by John Creasey
“I’ll have Charles or one of the others go with the file – I’ll take the summary and walk,” Mannering said. “Who knows – I might be followed by a woman wearing an emerald tiara!” There was a slightly artificial note in his voice, a noticeable pause before he went on: “Putting the vase in the window was a miracle of timing.” As they laughed at Mrs. Waddington and her hat, there was much more naturalness in each of them.
It would take Mannering at least half-an-hour to walk to Lincoln’s Inn; he left at a quarter to three, stood outside the shop looking across at the milliner’s, crossed, and studied the too-expensive hat. Even on the stand it was obviously right for Mrs. Waddington, expertly trimmed with dark mink. He went into the shop and a plain, graceful woman moved towards him.
“Why, Mr. Mannering! I don’t often have this pleasure!”
“How very charming,” Mannering said, and made a mental note to make sure this woman was invited to Lorna’s next exhibition of paintings or some other social function. “Do you remember the American couple who—”
“Came straight to you after leaving me? Yes, I certainly do. Tell me, did they buy the vase in the window?”
“Yes.”
“What a funny life it is,” the woman answered. “A hat at a hundred and ten guineas is too expensive, a vase – but that’s none of my business!” The woman’s face, plain but full of character, crinkled in amusement. Her name was Shapiro, Louise Shapiro, and she had been at this shop for as long as Mannering had been at Quinn’s.
“It’s very much your business. I would like to buy that hat at a hundred and ten guineas.”
“For her?”
“Yes.”
“You must have got a good price for the vase,” declared Mrs. Shapiro. “But what a charming thought. Shall I send it across to you or to her hotel?”
“To the shop,” Mannering said, beginning to edge towards the door. He had forgotten Louise Shapiro’s almost mesmeric character: how hard it was to get away from her. “And I must—”
“I’ve only one regret,” interrupted Mrs. Shapiro, laughing, “and that is that I won’t see her expression when she opens the box. Or see her wearing the hat. When she stepped in I thought it might have been made for her. Do you know the moment you see them what your customers will buy?”
“Seldom,” Mannering said. “Now I must—”
“And I don’t suppose I’ll ever see the woman who bought the tiara wearing it, either,” went on Mrs. Shapiro. “Life is full of frustrations! I only wish—”
She broke off, for two women in expensive fur coats, obviously mother and daughter, came into the shop. Mannering made his escape with a pleasant enough ‘goodbye’ but as he went towards the end of Hart Row he felt dazed. The woman with the dark glasses must have been observed by others besides Bristow, of course; he simply had not given that a thought. But Mrs. Shapiro’s sly remark made him think furiously.
What construction did she put on the strange affair?
He made his way by back streets across Soho and towards Holborn, walking fast, thinking about a dozen things but hardly at all about the business he was really on: taking the valuation to the executors of Ezra Peek. At five minutes to the time of his appointment he reached the open front door of one of the houses – now offices of solicitors and barristers as well as apartments – where Harcourt, Pace and Pace had the second and third floors. He walked up creaking wooden stairs past notices of companies fixed on walls and the backs of doors. This place must contain as many registered company offices as any in London. A girl sitting behind a glass partition at the entrance to Harcourt, Pace and Pace, recognised him at once.
“Mr. Harcourt is expecting you, Mr. Mannering. I’ll tell him you’re here.” She turned to an old-fashioned push-and-pull plug telephone and announced briefly: “Mr. Mannering is here for Mr. Harcourt,” and a moment later flashed Mannering a smile as she told him: “Mr. Harcourt’s secretary will come for you at once. Please sit down.”
There were hard wooden chairs in a small lobby lined with leather-covered law books which seemed as old as the building itself, bindings torn and discoloured, titles, once bold in gilt lettering, almost illegible. He had hardly sat down and picked up The Times from a table barely large enough for it and an ashtray when a middle-aged woman with snow-white hair came down a flight of narrow twisting steps.
“Mr. Mannering? … I am Mr. Harcourt’s secretary. If you will be kind enough to come this way … Perhaps I should lead – it’s always difficult to find the way in these old buildings. They’re regular rabbit warrens … Do mind the fourth step, it gives a little.”
They reached a wide passage with oak panelled walls and doors on either side. She paused at one of them on which the name Norman Harcourt appeared in gilt lettering, tapped, and entered.
Sitting at the far side of an imposing desk was the woman in dark glasses.
5
The Woman in Dark Glasses
Norman Harcourt, whom Mannering had met only twice and at his office, was a tall, lean, hook-nosed man with beautifully groomed grey hair and piercing eyes only partly hidden by pince nez. He was rising from his desk, hand already outstretched in welcome, when one of several telephones rang. Distracted, he said a little peevishly: “I distinctly told them to hold my calls.”
“I’ll go down and make sure they don’t bother you,” the secretary assured him, while Harcourt hesitated, then lifted the receiver, and said testily: “What is it?” He listened for a moment or two and then said: “Mr. Arthur will discuss the matter; on no account disturb me again until I tell you I am free.” He replaced the receiver and then looked at Mannering. “What is it about a telephone which makes one answer it?” he demanded, good humour restored. “Mr. Mannering, how very good of you to come and how very nice to see you again. I don’t think you have met Mrs. Peek, have you? Mrs. Lucille Peek.”
The telephone interruption had given Mannering the few moments he needed to collect himself. He could not be sure about the woman but he felt certain that Harcourt had not noticed how taken aback he had been. Harcourt’s introduction did little to restore his equilibrium.
Mrs. Peek … Mrs. Lucille Peek.
Not Mrs. Ezra Peek.
But then she would no longer be ‘Mrs. Ezra’ if she were widowed; there might be no more significance in the ‘Lucille’ than that. Mannering looked across and smiled at her grimly. What would she do if he claimed an earlier acquaintance, and simply told the truth?
He bowed. “No,” he said. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Peek.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Mannering.” There was the faintest of accents in her voice which fitted Bristow’s description exactly. She did not rise from her chair, or move at all. She wore a dark green suit, well-cut and conservative.
“Mrs. Peek is the main beneficiary of the will,” declared Harcourt, “and my partners agreed that there was no good reason why she should not be present this afternoon.”
“No reason at all,” Mannering murmured.
“Thank you, thank you.” Had Harcourt been a little more garrulous he would have sounded fussy. As it was he stared at the briefcase which Mannering placed on the large square-topped desk at which they were both now sitting, with Lucille Peek at the end by the window. Now Mannering saw that this room was book-lined from floor to ceiling, the books on thick mahogany shelves. The desk and chairs were also of rich-coloured mahogany; the leather upholstery was black. “May I be very forthright and ask whether your original estimate—”
“Rather more a guess than an estimate.”
“I stand corrected, your original guess, then, of not less than one million pounds in sterling, was right?”
“Yes,” Mannering answered. “But rather more below the mark than above it.”
The woman leaned forward a little in her chair.
“By very much?”
Mannering wished above everything else that the woman would take off her glasses so that he could see her expression when he uttered the figur
e. But she did not, and there was no point at all in delay, so he said: “By two million four hundred and twenty-three thousand and one hundred pounds.”
Neither of the others spoke. Neither moved. Neither seemed to breathe. Mannering actually started to move his hand towards the briefcase so as to take out the summary of the valuation, but he stopped. This reaction was uncanny; he was quite sure there was something very strange going on.
Then, Lucille Peek put her hands to her face, and to her glasses; as if she were going to take them off. Mannering felt his breathing become tense and tight, and he looked at her, ignoring the man. She touched the arms of the glasses: she was going to take them off. He actually held his breath as she removed them slowly, as if anxious not to disarrange her hair.
“You mean the total valuation is three million four hundred and twenty-three thousand pounds?” Harcourt asked in a faint voice.
Mannering said: “Yes,” but did not look away from the woman.
She was not young; but neither was she old.
She had eyes which were the colour of gold, or rich, rich honey; and they gave radiance, life, to the rest of her face, at the same time drawing attention from it. They were so clear; the colour was so pure. Her face – even discounting those eyes – was beautiful enough; but he had not been wrong about those lines.
She said: “That is a great deal of money.”
“It is overwhelming,” declared Harcourt. “Overwhelming. And my dear Mrs. Peek, as I have assured you in the past, there is no doubt of the accuracy of any figures Mr. Mannering gives. He might err a little on the side of caution – shall we say conservatism, Mr. Mannering – but you may have every confidence that the value of your late husband’s Collection is not less than this very high figure. Precisely how much …”
Mannering opened his case and gave him two copies of the summary which showed the total value of each group opposite the listing of that group, and the grand total. Harcourt handed one copy to Lucille Peek, then attentively studied his own. At the foot of the summary was a single sentence above Mannering’s signature:
In my considered opinion the above is the true value of the goods and items listed above and on the relative schedules of categories at this date, November 28th, 197 …
He caught sight of her lowering the document and turned towards her. She showed little expression but there was fire in her eyes. Harcourt made a remark which Mannering did not quite catch and did not worry about. The woman’s gaze held him as if by some invisible cord.
She asked: “And will you buy them, Mr. Mannering?”
“I cannot possibly raise so much money for what might have to be a long time – this Collection could never be sold in one piece.”
“Will you make an offer, Mr. Mannering?”
Harcourt began: “My dear Mrs. Peek—” but broke off perhaps because of the intentness with which the others were regarding him.
“No,” Mannering said. “I could not make a sensible offer for them.”
“Do you know of anyone who would?”
Mannering hesitated before he answered, not because he had any doubt but because he did not want to sound glib or stubborn. He wondered why she was so anxious to make a quick sale even, it appeared, at a considerable loss: but that did not concern him.
“No,” he answered, “I think the range and variety and the uneven quality would make that unlikely. A museum might conceivably be interested but museums seldom have all the funds they need, and are unlikely to spend so much at one time and from one seller. I could”—he hesitated, not really sure he should go on but urged to take the plunge even though his mind seemed full of warning cries—“try to find an interested buyer, an individual or a museum, but I doubt whether there would be quick results.” He was strongly tempted to ask: “Why is there such urgency, Mrs. Peek?” but kept the impulse back. What they told him must be of their own free will. But the question stayed vividly in his mind.
“Mrs. Peek,” said Harcourt, rubbing his right ear slowly, “I think we have asked everything we reasonably can of Mr. Mannering unless of course you wish to discuss family matters with him, and that is, naturally, entirely a matter for you to decide. Entirely.”
“I don’t agree with you,” Lucille Peek declared. The faint accent made her voice seem almost gentle, when in fact, he suspected, there was the strength of steel behind it. “There is no need to discuss family matters if we simply ask Mr. Mannering if he will try to find a buyer for the Collection. Do you need confidences in order to accept such a commission, Mr. Mannering?”
“I wouldn’t, ordinarily.”
“Then will you try to find a buyer as quickly as possible?” After a slight pause he started to go on with a glance at Harcourt who was now moving his long, pale hands a little uncomfortably.
“My dear lady—” he attempted to stop her.
“This is simply a business matter,” she swept on. “What commission would you charge on a sale, Mr. Mannering? Or alternatively, what fee would you expect before you started to look for a buyer?”
“My dear Mrs. Peek.” Harcourt unlinked his fingers and rubbed the lobe of his ear again. “I simply cannot agree—”
“It is Mr. Mannering who has to agree,” she broke in quietly.
“Unhappily, no,” said Harcourt. He looked genuinely distressed. “At least not without a full knowledge of the facts. I simply would not permit him to handle such a task without being fully informed of the circumstances. And when it came to the point, neither would you. I am quite sure you would not—”
Mannering stood up, very slowly and deliberately, and said with his usual ease of manner: “I’m sure this is a matter you should discuss on your own. Mr. Harcourt, the other documents are on their way to you by special messenger, they may have arrived by now. Mrs. Peek, I am very glad we have met.” He bowed and smiled drily, and thought: could she have bought that tiara? and reached the door. He had a feeling of disappointment, of being let down. Perhaps it was the fact that there was no longer any mystery about the identity of the woman with the dark glasses. Perhaps it was that she obviously wanted him to take on a commission which was either dangerous or illegal; why else should Harcourt behave as he had done?
Mannering opened the door and stepped into the carpeted passage. He half-hoped that Lucille Peek would call him back, but she did not. Harcourt’s voice alone, baffled, rather peevish, faintly reached him: “Mr. Mannering, I do ask you …” as he made his way down the stairs: all of them creaked and two yielded half-an-inch or so under his weight. He negotiated them safely, however, and reached the reception office to see the girl at the switchboard turning in his direction.
“Mr. Mannering, Mr. Harcourt would be so glad if you could wait for a few moments, he feels sure the misunderstanding can be easily cleared up.” So Harcourt had actually telephoned through to this girl about a ‘misunderstanding’. Would it be churlish to refuse? He hesitated, and then said: “I didn’t realise there had been any misunderstanding, but I will certainly wait.”
As the girl passed back the message, Mannering turned to the waiting-room which was now brightly lit by fluorescent daylight strip giving an unnatural glow to the faded volumes on the shelves. At the far end was an elderly man; probably here to make a will or a settlement, Mannering thought idly.
He turned to The Times, found an obituary of a man who had often bought from and sold to Quinn’s, glanced through advertisements for the big salerooms in London and the provinces, and then became absorbed in an article about an ill-fated group of mountaineers who had perished in an attempt to conquer one of the lesser known peaks in the Himalayas.
He became aware of movement, close by him; someone looked down for a moment and then sat down two or three chairs away from him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the toe of a well-cut shoe, and knew that it was the woman with the dark glasses who was sitting there. He lowered his newspaper and folded it with slow deliberation; then asked pleasantly: “Are you waiting for Mr. Harcourt, too?”
“No,” she answered. “I am waiting for you.”
“I understood that Mr. Harcourt thought another word would be useful.”
“He did,” she said. “A word with me. He has osteoarthritis in his knee, I understand, and cannot get up and down stairs very comfortably. He asked me to give you his apologies.” She paused as if expecting Mannering to make some comment but when he did not do so she went on, smiling faintly.
He realised that was the first time he had ever seen her smile. And the simple, unarguable fact was that it made his heart beat faster.
“Mr. Harcourt also persuaded me that if I desired your help I must tell you all the circumstances. Indeed he delivered an ultimatum, and told me that he would have the Collection brought away from your premises if I did not tell you immediately. And his firm are my executors.”
“They are a very trustworthy firm,” Mannering remarked.
“And also, very timid,” she declared. “Perhaps not as trustworthy or respectable as you would think, either.” She was speaking in a voice so low-pitched that there was no risk of the other couple overhearing. “They are aware that my husband was probably murdered but have not reported this to the police. Yet obviously they take the probability very seriously, for they will not permit you to help me unless you are aware, in the beginning, that there would be very much danger involved.”
“And you are afraid that if you tell me about the danger, I will refuse to have anything more to do with the Collection or with you. Is that it, Mrs. Peek?”
“Yes,” she answered simply.
6
Dinner for Two
She did not smile, yet Mannering had a feeling there was a hint of laughter in her voice. But it was hidden, far away, and he was – or thought he was – aware of something else in her. Not fear, but – hurt? How absurd! What on earth could have caused it? Not what was happening now, obviously, but perhaps what had happened in Harcourt’s room. There she had behaved in a way which, when he looked back, carried the impression that she had been watchful and wary all the time, as hurt people often were. Now she looked at him directly and he could just make out the shape of her eyes, their golden brightness obscured. In one way she had been aggressive, in another she had been on the defensive.