by John Creasey
He thought of Larraby, who would revel in this; it took the edge off his rising excitement.
The hope of getting the Swanmore Collection from Bud, brought it back.
He finished eating and lit a cigarette; the lanky man glanced in again.
He could write a note and ask someone at this table to deliver it – no, nonsense! Ask them to telephone a message? No, he couldn’t prime Lorna at second hand. He must get word through quickly without arousing Bud’s suspicions – everything turned on that. Once he had received the samples, he dare dodge his trailer.
Merro’s was in a turning near the Marble Arch end of Oxford Street; if he’d fixed a rendezvous nearer here, he could have waited for Lorna outside.
It was now twenty-five minutes to eight.
He reached a decision, went downstairs and caught a bus going west, past Piccadilly, making sure that there was a bus behind for the lanky man to catch. He alighted near the Circus, in the shadow of Eros. Lights were flashing from all the buildings, in a fury of colour and movement. He hurried to a subway, and went downstairs. This time, the lanky man did not follow him, but almost certainly used one of the several subways at the Circus. Mannering lit a cigarette and stood nearly opposite the entrance, glancing right and left incuriously, showing no particular interest in anyone.
He waited for five minutes, then began to walk slowly to and fro, never moving more than ten yards either way. After ten minutes, he began to wonder whether Bud had decided not to go on with the deal. He had finished his cigarette and was lighting another, a sure indication that his nerves were on edge, when a man came hurrying towards him – a man whom he had already seen twice that day.
It was George Swanmore.
George neared the Regent Street subway and looked about him, saw Mannering, paused, and then turned slowly towards him. He looked anxious, and kept glancing over his shoulder. He hadn’t changed his clothes. His flannels were baggy and the collar of his coat was rucked up; there was still a smear of lipstick on his right ear. Suddenly he plucked up his courage and strode to Mannering’s side.
The light was poor, but George knew Mannering’s face very well. Confidence in his own disguise faded. If George saw through it, even if he noticed anything familiar, the whole edifice of his plans would crack.
George appeared to be eaten up with his own anxieties.
“Are you from Bud?” he demanded harshly.
“Yes.”
“You’ve got to be at Leicester Square station, near the bookstall, at ten o’clock, or as soon after as you can.” George thrust a small package into Mannering’s hand, didn’t say another word, but hurried off and disappeared along a subway.
Relief replaced the tension, and then was driven away by inescapable questions. Swanmore had a rough knowledge of the burglar-precautions at Quinns, and might have told his son; that could explain George’s association with Bud. Guesswork? There wasn’t much else to go on. But the fact that George had given Clara the emerald ear-rings had been the first real piece of evidence—
Nonsense! Tell Bristow that was evidence, and he would laugh his head off. It was hearsay.
Mannering slipped the package into his pocket without opening it, and hurried up the stairs again. He paused in the crowded street, hoping to see Lanky, but there was no sign of the man. He stayed near the subway for five minutes, hoping that Lanky would appear, but the man had vanished. He had wanted to see Lanky before giving him the slip. If Lanky had been taken off the watch he had probably been replaced by a man whom Mannering did not know and couldn’t easily shake off.
Mannering strolled across Piccadilly and then Regent Street No one appeared to follow him, but he did not believe that Bud would let him go without being watched. Someone much more clever at the game than Lanky was involved; he must be found. He lit a cigarette – and nearly dropped it.
Lawson of the Yard was lurking in a shop doorway at the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue.
Lawson hardly looked at Mannering as he went towards Regent Street where it led off the Circus. Mannering drew into a doorway and watched him. Lawson darted across the road towards Swan & Edgar’s big store – and Mannering caught a glimpse of George Swanmore. The Yard man kept his distance from George, and then Lanky approached Swanmore’s son. The picture was complete – George, Lanky and Detective-Officer Lawson, who was undoubtedly watching George. Mannering waited as George and Lanky parted, George going towards Piccadilly, Lanky towards a subway to the station.
Lawson followed George.
Mannering beckoned the first taxi which drew near with its flag up, said: “Merro’s” and only relaxed when he was inside. It had been a tense few minutes, and had told him plenty: chiefly, that Bristow was suspicious of George Swanmore, and that Lanky had probably withdrawn from him because he had seen Lawson. If Lanky had a police record, he might be recognised by any man from the Yard and would not want to be seen hanging about the Circus – certainly he would not want to allow the Yard man to suspect that he was interested in a tall man who wore old clothes and walked with a limp.
No one seemed to follow Mannering as he left the taxi opposite Selfridges, where lighted window displays drew crowds, and turned into a narrow street.
Merro’s was dimly lighted. The entrance was unimposing, and looked like a third-rate hotel, but the food and the music were among the best in London, and the cellar and service were perfect. Mannering recognised the short, dapper commissionaire – Harry to everyone. He walked past three times, made sure that he was not followed, and decided that he could safely take a chance. So he approached Harry, who turned towards him suspiciously.
“What do you want?” Harry had a hectoring voice for tramps.
Mannering touched his arm, and Harry shook it off. The light was bad, there was not the remotest chance of recognition. Mannering spoke in the harsh voice which he had perfected years ago: “I’ve got a message for Mrs. Mannering.”
“Come again.” Harry was aggressive.
“Is Mrs. Mannering here?”
“Whether she is or is not, that’s none of your business,” growled Harry. “Give me the message, if you’ve got one, and I’ll find out.”
“Nark it,” said Mannering sharply. “I’ve got to see her. Has she come here?” He slipped his hand into his trousers pocket and produced two half-crowns – the right bribe for such a moment and from such a man.
Harry, surprised, took the two pieces of silver, and became human.
“Yes, bin here ten minutes or so.”
“Tell her Mr. Mannering can’t come,” said Mannering, “and ask her to go back to the flat and wait for him, not to have dinner here.”
“Now look here—” began Harry.
Mannering turned away from him. A shadowy figure moved from a doorway across the road; he had been waiting there. Mannering moved off as he recognised the watcher – another detective from Scotland Yard.
He was almost certainly watching Lorna.
Lorna came out of the restaurant ten minutes after Harry had disappeared, looked up and down as if she hoped to see a taxi, then turned towards Oxford Street. She would pass Mannering, if he stayed still in the shadows of his doorway. The detective, on the other side of the road, kept pace with Lorna.
Lorna drew nearer, walking briskly.
Mannering moved out of the shadows, just ahead of her. His appearance made her miss a step, but when he showed no further interest, she quickened her pace.
It was a long way to Oxford Street, and all these streets were narrow. Mannering easily outpaced her, but paused at every street corner in the hope of seeing a free taxi. Three full ones passed him; Lorna tried to stop each.
The next cab deposited a fare not twenty yards away. Mannering hurried forward and booked it as the first fare was paying. Lorna’s footsteps tapped sharply along the pavement. Mannering could imagine her vexation.
“Where to?” asked the cabby.
“I think this lady coming wants a cab,” said Mannering. “Let’s se
e if she’s going my way.” He passed over half-a-crown and peered along the street.
The detective was still on the other side of the road; he passed a lighted window, but Lorna was in the shadow. She slowed down at sight of Mannering at the open door of the cab.
“I’m going to Chelsea,” he said, in the harsh voice which Bud would have recognised. “Going that way?”
Lorna said: “Yes, but—”
“Glad to share,” growled Mannering.
Perhaps she recognised his voice; perhaps the word ‘Chelsea’ satisfied her. She asked no questions but stepped inside.
Mannering told the driver to go to Chelsea Town Hall, and sat down. The detective ran towards the taxi, calling out: “Taxi, taxi!” as if one would appear out of the gloom.
Nothing appeared, and the taxi rattled through the West End towards the silent streets of Chelsea.
Chapter Ten
‘Fence’
Mannering spoke in his natural voice, but pitched it in a low key.
“You oughtn’t to take chances like this, my sweet, I might be a deep-dyed villain.”
“Aren’t you?” Lorna spoke calmly, but there was a tremor in her voice and her hand groped towards his. He felt her trembling as he squeezed. “I’m being followed,” she went on. “If you don’t want the police to find you—”
“You’re no longer being followed,” said Mannering. “Didn’t you hear him hollaoing for a taxi?” He slipped his arm round her waist, and his lips brushed her cheek – just as they had that morning. “I’m not on the run, darling, yet! How much have you heard?”
“About the murders?”
About the murders, not about the burglary! Nothing would change Lorna.
“I telephoned the hospital just before I came out,” she went on. “They said Larraby was fairly comfortable. You can never get much out of a hospital sister, but he may pull through. Why are you dressed like a tramp?”
“I’ve been paying some calls.”
“Oh.” In the passing light of a street lamp he saw the pallor of her face and the lift of her chin – and he understood her anxiety, the dismay she felt at finding him as she had often found the Baron. She tried to sound matter-of-fact. “John, don’t take too many chances, even for this. I knew something was up when Bristow’s men arrived outside the flat, but thought I’d better go to Merro’s. But because you’ve shaken one man off, it doesn’t mean that we won’t be picked up if we go straight to the flat.”
“We’re not going there yet.” He took out cigarettes, but Lorna said: “No thanks.” She didn’t speak again, even when he had lit up, but watched him closely so that she could see his face every time they passed a light. In that few minutes, Mannering had forgotten everything and everyone else, he had hardly noticed where they were going or what they were passing. They were forced to pull up at traffic lights and by the side of a bus, the light from which made the cab comparatively bright.
So Lorna had said all she wanted to say.
“We haven’t a lot of time,” Mannering said thoughtfully, “and there’s a lot to tell you. I want a nice reliable receiver of stolen jewels, because …”
Lorna listened in silence to swift, graphic phrases.
Now and again she smiled; once she laughed. When he mentioned Patricia Swanmore, she said: “It’s true, she isn’t at home,” but she didn’t tell him how she knew. When he had finished, she laid a hand on his arm and said: “My sweet, you’re absolutely impossible. I don’t know why I love you so much.”
Mannering chuckled.
“I’ll need proof of that! There’s a chance to get hold of Swanmore’s jewels, and if we have them, the rest should be simple. But friend Bud won’t be easy to fool, and we know the kind of tricks he plays even when he’s dealing with his buddies. We can’t take it too lightly. On the other hand, shouldn’t we try?”
“After all, we can only be murdered once,” said Lorna.
“And one of us has nine lives!” Mannering hugged her. “Thank you, my darling. Now there’s one man I think might help …”
There were not many people at Leicester Square station at half-past ten. The near-by theatres had emptied, night-life shifted towards Piccadilly, even the bookstall was closed. A little crowd caused a temporary bustle, but they were soon moving down the escalators, and only stragglers followed. Mannering saw no sign of George or Lanky, or of anyone whom he recognised. Bud might venture to come himself, but was far more likely to send another messenger.
When the man came, Mannering didn’t know whether it was Bud or not. He had a beard, not extravagantly bushy, but, with his curly moustache and side-whiskers as well as his thick-lensed, bifocal glasses, an effective disguise. He did not come straight to Mannering, but apparently made sure that Mannering was not watched before he approached.
“I’m from Bud,” he announced.
“Better prove it.” Mannering was gruff.
The bearded man took his hand out of the pocket of his raincoat and, shading it against the light, held it palm upwards, showing a single emerald ear-ring – one of the pair which Clara said George had given her. Mannering’s respect for Bud rose sharply.
“Have you fixed the deal?” asked the bearded man.
“I could only get him up to twenty-three thousand,” said Mannering.
“That’s not enough!” The thin voice rose sharply and for a moment the man sounded like Bud. “Bud told you thirty thousand. He told you not to talk turkey at less.”
“I’m not the buyer,” Mannering protested. “That’s his best offer, and I got him up from eighteen. If you aren’t satisfied, you needn’t take it.”
Behind the glittering lenses, the bearded man’s eyes flashed. He put his right hand into his pocket, a seemingly careless gesture – but nothing that this man did was really careless. He edged a little nearer to Mannering, and something hard pressed into Mannering’s side.
“Where’s this fence?” he demanded.
“I can’t tell you, but I’ll take you there. He wouldn’t come with me, but he’ll see you and check the stuff.”
Yes, this was Bud – and Mannering could read the indecision in the man’s mind.
Should he collect the jewels and take them to this unknown man at an unknown house, or would that be playing into the hands of his companion? He would go on with this deal only if he were desperate. Everything turned on that. The hard muzzle of a gun ground into Mannering’s ribs, and he shifted his position slightly to ease the pressure. No one appeared to take any notice of them as they stood side by side. The stragglers hurrying down to the trains were fewer now. A man with a shock of greasy hair which fell in waves over his ears, reeled past, hiccoughing loudly. He waved and winked at two young girls who were coming up from the trains. Everything was so normal – except the pressure in Mannering’s ribs.
At last Bud said: “If you’re trying to put anything across me, you’ll live just long enough to regret it. I shall keep close to you all the time, and if you make a false move, I’ll shoot your insides to ribbons. What part of London is this fence in? How long will it take us to get to him?”
“Aldgate. About half an hour.”
“We’ll go by taxi,” decided Bud.
They walked up the wide flight of steps to the street, then into side streets. A woman flaunted herself past them, hesitated for a moment, then passed on. A furtive, little figure slipped across their path and disappeared. A policeman stood on the kerb watching the traffic, and Mannering passed within a foot of him. Bud said: “Keep walking until I tell you to stop.” And they went on. Mannering was looking for any sign that Bud had an accomplice here, such as the lanky man; Bud himself was undoubtedly trying to make sure that Mannering was not followed.
They walked for nearly ten minutes, taking narrow turnings, moving along dark streets, occasionally pausing at a corner. At last Bud appeared to be satisfied.
“Okay, that’ll do,” he said.
They came out into Shaftesbury Avenue, and soon a taxi p
ulled up in front of them. The driver leaned out to open the door. He wore a cloth cap and was bundled up in thick coats, but Mannering recognised Lanky. Clever Bud.
Bud said: “Aldgate, driver. In you get,” and Mannering climbed in and kicked against a suit-case that stood on the floor. “Careful!” snapped Bud, as he followed. He slammed the door and the cab moved off. The suit-case fell over, hitting Mannering’s foot. Bud leaned forward and pushed it back.
“What’s in there?” demanded Mannering.
Bud didn’t answer. He was likely to ask for the address again at any moment. They slid through the deserted streets of Holborn, northwards to the City and financial district and past Aldgate Pump, where London’s boundary had once been set. Beyond there, London seemed to come to life again; there were more fights, crowds of people, cafes still open, and not a little traffic; the East End throbbed with vitality.
“Where to?” Bud asked.
“Just past Petticoat Lane,” said Mannering. “And look here—”
“I’ll do the talking.”
“I’m taking you to this big boy, and I’ll do it my way,” Mannering said, suddenly aggressive. “I can’t risk upsetting him, and he won’t stand for a third party. I had a lot of trouble making him agree to see you. Your buddy had better keep out of sight.”
“He’ll keep out of sight,” said Bud. “And don’t forget what will happen to you and the big boy if you make any pass at those jewels.”
Mannering didn’t answer.
Bud called orders through the glass partition, and the cab stopped beyond Petticoat Lane, deserted by the street traders by night, just a narrow, dingy street with small wholesale shops and cheap jack goods in darkened windows. This time Bud took the case out of the taxi, but he kept very close to Mannering.
Mannering took another turning off the main road, then went along a narrow side-street where there were several small shops and rows of terraced houses. Only two or three dim street lights shone, but there were lights at many windows, cheerful, yellow squares in the gloom. Mannering walked briskly, and did not suggest that he should carry the case. It seemed heavy, for Bud kept changing it from hand to hand, but the jewels themselves would not weigh very much. Bud began to breathe hard.