by John Creasey
‘I’ve never wanted to get a man so much or so quickly.’
Lorna closed her eyes. ‘Bill, tell me the whole truth. He’s not—dead?’
‘He has a good chance, that’s all I know.’
She looked at him blankly, then as if she had suddenly awakened, she moved purposefully to the door.
‘Can you take me to him? Or drop me where I can get a taxi?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, going ahead down the stairs. Every movement showed that same, deliberate haste, as if she wanted to rush headlong to the hospital but kept telling herself that she must not lose her self-control.
Chapter Three
Headlines
The almoner was both helpful and understanding.
‘I can imagine just how you feel, Mrs. Mannering, and it isn’t any use pretending there’s nothing to worry about. It is a dangerous operation. But Sir Donald has performed many equally dangerous ones with complete success.’
Lorna managed to keep her voice steady.
‘Can you send a message to Sir Donald before he goes, asking him to see me?’
For the first time, the almoner hesitated.
‘He is very preoccupied. Perhaps it would be wiser to wait.’
‘We’re old friends,’ Lorna said.
‘In that case, I’ve no doubt he’ll see you. I’ll send a message that he’ll get as soon as he comes out of the theatre. Will you excuse me for a few minutes?’ The almoner smiled as she went out.
Lorna stared, unseeing, at the wall before her.
She had painted Donald Law’s portrait, two years ago. She remembered his hands, long, pale, sensitive, capable of movements of great delicacy.
She closed her eyes, seeing those hands moving and a knife blade flashing; and blood on it.
A probationer brought her a cup of tea. Unable to sit still, Lorna moved restlessly about the room. When the almoner came back, she swung round, acutely disappointed because it wasn’t Donald Law.
‘Will he be long?’
‘I shouldn’t think so, but you really don’t want him to hurry, do you? He’ll take just as long as he has to, and not a minute more.’ The words were meant to be reassuring, but somehow they made the hideous truth even more vivid. John’s life was held in those pale hands. If they faltered, she would never see him alive again. When the door reopened, she hardly heard it.
A short, thin-faced man came towards her. He was smiling. Would he smile if the news were bad?
He shook hands.
‘I’m very hopeful,’ he said. ‘Very.’
She didn’t release his hand.
‘He’s—he’s doing well?’
‘So far, and I don’t see why he shouldn’t pull through altogether. We have the bullet. A fraction of an inch nearer the front of the head, and he would have been killed instantaneously.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘For a few moments,’ agreed Law. ‘Then I’ve instructions for you—to go home and rest. You’ll be told if there’s any change in his condition, and if there’s no change during the night, that will be the best kind of news.’
Chittering, a police constable and a little crowd of reporters were outside the Green Street house when she got back just after eight o’clock. She shook her head mutely when the questions came, and let Chittering, more a family friend than a newspaperman, walk with her upstairs. Ethel opened the door before they reached it. She looked paler than Mannering.
‘Oh, Mrs. Mannering, I’m ever so sorry, I’m—’ she broke off. ‘Oh, Ma’am, he’ll be all right, won’t he? He’ll be all right?’
‘The doctors think so,’ said Lorna. ‘Don’t worry, Ethel.’
‘Oh, Ma’am, your mother’s telephoned three times, a newspaper chap told her about it. She says she’ll call again at eight o’clock. She wishes she could come up, but your father’s still ill, and she doesn’t want to leave him. Mrs. Plender rang, and Mr. Jameson …’
Chittering ushered Lorna into the sitting-room, and said: ‘Gin, I think.’
Ethel made her eat some dinner, and Chittering stayed to answer most of the telephone calls during the next hour. Her own doctor looked in just after ten o’clock, and insisted on giving her a sedative. She didn’t want to sleep because she might have to rush off to the hospital; but she slept.
Ethel stood by the bedside with a tea tray. Lorna blinked at her, momentarily forgetful, and then sat up abruptly, panic-stricken. Ethel was beaming.
‘They’ve just rang up, ma’am. He’s had a good night!’
Lorna said: ‘Oh, thank God.’
The newspapers lay in a neat bundle beside the tea pot. Opened the headlines blared at her.
JOHN MANNERING SHOT THIEF ESCAPES WITH £25,000 GEMS THIEF SHOOTS FAMOUS JEWEL MERCHANT £25,000 DIAMOND-HAUL
Wincing, she looked away from them, but a photograph of Bristow caught her eye, and almost against her will she read:
Superintendent Bristow of New Scotland Yard, one of the Big Five and the Yard’s expert on precious stones, said last night that John Mannering had done more than any other individual not connected with the authorities to help in the detection of crime. Thanks to Mannering, several clever criminals now in jail might have escaped. In his generous tribute to a remarkable man, Superintendent Bristow said that Mr. Mannering’s knowledge of precious stones was probably unrivalled anywhere in the world.
An extraordinary mixture of pain and pleasure wrung her heart.
Chittering took a cigarette from Bristow’s yellow packet, and sat back in his chair in the Superintendent’s office. Newspapermen were seldom allowed to penetrate so far into the Yard. His round, deceptively child-like face glowed innocently, as he leaned forward.
‘Any luck, Bill?’
‘We know the thief escaped through the window, otherwise we haven’t a clue. This is off the record, mind you.’
‘For the record, presumably, an arrest may be expected very shortly.’
‘Call it that. But there wasn’t a fingerprint we can find in Records, nothing to help us identify the man except Larraby’s description. According to that he’s about twenty-one, five feet nine or ten, good-looking, lean, fresh-complexioned, with light brown hair. It could apply to thousands.’
‘Not good,’ said Chittering.
‘Someone must have seen him when he escaped,’ said Bristow. ‘We don’t know whether he went on foot or by car. Most likely he’d have an accomplice somewhere nearby ready to drive him off. Although he was looking at the Fesina collection, Larraby had taken two different lots in for him to see. This means he might have come specially for the Fesinas; on the other hand, he might have grabbed them simply because the moment for a theft was ripe. I’m trying to find out if any dealer or collector is known to be particularly interested in the Fesinas, but nothing’s shown up. Do you know anything about their history?’
‘I should do,’ said Chittering expansively. ‘I’ve spent half the night looking it up. They were collected by the Duke of Fesina in the seventeenth century, and stayed in the family until a few years ago. The latest head of the family sold them, being nearly broke, and the sale was off the record—no-one knows who bought them. About half of the diamonds turned up three months ago, and were offered on the open market. Mannering bought them. They were sold by Mr. Mortimer Bryce, solicitor, of Lincoln’s Inn, on behalf of an unnamed client.’
Bristow said: ‘You haven’t missed much.’
‘Mannering told Larraby that he would like to get the other half, and then dispose of the whole collection, but was prepared to sell if he got the right buyer,’ Chittering went on. ‘I’ve a suspicion that he thought there was something odd about the business.’
‘So Larraby says. I’ve talked to Mr. Bryce, the lawyer,’ said Bristow. ‘He’s promised to try to get the seller’s permission to pass on his name.’
‘Can’t you make him give it?’
‘No.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Chittering.
‘There’s one angl
e I’d like you to play—the fact that the thief must have been seen by people in Hart Row, and we want to hear from them.’
‘I’ll fix it, Bill. If it’s humanly possible I intend to find the thief, and I don’t much care who gets hurt in the process. What’s the latest from the hospital?’
‘No change. There’s an even chance, now.’
‘Even if he pulls through, it’ll be a couple of months before he’s fit again, so we’ve about two months to work in,’ said Chittering.
Chittering’s piece in the evening’s Echo was exactly what Bristow wanted. It named the side streets behind Quinns, and asked for information from anyone who had seen a young man near those streets at the time of the crime. The story was still on the front page.
Lorna read it.
Ethel read it.
Several million Londoners read it. There was a stop press item in every edition; ‘Mannering’s condition unchanged at …’ giving the hour. Chittering had just decided that it was time he had something to eat, when his telephone bell rang.
‘There’s a young lady here, Mr. Chittering,’ said a doorman. ‘She says she thinks she can give some information about the thief who shot Mannering.’
‘Handcuff her until I get downstairs,’ Chittering urged, and jumped up.
Chapter Four
The Car
Chittering hurried into the waiting-room, where the girl sat alone. She had, he noted appreciatively, clear blue eyes and naturally fair hair. She was tall, and had beautifully shaped legs, and was dressed with taste.
‘My name is Chittering,’ he introduced himself. ‘I’m looking after the Mannering case for the Echo.’
‘I’m not at all sure I can help you,’ the girl said at once.
‘We’ll find out, if you’ll tell me all you can.’ Chittering offered cigarettes.
‘I don’t want a lot of publicity.’
‘If you don’t want publicity, why come here and not the police? They’d keep you out of the public eye.’
‘Would you rather I did?’ asked the girl.
Chittering laughed.
‘Not yet!’ He sat back in an armchair. He liked the look of her, and not only because she was attractive. She had a kind of frankness which appealed to him.
‘I came here because I thought someone on a newspaper could tell me whether I need go to the police. There seemed no point in upsetting my parents unnecessarily.’
‘Just what did you see?’
‘I was in Liddel Street yesterday afternoon, about the time of the raid. It’s just behind Hart Row. I was in a hurry, and stepped off the pavement as a small sports car came along. There was a young man at the wheel—rather good-looking, really. The car didn’t slow up. He grinned and waved, and went on. He was certainly in a hurry, and he seems to fit the description you published.’
‘This could be the man,’ murmured Chittering. ‘Brown hair, fair complexion—you couldn’t tell me his height, of course.’
‘He looked average, and he was rather thin.’
‘Who did you look at harder—the driver or the car?’
She laughed.
‘I certainly watched the driver out of sight, he was that kind of young man.’
‘Can you describe the car?’
‘It was a green M.G. with a fabric hood, I don’t suppose I should have paid much attention, but I always notice sevens.’
‘Ah. Sevens.’
‘I used to think it was my lucky number,’ explained the girl. ‘There was a seven on the registration plate. I don’t know the letters, except that the first one was L, and there were two more. It had one of those square number plates—the letters on top and the numbers underneath. It was L something and then something 73.’
At home, Bristow was mellow and mild-mannered. With skill and sympathy he drew the story out of the girl. Her name was Anne Staffer, she lived with her parents in a house near Sloan Square, and helped to manage her father’s dress shop. She couldn’t recall any of the other numbers or letters on the car registration plate, but she did remember that there was a small patch in the canvas hood, on the nearside corner.
‘Look, Ma’am,’ said Ethel excitedly, when she brought in the tea next morning, ‘it says that they’ve an important clue.’ She began to read. ‘”An attractive blonde walked into the Echo office last evening and lodged important information about the Mannering robbery. At the request of the police, the Echo is withholding the name of this informant, who is in no way connected with the crime but has most unusual powers of observation. ‘Do you think they’ve got the man?’
‘If they had, they’d say so,’ said Lorna.
‘The hospital hasn’t rung up this morning, and that’s good news, isn’t it?’ Ethel went on.
‘I hope so, but I’ll ring them,’ said Lorna, stretching out for the telephone.
John had passed a ‘comfortable night’ and might regain consciousness during the day.
Young Reginald Allen woke up about the same time as Lorna Mannering, in his bedroom in a small flat in Knightsbridge. He got up and went to the front door, pulling the newspapers out of the letter-box. On each of three front pages there was a story about Mannering and the attack; and in the Echo, news of the ‘clue’. Allen tossed the paper away, and laughed.
‘How they lie!’ He laughed again, but a little uneasily.
There was nothing special about this furnished flat, but it had three rooms and a modicum of comfort. He wasn’t rich – and he wanted to be. As he shaved, he studied his face in the mirror, and what he saw pleased him. He could be sure of attracting the attention of almost any pretty girl; what else was a good face for? He knew that people took to him on sight. He’d had a good education and had lived well. He was quite sure of his own personal courage, and now he knew he had plenty of nerve.
He cooked eggs and bacon, made some toast, and breakfasted at leisure. At ten o’clock precisely, he picked up the telephone and dialled a City number.
A man answered.
‘Read the papers?’ inquired Allen.
‘Never mind what it says in the papers,’ the other man said. ‘Just lie low, and you won’t have anything to worry about.’
‘I hope not—but I keep remembering that a certain gentleman named James owes me a thousand pounds, in one pound notes,’ said Allen.
‘You’ll get your money.’
‘By noon today.’
‘Soon.’
‘Midday,’ said Allen. ‘Don’t make any mistake about it. And I’ve been thinking—we ought to get rid of that car.’
‘If you weren’t seen—’
‘I like to be careful, and I want to make sure that they can’t trace it to me,’ Allen said. ‘You’d better shift it out of the garage, if you want me to stay in for the rest of the day. But after today, I’m going out.’
‘You stay there,’ said the other man urgently. ‘I’ll fix the car.’
James Walter Morris, a man of forty-two, with thin, black hair and dark brown eyes, drove past the garage where Allen kept his car, and saw two constables and several men in plain clothes gathered round it. He drove on without stopping, but there was a film of sweat on his forehead, which hadn’t been there when he had reached the garage.
He drove to Allen’s flat, and parked his car some way off; it was an Austin 16, which few people would notice. As he neared the house, a young man approached him. He was grinning.
‘Paying a personal call?’
‘You’re going to. Courtney, the police will be here in a quarter of an hour. Allen’s in danger.’
Courtney said thinly: ‘You sure?’
‘I’m quite sure. The police were round at his garage. Allen will talk, if they get him, too.’
Courtney looked up at the sky, and didn’t speak for a while. Then his lips twisted in a faint smile. He said lightly: ‘Reggie and me have been buddies for a long time, but you’re right, he talks too much.’
Courtney went along the street. The house where Allen lived was a
four-storeyed one, and all the flats were self-contained. He went up to Allen’s flat on the third floor, and rang the bell – three short rings and two long ones.
Allen, fully dressed, greeted him with a smile.
‘Hallo, Bill, come in! Did Morris send you?’ Courtney nodded, and Allen went on: ‘I had a funny idea that he would be late with the dough—I must have wronged him! Have a drink, or is it too early?’
‘Not now,’ said Courtney. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Any reason why it shouldn’t be?’
‘You haven’t a girl tucked in bed here, have you?’
Allen laughed.
‘Unfortunately, no. Morris couldn’t get better service than that, could he? Nose to the job and all personal pursuits forsworn, temporarily. And don’t forget, I’m good—not many people would have got away with. Mannering’s stuff as easily as I did.’ He led the way into the living-room, and turned with a sunny smile. ‘Now, the loot, the jimmy-o’-goblins—don’t say you haven’t got them.’
‘Oh, I’ve got them,’ said Courtney. He put his hand to his inside coat pocket, and drew out a gun.
The bark of the shot broke across his words.
Chapter Five
Brick Wall
Mannering moved his right hand, very slightly, and smiled. He looked desperately ill. There were dark patches beneath his eyes, which had lost their brightness. Lorna fought back the sting of tears.
‘Hallo, my darling.’
‘My luck held,’ murmured Mannering.
‘Of course it held. Darling you’re not to talk, or I shan’t be able to stay.’
‘Stay,’ whispered Mannering.
When she left, half-an-hour later, he seemed to have dropped off into a doze. She needed no more telling that the battle was far from over, but the darkest shadow of fear had gone.
She drove to Quinns, which had been shut up for two days.
James unlocked the door and let her in.
She said quickly: ‘I’ve just seen him. He’ll be all right now.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Jameson, simply.
‘May I say how delighted I am—really delighted,’ said a young man with a large, domed forehead. He was Peters, the latest junior. ‘It’s been a great anxiety, Mrs. Mannering.’