle smile. ‘She is a very self-willed young woman. I will speak to her and I don’t think she will create further problems.’
‘Thank you, Sir Cornelius.’
‘As for Buff,’ said Vandemeyer, ‘he is a valued servant and I find it necessary to make allowance for certain crudities of manner. I’ve no reason to believe they will become worse. If they should …’ Vandemeyer shrugged his shoulders. ‘Then we can deal with the situation as it arises. Now! I want you to watch me very closely. The safe here is different from most others, built partly in the wall and partly in the floor. I want you to become familiar with the method of opening and with the contents.’
He got up and moved to the corner cabinet which Mannering had seen yesterday, and touched a spot on one side. The whole cabinet moved out from the wall, revealing what seemed to be bare brick and a square of uncarpeted floor. Vandemeyer touched another button, also in the cabinet, and the wall began to slide sideways, the square of floor to slide beneath the wall, revealing a short flight of steps.
Vandemeyer switched on a light, which spread gradually along a passage-like chamber with shelves on either side. There was just room for men to walk, one at a time. And as the light became stronger, there were a myriad scintillations as if they had suddenly stepped into the heavens and were among the stars.
This was a treasure house the like of which Mannering had never seen.
Chapter Ten
The Treasure House
Mannering stood at the foot of the steps, stupefied by what he saw.
On narrow shelves, in illuminated alcoves lined with mirrors, hanging from the shelves themselves, placed on ledges built into the ceiling, were jewels and objets d’art of great beauty. And not only was the radiance pristine white in places, there was colour – from rubies and emeralds, pearls and sapphires, from rose-tinted diamonds, from precious and semi-precious stones of such variety. The very walls were encrusted, diamonds almost as large as pigeon’s eggs were set in marble or in jade, in silver or in gold.
It was a chamber of light; as if a rainbow had been entrapped.
Mannering did not know how long he stood entranced, absorbing the beauty, his spirit bowed in silent homage.
‘So you really love jewels,’ Vandemeyer said at last. ‘I thought you did, but was not sure.’
Mannering said huskily, ‘Love them? They are breath and blood and the reason for living.’
‘I know,’ said Vandemeyer. ‘To me also they hold the significance of life and death.’
His voice was like a whisper and he spoke as if this were a holy place. To some, to him, to Mannering, to Larraby, that was precisely what it was. There were men who would go further and put these wonders not only beyond price but above life.
Very slowly, reluctant to take his eyes off the scintillating brilliance, Mannering turned his head so that he could see Vandemeyer a few steps behind him. The man’s thin face was transformed, he might have been a priest who had seen visions. His eyes caught and held the reflections in this chamber of treasure, no longer pale grey but mirrors of colour.
‘It is … unbelievable,’ Mannering murmured.
‘It is a life’s work,’ Vandemeyer answered. ‘My life’s.’ And then in a voice which Mannering only just heard, he went on, ‘Part of it, that is.’
‘Part of—’ began Mannering, but the words died away in his throat.
‘Stretch up and press the signet ring set above your head,’ ordered Vandemeyer. ‘Press it a little away from you.’
The ring, which must have been made for and worn by princes, was set in black marble which enhanced even its magnificence. Mannering hesitated. Used though he was to precious stones he knew moments, in such moods as this, when it seemed sacrilege to touch some gem which he had never seen before. He first put his forefinger in it, lightly, then pressed as he was told; as his pressure increased the wall across the passage, perhaps five feet away, slid to one side. Other lights beyond shone into a second chamber, in its way as magnificent as this.
Here were religious jewels; icons; bishop’s crooks and golden eagles, placed on shelves and in alcoves as in the other room, but all of them larger, so that there were fewer pieces. Mannering saw objets from the altars and the chapels of Christendom, of Roman Catholic, Russian and Greek Orthodox churches, jewel-encrusted insignia from the religions of the world. He saw rings and amulets from the tombs of the Pharaohs, relics from the Aztec and the Mayan temples, idols, and statues of sacred Hindu animals and priests.
Vandemeyer said, ‘Can you bear to see more?’
‘Can there be more?’
‘Press the base of the golden goblet on your right,’ instructed Vandemeyer.
The goblet was of wrought gold of such delicacy that it seemed a risk to place a finger on it, but Mannering pressed, warned this time what to expect. And as another door silently opened, still more lights went on in the third chamber in this buried treasure house, and here were objets of greater variety, carved from gold and wrought from silver, strange figures made of ivory, jade and amber, of rare woods brought from all the corners of the ancient world. Mannering paced slowly along, looking right and left and marvelling.
‘I truly believe it is the most magnificent collection in the world,’ said Vandemeyer.
‘I have never seen—’ began Mannering, and then caught his breath. In his mind was the fact that he had seen most of the world’s collections, whether privately or publicly owned, and except for one place he had seen nothing to approach the magnificence here: the Vatican. But ‘John Marriott’ would not have seen a tenth as much and for a moment he was thinking as Mannering, the owner of Quinns.
There was ever-present danger that he would make a mistake which could betray him.
Another warning ticked in his mind but did not take shape. It was a sense of uneasiness, that there was something here he did not understand. He watched the colours fade from Vandemeyer’s eyes as his new employer joined him, and said, ‘Will you lead the way back? I will put out the lights.’
Mannering walked with great deliberation. Darkness fell behind him as the doors closed silently. At last he climbed into the study and walked towards the big, leather-topped desk. He felt a sense of apprehension, but there was no apparent cause. Vandemeyer pressed a button on the side of the corner cabinet which slipped back into position.
‘Do you see how that was done?’ he asked.
‘The false wall, you mean.’
‘Yes,’ said Vandemeyer. ‘When I had this house modernised nearly twenty years ago, this room was given two false walls – and the chambers were installed – for the safe-keeping of documents, you understand. The world had experienced wars, destruction and revolutions enough to find this safeguard reasonable.’
‘I see,’ Mannering said. ‘Who made the shelves and the alcoves, and installed the machinery?’
‘Gillespie,’ answered Vandemeyer. ‘He is a fine craftsman.’
Mannering felt, on that instant, that Gillespie was dead. No man in his senses would dismiss a servant who knew everything there was to know about such a treasure house. He would know that Gillespie would have a dozen eager markets for his information and for his intimate knowledge of the ‘safe.’ Such a man either had to be on one’s side – or dead.
Was he letting his imagination run riot?
Vandemeyer sat at his desk; he had not spoken again. Mannering, too, sat down, feeling as if he had run a long way. He must not appear to be a fool, yet mustn’t be too obviously curious.
‘I couldn’t put up that kind of installation,’ he stated.
‘You won’t be expected to,’ Vandemeyer assured him.
‘What precisely are my duties, sir?’
‘To catalogue, value and keep in perfect condition all the things you have just seen,’ said Vandemeyer. ‘To study catalogues of sales, to attend auctions, particularly at Christie’s and Sotheby’s. And in general,’ he added drily, ‘to make yourself invaluable to me.’
‘As Gillespie did,’ Mannering almost retorted, but he stifled the impulse.
‘I can imagine nothing I would like better,’ he answered. ‘Do I understand that there is no catalogue in existence?’
‘There is one which is incomplete and unreliable,’ answered Vandemeyer. ‘I want you to begin as if from scratch. There’s one thing I must make clear, and which I am sure you will understand.’
‘What is that?’
‘You will only be allowed to work in the vault when I am up here and the door is locked.’
‘I understand.’ Mannering got up and went to the windows, examining them closely. ‘Toughened?’ he asked.
‘Bullet-proof,’ Vandemeyer said. ‘This room is quite impregnable, Marriott. There are burglar-proof devices of the most up to date kind. No one can possibly break in – or out,’ he added grimly. ‘I have taken every conceivable precaution. Now! You will need books, ledgers, other stationery and no doubt a card-index system. I will be guided by you. Order what you want and have it invoiced to me. How long do you think it will take to get what you need?’
‘I can tell you better after I’ve been to Harrods,’ Mannering said. ‘I’d like to go there this afternoon.’
‘The sooner the better,’ Vandemeyer acquiesced.
Twenty minutes later Mannering went out, still bemused and dazzled by what he had seen, puzzled by some of the implications. Walking to Harrods, he noticed a man leaving a house nearly opposite Number 17. He noticed the same man in both the stationery and the office equipment department. Going back to Vandemeyer’s house, he saw him again.
He had no doubt at all that he had been followed; it was obvious that Vandemeyer was not taking him on trust. He would be followed everywhere.
Each time Mannering went out in the next two days, he was followed.
Twice it was by the man whom he had first seen; twice, by a middle-aged woman who wore different clothes each time; once, by Buff.
They knew every step he took.
There was no chance at all of going to a telephone unobserved, of making a purchase anywhere, of meeting Larraby, the police or anyone from Quinns. And for those first two days he made no attempt to evade his followers, simply made sure h
e would recognise them all again. The equipment he needed was delivered, and he was given the use of a small room across the landing from the study in which to keep the records. Vandemeyer twice took him into the strong-room, then allowed him to find his own way in. He made three mistakes at his first attempt, only one at the second, and thereafter, none.
On the third day, he began his cataloguing.
And on the afternoon of the fourth day, he saw Judy again.
She was standing on the landing when he was coming down from his apartment. Her eyes were shadowed and she seemed to be in real distress. He stopped, without speaking.
‘I must see you,’ she whispered.
‘Miss Judy, really—’
‘Tonight. In your apartment, eleven-thirty,’ she whispered, and without another word, she sped down the main stairs. Almost at the same time, Buff appeared from the room which led to the balcony.
‘Who was that?’ he demanded.
‘Miss Judy, I think,’ Mannering said.
‘Either you know or you don’t. Who was it?’
‘Mr Buff,’ Mannering said very quietly, ‘either you know how to speak to me or you don’t. If you speak to me like that very often, I will—’
‘Don’t tell me,’ sneered Buff. ‘You’ll tell the Boss.’
‘Oh no,’ said Mannering. ‘I wouldn’t worry him with a trifle. I will simply break your neck.’
He turned on his heel and went into his office room. It would not have surprised him had Buff followed, but the door did not open and when he went out at the summons from Vandemeyer, the little Cockney who looked like an Italian was nowhere in sight.
Vandemeyer wanted nothing special, only a report on progress, and Mannering spent two hours alone in the strong-room. It was nearly five o’clock when Vandemeyer summoned him again by ringing a bell.
‘I am going out early and won’t be back until late,’ he said. ‘You haven’t asked for any time off yet, Marriott.’
‘I would like this evening, sir.’
‘Then take it. This isn’t a prison, you know.’
‘It—it’s like a cage of light,’ Mannering said in a subdued tone. ‘But I must get in touch with one or two distant relatives, and people to whom I have introductions. They won’t encroach on my duties, I assure you.’