The Unfinished Portrait

by John Creasey

  Larraby shot out his right hand and snatched the man’s ankle. The shot spat out, the man fell, Lionel flung himself forward bringing the bottle down on the falling man’s head. Larraby, trying to crawl into the girl’s room, muttered hoarsely, ‘Others … might be others.’

  ‘God!’ gasped Lionel.

  He bent down and lifted Larraby beneath the arms and half-dragged, half-carried him into the room where Judy was lying. He placed Larraby clear of the door, then slammed it, and as he did so caught a glimpse of the man he had hit first, swinging towards him, gun in hand. He heard the shot. The bullet pecked into the door. He switched on the light, saw the key in the lock and turned it. Two more shots rang out before silence fell.

  ‘Don’t—don’t try anything else,’ pleaded Larraby. ‘Don’t play hero – once is enough.’

  Lionel said, ‘The devils. The murderous devils.’ He glanced at Judy, who seemed to be fast asleep, then looked down and saw the blood seeping from Larraby’s leg. He went down on one knee, the better to examine it.

  Twenty minutes later, when Bristow arrived, he found his own men unconscious in the street, the door blown down, a man dead of a fractured skull in the hallway of the flat, Lionel Spencer in the bathroom, ringing out a towel, and the girl still unconscious. Larraby was on the floor, a pillow beneath his head, and the wound in the fleshy part of his thigh covered with a face cloth.

  Almost at the same time, a police-surgeon arrived.

  Bristow saw Larraby off in an ambulance, and was assured by the police doctor that Judy Vandemeyer was in a drugged sleep, he saw a Murder Squad busy in this hall for the second time in a week, and then took young Spencer into Mannering’s drawing-room. Spencer’s eyes held the satisfied look of a man who had seen action. He was badly dishevelled, but he seemed as cool as ice.

  ‘If these men were prepared to kill Miss Vandemeyer, sir, it could only be because of what she could tell the police. And if they’ll kill as cold-bloodedly as that, they’ll cut Mr Mannering’s throat as lief as look at him. I think we should raid 17 Ellesmere Square at once.’

  The policeman at the end of his career and the youth at the beginning of his, stood staring at each other.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry too much about that,’ said Bristow. ‘I’ve men in the Square, the house is even covered from a roof opposite. The question is, whether we’ll help Mannering most by raiding the house or waiting for a few hours. I’ve known him do some remarkable things. And if we do raid, it will be no guarantee that they won’t kill him.’

  ‘You’ve got to raid it now,’ growled Lionel. ‘If you won’t—’

  ‘You will, is that it?’ Bristow concealed a smile, as if he had taken a great liking to this young man. ‘You can’t risk it, Mr Spencer. I won’t let you.’

  ‘For God’s sake listen to me,’ pleaded Lionel. ‘He’s in there – he might never get out alive. I must—’ He broke off, and Bristow marvelled, for he had seen just such a change of expression in Mannering’s face in the past when Mannering had thought of some almost desperate, always daring venture. ‘I can go and demand to see Judy!’ he cried. ‘I can be the worried boy-friend, say she was to telephone me but didn’t, and I insist on seeing her. That would distract them, wouldn’t it? You could raid them while I’m shouting the odds.’ He paused, and then went on tensely, ‘You can’t refuse that. It will give Mr Mannering a chance – it may be his only one.’

  Slowly, Bristow said, ‘You may have something there. It might be a good idea.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Search

  Mannering was stifling his laughter as the banging came at the passage door of his suite. The outburst was partly from reaction and relief, he knew: it was a long time since he had put so much into a burst of furious activity. Even young Lionel could not have worked at greater speed.

  Now, he had to face the men outside; had to be in complete control of himself.

  He got up from the arm of the chair, smoothed down his hair, called, ‘I’m coming!’ and then slipped into the bedroom, kicked off his shoes, slid his feet into slippers, and went back and opened the door.

  Buff was there, with Wells just behind him. Buff had an ugly graze over his right eye, and his collar and tie were loose.

  ‘What on earth—’ began Mannering, and then stopped and stared as if amazed. ‘What—what happened to your eye?’ he demanded.

  Buff said, ‘Out of my way.’ He pushed past, strode into the living-room and glared about him, swung round and strode towards the bedroom. Mannering put out a hand to stop him.

  ‘Don’t,’ warned Wells.

  Mannering gripped Buff by the arm, spun him round and pushed him into the passage, saw Wells move forward to attack, shaping as if he were a judo expert, thrust out his right leg and planted his foot in Wells’s stomach and flung him staggering after Buff.

  Mannering stood in the doorway, looking down. Someone was hurrying up from the first landing, but Mannering watched these two closely, expecting one of them to pull out a weapon.

  ‘Marriott! Buff! Wells!’ It was Vandemeyer, calling out in a shrill, agitated voice. ‘What’s going on here?’

  Mannering turned on him furiously, ‘Your thugs attacked me, but I can take care of myself. If they try any more tricks I’ll break their necks. Keep them away from me until I get out of this place. I need just half-an-hour.’

  He swung round towards his rooms.

  ‘Marriott!’ cried Vandemeyer.

  ‘I’m through,’ Mannering rasped. ‘I don’t like being followed wherever I go, I don’t like apes like Buff riding roughshod over me.’ Mannering went into his bedroom and pulled a suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and flung it on the bed.

  ‘Marriott, I’m sorry if you’ve been insulted,’ Vandemeyer said pleadingly. ‘But—’

  ‘It’s a waste of time talking,’ Mannering said. ‘I’m through.’

  Vandemeyer might take him at his word and so undo what good had been done, but he had to force this issue, and he did not think Vandemeyer would want him to go. He yanked open a drawer in the dressing-table, as his employer came in.

  ‘Marriott, I beg you to sleep on this,’ he said. ‘If you still want to go in the morning, then I’ll accept your decision. But tonight all of us are very distressed.’

  ‘Distressed? Buff behaved like a lunatic!’

  ‘My daughter has run away,’ Vandemeyer said, ‘and it was Buff’s duty to see that she didn’t … you know how overwrought she’s been. And—’

  ‘Just having Buff around would make anyone overwrought,’ growled Mannering.

  ‘Marriott, that attitude won’t help—’

  Mannering turned to face the other squarely. Buff and Wells were still in the passage, Buff with a handkerchief at his forehead, Wells expressionless.

  ‘What makes you think I want to help?’ Mannering demanded. ‘I came here to do a job, not to be pushed around and spied on by your lackeys. You can get someone else to do your cataloguing, I’m not hard up for a pound.’

  He did not understand why Vandemeyer looked so desperate, and still less did he understand it when Buff came forward and spoke more pleasantly than he had yet done.

  ‘Okay, Marriott, so I blew my top. I’m sorry. I can understand that a man doesn’t want to be pushed around. I had to find out what you’re made of. Okay, so I know. You could have helped Judy run away, I caught a glimpse of a guy and it could have been you. I had to check whether you were up in your rooms.’

  ‘I’ve been up here all evening.’

  ‘So I was wrong,’ Buff said. ‘So I’ve apologised.’

  ‘Sleep on it, Marriott,’ urged Vandemeyer.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Mannering. He saw relief on both men’s faces, and his own tone and expression changed. ‘I’m sorry about Judy, I thought she was much happier tonight.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Vandemeyer. ‘She fooled me, I’m afraid. Did she give you any hint that she had friends who would help her?’

  �
�She didn’t seem to have any friends,’ Mannering replied. ‘I’ve told you all I know, sir … Do you think she will be all right? Should you ask the police—’

  ‘We don’t want a scandal,’ Vandemeyer said more sharply. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Very good.’

  Buff said, ‘You can certainly look after yourself, Marriott. Where did you learn?’

  ‘In America,’ answered Mannering off-handedly. ‘A man who has to protect fortunes in jewels and objets d’art doesn’t last long unless he knows the tricks.’

  ‘You keep a gun?’ asked Buff.

  ‘Yes – and I’m not afraid to use it.’

  ‘I guess you wouldn’t be,’ said Buff, almost admiringly. ‘See you.’

  He walked off.

  ‘Goodnight, Marriott,’ Vandemeyer said.

  ‘Goodnight.’ Mannering closed the door on them, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and went into the living-room. On the television, three men were sitting at a table, talking about humanism. He watched without listening, then turned the set off, made himself some coffee, and drank it while pondering what had happened to Judy. He had taken everything so much in his stride that only now was he able to assess the situation here.

  The most significant thing was that they wanted Judy out of the way. Buff had demanded it, and Vandemeyer and the woman who either was, or was not, his wife had connived at it. They had expected her to rebel, had been ready with a hypodermic shot which had put the girl out almost instantaneously. She must know something which could be dangerous to them and, inevitably, would help Mannering.

  Second in significance was Vandemeyer’s anxiety to keep him, ‘Marriott,’ here – and Buff’s readiness to pacify him. The secret they shared must be of vital importance to them both.

  What was the relationship between them?

  Buff seemed to have the last word on most issues, and it could only be because he could bring pressure on Vandemeyer: could blackmail him. Was the switch in ‘wives’ the reason? Was Vandemeyer doing what he was told in order to protect his real wife?

  At least that was possible; and it was equally possible that the secret lay in this house.

  Would there be a better night to find out?

  Buff had had a rough time and would soon be out on his feet. Vandemeyer was on the point of collapse. Wells and his wife slept in the back of the house and the secret wasn’t likely to be found there. He, Mannering, knew the house well now, and did not think that any lock he had seen here would keep him out of a room. The burglar alarm system was to prevent anyone breaking in, and should offer him little threat. And if these things weren’t enough, he was in the right mood. The need for swift action over Judy had broken through the inhibitions of the years, and he had climbed in and out of his room with as much agility as he would have shown ten years before.

  He would have a couple of hours sleep, and then look round.

  He undressed, was in bed by half-past eleven, and asleep in a few minutes, quite confident that he would wake by half-past one.

  The illuminated dial of his bedside clock showed twenty minutes to two when he woke. He lay for a few moments, got up, and dressed in a dark suit. Then he draped a towel over his shoulders, sat in front of the bathroom mirror and began to remove his make-up, He worked with intense concentration, watching his real self gradually emerge. A spirit lotion took the colour out of his skin and hair, and loosened the gum off his eyes. He rubbed cold cream into his lips to smooth the lines. Half-an-hour after he had started, he was once again John Mannering of Quinns.

  He put the make-up box into a plastic bag and placed it on top of the ledge above his window, where it was hidden by the guttering. Then he opened the passage door with extreme care.

  No one was in sight.

  He stepped close to the wall, to lessen the risk of creaking boards, and reached the landing; the only other room here was a box-room filled with trunks and suitcases. He had tried the handle before and found it unlocked; it was still unlocked.

  He crept down the top flight of stairs, and no matter how close to the wall he trod, there were faint creaking sounds. Half way down he thought he heard a rustle of movement and he flattened himself against the wall, but no one appeared. Waiting a moment, he continued on, and reached the main landing.

  He did hear movement!

  He peered down the main staircase, and saw a man sitting in the passage, a torch shining on the leaves of a paperback book he was reading.

  The man coughed, and glanced about him.

  It would be impossible to have any freedom of movement while the guard was free. Mannering flattened himself against the wall again and went down crabwise. Except for the turning of a page and another cough, there was no sound.

  Mannering slid his left hand into his pocket, and took out a box of matches. He tossed it to the door and it struck, lightly. The man jerked up, catching his breath. After a pause of two or three seconds he stood up, staring at the door. One glance towards Mannering would mean discovery but the guard was interested only in the door, from which the noise had come.

  Mannering held his breath until the guard was standing, back towards him. Then he took the blue scarf from his neck, crept forward and dropped it over the other’s head, tightened it round the neck, and drew it fiercely tight. The torch dropped to the floor. The man fell backwards against him, clutched at the scarf but could not loosen it. The only sounds were those of a man choking.

  They faded at last.

  Mannering let him go, carefully, picked up the torch, then half-carried and half-dragged him along the passage. Opposite the anteroom was a door beneath the stairs, and it was not locked. Mannering opened it, and shone the torch inside. There were fuse boxes and a single switch. He pressed it, and light filled the cellar staircase. Manoeuvring the man down these, Mannering laid him out on the cement floor, and felt for his pulse.

  He was alive.

  Mannering went farther into the cellar, finding three rooms, one of them a carpenter’s workshop. A ball of thick string stood on a bench and Mannering cut off two lengths, bound his victim’s wrists and ankles, and then used his own handkerchief as a gag. The man’s eyes flickered open.

  ‘Don’t try to escape or you’ll really get hurt,’ Mannering said in his normal voice.

  He looked about the cellar.

  In one alcove was the oil burner for the central heating, in another several small packing cases and dozens of picture frames, in the third household oddments – from camp beds and mattresses to pieces of carpet and odd chairs. There was an old-fashioned coal chute which hadn’t been used for a long time and shone with white paint. A faint pattern of light showed through the circular grating at street level. Two iron staples had been driven into the chute beneath the grating, to prevent anyone from getting in from the street, but the grating itself was loose. There was no time to do anything there now. Mannering went back, passing the prisoner who was rolling his eyes and trying to mouth words. Mannering checked the cord, loosened the gag a little, and went up to the ground floor. He closed the cellar door and stood poised for a moment. Then he entered the dining-room.

  It was beautifully but plainly furnished with a Sheraton dining-table and twelve chairs. There was a sideboard, and this Mannering checked; quick measurements with a steel tape showed that there was no room for concealed hiding-places. He checked the alcoves and the big archway which led to the kitchen, and came to the conclusion that this room held no secrets.

  He went into the farther, and by comparison, smaller room in which he had met the others earlier in the evening. He calculated that it was directly beneath Vandemeyer’s study. There was a corner cabinet here, too, directly beneath the movable one upstairs – though this one was filled with rare pieces of china and porcelain. Nearby was a writing-desk, and Mannering recalled that Vandemeyer had moved his right hand to the side of his desk upstairs, before moving the cabinet. Mannering went to the desk, sat at it, and felt cautiously along the side. There see
med to be nothing. He tried again, seeing beneath the overlapping top of the table a tiny spot slightly above the surface level.

  He pressed – and felt it move. When he ran his fingers over the surface again, he could feel nothing.

  He crossed to the cabinet and touching approximately the same spot that Vandemeyer had touched in the cabinet upstairs when he wanted to get into the treasure house. Again he felt a slight protuberance, and pressed.

  The cabinet swung back from the wall in exactly the same way as the other.

  Could this lead to yet another treasure house?

  He felt sure that the button in the desk broke the alarm circuit; if he had attempted to operate the cabinet by itself the alarm would have been raised. There was danger that there would be another alarm circuit, and to make an escape route he placed a heavy chair between the back of the cabinet and the wall; he could not be shut in.

  Now he used the torch.

  It shone on shallow steps and a passage, exactly as the one above, but these walls were bare. A blank wall faced him. He had to find the control button for this before he could go farther on, and scanned the roof.

  A tiny indentation virtually invited him to press it. But this could be the second alarm and he looked for something less obvious. He seemed to be there for an age before he saw a paper-thin slit between wall and ceiling.

  He took out his pen-knife, opened a blade, and inserted it gently; he felt resistance which soon gave way, and the wall which barred his progress slid slowly to one side. Ahead was a heavy velvet curtain. He pulled this aside very carefully, and as he did so, lights came on ahead, exactly as they had done upstairs.

  This chamber was wider and the shelves and alcoves were deeper. On them were articles of unbelievable splendour, and after his first gasp of astonishment, he looked more closely, realising that each was beyond price.

  Here were the crowns of princes and of dukes; here were bejewelled swords and breastplates, daggers and caskets; here were treasures from the Near and the Far East, from this age and from all the ages of history. This collection surpassed the one upstairs in a way Mannering would never have imagined possible.