by John Creasey
‘I’m sure they won’t,’ Vandemeyer said drily.
Mannering went out just after six o’clock, and this time the woman followed him. He passed Judy at the wheel of a Sunbeam Talbot, and she nodded distantly.
He stepped into a public call box and telephoned Quinns, hoping that Larraby would answer; and it was Larraby.
‘Josh, I’ve only a moment,’ Mannering said quickly. ‘Tell Bristow everything is going smoothly, that I think Gillespie is dead, that the daughter Judy is in serious trouble. I’m followed every time I leave the house, but I’ll send a description of the three different people who follow me. Have you got all that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Larraby said. ‘I spoke to Mr Bristow only an hour ago – he will be as glad as I am to have news of you.’
‘Good. Had he any for me?’
‘Only negative, sir – he hasn’t yet found any trace of Gillespie. There is a letter from Mrs Mannering, sir. Shall I send it to you anywhere?’
‘Poste Restante, Knightsbridge,’ Mannering said. ‘I’ll collect it tomorrow. How are things at the shop?’
‘Mr Rennie is a tremendous enthusiast,’ said Larraby.
‘I gathered he was,’ replied Mannering, and rang off remembering that offer of a million pounds for a half-interest in Quinns. He would be a fool not to take it. He stepped out of the kiosk and as he did so, saw his woman trailer moving out of a nearby doorway: Buff and probably Vandemeyer would know he had made a call. He went into the first pub he passed, had a whisky and soda, glanced through the evening papers, and then ordered steak and chips at the bar. By the time he had finished it was half-past seven. He went by bus to Piccadilly and saw a lively Western film at a cinema in the Haymarket.
When he came out he was followed by a man, not the woman.
He went back to Ellesmere Square, and Buff opened the door to his ring. Neither spoke, and Mannering went straight to his rooms. He made coffee, turned on the record-player and listened to Brahms for half-an-hour. It was then nearly half-past eleven, and he wondered if Judy would come.
At a quarter to twelve, he looked out of the apartment but there was no sign of her. As she hadn’t come by quarter past twelve, he decided to turn in. He was in bed with the light out by quarter to one, and despite the problems pressing on his mind, soon went to sleep.
He had no idea how long he had been asleep when a sound in the room disturbed him.
Chapter Eleven
Pleading
Mannering was wide awake on the instant.
He heard a rustle of movement from the door. Was someone simply trying to get in?
No: someone was already in. He heard the door click as it closed. He did not move. Who but Judy would come in here and close the door? Anyone who had come to kill or to rob would leave the door open as a way of escape.
He saw the girl in the pale light of the moon as she tiptoed towards him. He had a fleeting impression that she was used to doing this, for she came quickly towards the bed and stood looking down. Only her face was in the light, now. She wore a dark dressing-gown, which hardly showed at all. He thought she was crying. He waited, for if he let her know that he was awake it might both unnerve her and make her suspicious.
At last, she spoke, ‘Mr—Mr Marriott. Please wake up.’
He did not move.
‘Please wake up,’ she pleaded a little more loudly, and then stretched out her hand and touched his shoulder. This time he stirred.
‘It’s Judy,’ she said with quiet urgency. ‘It’s me, Judy. Please don’t make a noise.’
At last he opened his eyes, and began to hitch himself up on his elbows. She drew away, then suddenly began to sob. Once started, she could not stop, just stood there with her hands at her face, crying. He sensed that she was trying to stifle the sound, but this deliberate attempt at restraint only made the paroxysm worse. He pushed back the bedclothes, got out of bed and put his arm round her shoulders, holding her firmly. He did not speak, just let her cry.
But he was alert for the slightest sound from outside. It was inconceivable that she would be allowed to visit him without being observed, but they might let her talk, then question him, then check his answers with the hidden tape-recorder.
At last, she quietened.
By then he could see the soft light of the moon on her glossy, dark hair, on the side of her face, on her hands. He let her go and moved to the bedside, putting on the lamp there; it shone vividly on the pillow but hardly at all on the rest of the room. He pulled an armchair into position near her, and said, ‘Sit down, Judy.’
Very slowly, she sat down, taking her hands from her tear-stained face.
‘What has upset you so much?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered huskily. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’
‘What made you?’ asked Mannering.
‘I used to come here often, to see—to see Gillie.’
‘You mean Gillespie?’
She nodded.
‘You’d known him a long time, hadn’t you?’
‘All—all my life.’
‘And coming to see me here reminded you that he’s left,’ Mannering said.
‘Left,’ she echoed bitterly. ‘Left.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘He—he’s dead,’ she said, hopelessly. ‘They killed him.’
The little tape-recorder would be going round and round incessantly, and someone might be listening at this very moment. If he covered the bugs they would know and he would never again be trusted, might put himself in acute danger. Yet he wanted to know all that this girl had to say. He had to know.
In that moment he was more concerned with how to handle the situation than with what she had said with such positiveness.
‘He—he’s dead. They killed him.’
She was staring at him challengingly, expecting him to say she was talking nonsense, was imagining murder. He moved towards the dressing-table and picked up a newspaper and a pencil lying there.
‘Can you prove what you say?’ he asked, almost casually.
‘I know they did.’
‘But can you prove it?’
‘I tell you I know they did. He was afraid they would, he would never have left without saying goodbye, or telephoning me. He must be dead.’
Mannering wrote in big letters on the margin of the newspaper, ‘Don’t say too much.’
He held it out towards her and turned the lamp so that she could read. He put a finger to his lips. She started, opened her mouth but did not utter a word.
Again he asked a question she obviously didn’t expect.
‘Have you told your father that you think like this?’
‘Yes, he—he won’t listen.’
‘Your mother?’
‘My mother is dead.’
‘Your stepmother.’
‘She—she won’t listen, either,’ Judy said.
‘Have you asked them if they can prove to you that Gillespie is alive?’ asked Mannering.
She looked astonished.
‘No, I—but if he’s dead, they can’t prove he’s alive!’
‘But if they can prove it, then you’ll know you’ve no justification for suspicion,’ Mannering said. He was writing on another margin, and she watched the movement of his pencil as he went on. ‘I understand that your father found out that Gillespie was untrustworthy, and—’
‘It’s not true! He would have died for Daddy.’
‘And that your father, with great reluctance, had to dismiss him. If that were so he would be hesitant to get in touch with you, wouldn’t he?’
‘Oh, what’s the use!’ she exclaimed. ‘You don’t take me seriously. No one does.’
Mannering held out the newspaper as he said, ‘I take this very seriously indeed. I can tell that you are acutely distressed and overwrought, and you need absolute assurance. If you can’t get it, then it’s obviously a matter for the police.’
She was reading:
‘Meet Lionel Spe
ncer red sports car Victoria Albert Museum tomorrow 4pm. Take this, learn it, destroy it.’
Her eyes glowed with great brilliance as he tore the marginal strip off quietly, talking over any sound the paper made. She read it again and tucked it down in her dressing-gown pocket.
‘You can safely leave this with me, Judy – but I feel sure there is a misunderstanding which can easily be cleared up.’
Her eyes were still bright but her voice was glum and low-pitched as she replied.
‘They’ll only lie to you. It’s no use expecting them to help.’
‘Judy!’ Mannering said sharply. ‘If they prove that Gillespie is alive, will you stop this nonsense?’
‘If they do,’ she said bitterly – and then, entering into the spirit of this deception, she went on, ‘Oh, if only they can! If only they can!’
‘Excuse me, Sir Cornelius.’
‘If it isn’t urgent, Marriott, leave this until this afternoon. I have an appointment at eleven-thirty.’
‘I think it is extremely urgent and important, sir.’
‘Oh, very well.’ Vandemeyer sat behind his desk but did not motion Mannering to sit down. He looked tired, nearer the middle seventies than his admitted middle sixties. There was a querulous note in his voice, too. He had been out late, of course, but Mannering sensed there was some other cause for his mood. ‘Don’t beat about the bush. If it is Buff—’
‘Your daughter Judy came to my room late last night, sir. She was in a most overwrought state. I understand she visited my predecessor occasionally. She is convinced that he is dead, sir – murdered.’ He paused just long enough to allow the statement to take effect on Vandemeyer, to see the mingled incredulity and terror creep into his expression, and then added flatly, ‘I thought you should know at once.’
Vandemeyer actually stammered.
‘J-J-Judy said this?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘To—you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I—I knew she was distressed at his dismissal but this – it must have turned her mind!’
‘It certainly does appear to be an obsession, sir.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Vandemeyer. ‘I would never have believed it possible.’
‘If you will forgive a suggestion, sir.’
‘Go on, Marriott, go on.’
‘Once you are able to satisfy her that Gillespie is alive, she might recover quickly and naturally.’
Vandemeyer looked away for a split second, unable in that instant to meet Mannering’s eye. Then he braced himself and looked back. He moistened his lips; his expression, every line on his face, that of an old, old man. Yet he strove to assert his authority.
‘No doubt. But how do you convince a young woman against her will? I can’t produce Gillespie out of a hat.’
‘Do you know where he is, sir?’
‘I do not, I do know he is very lucky not to be in prison.’
‘I see, sir. Have you heard from him since he left?’
‘There was no occasion to hear.’
‘If he should write for something he left behind, sir – or if he sent to Miss Judy but she did not receive the letter—’ Mannering broke off. ‘She certainly needs some kind of reassurance. And if I may say so, sir’—Mannering paused again, drew in a deep breath as if to say what he had to say needed a great effort—’so do I.’
Vandemeyer tightened his lips and gripped the arms of his chair.
‘Do you mean that you take the child’s delusion seriously?’
‘Seriously enough to hope that you can reassure me, sir,’ Mannering said. ‘This is a unique job and I should hate to give it up, but—’
‘You won’t have to give it up,’ said Vandemeyer gruffly. A new expression in his eyes told Mannering that now the shock was over, he had seen a way out of this dilemma. ‘I think I can find where Gillespie is and have him telephone or write to Judy. I had no idea that she felt so deeply.’
‘It would be a great relief to hear from him, I’m sure.’
‘Yes. All right, Marriott.’ Vandemeyer hesitated as if groping for something else to say, and then with obvious insincerity, asked, ‘How did your own affairs go last night?’
‘I telephoned a cousin, sir, and am to telephone again today to arrange a meeting.’ Mannering spoke perfunctorily. ‘I’m not wholly satisfied with the coding labels – I would like to go to a firm of library stationers in the City to see if they have something more satisfactory. I propose to place a very small self-adhesive label on the base of every stand, or on each of the exhibits, and—’
‘Use your own judgment,’ Vandemeyer said, with a return of impatience.
‘I will – thank you.’ Mannering went out, and as he closed the door he saw Vandemeyer’s hand move towards a bell-push. Mannering went across to his own office, closed the door and then opened it a crack. Almost at once Buff appeared from his room – the room off which the balcony led – and went into the study. Mannering heard the key turn in the lock, stepped outside, and pressed his ear close to the door. He heard Vandemeyer shouting, as if the self-control he had shown with Mannering had broken. Mannering heard the words quite distinctly.
‘Why wasn’t I told? Either you knew she had gone to see him, or you didn’t.’
‘I knew all right—’ Buff began.
‘Then why in heaven’s name didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because you came in late and got up late,’ Buff answered. He did not sound at all excited. ‘You know what you ought to do, don’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You ought to send Judy away for a few weeks.’
‘I’ve told you before—’ Vandemeyer began.
‘Now I’ll tell you,’ said Buff in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘You send her away. She needs a rest, and the longer she stays here the more nuisance she’ll be.’
‘There will be no need if Judy is reassured,’ said Vandemeyer. ‘We need a letter, signed by Gillespie. There should be no difficulty about that. Arrange it, Buff – and don’t argue. Don’t drive me too far.’
‘I won’t drive you any further than I have to,’ Buff said. There was the familiar note of insolence in his voice, which grew louder.
Mannering drew back and stepped across to his own room. He had just time to close the door before the study door was unlocked and opened. Buff’s footsteps sounded clearly in the passage.
Mannering went back to his desk, and sat down. No one came to see him.
He left just after three o’clock, and was followed by the middle-aged man again. He went to a stationer’s in Chancery Lane, was there for ten minutes, then went into a telephone kiosk, dialled Quinns, and was answered by Lionel Spencer in his rather affected voice.
‘Lionel, listen very carefully,’ Mannering said. ‘Go in your own car to the Victoria and Albert Museum. You’ll find a girl, Judy Vandemeyer, waiting there – about five feet four, raven black hair, good complexion. Take her for a drive, make sure you shake off anyone who follows, and then make her talk. You won’t find it difficult, she’s living on her nerves. Have you got all that?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Don’t give her any clue as to who you are or who I am,’ ordered Mannering. ‘Say that we are both working for an insurance company, tracing certain stolen jewels. I think we can trust her, she hates the set-up so much, and she is convinced that the man whose place I have taken was murdered.’
‘Is she, by God!’ exclaimed Spencer.
‘And she’s almost certainly right,’ said Mannering. ‘When you have her story, give a written account of it to Larraby and tell him to use his judgment about letting the police know. Is everything clear?’
‘Absolutely clear,’ Spencer assured him with suppressed excitement. ‘This is a chance in a million, I wouldn’t miss it for the world!’
‘Lionel,’ said Mannering. ‘Listen to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Spencer quickly sobered.
‘At least one, possibly two, murders have bee
n committed in this affair. It isn’t even remotely related to a gay adventure. And Judy Vandemeyer could be in acute danger. Don’t let yourself be followed when you’re driving away with her. Is that clearly understood?’
‘Very clearly, sir,’ said Spencer.
Chapter Twelve
Eager Young Man
Lionel Spencer put down the telephone and stood absolutely still for at least ten seconds. Then he sprang into the air, holding both hands aloft, and let out a stifled, ‘Yip-yip-yippee!’
Larraby, appearing from behind the partition at the back of the shop, had an instantaneous, and sobering, effect.
‘That was Mr Mannering, sir,’ said Lionel. ‘He was in a very great hurry.’
‘That I can imagine,’ said Larraby, eyeing the young man keenly. ‘Did he appear to be perturbed?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, sir – simply in a hurry. He wants me to meet a young lady outside the Victoria and Albert Museum at four o’clock.’
‘What young lady?’
‘Judy Vandemeyer,’ answered Lionel.
Larraby put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Lionel, listen to me. If you are to be of any real use to Mr Mannering in this or any other case – or in the business for that matter – you must learn to report quickly and succinctly, omitting no matter of importance. What precisely did Mr Mannering say?’
Lionel, abashed, reported the conversation almost verbatim.
‘That’s better,’ Larraby approved. ‘Mr Mannering has told you enough for the time being, and evidently feels that he can rely on you. Don’t let him down.’
In a surge of feeling, Lionel said, ‘Don’t worry, Josh – I’ll never do that.’
A few minutes later, at the wheel of his sports car, he realised that he had never before called Larraby ‘Josh’ to his face. He went red, and yet he glowed with satisfaction, for Larraby obviously meant it when he said Mannering relied on him.
It was half-past three. Usually he would have reached the Victoria and Albert in fifteen minutes but the traffic in Oxford Street was chaotic, and when at last he turned into Park Lane, a collision between a post office van and a bus held up traffic for ten minutes. Spencer sat fuming.