by John Creasey
‘It won’t,’ said Harding. His voice was reedy with anger. ‘Even if it could have done, it can’t now. When you were first associated with the Adalgo I found out all there is to know about you. The story of you being the Baron came from three sources – one as far away as the United States. I collected those statements, Mannering, and then I had others invented, giving eye-witness proof of you as the Baron. I searched the newspapers for Baron crimes to get all my dates and my data right. You haven’t a chance.’
‘To hell with you,’ said Mannering. ‘No diamond.’
Was it checkmate?
As Mannering’s anger evaporated, the cold facts pressed themselves into his mind. Harding was not bluffing, and would do exactly what he threatened if he were once convinced that Mannering would retain the Adalgo. But there were other facts. Larraby, in jail, loyal to a family to which he owed only contempt and hatred; he would serve ten years if the attack on a policeman were proved against him.
There was no alternative to fighting.
He saw Harding struggling to regain his self-control, and thought: ‘I could frighten the wits out of him, now.’ Was that worth trying? He stepped towards the man, and as he did so, saw a movement out of the window; someone passed there, bending low, anxious not to be seen.
Could it be Forsythe? Or – Tring?
How Tring would revel in this ‘evidence.’
Tanker Tring had never felt so vindictive or so angry, as he did now. For the first time since he had worked with Bristow, they were bad friends. That was Mannering’s fault; Tring didn’t blame Bristow, only Mannering. He was sure that Bristow would never carry out the threat to take away his new rank, but felt that he had lost his one real friend at the Yard.
If only he could prove his case, if only he could make Bristow realise that right was right, no matter what anyone said and no matter what Mannering was doing now, the breach might be healed. Years of training, years of hopeful planning, years of failure, keyed Tring up to make one final effort. So, he dogged Mannering’s footsteps.
He saw Lorna at the wheel of the Talbot and Forsythe in the street: and knew that Mannering was in Harding’s house. There had probably always been something between Mannering and Harding; now, he might find the proof of it.
He went through the garden of the house behind The Lees, climbed over the wall, hidden from the house by trees – and approached the house behind a thick beech hedge. He spied out the land, then made a dash for the house, convinced that he had not been seen.
He heard voices, and peered through a window, saw Mannering and Harding were together in the room. The window was open an inch at the top. Tring stood quite still, eager not to miss a word. He missed plenty, but what he heard was of absorbing interest. He kept motionless, sheltered by a small shrubbery from a gardener who was working not twenty yards away.
‘Evidence . . . proof . . . trial . . . Baron—’
What could this mean, but one thing?
Proof—proof that Mannering was the Baron, was in this house! Tring’s heart began to beat so fast that he could hardly breathe. Should he handle this himself? Or creep away and call Bristow? As he fought an inward battle, he heard the gardener approaching, bent low and crept past the window, to hide behind a bush. He didn’t realise that the sun cast his shadow on the side of the window.
Mannering could only see a shadow, but knew that it was the shadow of a man. Harding did not know that anyone was there, and was screwing himself up to another effort.
Mannering said: ‘You’ll clear Larraby, if it’s the last thing you do. When you’ve told the police about the Duke, I’ll talk to you again.’
If he were allowed to leave, it would mean they would even risk implicating the Duke, by helping Larraby, so as to get that diamond. Why did they want it so desperately? Not just as an omen, because of its history, because of the tradition that the rightful owner was a Queen?
Harding did not move.
Mannering opened the door and stepped into the hall. Paul Harding stood at the foot of the stairs with an automatic in his hand.
There was a strained, half eager and boyish smile on Paul’s face. The gun did not waver. He must have been sitting at the foot of the stairs, waiting for this moment.
Harding followed Mannering out of the room.
‘Another mistake,’ Mannering sneered.
Harding said: ‘Paul was told to wait here, in case of emergency. I am less confident than I was that I can compel you to give up the stone on my present evidence, but I am going to have it. You are going to write instructions to your manager at Quinn’s to give the stone to Mrs. Mannering. She is waiting outside, as you know. Paul will go with her and see that she gets the stone. She will not refuse, knowing that your future is in the balance, Mannering. She’ll be told to get the diamond or a wreath.’
The Adalgo diamond was in the strong room at Scotland Yard.
Chapter Twenty-four
THE DUCHESS AND THE TRUTH
‘Enjoying yourself, Mannering?’ Paul broke the silence; and he grinned. It was a silly, trite thing to say and had no importance, but it turned the iciness in Mannering to red-hot fury. He sprang at the youth, saw Paul flinch and raise the gun, saw the glitter of alarm in the eager eyes - and knew that Paul’s forefinger was trembling on the trigger.
He pulled up.
‘That was lucky for you,’ Paul said in a harsh voice.
‘Stand farther away, Paul,’ said Harding. He went behind Mannering and felt his pockets, drew the automatic out and put it on to a chair. ‘Mannering, you are being foolish, there isn’t a chance for you. Everyone in this household will commit murder to obtain possession of the Adalgo diamond, and you will not leave here until we have it. Whether you leave for a free life or for prison depends on what you do now.’
Forsythe or Tring had been outside that window, might have heard enough to make them rush for the telephone; minutes might make the difference between life and death, between a future and oblivion.
Mannering said: ‘I’m going to light a cigarette.’ He watched Paul, whose finger tightened on the trigger and relaxed only when the cigarette was alight. ‘All right, Harding, you’ve the trump cards.’
‘You will—’ Harding’s voice cracked in relief.
‘When I know why you’re so anxious to get the Adalgo, I might think you’re justified in all this.’
Paul laughed. ‘That’s what a look at death does to a man.’
‘Be quiet, Paul.’ Harding held his hands together; where they pressed against each other, the flesh was white. ‘I will even tell you that. The Adalgo diamond must be in the possession of the Queen. There is, as you doubtless know, a great deal of royalist sentiment in Spain, and much dissatisfaction with the Franco regime. The royalist sentiment is frustrated, because Alphonso is not really popular. Almost any other claimant to the throne will win great support, and the Adalgo family is second to none in popularity. You understand all that?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Duke married his cousin, the Zara whom you know. The story of the dead husband was false, of course, but carefully documented to convince all who made inquiries. The two main branches of the Adalgo family are thus united in marriage. Preparations for a coup d’etat are complete. The economic plight of Spain is worsening rapidly, the only likely solution to the economic problem is a share of American aid. Franco won’t get it, but the Duke and his adherents have powerful friends in the United States. The first thing that the Duke will do on his accession is to declare a political amnesty, and after that he will hold free elections. Can you imagine Spain being kept out of the Atlantic Pact for long after that?’
‘Not bad,’ said Mannering.
Paul laughed again. His eyes were too bright and his hand unpleasantly shaky.
‘Not bad! It’s perfect. It’ll be worth a political amnesty and
one free election to get on the winning horse, won’t it? After that—’
‘Paul!’ snapped his father.
‘Why try to fool Mannering? He knows—’
‘I know I wouldn’t trust the Duke of Adalgo or his adherents for ten minutes, and wouldn’t give them a pennyworth of anyone’s aid,’ Mannering said. He knew much more; they would not let him live, now that he had this information. They’d bribe him with the promise of safety when he had delivered the diamond, but when they knew he couldn’t give it to them, they’d treat him as they had Bray. ‘Spain will work out its problems without the help of another gang of thugs,’ he went on. ‘That’s no reason why I should risk my neck any more.’
‘The great hero with feet of clay,’ sneered Paul. ‘Where’s that diamond?’
‘I still don’t know why it’s so important.’
‘You’re bad at guessing,’ Paul said.
‘Be quiet.’ His father stood deliberately in front of him, for a tantalising moment was between Paul and the gun. ‘When the Duchess Zara reaches Madrid with the diamond, Mannering, that will be the signal for the rising. Elements in the army, navy and air force are ready for the signal.’
Paul said: ‘Keep out of the way.’ He slewed the gun round towards Mannering. ‘Go back, Mannering.’
Mannering stood still.
‘Call Marjorie,’ Harding said.
Paul raised his head: ‘Hal-loooo, there! Hal-oooo’ The call wasn’t loud but would carry – outside as well as in.
Who was outside? Tring, Forsythe, Lorna – why wasn’t there a move from one of them?
After a pause, they heard the girl hurrying, from somewhere downstairs. A door at the end of the hall passage opened, and she appeared; her blue eyes so bright that they looked like sparkling steel.
‘Hallo, sweet,’ Paul said. ‘It’s nearly over. Go and tell Mrs. Mannering that her husband—’
Marjorie said: ‘Paul! There’s been trouble outside. That newspaperman Forsythe and a detective—’
Mannering felt almost suffocated. Alarm leapt to Harding’s eyes, the shock hit Paul so hard that he almost forgot the gun in his hand.
‘Well?’ rasped Harding.
‘They were in the grounds, we’ve had to overpower them.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Paul, with relief.
‘Are they safe?’ Harding demanded sharply.
‘Yes, they’re unconscious in—’’
It was now or never; and Mannering leapt.
Paul, although looking at Marjorie, saw him coming and swivelled round. The shot roared out as Mannering swayed to one side, the bullet smacked into the wall. Mannering flung himself forward, touching the barrel of the gun with his outstretched hand, and Paul backed and kicked against a stool. He fell backwards, arms waving. Mannering heard him crash. Mannering beat Harding to the chair where his own gun lay.
‘No!’ screamed Marjorie. ‘Zara, Zara!’
Harding said: ‘Mannering, don’t be a crazy fool. If you don’t do what you are told, that evidence will damn you. It won’t help you if we suffer too.’
‘Forget it,’ Mannering said.
‘Zara!’ screamed Marjorie.
Mannering went across and struck her beneath the chin with his free left hand; she collapsed. Paul scrambled up, and Mannering fired. His bullet caught Paul’s automatic. The gun dropped, blood sprang crimson on to Paul’s fingers and he backed against the staircase, muttering, Harding sprang towards the stairs.
‘With me,’ Mannering said. He grabbed the man by his right arm, forced it up behind his back in a hammerlock and pushed him towards the stairs. Footsteps rumbled near the door from which Marjorie had come. Mannering said: ‘Hurry!’ and thrust Harding forward. They reached the landing as a door opened and two men appeared, one with a gun.
Mannering fired, twice; that was enough. One man turned and ran, the other doubled up, gasping. Marjorie moaned. Mannering forced Harding across the landing, thrust open a door and looked round for a telephone. There was one in a corner. He went towards it, pushed Harding on to a bed and kept him covered, and dialled Whitehall 1212. The ringing sound began at once.
Harding tried to sit up,
‘Quiet,’ said Mannering. ‘Hallo . . . yes, you can help me. An urgent message for Bristow – strong men and armed men needed at Harding’s house, at once. Got that?’
‘Harding’s house?’ the operator said.
‘Yes, he’ll know.’
He saw two things at once. The door opened, and Harding rolled over on the bed; Harding had a gun at his hip pocket. Mannering dropped the receiver and swayed, felt a bullet snatch at his arm, fired again and shattered Harding’s wrist. He swivelled the gun towards the door.
He didn’t shoot again.
Zara came in.
She wasn’t armed, was dressed in black as he had seen her at the show, yet there was a difference, a quality which was all its own. It was in her eyes, her poise, her movements, She closed the door behind her, showing neither fear nor haste. In her right hand was a large envelope.
‘Stay where you are,’ Mannering said.
Lorna would have heard that shooting; she would come tearing in, she was fool enough and in love. Paul wasn’t badly hurt, and with Marjorie’s help he could do a lot of damage.
The window was open; he heard running footsteps on the gravel.
He backed towards the window and shouted: ‘Lorna, I’m all right, stay where you are.’
She didn’t answer.
Harding sat up, clutching his wrist, his face as pale as the cream wall behind him.
‘Zara, go away. Hurry.’
‘Not yet,’ said Mannering. The footsteps outside were nearer the house. If it were Lorna, she was no longer running; at least he’d made her cautious. ‘Where are those lying documents, Harding?’
Harding said: ‘Zara! Go away,’
‘She knows the right end of a gun,’ Mannering said. ‘She won’t have a chance to get away if I don’t get those documents. Hurry.’
A door banged, downstairs.
‘I have them here,’ said Zara. She came across fearlessly, took the papers from the envelope and held them out to Mannering. There was a sheaf of typewritten sheets, and he saw a photograph clipped to them. He snatched them, and backed away.
‘Zara,’ sighed Harding.
‘I have been troubled for some time,’ she said, in the husky, fascinating voice, ‘and now I know why. Mr. Mannering, there were many things I did not know. I live to serve Spain. I do not think Spain can be served in this way. I heard what was said between you downstairs, for some time I have been able to hear from my room, which is above that, I prised up a floor board—’
‘Go away!’ cried Harding. ‘The police—’
‘The police may do as they wish,’ said Zara. ‘I am not a tool for assassins, whether the assassin be my husband or my friend. I shall tell the police everything, where to find my husband, everything. Mr. Mannering, I did you a grave injustice. When I first heard of you I believed you were a friend of the man Lopez. I believed that you had killed Bray at the shop and gave you that letter – it seemed the right thing to do. Since then, I have learned a great deal. I know that Paul and Marjorie killed Bray. Oh, they meant well, but—’
Harding muttered something; Mannering couldn’t hear the words. The dark eyes of the Duchess of Adalgo hypnotised him.
‘John!’ That was Lorna, from downstairs. ‘John! Where are you?’
Mannering shouted: ‘Be careful!’
Lorna’s footsteps sounded on the stairs and a car door banged outside, men’s voices were raised. The police? A patrol car could be here by now.
‘There have been so many lies,’ Zara said. ‘They shielded me from the truth, but I was not satisfied and discovered so man
y things that were damnable! Even my husband conspired to hide the truth from me. They pretended that only Lopez was responsible for the violence, and I believed it was true. When Lopez kidnapped Marjorie, it seemed to prove it. But now I know differently. They were prepared to use the fruits of violence and crime, let Lopez do his foul work, encouraged and helped him – meaning, when he had done what they needed, to kill him. Has Lopez told the police of me?
‘No.’
‘He is loyal,’ she said, and her eyes were hard with contempt when she looked at Harding. ‘You would save yourself and all of us and blame Lopez for it all. Mr. Mannering, I want you to believe this. My friends considered that they were doing the right thing. They were wrong, but they had the merit of sincerity and faith.’
Lorna was on the landing, and sounded desperate. ‘John, where are you?’
‘Will you please leave us now?’ Zara said.
Harding was sitting on the side of the bed, nursing his hand, looking at her dully. The gun was near him.
‘No,’ said Mannering. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be—’
‘Please go. I wish to talk to Mr. Harding.’
‘John!’
‘In here,’ Mannering called. ‘I—don’t come in!’
He saw Harding grab at the gun with his shattered hand, fired again, caught the man in the shoulder but didn’t make him drop the gun. Harding fired again – at Zara. The bullet struck her in the forehead. She raised her hands; and before she fell, Harding turned the gun on himself.
Lorna screamed: ‘John!’ and flung open the door.
‘It’s all right, my sweet,’ said Mannering, ‘it’s all right.’ His left arm was about her and he could feel her trembling body. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Slip these into your dress.’ He pushed the papers into her hands; ‘The police are here, it’s all right.’