The Unfinished Portrait

by John Creasey

  He was beginning to fear that he would be late for Judy Vandemeyer; late on his first assignment! He had a wild idea of leaving the car and going by foot, thought better of it, and was fiercely relieved when traffic started to move again. There was a little carriageway outside the big, dark building of the Museum which looked like a cross between a cathedral and a prison, and although there was no room to park there was room to stand.

  Walking up and down outside the Museum was a girl in a green linen suit.

  Even had he not been expecting to meet a raven-haired beauty, this girl would have attracted his attention. There was something in the way she walked; in her carriage, which singled her out. As he got out of the car she turned, and obviously the red sports car meant something to her for she came hurrying – eager and quite lovely. Disturbingly lovely. And her hair was black as a raven’s wing.

  ‘Miss Vandemeyer?’

  ‘Oh yes. Are you—is it you I’m to meet?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Spencer. ‘My name is Spencer, Lionel Spencer. I’m from—’

  ‘There’s a man following me,’ she said, breathlessly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m always followed. I tried to get away but he followed my bus.’

  ‘I’ll soon deal with him,’ declared Lionel Spencer confidently. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Be—careful!’

  ‘Perhaps he ought to be careful.’

  ‘No,’ she said entreatingly. ‘Please don’t cause any trouble. Just—just get away from him.’

  ‘All right,’ Lionel promised. ‘But which one is he?’

  ‘Don’t look round,’ she said. ‘It’s the man on the motor-scooter.’

  ‘I’ll see him in a minute,’ said Spencer. ‘And we’ll soon get rid of him.’

  She rested a hand on his arm and said in a helpless kind of way. ‘You don’t know them at all, or the impossibility of getting rid of them. I—I even gave up seeing friends because I was always being watched. I hardly know why I’ve come, the whole thing was hopeless from the start.’

  Lionel recalled Mannering’s warning that Judy Vandemeyer was living on her nerves; and words and empty promises would give her no reassurance. He took her arm firmly, turned round and guided her to the car, seeing the man on the motor-scooter not thirty yards along the road. He opened the passenger door, smiling broadly at Judy, and saying, ‘He’s not to know I’m not just another boy-friend.’

  ‘When I’m back they’ll want to know who you are, where I met you, why I came out today.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to cook up a convincing story,’ replied Spencer. ‘How about a spin as far as Wimbledon Common? Go a bit farther, if you like.’ He got in beside her and started the engine; the man on the motor-scooter had already started his, and moved out after Spencer, who could see him in the driving-mirror. He was a small, wiry-looking man in a sports jacket and grey trousers, and he wore a tight-fitting cap. Lionel turned off at Earl’s Court Road, where heavy and fast traffic was going one way, with the scooter only three or four cars’ lengths behind. He pulled over to the left inside lane and all other traffic except the scooter roared past. The rider made no attempt to hide what he was doing.

  ‘Hold tight,’ Lionel said quietly.

  Judy stiffened. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Just hold tight. Ready?’

  He jammed on the brakes and the car jolted to a standstill. The motor-scooterist swung his wheel wildly, just got by, but nearly lost control of his machine. A huge truck, thundering down, passed within a foot of him. The scooter engine cut out and the rider came to a standstill a few feet ahead of the sports car.

  ‘Sit tight,’ Lionel urged again. He placed a hand firmly on Judy’s knee, then climbed over the side of the car and reached the scooterist in a couple of long strides. ‘You all right?’ he asked in a loud clear voice.

  ‘No thanks to you, you could have killed me.’

  ‘And that’s what I shall probably do if you don’t get off my trail,’ said Lionel in a voice which only just carried to Judy’s ears. ‘If I want to take a girl-friend out for an hour or two I don’t want a chaperone breathing down my neck. Understand?’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re asking for,’ the man said savagely. His face was badly pitted from smallpox, his eyes were deep-set and an opaque brown. ‘Take her back now, or—’

  ‘Did you ever try driving one of these with part of it missing?’ inquired Lionel. He held the man off with one hand and pulled up the cover of the engine, loosened the distributor-head and tossed it into a garden opposite. ‘I’ll take Miss Vandemeyer back when she’s ready, not before.’

  He let the man go, and swung round. The man lost his balance and struggled to regain it, as Lionel climbed into the driving seat again, kissed Judy lightly on the cheek, and started off. The scooterist glared furiously after them.

  ‘There’s a man who would like to cut my throat,’ said Lionel.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Judy almost gasped, but she was looking at Lionel with admiration in her eyes. ‘He might—’

  ‘Forget him, Judy,’ said Lionel as he drove into the stream of traffic. ‘Tell me what it’s all about. I’m in insurance, and my company’s after some jewels which were stolen last week. I work with an insurance investigator, John Marriott. He—’

  Judy exclaimed, ‘You mean Marriott’s a detective?’

  ‘In a way, yes, and a damned good one,’ said Lionel cheerfully. ‘He—’

  Judy began to laugh; a stifled kind of giggle at first, it grew into helpless laughter. Lionel was too involved with traffic to spare more than a startled glance or two. She leaned back in her seat and surrendered absolutely to the laughter, and as it went on, almost hysterically, he realised that it was a measure of her relief from tension. He put a hand on her knee.

  ‘Steady on, now – take it easy.’

  She went on laughing.

  ‘Judy, it can’t be as funny as all that!’

  ‘F-f-f-funny!’ she gasped, and at least that interrupted the paroxysm. ‘It—it’s more than funny – it’s hilarious! A detective – Daddy’s employed a detective. Oh, it’s gorgeous!’

  ‘I know a little place by the river at Richmond where we could have some tea and you can tell me all about it,’ Lionel said. ‘Will you come?’

  ‘Yes, I’d love to.’ Judy tossed her head and raised her hair with both her hands, sitting back and letting the wind carry it streaming behind her. For a quarter of an hour she said hardly a word but seemed to revel in the speed and the wind and the freedom. But when they reached the little inn by the river, not far from the bridge which spanned both river and the centuries, she was subdued again and the glow had faded from her eyes.

  It was warm enough for them to want shade from the sun and they had scones and cream and strawberry jam overlooking the fast-flowing Thames. At last she began to talk, quietly and with welcome clarity.

  ‘I’m still not sure whether I ought to tell you,’ she said, ‘but I couldn’t go on as I was – something has to be done. You—you don’t have to go to the police, do you?’

  ‘No,’ he answered, confident that Mannering would agree. ‘But perhaps you should.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said simply. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. I only know that my stepmother went away for some kind of health-course and another woman came back in her place.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Lionel. ‘That was pretty coldblooded.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean Daddy turned her out!’ exclaimed Judy. ‘I mean someone who looked like my stepmother, dressed like her, impersonated her – and Daddy accepted it as if nothing was wrong. I could hardly believe it. I tried to talk to him about it but he only said that Deirdre had been away for this health-course, and she had lost a lot of weight, but it wasn’t true, and he knew it.’

  ‘What an incredible story,’ said Lionel, meaning it absolutely. He spread more cream on a scone and ate without speaking for a moment, while Judy stare
d over the river, a film of tears in her eyes. ‘What could possibly make him—’

  ‘He’s being blackmailed,’ Judy said abruptly. ‘I believe my stepmother was kidnapped, and he’s terrified in case she will be killed. He—he absolutely worships her. He really does. He wouldn’t put up with the awful things that are going on if it weren’t for that.’

  ‘What awful things?’ asked Lionel, gently.

  ‘Well – these men, following us everywhere. A man named Buff who actually runs the house. Daddy’s terrified of him. And … there’s Gillespie.’ She closed her eyes as if in her mind’s eye she were seeing something she hated to see. ‘He realised something was terribly wrong, that Daddy was being blackmailed, and talked to Daddy about it, and … Daddy told him to leave. He’d worked for Daddy for over thirty years, and he was fired just like that. Only … I don’t believe he simply walked out. I believe he would have told me, if he were going. I think Buff killed him.’

  ‘Killed,’ echoed Lionel, heavily.

  ‘Oh, I can’t be sure, but I feel sure,’ Judy declared. ‘First Deirdre disappeared, then Gillespie; Daddy is afraid of his own shadow. I’m watched and followed wherever I go.’ She turned to Lionel and held her hands out to him; and he gripped them. ‘What am I to do? Please tell me. What am I to do?’

  ‘Keep your head, and do whatever John Marriott tells you,’ advised Lionel with quiet vehemence. ‘When you get back, tell this man Buff or anyone who questions you that I’m an old boy-friend, very quick-tempered, who simply took the man on the scooter to be one of those pests who follow pretty girls.’

  ‘But they’ll want to know when I made the date with you and what I told you,’ said Judy, half-ruefully.

  ‘Tell them I spotted you by chance outside the Museum, and that you had no intention of discussing your father with anyone,’ said Lionel. ‘You can bluff that out, can’t you?’

  ‘I—yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘And above all, remember to do what John Marriott tells you,’ insisted Lionel. ‘He’s very good.’

  ‘But why did he take on this job? Does he think Daddy knows something about these stolen jewels? Is that what it’s all about?’

  ‘That’s what we’re going to find out,’ Lionel assured her. ‘Judy …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If it weren’t for this dreadful spot you’re in I would have enjoyed this tremendously.’

  ‘I—I have enjoyed it, in a funny way,’ Judy said. ‘I don’t feel alone any more. And if Mr Marriott’s living at Number 17 it won’t be anything like so bad. Unless—unless they discover who he is and what he’s doing.’ Fear clutched her again, and nothing Lionel could say really reassured her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Family Quarrel

  Mannering felt completely cut off from Quinns and the outside world when he returned to 17 Ellesmere Square. The front door was like the door of a prison, despite the remark Vandemeyer had made earlier. He went to his office, expecting to find an instruction from Vandemeyer but there was none. The office was plainly furnished with bookcases and filing cabinets, a pedestal desk and a large table on which exhibits and cards could be spread freely. The outlook from the window was identical with the one from his bedroom, immediately above.

  He was familiar now with most of the routine and knew all the servants of the house.

  Apart from Wells the footman and his wife Irene, who was Lady Vandemeyer’s personal maid and chambermaid combined, there was a male cook, two middle-aged women who shared most of the household duties, and Buff. All of these lived in, but only the Vandemeyers themselves, Buff and Mannering lived in the main part of the house. The others shared the back which was approached by a second staircase. Here there was a communal living-room and dining-room used exclusively for the staff.

  The entire staff was new, yet Mannering had a feeling that Buff, the Wellses and the cook, a stocky north-countryman, were old associates.

  He had learned, also, that the men and the woman who followed him lived in a house opposite.

  Moving about in the course of his duties, Mannering also learned the layout of Number 17 thoroughly in the first four days, by which time everyone was used to him. Even Buff would nod good morning, and no longer went out of his way to be hostile.

  Twice, Mannering had heard Lady Vandemeyer’s voice, but he had not seen her in the whole of those four days. He concentrated on studying all the others, their movements, their mannerisms, listening to their voices, their accents. Now he was able to judge whether Vandemeyer was at home; there was a noticeable relaxation of discipline when he was out. Mannering tried to imagine what he would feel if he had simply taken the job here, without any foreknowledge of mystery. Except for Judy’s visit there would have been nothing to arouse suspicion.

  On that fourth evening, he was very much on edge for Judy’s return.

  He saw her about half-past six, coming in at the front door. She went straight up to her own room, apparently quite normal. Vandemeyer and his wife were in, the cook was preparing roast duck and green peas, Mannering was expecting to eat downstairs with the staff. At half-past seven there was a tap at his door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called, and Judy opened the door.

  He could see how excited she was; for the first time since he had known her she seemed free from a weight of anxiety and depression – but she simply put her finger to her lips, and then said, ‘My father would like you to join us for a drink before dinner, Mr Marriott.’

  ‘That’s very nice of him. May I come down in two or three minutes?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll tell him,’ she said – and drew closer to Mannering instead of going out, gripped his arms, stood on tip-toe and kissed him on the cheek. Then she turned and hurried away.

  Mannering found himself smiling.

  Wells came forward as he went downstairs.

  ‘You’re expected, Mr Marriott,’ he said, and opened the second door opposite the stairs.

  Mannering had not been in here – or in any of the main ground floor rooms – before. This was a kind of anteroom, with folding doors at either end. One set was open and he saw the dining-room beyond; the other no doubt led to the drawing-room. This was a pleasant, Regency-style room with considerable character.

  Lady Vandemeyer – or the woman passing herself off as Lady Vandemeyer – was sitting near the big fireplace. Vandemeyer was standing by an open cabinet where bottles glistened, Judy was sitting at a baby grand piano, playing a little melody which Mannering only vaguely remembered.

  ‘Ah, Marriott,’ said Vandemeyer. ‘I’m glad you could come.’ As if it had not been a command. ‘Deirdre darling, you’ve probably seen Mr Marriott about – and you’ve met Judy, Marriott.’ No one could have sounded more unperturbed.

  ‘Lady Vandemeyer,’ Mannering nodded.

  ‘How are you, Mr Marriott.’

  ‘What will you have, Marriott?’

  ‘Yes,’ Judy said, coming forward. ‘Mr Marriott was very understanding, Daddy.’ She came up and shook hands, gravely, and went on without a change in her voice or her expression. ‘I’m sorry I was so silly, Mr Marriott.’

  ‘You were very worried,’ Mannering said.

  ‘Judy dear, Mr Marriott wants a drink,’ Lady Vandemeyer interposed.

  ‘Yes. What is it to be, Marriott?’ Vandemeyer asked mechanically.

  ‘A whisky and soda, please.’

  ‘Ice?’

  ‘Yes, please – but not on the rocks.’

  ‘We’ve heard from Gillespie,’ Judy announced simply.

  Inwardly, Mannering was astounded; outwardly, he showed no sign at all of surprise. ‘I’m very glad indeed.’

  ‘He telephoned this evening – not half-an-hour ago,’ Judy went on. ‘It was such a relief to speak to him.’

  ‘I’m sure it was.’

  ‘Judy has told us how considerate you were,’ Lady Vandemeyer said. ‘We were most grateful.’

  Mannering said, ‘Nerves can be very upsetting … Thank you, sir.’<
br />
  ‘To a long and successful association,’ Vandemeyer toasted.

  Mannering thought, it’s too smooth, it’s phoney. Judy’s happy, but why are the others putting on an act? He drank. ‘I’ll certainly go along with that!’ He turned to Lady Vandemeyer and saw how young she was. The wife whom Lorna had known so much better than Mannering had been in her early forties, but this woman was in her thirties – though made-up to look older, and dressed in the less extreme fashion of the not-so-young. There was, Mannering thought, something artificial about her smile.

  ‘I do hope you will enjoy working here, Mr Marriott.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall,’ answered Mannering, smiling conventionally.

  ‘Marriott’s a genuine enthusiast,’ Vandemeyer said, joining them. ‘A lot of experts can value gems, but very few valuers love them.’

  ‘I’m so sorry we can’t ask you to stay for dinner, Mr Marriott, we have an urgent appointment.’

  Small talk, not too blatantly flattering; Mannering saw in it a cleverly concealed attempt to reassure him – and if he were simply a new employee, it would have succeeded. He took his leave, with murmurs of excessive politeness on both sides.

  ‘Goodnight – goodnight.’

  Judy stepped to the door with him, and as he went out, breathed, ‘Thank you, oh thank you!’ Her eyes were glistening. The Vandemeyers might believe it was because she was reassured over Gillespie but it was excitement after talking to Lionel Spencer.

  As he went upstairs, Mannering was tormented by the conviction that there had been undercurrents which he could not understand, undercurrents to fear. What could be their cause?

  Buff’s surly demand to send Judy away?

  Judy’s escape from whoever had followed her – alarming Buff and those with him even more?

  Mannering went into his room and switched on the television, standing and looking down on it, thinking only of the problem. Judy, coming to his room and telling him of her fears, Judy escaping their surveillance, Judy putting on a show of being satisfied. Had she really fooled them?