by John Creasey
He shrugged, and she went on slowly: ‘I’m an average human being in nearly every way, I wouldn’t steal a penny from anyone if it weren’t for one thing.’ She gave a funny little laugh. ‘I’ve a kink. That’s why I married Larmont.’
She jumped up.
‘Come over here,’ she said.
She went to one of the book-cases, pressed a part of the carving, and it swung away from the wall. Behind was a combination wall safe. She knew the combination off by heart, twisted and turned, then opened it. She knew he was a thief, and yet took this chance. He watched her intently as her hand closed over a jewel-case. It was long and narrow and made of fine black leather. As she stood looking down at it, her eyes lost their heavy look of tiredness, taking on a glow which wasn’t quite normal.
She opened the case slowly, and as the lid fell back, fire seemed to spring into the room. The light glinted on diamonds of such fiery brilliance that scintilla of a dozen different colours shot and sparked in front of Mannering’s eyes.
He knew the love of jewels; he recognized it.
He felt a constriction at his chest as he looked at these, and had to force himself to remember that she might be trying to trick him. The fever in her eyes seemed to take on something of the brilliance of the diamonds. There was a necklace, two pendant ear-rings, two hair clips and two dress clips. These were the Moriarty diamonds, which had been on the market a year or so ago; the trade hadn’t known who had bought them.
She fingered the jewels like a mother touching the cheek of her child. Her fingers caressed the glittering facets, moving lovingly from one to the other. He could hear her breathing like someone who had just finished a long and gruelling race.
She said: ‘Do you see what my kink is?’
Mannering said quietly: ‘Yes.’
‘It is a disease. When I’m dealing with precious stones, I’m hardly sane.’
Mannering didn’t speak.
She went on, her voice husky and uneven: ‘I will lie, cheat, trick, rob—I will do anything, I tell you. Yet I never wear jewels. The compulsion to own them is so deep that I can’t share it with anyone else. I hug it to myself like a guilty secret. Do you believe that?’
‘I believe it,’ Mannering said.
‘They’re meat and drink, flesh and blood, life and death to me.’ She caught her breath. ‘It’s been the same ever since I can remember. I hadn’t many when I was young, we weren’t a wealthy family, but I gloated over the few I had, and envied everyone who had more. I would spend days gazing at private collections, I was known at every jewellers in London and Paris. I could seldom buy, but I had to see jewels, especially diamonds. I couldn’t help myself!’ She put out a hand and gripped his wrist. ‘Do you understand? It was like a fire burning inside me, I wanted more, more, more! I was like a miser, lusting for every diamond that I saw.’
‘Then—I met Larmont.
‘We were at a Paris jewel auction. There were certain stones he wanted, and he seemed to devour them with his eyes—just as I did. We were drawn together on that one mutual love—love! Passion.
‘A few weeks later, we were married.
‘I thought I had everything I wanted—that I could share everything with him, every stone he had. That I could travel the world looking for more, seeing every collection worth seeing, living for them. And, for a while, I was content.
‘For a while,’ she repeated. ‘Just for a while.’
She moved to a chair and slumped down in it. He had never seen anyone more completely obsessed. When she had said that she would do anything to get possession of the jewels she coveted, she meant exactly that.
She opened her eyes and looked at him.
‘Then I began to hate my husband,’ she said. ‘They were his jewels, not mine. I wanted them. I had to have diamonds which no one else could see, which I could hide from the world, I wanted beauty that was mine alone.’
The words poured out in a torrent, like water which had been dammed up for years.
‘My husband had the same passion and owned jewels he would not let me see. I know that he buys secretly, so that no one can know what he possesses. I also know that he used Bryce, his solicitor, to buy collections and single stones. Not long ago I discovered that my husband didn’t care one way or the other whether they were stolen or on the market legally; all he wanted was possession. I found out how to get into his strong-room. I knew where he put the keys and what precautions he took. I had the keys copied. One safe he never opened when I was with him, and one day when he was away, I went downstairs, and found the key in a safe in the strong-room. There I found jewels which I knew had been stolen.’ After a moment’s silence, she went on: ‘I, too, would have done the same. Can you understand?’
‘I think so,’ Mannering said quietly.
She said: ‘All that was six months ago. I knew then that I should never be happy unless I owned my own collection. I began to blackmail Bryce, and through him Morris, both of whom had bought stolen stones. They got jewels for me, diamonds mostly. I didn’t care how they came by them. There was the Fesina collection.’ She uttered the words softly, caressingly. ‘My husband had half of it, including several pieces more beautiful than any I have ever seen. I wanted them above everything else, and—he sold them. I could have killed him. He sold them because he couldn’t get the other half of the collection; but after they’d gone, the other half came into the market. They had been stolen in France, and imitations had been put in their place, so the theft hadn’t been discovered. My husband was offered them by a French dealer and I’ve never seen him so furious. He sent for Bryce, and told Bryce to get the other jewels back, but—I’d told Bryce I wanted those Fesinas, that if I didn’t get them, I would give him away to the police.’
‘Bryce got them for me.’
She put her hand in the safe and drew out a case, opened it and stared down at the diamonds – those which Allen had stolen.
Mannering didn’t speak.
She went on, and her first word made him jump.
‘Mannering owned them. He’s a dealer, and was injured when they were stolen. I didn’t care, for I had the Fesinas, or half of them. The other half is still on the market, but at a fabulous price. I told Bryce what I wanted, but I knew I couldn’t pay for the stones.’
Then he made a suggestion.
‘He said he was finding a way to get hold of other jewels, from—a dealer, that he had a spy working for the dealer, and would stage a big robbery. He didn’t tell me who the dealer was or who would do the work, but I wasn’t satisfied with that, so I made him talk.
‘He had used a young man named Allen to steal the Fesinas for me, and was using another young man, named Courtney, to plan the raid on the dealer. The plan is quite simple—I am to get my choice of what they steal, and they will sell the rest to my husband. Isn’t it simple?’
She gave a strangled laugh.
Mannering murmured: ‘So simple that it might work. So you knew that the first man they used was murdered, didn’t you?’
She said: ‘Now listen to me. You said you wanted a cut in big money, here is big money. Morris and Bryce won’t be much use to me now. I will need someone else, who can break into a shop or open a safe. You’re just right for that. What do you say?’
‘What will Bryce and Morris say?’
‘They don’t know who I am, so they can’t put the police on to me. In any case, they dare not do anything against me, because I can shop them.’
The word ‘shop’ sounded ugly on her lips.
‘You would also have to shop your husband,’ Mannering reminded her.
She stood up abruptly.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ She turned to face him. ‘You will never have a better chance.’
Mannering said: ‘This business about your husband—’
‘Forget him,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t matter, and in any case, he won’t live long. I’ll make sure of that. When he’s dead, I will inherit—’
She nev
er finished the sentence. A shot rang out, sharp, frightening. Mannering saw a man standing in the doorway with a smoking pistol in his hand.
It was Larmont.
His wife gave a little cough, and fell forward; there was a small hole in her forehead.
Chapter Nineteen
Larmont
Larmont did not move away from the door. His face was pale, but it was normal pallor. The most striking thing about him was his eyes. They had the same glitter as his wife’s had shown a few minutes before.
‘Don’t move,’ he ordered.
‘How much did you hear?’ Mannering asked.
‘Everything. I was waiting for her,’ Larmont said. ‘I have known for some time that I couldn’t trust her. Who are you?’
Mannering said: ‘I’m a private detective, looking for a murderer.’
‘Well, you’ve found one,’ Larmont said. He laughed on a high-pitched note. ‘I don’t believe you, she wouldn’t have offered you that share if you’d been a private detective.’
‘She didn’t know I was.’
Larmont shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. I can shoot you now and tell the police I heard a shot, came running to the scene and shot you as you were leaving. I’d be a hero for avenging my beautiful wife, wouldn’t I?’
‘The police would know the bullets came out of the same gun.’
‘So they would. But supposing you left the gun by the body, meaning it to look like suicide?’ He laughed, and raised his gun a few inches.
‘You’d never get away with it.’
‘I could try,’ said Larmont. ‘Turn round.’
Mannering didn’t move.
‘Turn round,’ said Larmont, more sharply.
The shadow of death had never seemed nearer; Mannering knew that he was dealing with an abnormal man, and one whose guiding emotion now was fear.
‘Turn—round!’
Mannering said: ‘There’s a fortune at Quinns. Mannering has some of the finest collections in the country. If your wife was right, why not get what you can of it? I can take the commonplace stuff, you can have the rare gems. I know a lot about Quinns.’
Larmont said slowly: ‘I’ve never dealt with Mannering. I didn’t think I could rely on him, he knows the police too well. Bryce should never have sold anything to him, but I couldn’t get rid of half a collection at a good enough price, and he found Mannering would pay well.’
‘It won’t cost you a thing,’ Mannering tempted. ‘If this man Courtney really has a spy at Quinns, it should be easy. You need never pay for killing her, either.’
Larmont looked at his wife’s dead body.
Mannering felt sweat gathering on his forehead.
There was horror here.
The woman who had been pulsing with life and loveliness was lying there, dead, and he could not forget her beauty. He had known her for a few hours. He had felt almost sorrow for her, knowing that she was not normal – yet her abnormality had given her a quality of evil, too. But for death to come with such awful suddenness – It might come to him; this very moment might be his last. The gun was pointing at his chest, and Larmont was only twenty feet away from him.
‘No,’ he said, slowly. ‘It’s too big a risk.’
‘There needn’t be any risk to you,’ Mannering urged. ‘We can move the body.’
‘What?’
‘We can take her away in my car. No one need ever know she was killed here. There’s no danger for you.’
‘The police aren’t fools,’ Larmont said. ‘They’d come here as soon as they found the body. We can’t clean blood off the carpet so that they’ll find no trace. They’re bound to discover where it happened, bound to. I’ve a great respect for the police. No, the only way is to shoot you and tell them you killed her.’
Mannering sweated. He saw that Larmont’s finger was tightening on the trigger. There was a chance, only a chance, but he had to take it. He tensed himself to spring to the left.
The telephone bell rang.
Larmont, startled, glanced towards it. Mannering darted his right hand to his pocket, for the gun there. The telephone bell went on ringing. Larmont looked back at him. Mannering fired through his pocket, and hit him in the shoulder. Larmont swayed backwards. The bell kept ringing.
Mannering shot the gun out of his grasp.
As Larmont staggered against the wall, Mannering ran swiftly down the stairs, opened the front door and closed it behind him. The cold night air struck him viciously, but he had never accepted it so thankfully. Making his way to the Austin he saw that it was causing the attention of a peering policeman. This had to happen now; it had to happen when his heart was pounding and when there was a dead woman and a maddened man a few yards away.
He walked on, schooling his stride to one of unconcern. The policeman straightened up.
‘Your car, sir?’
‘Yes, officer.’
‘I just wondered—there was a report of an Austin stolen this afternoon.’
Mannering forced a laugh.
‘Not that one, I’ve had it for years.’
‘Can you tell me what is in the dashboard pocket, sir?’
Mannering said: ‘Yes, there’s nothing very much. A half empty flat-fifty of Players Number 3, a wash-leather, some odd broken head lamp bulbs.
‘Thank you, sir.’ With maddening slowness the policeman opened the door and shone the flashlight on to the dashboard pocket. If the policeman was satisfied, he could get away safely, and garage the Austin. If the man wasn’t satisfied, if he delayed Mannering even for five minutes, the damage would be done.
The light went off.
‘That looks all right, sir.’
There was a cry from further along the square, a fight shone out from one of the houses; Larmont’s house. The cry came again.
‘Police! Police!’
The policeman said sharply: ‘Here, what’s this?’
Mannering hit him on the jaw, sent him flying, and sprang into the car.
Chapter Twenty
On The Run
Mannering reached the end of the square and swung into Oxford Street. He had five minutes grace, no more. The policeman would lose no time in getting to a telephone, his station would know about the Austin within that five minutes, and the patrol cars would be warned by radio.
He turned left, drove into a cul-de-sac and pulled up. Quickly, but without panic, he climbed out and hurried towards the Edgware Road.
He reached a small shop, which was in darkness. The single beam of a street lamp shone on a wig, and a display of cosmetics, in the window.
Mannering rang the bell; but there was no answer.
Old Sol, the owner, lived in a flat above the shop, and though used to the unconventional habits of theatrical folk, it was, after all, two o’clock in the morning.
Mannering glanced anxiously along the road; a police car was moving fast, probably in response to a message from the policeman at Grayling Square. He flattened himself against the door of the shop. The car flashed by, and the sound of the engine faded.
Mannering rang the bell again, and as he did so a light came on at the back of the shop.
With a screech of bolts, Old Sol opened the door.
‘Such a time to wake an old man,’ he grumbled. ‘What is it, what is it?’
‘I’m in a hurry, Sol,’ Mannering said urgently.
‘Mr. Mannering!’
‘A real hurry,’ Mannering: said and slipped into the shop.
Lorna stirred from sleep, as he opened the bedroom door. ‘John, are you—?’ She broke off.
He wore a suit which he had borrowed from Old Sol, who hired out clothes as well as wigs and cosmetics. All trace of make-up had gone, and except for his tired eyes, he looked normal enough.
Lorna shrugged her way into a dressing-gown and followed him into the sitting-room. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Fairly all right.’
‘Tell me.’
He told her. Half truths would not help, she
would have to know, and there was the bond of absolute trust between them. He finished, at last.
‘So it’s started all over again,’ she said bleakly. ‘Fear of the police, being on the run from Bristow—oh, John.’ There was a catch in her voice, and he could understand it only too well. She came across to him and he took her hands. ‘Do you really feel safe?’ she demanded.
‘Unless Bryce talks. I don’t know what Larmont will do. He will probably try to lie himself out of it. If Bristow does ask questions—’
Lorna said: ‘He won’t think you killed her, but he will know that you were there. There was a wonderful chance of being completely free from police suspicions, and it’s gone.’
Mannering said: ‘We’d better sleep on it, darling.’
Lorna moved away restlessly.
There was nothing he could do to reassure or comfort her. She had spent hours of anxious waiting, and the news had been worse than she’d dreamed.
She said suddenly: ‘There wasn’t anything of ours in the Austin, was there? The police will soon find it. If there were anything—’
‘I bought the cigarettes weeks ago, we’ve both made sure that we’ve worn gloves whenever we’ve got into it. We’ve had it registered in the name of Reginald Brown for years, and garaged in the same lock-up garage. And don’t forget the credit side. Bristow will probably find more stolen jewels at Larmont’s than he’s found in any one place for years, he’ll be on top of the world. Larmont may tell his story but he’ll break down under pressure. After all, Larmont did kill his wife.’
‘If you go on like this,’ said Lorna, ‘you’ll kill yours.’
The night hours dragged, and he couldn’t sleep. He did not think Lorna was asleep, either. These were oppressive hours, and fear grew enormous with the darkness.
It had all the qualities of a nightmare.
The Austin might have been found by now. He wondered whether there could be anything in it which could lead to him.
Would Bristow have been called out?
Almost certainly, yes, as it was connected with precious stones; there wasn’t anyone at the Yard who could touch Bristow at that.