by John Creasey
Mannering went into the main bedroom, opened the wardrobe, and pressed one of the panels, revealing a hidden section. In here was a suit of old clothes. He took it out, and laid it on the bed. It was several sizes too large for him – but it wouldn’t be when he was finished. He also took out an elaborate make-up box and put it on the dressing table. Then he went back to the study, and poured himself a drink. He sipped, then lifted the telephone.
Before he had dialled, Lorna had let herself into the hall. She thrust open the study door.
‘Hallo, darling! Doing anything tonight? The Plenders wondered if we’re free for dinner?’
‘You could be,’ murmured Mannering.
‘So you’re going out.’ Lorna picked up the drink he poured for her. ‘I was afraid of it. Tell me everything.’
‘A tall order,’ said Mannering lightly. ‘But still, I’ll do my best. Item one—Bill Bristow and I have a working arrangement. He will turn a blind eye on necessary occasions but can’t speak for others at the Yard. Item two, we have found a friend of Courtney’s—come and have a look at him.’
He took a post-card size print from his pocket and handed it to Lorna; this was one of several prints from the photographs which Larraby had taken with a small Leica camera fastened into the waistband of his trousers, when he had called at Morris’s shop.
Lorna handed it back.
‘Most unprepossessing. I don’t like him at all.’
‘But he has a good reputation,’ said Mannering. ‘He does a lot of business with Mortimer Bryce.’
Lorna caught her breath. ‘The man who sold you the Fesinas.’ Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with fear.
Mannering picked up the receiver, and dialled a Hampstead number.
‘Mr. Mortimer Bryce?’ asked Mannering, His voice hoarse and uncultured.
Lorna watched him intently.
‘Mr. Morris gave me a message,’ Mannering went on. ‘He said you must go to see him at Ealing at nine o’clock, it’s urgent. He’ll be back by nine, he’s had to do a rush job out of London …’
Lorna put her empty glass, sharply and disapprovingly, on the table.
‘Okay, fine,’ said Mannering, and replaced the receiver. ‘Mortimer Bryce will be at Ealing at nine o’clock,’ he announced, his normal voice coming almost as a shock. ‘Oh, that reminds me!’
He dialled the number he’d found in the address book, and as he listened to the ringing sound, Lorna had a strange feeling; that he was really happy, although she was so afraid.
Morris answered, and Mannering dropped into the assumed voice: ‘Mr. Bryce gave me a message for you. He’s coming at nine o’clock sharp and must see you. He won’t be home earlier, he’s had to hurry off on an urgent job. He says it’s important, you’ve got to be in.’
‘Who are you?’ Morris demanded.
‘I work for Mr. Bryce,’ said Mannering.
He let the receiver fall back noisily.
‘That’s all very well.’ said Lorna, ‘but they may not believe the message. Morris will probably call Bryce and find out that it’s phoney.’
‘It’s a chance I’ll have to take. Chittering is watching the Ealing house and Larraby’s keeping an eye on Bryce’s. Larraby is to go off duty at nine o’clock. We’ll learn what’s happened.’
‘So you’re going to search Bryce’s house,’ Lorna said.
‘With luck,’ agreed Mannering.
‘I’m frightened.’
‘Not you,’ scoffed Mannering.
But at heart, he knew she was; he could feel it in the passion of her kiss.
Just before eight-fifteen, the dinner cooked and washed up, Ethel left the house to visit her boy-friend.
By then, Mannering was in the bedroom, sitting in front of the dressing-table. The make-up box was in front of him, and he began to work on his face.
Twenty minutes later, Lorna would not have recognized him. Dark shadows lay under his eyes, lines narrow and melancholy ran from his nose to his chin. A thin rubber surface covered his teeth, giving the appearance of stain and decay.
Satisfied, Mannering took a roll of cloth from the bed, and began to wind it round his waist, like a cummerbund. Lorna took the end, and walked round him slowly. She had done this before, knew exactly the effect he wanted. ‘Is that comfortable?’ She fastened it with a couple of safety pins.
Mannering turned to the shabby, out-size suit. When he was dressed and stood and looked at himself in the long mirror, he was staring at a stranger.
‘It’ll do,’ he said, judicially.
Lorna said abruptly: ‘Are you going to take a gun?’
‘Just in case of accident,’ Mannering murmured.
‘Courtney’s?’
‘Not this time.’
Lorna said: ‘Darling, please, please be very careful.’
As she spoke, the telephone bell rang.
Mannering picked up the receiver.
‘This is Larraby, Mr. Mannering. Bryce left, by car, just five minutes ago.’
Elated, Mannering slipped out of the flat, then walked briskly towards the point where Larraby had parked the Austin earlier in the day. It stood waiting. He unlocked it and climbed in, then felt in the door-pocket near him. There was a set of tools which no reputable motorist should know how to use.
He drove straight to Ealing.
Mortimer Bryce had much further to come, and Mannering judged that he would have twenty minutes grace. He left the car at the end of Willerby Road, where Morris lived, then walked along it. He saw Chittering emerging from the doorway of an empty house.
Mannering drew level, and murmured: ‘All quiet?’
‘Great Scott!’ breathed Chittering.
‘Has anything been happening?’
‘Mrs. Morris left about half an hour ago, all dressed up. I heard her say that she wouldn’t be later than eleven. Does Lorna know you’re here?’
‘I’ve a feeling that she thinks I’m at Bryce’s place, I didn’t tell her that his was second port of call,’ said Mannering. ‘Chitty, you’re a better friend than I deserve, but ought you to stay here? If we run into trouble you’ll have compounded a felony.’
‘I’m just a newspaper man, I don’t know anything about the fat stranger who walked past a little while ago, do I?’
Mannering chuckled, and walked on.
There was a lamp near Number 31, Morris’s house, and Mannering walked through the double gateway, past the garage, reaching the back garden. A dim light spread from a ground floor window, there were none upstairs. Mannering went to the door, using his torch to examine the lock.
It shouldn’t give much trouble – unless it was bolted.
He used his pick-lock. The lock clicked back after a few seconds, and he turned the handle and pushed – the door opened. He slipped inside quickly, and then approached another door, which stood ajar. By the light from the hall, he could see that it led into a kitchen.
Suddenly a brighter light shone out, and Morris appeared.
Chapter Fourteen
Meeting Of Friends
Mannering backed swiftly into the kitchen and pressed flat against the wall.
His heart thumped as Morris stood, hesitating for a moment, then returned to the front of the house.
Mannering moved from his hiding-place.
He heard a car coming along the road. It stopped, and a car door slammed.
Morris opened the front door, Mannering heard him say: ‘I thought you were going to be late.’
There was a mumbled answer, and the two men, Bryce and Morris, disappeared into the front room.
Mannering stepped swiftly along the passage, he heard the murmur of voices, and caught the word ‘drink’.
‘Soda?’ asked Morris.
‘Thanks.’
A pause followed, as if each was waiting for the other to start. The sound of a glass being put on a table came clearly.
‘Well?’ said Morris.
‘What’s it all about?’ asked Bryce.
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There was another pause.
Mannering peered through the crack between the door and the door frame. He could see Bryce, a small, florid-faced man with stiff grey hair and a thrusting lower-lip, sitting bolt upright, staring up into Morris’s face.
Morris’s voice came sharply: ‘What’s gone wrong?’
The first signs of alarm began to show in Bryce’s voice. He moved suddenly out of Mannering’s vision.
‘I don’t get this. Why did you send for me?’
‘Send for you?’ the words rose to an incredulous squeak.
‘Don’t be a fool!’ Bryce jumped to his feet. ‘I had a message from you to say I was to be here at nine o’clock.’
Morris said: ‘I—I don’t understand. I had a message from you. You were coming here at nine o’clock.’
After a long silence, Bryce said softly: ‘I don’t like it, I don’t like it at all. What time was this?’
‘Six-thirty.’
‘The same time as my message,’ said Bryce. ‘What’s going on? Have you had any trouble?’
‘Trouble?’
‘That’s right—trouble.’
Bryce was the boss, Mannering realized, Morris the hireling.
Morris said defensively: ‘Courtney’s flat was burgled last night, the thief stole an address book. My address was in it.’
Bryce barked: ‘And mine?’
‘How could it be? Courtney’s only met you once, doesn’t know where you live—doesn’t even know your name.’
Bryce didn’t answer.
‘The trouble could be your end,’ said Morris, cunningly.
‘I don’t let trouble happen,’ Bryce said savagely. He leapt up.
‘You see what this means? Someone wanted me out of my house, so they’re probably inside now.’ He thrust Morris aside and ran towards the door, wrenching it open.
Mannering said: ‘Going places?’
Bryce stood stock still, his hands raised a little, his mouth agape. Morris, close behind him, made an odd little noise in his throat.
‘There’s no need to panic,’ Mannering said easily. ‘And you may as well be comfortable while you give me the information I require. Bryce can sit in the leather chair, Morris in the blue one—and please keep your hands in view. I wouldn’t like either of you to do anything exuberant, because my gun is very easy on the trigger.’
Both men moved mechanically to the chairs Mannering had indicated. Their mouths open, their breath coming short and huskily, they looked too stupefied to be dangerous. But it was a condition unlikely to last.
‘Comfortable?’ inquired Mannering.
Bryce swallowed hard. ‘What do you want?’
‘It depends what you’ve got. Rubies, maybe. Emeralds? I wouldn’t even say no to diamonds.’
Mannering’s expression was both sinister and grotesque. They would know that he was disguised, but that didn’t matter; they couldn’t guess who he was. The last time he had seen Bryce it had been in his office at Quinns, with the Fesinas scintillating on the desk between them.
‘I don’t understand you,’ Bryce muttered.
‘How about you, Mr. Morris?’ inquired Mannering.
‘I—I don’t know anything about—’ began Morris, and stopped abruptly.
‘No? May I remind you, before you burst into any flights of imagination, that you are both very near to trouble. I don’t think the Law Society would be happy about some of your activities, Mr. Bryce, and Hatton Garden doesn’t like crooks any more than Lincoln’s Inn.’
Morris said more sharply: ‘What is it you want?’
‘Supposing I tell you what I know about you?’ suggested Mannering. ‘Bryce, you’ve been selling precious stones which don’t belong to you, and—’
Until that moment, Bryce’s expression had been one of fear; now it changed, to a look of almost relief. Mannering noted this for future reference, and then went on before the pause became too noticeable: ‘And you have been working through Morris, who puts the gems on the market. He cuts most of them down, and occasionally finds under-cover buyers for the really big stones. Morris, you handled the Fesinas.’
There was sweat on Morris’s forehead and his long upper lip.
Mannering said: ‘You were responsible for the job at Quinns, when you had Mannering shot. Remember Reggie Allen?’
Bryce shot a look of unbridled rage at his partner.
Mannering went on: ‘Seven years in jail is about what you’ll get at least. And what else do you think I discovered, Bryce. That it was you who sold Mannering the Fesinas, and Morris staked the boy who stole them back. How did you get the Fesinas, Bryce?’
Bryce said: ‘I was acting perfectly legitimately on behalf of a client. Morris, is this true? You staked the thief, who—’
Morris said: ‘You damned well know it’s true!’
‘Easy, gentlemen, easy,’ said Mannering amiably. ‘You’re in it together, right up to the neck, not forgetting the attempted murder of Mannering and the murder of Allen. That makes it a life sentence for someone.’
Mannering looked from one to the other, unable to decide which of them was the more frightened.
‘You needn’t get excited about it, I’m not going to shop you, provided you behave yourselves. I simply want a cut in the profits. I’ll take a thousand quid on the past jobs, and I want twenty-five per cent on the future ones. How does that sound?’
Bryce stared at Mannering intently. There was another change in his expression, one which sent warning to Mannering, one he must not ignore. There was a change in the atmosphere, too, an element he hadn’t noticed before. He glanced up.
In the glass of a water-colour hanging over the mantelpiece, he saw the reflection of someone behind him.
Chapter Fifteen
Third Party
If Mannering moved round, Morris or Bryce would leap at him. If he stayed where he was, he was at the mercy of the man behind him.
He went on, showing no sign that he was aware of the newcomer: ‘Just twenty-five per cent, you can’t say I’m greedy.’ He leaned towards Morris, gun thrust forward. ‘It’s cheap at the price. By the way, tell our friend behind me that if he starts any trouble, I’ll shoot you.’
Morris gasped.
Bryce started to rise in his chair, and thought better of it. There was another faint sound behind Mannering. He could not tell whether the newcomer had a weapon.
‘Just tell him,’ Mannering said.
He stood upright, and began to move towards the left; if he could get to the side, he would be able to cover all three.
He was half-way to the wall when he heard movement behind him, saw a confused reflection a second before he was hit. It was a glancing blow but enough to push him off balance. At the same moment Bryce aimed a savage blow at his wrist.
The gun dropped.
Bryce smashed a blow at his face, Mannering fended it off and drove to the stomach. Bryce gave a belching groan, and backed away.
Morris was standing in front of his chair, with an automatic in his hand.
‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘Don’t move.’
The newcomer moved forward. The first thing Mannering saw was a foot – a woman’s foot.
She kicked the gun across the floor, out of his reach.
He turned to look at her.
The woman was tall. A chiffon scarf hid her features, but she gave the impression of youth – and of authority, for quietly and quickly she took the gun from Morris’s hand.
She held it downwards, and looked straight at Mannering: ‘Who are a you?’
‘Just a friend,’ said Mannering.
‘This isn’t a game,’ the woman said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Call me Uncle Joe,’ said Mannering.
She glanced down at the gun, but didn’t raise it. He thought that she hadn’t much time for Morris or Bryce.
‘You’re really asking for trouble,’ she said. ‘But I can wait. You’re heavily disguised, which means you aren’t anxious to be r
ecognized, but greasepaint can be cleaned off quickly enough.’
The shock was over, but the emergency was not. Mannering’s curiosity was at fever-pitch. Who was the woman? And how had she evaded Chittering?
She turned to Morris. ‘Just what happened?’
Morris told her, his voice nervous and staccato.
‘He says that’s how he got on to us, but I didn’t know Allen had any friends who knew us.’
‘There may be a lot of things you don’t know,’ the woman said.
Mannering murmured: ‘But he knows who killed Allen.’
The woman spoke calmly, her voice muffled by the scarf.
‘Do you know who killed him?’
‘Ask Morris.’
‘It wasn’t Morris.’
‘Nevertheless, he knows.’
Morris moved forward, swinging a left fist at Mannering’s chin. Mannering took the blow on his shoulder, let Morris come close, and jabbed an uppercut. With all his weight behind it, the blow had tremendous power. Morris’s head went upwards and back, his feet seemed to leave the floor before he fell.
Mannering straightened up, and rubbed his knuckles.
Bryce was muttering to himself, and did not appear to know what was going on. The house was quiet; it would have been almost reassuring but for the gun in the woman’s hand. All Mannering could see was the vague shape of her nose and mouth. Shadowy darkness hid her eyes.
He smiled at her.
‘Now let’s stop fooling,’ she said. ‘Who are you, and what do you want?’
‘I’m a man who likes to know when there’s a fortune to be split up.’
‘What makes you think these two know anything about a fortune?’
‘My sixth sense.’
She tried another tack.
‘How did you get in?’
‘I opened the door.’
‘You’re a mobsman, of course. Did you break into Courtney’s flat last night?’
Mannering said, with a look of assumed bewilderment: ‘Courtney? Who is he?’
‘If you don’t know, you’ll find out.’ Her voice had a pleasant lilt, which touched a faint spark of recognition. He wanted to move the scarf aside so as to see her face, but her finger was on the trigger of the gun.