by John Creasey
“I see,” said Anderson-Kerr.
“It might mean nothing,” said Bristow, and changed the subject. “I’m going to see Lanky Sam before he’s charged with being in possession of counterfeit notes, and I’ll fix an eight days’ remand. If he talks we may alter the charge, but I think that one will do, and we can make it stick—the case full of notes was actually in the taxi, and Hennessy can’t claim that the other fellow hired him, because we’ve proved that he borrowed the taxi from a friend. We’ll be after that friend, too, for letting his cab out to someone without a taxi-driver’s licence. Oh, I should have told you—I’ve asked the Press not to associate the shooting of our man with the Quinns affair, and they’ve all played up well. The Press is being very helpful, except for Chittering of the Daily Record. He’s by way of being a friend of Mannering’s.”
“Chittering hasn’t actually let us down, has he?” asked the A.C.
“No, but he’s not so co-operative as he might be,” said Bristow. “I shall have an eye kept on him, he may help Mannering too openly before it’s over. I think—” Bristow broke off at a tap on the door, and the A.C. called: “Come in.”
It was Gordon, still showing signs of excitement, and carrying some damp photographic prints.
“I thought you’d both want to see these at once, sir.” He came in and closed the door.
“What are they?” asked Anderson-Kerr.
“Photographs of the bullet taken out of Constable Norton’s body,” said Gordon, putting the damp prints on the desk and then taking some dry ones from beneath his coat. He laid them side by side.
They were enlargements, making the bullets eight times larger than their proper size. Marks – some circular lines, some fairly straight – were clearly shown up; these were the marks made as the bullets passed along the barrel of the gun used. The dry prints were marked: “Bullets taken out of corpses of Dale and Lock.”
“They’re identical,” said Anderson-Kerr softly.
“The man we missed in Aldgate was at Quinns all right,” said Bristow thinly.
Bristow went straight to Cannon Row, but Lanky Sam was obdurate and made no answer to the charge of being in possession of counterfeit notes. He asked for legal aid; Bristow made the arrangements, had a word with the Magistrate’s Court officials, briefed Gordon, who was to offer evidence of arrest and ask for a remand, and then returned to his office. There he was alone for the better part of an hour. Although nothing could be proved against Lanky Sam, police witnesses could establish it in court – that the murderer of P.C. Norton had left Lark’s house and gone straight to the taxi.
Bristow was sure that Mannering had been in the burglar’s house at the same time.
Lark’s statement was typewritten and signed; the little cracksman said that he had been approached by an unknown man to buy the Swanmore Collection, and had actually been shown some of the pieces from it. He declared that he had refused to have anything to do with stolen goods, and had threatened to call the police. The man had thereupon threatened him with a gun, and made his way out of the house. If anyone else had been in the house, he, Lark, had been unaware of it.
Lark’s house had been searched from top to bottom; nothing had been found, not even a hint that he had come straight from the Midlands robberies to his Aldgate home. Bristow had ordered that the roof and the grounds should be thoroughly searched; nothing had been found there yet.
He went through the routine without his usual single-mindedness, and anyone who knew Bristow well would have realised that he was worried. From the beginning, he had felt that Mannering was implicated – not deeply, perhaps not criminally at first, but he had long believed that Mannering might step over the line and land himself in dock on a serious charge. ‘Feared’ was the proper word. Bristow had no wish to rake up the past, and doubted whether there would ever be any proof that he had been the Baron, Mannering wasn’t now a crook, but he would take wild chances to help his friends.
Was any one of the Swanmore family getting his help? Patricia was most likely.
There was a report that Patricia Swanmore was away from her flat, but Bristow let it ride. He kept coming back to the same subject – Mannering’s print on that make-up case.
He decided to go and see Mannering, then changed his mind. Mannering would expect a call; it would be better to keep him on edge. Hardly had he made the decision than the telephone bell rang. It was a Divisional Inspector Crispin, in charge of the squad which was still searching in the vicinity of Lark’s house.
“Hallo, Crispin.”
“I think we’ve found something useful,” said Crispin. “The way that beggar escaped from the roof last night. Ought to have found it before, but—”
“How’d he do it?” demanded Bristow sharply.
“Better come and see,” said Crispin.
Bristow was at the bombed building within half an hour. Crispin, a big fellow with a bullet head and piercing blue eyes, was waiting for him. A fire-engine had been pressed into service again, and Bristow and Crispin went up the escape, and from the platform saw the hole through which Mannering had put his foot. The fact that it was in tarpaulin, and the broken sheet had shown only a large rent and not really a hole, explained why it had been missed during the night search. Bristow and Crispin climbed on to the roof and down into the top room, exactly as Mannering had done. Clouds of dust rose up at every footstep.
There were signs that someone had recently disturbed the dust, but no footprints likely to be of practical help.
The Divisional squad began to scour every nook and cranny, moving floorboards, peering in tiny recesses where bricks had been dislodged, searching everywhere for the stolen jewels. Bristow and Crispin superintended the work. The dust and rubble here were almost certainly the same as had been found on the clothes discovered at Paddington, and the Inspector took samples, sealed them up, and sent them along to the Yard for comparison. Perspiring men licked their lips and longed for a drink, and an enterprising sergeant, who was off duty, brought in a crate of beer. Bristow and Crispin had a drink, and were standing by the heap of rubble in the front room when Bristow said casually:
“Has this been shifted?”
Crispin said: “No. Think it worth doing?”
A sergeant looked up with a long-suffering air.
“That hasn’t been touched for years,” he protested.
“I don’t know so much,” said Bristow. “It would make a good hiding-place. Better have it shifted. The men can borrow some dustcoats, can’t they?”
The men did.
Bristow and Crispin looked on as they began to shift the rubble. After a pile had been moved from one corner to another, Bristow began to think that the idea was fruitless, and the men were looking at him with anything but regard in their eyes. But he kept them at it, although the dust grew thicker and the beer had long since run out.
Then one of the men grabbed a dust-covered cloth and was about to toss it on the new pile of rubble when Crispin stopped him, took the thing from him and weighed it in his hand. He brushed off some dust and they saw the dirty chamois bag.
Within a few minutes, all the jewels had been found.
Both under the microscope and by chemical analysis the dirt and dust on the old clothes and the make-up box proved to be identical with that at the bombed house.
Chapter Thirteen
George Again
Before going to Quinns that morning, Mannering called at the hospital, was given a reasonably reassuring report of Larraby, then drove his black Sunbeam-Talbot to Carmichael’s house in St. John’s Wood, not far from the Zoological Gardens. Carmichael was looked after by a married daughter, who opened the door after a long delay, and became flustered the moment she recognised Mannering. Mannering put her at her ease, and she took him up to Carmichael’s room.
Mannering had a shock when he saw his manager.
Carmichael had aged years. He was sitting up in bed, supported by pillows and wearing a faded blue bed jacket. Several new
spapers lay in a neat pile on the table by his bed. His thin white hair was disarrayed, and although he smiled a warm greeting, it was obviously with a great effort. He had been elderly; he had become old.
“Look here, you shouldn’t take it as badly as this,” said Mannering. “You weren’t to blame. I’ve some good news, too. Larraby will recover.”
Carmichael’s eyes brightened.
“Thank God for that! And you’re very good, but—I wonder if I am responsible, in a way.”
“Nonsense, old chap.”
“It isn’t nonsense, sir,” insisted Carmichael. “You see, a man named Prideau came to the shop a few days ago. Prideau the receiver. I didn’t recognise him at first, and left him browsing while I attended to another client. Prideau may have been examining the shop, may have discovered some of the precautions. It weighs so heavily on my mind, sir.”
“Try not to let it,” said Mannering. “It won’t weigh on mine.”
But it did. Prideau had a bad reputation and was well known by the Yard and the Police Divisions; he may have been seen at Quinns, and made policemen, including Bristow, jump to the wrong conclusions.
They chatted for a quarter of an hour, before Carmichael became too tired to talk.
Downstairs, his daughter had made a cup of coffee and had this and some biscuits waiting in the sitting-room. She ushered Mannering in and closed the door.
“What do you think of him, Mr. Mannering?”
“It’s been a nasty shock,” said Mannering, “and he’ll want a long rest.”
Carmichael’s daughter shook her head slowly. She was a tall, angular woman, rather like her father, and reminded Mannering vividly of moments when Carmichael had advised against a certain course of action.
“It’s not just rest he needs. This has broken him, Mr. Mannering. He’s very old, you know. Well, he’s over seventy. He loved the life at Quinns, really loved it. Has he told you about Prideau?”
“That isn’t any fault of his,” Mannering said. “We must make him understand that. Who’s your doctor?”
“A friend of Father’s, and came in last night. He didn’t say much, but promised to look in again during the day. I hope to have a word with him on the quiet, Mr. Mannering. I know it’s not Father’s fault, sir, and so do you, but he seems to think it’s his responsibility. He’s heart-broken. I don’t think he’ll ever recover, but—you’ll help him in every way you can, won’t you?” There was a pleading note in her voice.
“Every way,” Mannering assured her, “for as long as he needs help.”
She looked relieved when she went with him to the door.
He drove thoughtfully into the West End, parked the car on one of the new parking sites in Bond Street, and walked to Hart Row. Half a dozen people were standing outside Quinns, peering in; a constable was still on duty. Mannering nodded to him, unlocked the front door and went in. The people outside murmured and pointed. He strolled through the shop, putting on some lights – the gloom, often part of the attraction of Quinns, depressed him this morning.
He had been depressed since breakfast. Lorna’s forced gaiety had told him how deeply she was worried, and he could not regain the buoyant mood of early morning. The interview with Carmichael and his daughter hadn’t helped. Now he felt as if there were danger which he had not suspected – a constant overhanging shadow. It was like walking in a dark and unfamiliar room; like creeping through the bombed house the night before. Even the bright lights did not dispel his gloom, as he went into the office. Did Bristow know about Prideau’s visit? Had Prideau come to spy? Had he briefed Jumpy Dale for the job?
He telephoned Patricia’s flat; there was still no answer. It wouldn’t take him long to get worried about Patricia.
He dialled the flat; Lorna had gone to an exhibition of oils; two of her own were in it. At least she wasn’t sitting at home, brooding.
He had left the front door open and he heard someone come in, and went out to see Chittering, bare-headed and baby-faced, coming towards him. One look was enough to tell him that the newspaperman wasn’t going to cheer him up.
Glittering stood appraising him; Mannering’s disquiet increased, it was difficult to speak easily.
“Nothing for you here today, Chitty.”
“Can’t say that surprises me,” said Glittering. “The scene’s shifted. You’re a sly old dog, John!”
“Meaning what?” asked Mannering.
“Meaning that you haven’t been idle. There were great doings in Aldgate last night.”
“I’ve read something about that in the newspapers,” said Mannering, “but you can never believe all you read, can you?”
Chittering chuckled; it sounded false. He drew a folded copy of the Daily Record from his pocket, handed it to Mannering, part of the front page uppermost. There were big headlines and a vivid story of the murder of P.C. Norton in Aldgate High Street; the article ended with the laconic statement that a man had been detained in connection with the crime.
“Yes, I read that too,” said Mannering. “What about it?”
Chittering looked down his nose.
“I doubt if you believed enough of what you read,” he said. “The name of the man who was detained is Hennessy, known to some as Lanky Sam.”
Mannering kept a poker face and hoped it hid the turmoil of his mind.
“There’s more in it than meets the eye, too,” went on the newspaperman, “and I’m telling you this off the record. Lanky was driving a taxi, but he’d no licence. The man who shot P.C. Norton was about to get in it when the police closed in, and he used his gun. He left a suit-case behind which is reported to have contained valuables. What kind of valuables I don’t know.”
“It’s a bad business,” said Mannering prosily. “It always is when a policeman gets hurt.”
“Exactly,” said Chittering. “Shocking! Makes all living policemen breathe fire. Turns Bristow, for instance, from a cooing dove to a double-headed eagle, or something of the sort. You know the old story, the wheels of the law grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small, and if anything can make them hurry, it’s the murder of a Robert.” Chittering spoke casually, half-facetiously, but he wasn’t being garrulous for the sake of it. “I’ve heard rumours—the Yard is canny and I can’t get much more—that the murderer had been in a street near by, and had left a crook’s house with the said valuables. It’s also rumoured that the valuables were the Swanmore jewels, no less. I thought you’d be interested to know the talk that’s running up and down the Street, John.”
Mannering said as if a great light shone, “By George, I am! The murder’s connected with the trouble here!”
“As if you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t. If Bristow’s got those jewels without telling me—” began Mannering.
“He’ll tell you when he wants to, not a minute earlier,” said Chittering. “There was the other trouble, too, the roof-chase and the man who disappeared. He couldn’t have killed the policeman in the High Street, so he won’t be wanted on that murder charge, but the fact that the two jobs are connected will make Bristow and his boys very anxious to grab everyone who’s remotely connected with the trouble. It’s a long time since there was such a buzz of activity at the Yard and in the Divisions. Every copper I speak to snaps my head off whenever I go near, too—they’re not at all friendly. I thought you’d like to know. As you’re not above taking a hand in this kind of show yourself, I thought you might like to be warned that if you show a leg in this, it’ll probably be chopped off. Don’t take me wrong, it’s just a friendly word.”
“Yes,” said Mannering. “Thanks, Chitty.”
“Oh, always glad to be of service,” said Chittering, airily. “There are no conditions tied to it, either, but you might be able to give me a line on another little puzzle—the peculiar behaviour of the Swanmore family. We had a word about that yesterday, because old Swanmore came in here looking as if he would like to cut your throat, and Patricia came chasing after you. I’ve since
heard that George, the son, has been here. Has he?”
“Oh, he looked in,” said Mannering.
“Hmm.” Chittering regarded him earnestly and long. “So he looked in. Just like that. I don’t know a lot about that young man, John, but since yesterday I’ve been making enquiries about the family. George and Patricia are well off—or they’re supposed to be. The old boy is having a rough time; those City rumours have strengthened a lot this morning, partly because the word’s gone round that he has lost his collection. While he had that, I think, he was regarded as pretty safe. There’s another thing. Patricia hasn’t shown up anywhere since she saw you yesterday. She didn’t keep an appointment with George—that’s why he came here, isn’t it?”
“Off the record, yes.”
“Thanks. She hasn’t returned to her flat, she hasn’t seen her father, and the old man is as worried as hell about something, from all reports.”
“You’ve been getting around,” said Mannering.
“That’s what I’m paid for,” observed Cluttering. “Oh, another thing. You know Tubs Maudsley fairly well, don’t you? Shocking bore.”
“Slightly,” Mannering said.
“Wise man! The thing is, Tubs has oodles of oof. He paddles in pound notes and lights his cigars with fivers and all that kind of thing. I mean, he’s really wealthy, one of the Midas breed. Now Tubs has been ogling Patricia with lustful—or maybe honourable—eyes for some time. Tubs is very worried indeed by what it pleases him to call Patricia’s disappearance. Among other things Tubs owns a large chunk of the Daily Cry, and the Cry has sprung headlines on her disappearance this morning. I suppose you haven’t seen it?”
“I haven’t,” said Mannering.
“Then I’ll present you with a copy,” said Chittering. He drew another folded newspaper from his pocket, and pushed it into Mannering’s hand. “Nice old mess, one way and another, isn’t it? How’s your wife? Bright and cheerful, as usual?”