Taking the Blame

by John Creasey

  Whereas George’s father had annoyed Mannering, George only puzzled him. He behaved as if he were trying to make Mannering lose his temper. He might have decided that he had made a fool of himself at the shop, and that there was really no need to worry about Patricia. Or someone might have persuaded him not to say what he had intended, so he chose this offensive way of putting Mannering off. The delay in opening the door, the lipstick, the redtipped cigarette end and the smell of Turkish tobacco, all told of a woman in the flat; she was probably still here. Could she have persuaded George to adopt this attitude?

  “Look here,” said George, “I don’t want to throw you out.”

  “Oh,” said Mannering. “That’s nice of you.” He grinned, and a temptation to teach George a lesson swept over him. He moved forward, pulled George by the shoulder and swung him round, grabbed his right arm behind him in a hammer lock, then marched him towards the luxurious couch. Then he released his arm and, before the astonished young man realised what was about to happen, lifted George bodily and let him fall on the couch. George bounced up and down, arms and legs waving, mouth gaping.

  “That’s just to make sure that you don’t ever feel like throwing me out,” murmured Mannering. “Good-bye, George.”

  He was out of the room before George could get off the couch.

  He left the flat, but not the vicinity.

  He hurried to the end of the street and then turned right and saw that there was a narrow garden at the back of each house in Willis Street; but there were no fire-escapes, and entry to the back garden could be made only from the ground floor. So if George’s companion had been in the flat when he had arrived, she was still there. Mannering turned back, passed the end of Willis Street and hurried to the main road along the next street. From the road near a bus stop, he could see Willis Street. He went to the bus stop, where half a dozen people stood in a straggly queue. He did not join the queue, but waited about letting bus after bus pass. There was no sign of the detective. Twenty-five minutes later, a girl came out of number 11 Willis Street, and approached the main road.

  Even when she first came into sight, Mannering could see that she was well – even excessively – made up; that she was smartly, if a trifle loudly, dressed in a red suit which was a little too glaring. A dazzling vision, in fact; when she drew nearer, he saw that she had the looks and the figure to make a fool of many young men like George Swanmore.

  She turned right towards St. James’ Park tube station.

  Mannering followed her on the other side of the road.

  He did not know whether she would recognise him on sight, but was soon sure that she had no idea that she was being followed, for she walked briskly without turning her head. Most men she passed looked at her, and several glanced back. She crossed the road, walked across the churchyard which led to Caxton Hall, passed the hall and eventually turned into a small block of flats. Mannering followed, waited in the gloomy hall until she reached the first landing – there was no lift – and then went up. He passed a passage where she stood outside a door, inserting her key. She glanced towards him incuriously. Mannering walked to the end of the passage, waited until he heard the door close, and turned back.

  The number of her flat was seventeen, and according to nameplates on some letter boxes in the front door, her name was Clara Harris – Miss Clara Harris.

  In the narrow side streets near Paddington Station there are many small shops which do not observe the normal closing hours, queer little shops, including at least two theatrical costumiers who, naturally, sell theatrical make-up. At six o’clock that evening, Mannering entered one of the shops and bought a small make-up box and a few other oddments, including some rubber ‘teeth,’ rubber cheek pads, false eyebrows and false moustaches – these of three different shades of brown. He paid in cash and, carrying the case, went to Paddington Station, where he retrieved the battered suit-case and hurried with it to the toilets. In the confined space of a cubicle and with the help of a mirror which advertised a well-known brand of disinfectant, he changed his clothes and, before putting on the tweed coat, inspected the make-up box. Then he set to work on disguising his face and, in the space of ten minutes, worked a remarkable transformation. He examined himself closely, added a few touches of grease-paint, made-sure that the bushy eyebrows were properly fixed, and then bundled his own clothes into the suit-case, together with the make-up box, retaining only a small bottle of spirit and a small camel-hair brush, with which to remove the make-up later.

  He deposited the suit-case at another cloak-room, and left the station three-quarters of an hour after he had arrived. Probably no one would have recognised him, although anyone who looked at him closely would have known that he was wearing make-up.

  Clara Harris was curled up on a settee in front of an electric fire, with a gay and shiny magazine resting on a low table so that she could read it without any strain. A large box of chocolates was open by the side of the magazine and, next to the chocolates, a smaller box of Turkish cigarettes. She had taken off her bright-red suit and wore a demure, pale green house-coat with a zip fastener which ran from top to bottom – and was open provocatively several inches at the neck. Her bright yellow hair, brassy gold in colour, was a mass of curls, her lipstick had run a little at one corner. Her bare feet were pushed against a silken cushion; she had nice legs. The room was very warm.

  Every now and then, Clara put aside the magazine, stretched and yawned and looked into the fire, blinking as if the heat were too much for her, but she was too lazy to get up and switch the fire off. Her eyes were grey-green – more green than grey; cat’s eyes. Her long, fair lashes brushed her cheeks.

  The furniture in the small room was ultra-modern. Coloured plate-glass, chromium, stream-lined ornaments and plaques of grotesque faces abounded on the walls. A cream-coloured carpet had strips of red worked into it. It did not stretch from wall to wall, but was edged by parquet flooring.

  Clara picked up the magazine again – and then lowered it sharply, for she heard a sound in the tiny hall. She looked at the door; the sound wasn’t repeated, and she relaxed and began to read a story of Glamorous Love. She was beginning to lose herself in the luscious romance when something clicked at the door – and she dropped the magazine and called shrilly: “What’s that?”

  There was no answer.

  She gripped the edge of the couch and stared towards the door. There was no sound or movement except her agitated breathing and the quick rise and fall of her breast. She moved one foot from the silken cushion, as if about to get up – and then saw the handle of the door turning. She stifled an exclamation, and put one foot to the ground. Now she stared at the telephone, which was in a corner, a scarlet instrument on a black-topped table.

  Before she could get up, the door opened.

  She stifled a scream.

  A tall man, dressed in old, shapeless clothes, put his finger to his lips and, closing the door gently behind him, approached her. “If you shout,” he said, “you might get hurt.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Collapse Of Clara

  She didn’t shout, but sat upright, clutching the side of the couch, staring at him with great rounded eyes – terrified eyes. Her mouth was open so wide that the intruder could see not only her glistening, white teeth but the tip of her tongue. The magazine dropped to the floor and slithered away from the table.

  She shrank back as the man approached, but instead of touching her or speaking again, he stretched out his hand and selected a chocolate, then popped it into his mouth. She saw that he had ugly, discoloured teeth. He chewed, opening his mouth a little as he did so – that mannerism seemed to mark him down as an uncouth creature even more than his rough clothes. She noticed that he wore thin, cotton gloves, a dirty shade of grey.

  “You’re warm enough in here, duckie,” he remarked.

  Clara shivered.

  “Don’t say you’re cold,” said the intruder.

  He had a low-pitched, harsh and grating vo
ice, and didn’t ease the fears caused by the sounds outside, the turning of the handle and the opening of the door. She couldn’t look away from his brown eyes – which he kept half-closed. There was grease at the corners and on the rims; glycerine.

  “Who—who are you?” Clara gasped.

  “Don’t you recognise me?”

  “I’ve never seen you before!”

  The man gave a hoarse chuckle.

  “Maybe you haven’t,” he said, “but I’ve seen enough of you, duckie. You get around quite a lot, don’t you?” He took another chocolate; this time it was a soft centre, and was soon gone. He glanced at the cigarettes, and said: “Turkish, eh? I only smoke Virginias. You aren’t very hospitable.”

  “What do you want?” Clara gasped.

  “Just a little chat,” said the man, and suddenly he took her feet, holding her ankles together between his fingers, shifted her farther back on the couch, and sat down beside her. He rested a hand on her knee, and squeezed gently. “You needn’t be scared, provided you do what I tell you—I haven’t come to have a night out.”

  “Go—go away!” she gasped, and the words seemed to give her fresh confidence. She slapped at his hand. “Take your hand off and go away!”

  He gripped her knee tightly; there was steely strength in his gloved fingers, and she gasped; her sudden spasm of courage oozed away.

  “Don’t get rough, Clara,” the man warned, “you wouldn’t like it if I did.” He looked round. “All nice and cosy in here, aren’t you? I wonder who pays for it all? You don’t—not poor, little Clara, you never have enough money, do you?”

  She didn’t try to answer.

  “But you know how to make others pay up,” said the man, and added softly: “How much do you get out of George Swanmore?”

  She cried: “Nothing!”

  “Really!” protested the man, and grinned – his ugly teeth made the grin sinister. “I just don’t believe it, duckie, George is quite generous when he thinks he’s in love, and you’re good at making men think they’re in love with you, aren’t you?” He glanced at the V at her throat, and his grin became almost lecherous. “Oh, you know all the tricks—how much do you get out of George?”

  “He—he gives me a little present sometimes, that’s all,” she said. Her breath came quickly, she kept glancing towards the telephone and the door. “That’s all, just a little present, he—he and I understand each other.” Her voice was thin.

  “Very nice,” sneered the intruder. “It’s always a good thing to have an understanding. Clara, you’re running right into trouble—big trouble. While you’re sitting here toasting yourself, everything’s going wrong, and before you know where you are you’ll be in a police-cell, and after that in the dock at the Old Bailey. Ever been to a murder trial?”

  “Murder!” she choked.

  “That’s what I said,” said the intruder. “A murder trial. You can’t get away with much at the Old Bailey, or with the police, if it comes to that. Oh, you’ve made a lot of trouble for yourself, Clara. You’ve chosen the wrong friends. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.” He drew his finger across the sole of her foot, and made her flinch and draw her foot back. He took another chocolate. “Feeling too hot?” he asked, for there was a fringe of sweat on her forehead and her upper lip, her lips were trembling and she did not seem to know what to do with her hands. “But then, if you will play with fire, what else can you expect?” he demanded.

  “I’ve never killed anyone!”

  “Maybe you haven’t, but there’s such a thing as being an accessory,” explained the intruder. “The law doesn’t see much difference between them, and a lot of accessories have been hanged.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” gasped Clara. “Take your hand away and get out—get out of here!”

  “But I haven’t finished what I came for,” protested the man. “Seen Jumpy Dale lately?”

  “Jumpy!” she gasped.

  “That’s right, Jump,” said the intruder, and gave a hoarse chuckle. “Did you see him last night, before he went out on that job and got croaked?”

  “I—I don’t know who you mean,” said Clara moistening her lips. “I’ve never heard of anyone called Dale, you’re mistaken. Get—get out of here. I haven’t anything worth stealing, you’re only wasting your time.”

  “Am I?” asked the intruder softly. “I think I might find a few interesting things, if I looked—don’t you?” He stood up suddenly, and she shrank away. “Behave yourself and you’ll be all right. I haven’t come to hurt you, Popsie.”

  “You—you’re a fool to stay!”

  “Expecting company?” asked the man, and laughed softly. “I daresay I can deal with anyone who turns up. Now let me see—” he broke off, and put his right hand in his pocket. Suddenly he pulled out a handkerchief, shook it out of its folds and, with his other hand, nipped her nose; she gave a choking cry and strained away from him, but his tight grip made her open her mouth wide. He stuffed a part of the handkerchief in, then poked in the rest. She choked and retched, but sat still when he had finished, with a corner of the handkerchief poking between her lips.

  He tied her wrists together, without using much force, then went to the door, locked it and slipped the key into his pocket.

  “Just sit where you are, while I have a look round,” he said.

  She didn’t move while he searched the room.

  He shifted everything, opened every drawer and rummaged in it, found her handbag on a table and looked through the contents, but found nothing that seemed to interest him. The bag was the last thing he examined. He tossed that on to her lap, and said: “Get up, Clara.”

  She tried to speak, but managed to make only an unintelligible sound. When he took a step towards her and made a threatening gesture, she rose to her feet.

  He unlocked the door and went into the small hall. Three other doors led off it – one into her bedroom. He made her go in and sit on the bed, then went through the chest of drawers, the dressing-table and the wardrobe, which was filled with expensive clothes. The cosmetics were also expensive, and every piece of furniture had a touch of ostentation and luxury about it – rather like George Swanmore’s flat. But it was not until he found a small writing-case, in the bottom of the wardrobe that he showed any satisfaction. Clara tried to speak again and even swung her feet to the floor. The man appeared not to notice her until she was on her feet. Then he swung round, and snapped: “Get back!”

  She hesitated.

  He moved to her, lifted her with one arm beneath her knees and the other beneath her shoulders, and dropped her heavily on the bed. She fell more lightly than George.

  She looked as foolish as George had done, reflected Mannering, as Clara bounced on the well-sprung bed. And she was desperately afraid of him; as he had meant her to be. A frightened Clara would talk freely, and even if she could not tell him much, he might pick up a trifle which the police would probably never get at – or would not hear for some time. There was little doubt that she had known Jumpy Dale; she’d betrayed that. He didn’t like high-pressuring a woman – but it had to be done, and he had to make a job of it. He put the writing-case on the dressing-table, and looked at her; her alarm was near to panic. What should he do? Open the case here, or take it away and examine the contents at leisure. She might have a visitor, so he didn’t want to stay too long.

  He began to open the case.

  Her gasp sounded like a protest, but he ignored it.

  The case was secured with a simple lock; he used his penknife and, the catch clicked open. Inside were papers and photographs, and, in the little pouches, writing-paper, postcards and envelopes. There was a fountain pen and an automatic pencil – made of gold. It looked almost identical with the one he had found on the roof of Quinns.

  “Another present?”

  She didn’t try to speak, made no protest as he put the pencil in his pocket.

  He looked at the photographs, and found one of George, with his si
gnature scrawled across the foot – but no endearments. Then he picked out another photograph and his lips tightened. It was a portrait of Jumpy Dale.

  Jumpy had been free with his endearments; the inscription read: “To my darling Clara, with fondest love, Fred.” The ink was black with age; the photograph was soiled at the edges and lines on it suggested that it had once been in a frame.

  Photographs of other men meant nothing to Mannering, but at some time or other each of them had been fond of Clara and said so in glowing words. There were nine altogether.

  Mannering put them aside, and began to go through the letters. Clara wriggled, but made no further attempt to get off the bed. Mannering hoped for letters from Jumpy Dale or George, but found none. There was something here that Clara didn’t want him to find.

  He rummaged through the remaining contents, and felt something hard. He took out a small, black leather case, which had a familiar look; many would, for he was always handling jewel-cases. He opened it, and a pair of emerald ear-rings winked up at him.

  Clara caught her breath.

  Mannering peered at the emeralds, pear-shaped beauties which seemed to absorb the light. The gold setting was beautiful craftsmanship – and all the Swanmore jewels had been set like these. He turned them towards the light, and saw the S at the end of the hall mark.

  They came from the Swanmore Collection.

  Mannering turned his head and looked at Clara.

  She stared at the emeralds, fear naked in her eyes, her breath coming with difficulty. She might not know where these had come from, but she knew that they were hot. She’d dreaded him finding them.

  He took out the ear-rings and tossed each into the air. They sparkled and glittered with a glowing green light. He caught them and approached her slowly, taking long, deliberate steps. She tried to scream, but made no sound. He reached the bed and pulled at the corner of the handkerchief, easing it out. She gasped for breath when her mouth was empty, and stared in terror as he untied her wrists.