by John Creasey
‘Outside. Shall we bring him in?’
Bellamy considered.
‘No,’ he said at last, ‘no, I don’t think so. We can do nothing here, the poor fellow would have liked to be buried in hallowed ground, I’m sure. We had better send him into the village. The doctor can certify the cause of death there, too. Arrange it, Jim, there’s a good fellow.’
Harrison went out.
Bellamy said quietly, and with hypocritical solemnity: ‘You will forgive me if I don’t come with you straight away, Mannering. This—this is a great shock.’ He took a ring of keys from his coat pocket. ‘Here are the keys to the cases. Open whichever you like; behave as if they were yours, my friend.’
Mannering took the keys. ‘Thanks. Where is the jewel-room?’
‘The door opposite this,’ said Bellamy, and handed him a door-key.
Mannering said slowly: ‘I’m so sorry about—’
Bellamy held up his hand, and wheeled himself rapidly away, as if too overcome to speak. Mannering stood alone in the hall, watching him. For sheer, hypocritical callousness, that display would take a lot of beating.
He crossed to the jewel-room, turned the key and pushed open the door, expecting to enter a sunlit room.
The room was dark.
He drew back, sharply.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Holmes, from behind him, ‘but the shutters have to be opened.’
He switched on an electric light; and at the sides of the room jewels winked and glowed. But for once they left Mannering cold. He watched the butler, who went to the window and, taking another key from his pocket, unlocked steel shutters which fitted from top to bottom. Next Holmes turned a small handle which jutted out from the wall, and the shutters moved back until the sunlight shone into the room and the curtains concealed the cold, forbidding steel.
‘Please ring if there is anything you require, sir.’
Holmes bowed and went out.
Mannering stood in the window, then slowly turned and looked about the room. The sun shone brightly on glass cabinets which stood against the walls; cabinets filled with jewels which sprang to life and gilded the light of the sun. Seldom has he seen such beauty, such a mass of brilliant lights, colours of such splendour. Here the green of emeralds, there the soft blue of sapphires, the glowing red of rubies, the gleam of gold, the creamy lustre of pearls and the pristine whiteness of diamonds. They flashed and scintillated and held him spellbound.
The sun was warm on the back of his neck. The reflection of the jewels in his eyes seemed to dazzle him.
Mechanically, he dropped his hand to his pocket and took out his cigarette-case. His fingers touched the cold steel of the Luger. He touched it again, for reassurance. Slowly, he lit a cigarette, and moved forward. Each step, each glance, revealed greater splendour.
He pressed the cigarette into an ash-tray.
He mustn’t be blinded by this beauty, mustn’t let his senses be dulled. Rundle was dead; his one hope of outside help was gone.
A Louis Quinze writing-table stood in one corner, and he went towards it, pulled up a chair and sat down. He had to shut out the vision of the jewels; he must contrive to send an S.O.S. concealed in the message to Lorna. London seemed a thousand miles away; and Bellamy would scrutinise the message carefully.
He took out his fountain-pen and held it poised.
Something hit the ceiling with a thump. He started, and stared up. For a frightening moment he fancied he heard a scream, thought a body fell past the window. Nonsense! The sun was shining on a flagged terrace with a stone wall beyond it. A pale-green creeper grew on the walls, and rock plants in the cracks of the path. Beyond was the moor.
He took a sheet of paper from the rack on the table.
How could he both reassure Bellamy and warn Lorna?
He had told Bellamy of an imaginary appointment, he must turn that to advantage. He wrote: ‘Been persuaded to stay extra day.’ No, that wouldn’t do, there was too much emphasis on ‘persuaded.’ He started again. ‘Staying extra day amazing collection please postpone—’
Whom should he name?
Bristow, of Scotland Yard, perhaps; Lorna would jump to that, but Bellamy might recognise Bristow’s name; it would have to be more subtle; or, at least, less obvious. One of Bristow’s aides? Such as Inspector Gordon. Gordon wouldn’t spring to Lorna’s mind immediately, but they knew no one else of that name; she would puzzle over it until she discerned the true meaning.
Yes, that would do.
He finished: ‘… let Gordon know; will see him as soon as possible. John.’
Was it good enough?
He would like to hand it to Bellamy himself, to study his reaction as he read it. Instead, he rang the bell and Holmes appeared, a barrel-like figure in black coat and striped trousers, his face pale, his pale eyes protuberant.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Mr. Bellamy promised to send this telegram off for me. Will you see to it?’
‘Yes, sir, I have had instructions.’
Five minutes later, a man left Hallen House on a motor-cycle, and Mannering, looking out of the window towards the cedar tree and the drive, saw him disappear.
He turned back to the jewels – almost afraid to fall under their spell. At first he was on edge for any unusual sound, and kept glancing out of the window, but gradually the jewels lured him.
There were greater collections, but all of them were famous; this was unknown. ‘Bellamy’s Collection’ – no, the man was known to have a few stones and a few antiques, no one dreamed that he owned such a wealth of beauty.
Harrison had said that Bellamy must be one of the richest men in the country.
How much was this collection worth?
There were some pieces for which collectors would have paid a hundred thousand pounds. Others of comparatively little value, except as part of the collection. He recognised a few of the gems – famous pieces which had changed hands a dozen times. Absorbed now, he opened a cabinet which contained a dozen solitaire diamonds, and examined each one closely. The Big Rose Diamond was here; it had been sold in America only a year before for a fantastic sum. Was this really it? He took it to the window, weighing it in his hand, the flashes of coloured light dazzling him. He did not need a glass to know that this was genuine; it had a faint rose-tint at one end, and was cut in the shape of a pear, with a thousand tiny glittering facets.
He did not hear the door open.
‘Mr. Mannering!’
He swung round. ‘Stella!’ he exclaimed. ‘You must go!’
She stood in the doorway, her hair looking like burnished metal, falling to her shoulders. She wore a simple green dress, and a diamond ring sparkled in her right hand.
‘You said you could get away – then go!’
‘I’ll go when I’m ready, Stella. We have to talk first, but not here.’
‘Don’t be a fool! I—’
Bellamy appeared, softly, wheeling himself into the room.
‘Why, Stella, my dear, I didn’t know you were up. You look very well this morning – no ill effects from your drenching, I guess. That’s fine – fine. And you can’t keep away from the jewel-room, can you? I don’t blame you. It would be a strange woman who wasn’t fascinated, Mannering, wouldn’t it?’
‘I don’t believe one exists,’ said Mannering.
Stella said stonily: ‘I was looking for you, uncle.’
‘Were you, my dear? Why?’
‘Kathleen—’
‘She’ll be all right, and I’ll talk to you about her later. Now Mr. Mannering and I have business to discuss.’ He waved her away, and she went submissively; he treated her as if she were a child. ‘Well, my friend, what do you think of my little collection?’ he asked, rubbing his hands together. ‘Not bad, I guess.’
‘Do you have to ask me what I think?’ Mannering gave a shrug and a rueful smile. ‘It’s indescribable! I didn’t know such a collection existed outside the big ones.’
‘I guess you didn’t,�
� said Bellamy complacently. ‘Now you see why I have armed guards about the house. If a thief were to get in here—but none will, I’m convinced of that! But I really came to tell you that I shan’t be able to spend much time with you this morning. The post is very heavy and I must attend to it. Will you be able to look after yourself in here?’
‘I will!’
‘Don’t try to run away with the Big Rose Diamond!’ Bellamy said roguishly.
‘Don’t try to run away.’ He was playing on the familiar theme.
As the chair swung out of the room, Bellamy stretched out his hand and slammed the door after him.
Mannering stood with the big diamond between his fingers, but was no longer looking at it. The spell was broken, danger grew closer and more oppressive. There was no way to escape by day, but by night – tonight – he would have to take the chance. It was useless to rely on Lorna getting the message in time to send help; useless to try to take Stella. He would have to get away by himself, and bring help. He must spend every moment he could on planning. Forget the jewels!
He knew where some of the guards were. He knew they were armed; he knew it would be useless to walk away. That meant he had to be able to get into the garage. But to get a car out—
There was no need for a car; the motor-cycle would serve; he could wheel it quietly out of the garage. That was the solution. He would climb out of his window – any window – and get to the garage; he’d pick that lock easily. He need only wheel the motorcycle a hundred yards from the house; there would be a good chance of getting that far without being seen by the guards.
What then?
He could not prove that anything illegal was going on at the house. Stella had risked a great deal for him; but would she tell the same story to the police and, if she did, would she be able to prove it? He could imagine Bellamy’s bland denial and plausible explanations – and the suggestion that Stella was not quite sane.
Harrison’s behaviour, the look on Bellamy’s face, the story of the murdered man – how could anyone make them sound alarming? There was no evidence in a look.
So he had another task before he left, he must find evidence of evil strong enough to bring the police.
The jewels – were all of them legally Bellamy’s? Would Bellamy let him loose in a room where there were stolen jewels, some of which any dealer would recognise?
If Bellamy never intended him to leave, the answer was yes; it would appeal to the man’s sense of humour.
But why bring him at all?
That wasn’t the immediate problem.
How many of these gems had been brought here by Lark?
He lost himself again, classifying jewels and pearls, setting aside several which were world-famous, and others which bore a resemblance to jewels whose owners he knew, or which had been stolen. At Quinn’s he had a file of photographs of stolen jewels; the police had circulated copies to all dealers to whom the stolen goods might be offered. Sitting at his own desk, he could have judged in a minute or so. He could picture the file and some of the photographs in his mind’s eye.
The little heap of jewels which he thought were suspect increased.
When he had finished, there were three diamonds, two large rows of pearls, a pair of emerald ear-rings and a perfect set of sapphires in front of him. He took a magnifying glass from his pocket, a small one with a folding handle. He pored over each stone.
He did not know the precise moment at which he realised that he was being watched.
The realisation began with a slight uneasiness which broke through his concentration and made him look round. Then he glanced at the window and towards the orchard. No one was in sight, but the disquiet increased. He became restless, shied away from giving the gems such close attention. That warred with an increasing excitement. He held up a single diamond, the size of a hazel-nut, and peered at the faint red tinge at one side – the rose-tint which helped identification. It was smaller than the Big Rose, and he had seen a picture exactly like it. But where?
Ah!
Photographs seemed to lie in front of him, one of a diamond of this size next to an enlargement of the same stone; he could remember the caption: The Wild Rose Diamond, stolen from the collection of Mr. Rupert Hoys of Chicago. Of Chicago – that explained why he had been so slow in identifying it, why he was doubtful about some of the others. If these gems had been stolen overseas – and Bellamy had travelled extensively – it would explain much.
The new thought drove disquiet back, but not away.
He recalled large-scale robberies which had been reported in obscure connoisseurs’ journals. The emerald ear-rings, pendantshaped, were the Green Tears, stolen in Berlin before the war. One of the ropes of pearls could only be the Gironde necklace, stolen in an impudent burglary in Paris. He classified them one after the other, quite sure of his facts.
He sat back, hands in his pockets, looking unseeingly into the garden; and then the disquiet returned. It was as if someone was staring at the back of his head. He turned sharply, but could see no one. He studied the walls, where portraits hung.
The eyes of a woman in one of the pictures moved!
He picked up the Green Tears and took them to their case, nearest the picture of the woman. As he restored them to their stand, he glanced covertly at the picture. The eyes were painted – dull and lacking the clearness which he could have sworn he had noticed before. He went closer to the picture; yes, they were painted. Was this place getting on his nerves, giving him illusions?
He rubbed his finger over the forehead and eyes, very softly. There was a slight ridge near the top of the nose. He peered closer, and distinguished the main canvas from pieces which had been cut out and replaced – the eyes were movable!
At least he had been right.
What of the other pictures?
He touched them all; only the one had been tampered with.
His neck and forehead were damp with sweat as he lit a cigarette, strolled to the window and looked out for some time, before replacing the other jewels. Now he had ample reason to send the police here, so only one problem remained: escape.
Into the tenseness of the moment there came a tap at the door.
He called ‘come in,’ and Holmes entered, and put a tray on a table.
‘Mr. Bellamy thought you would like some coffee, sir. Is there anything else I can get you?’
‘No thanks. You’re looking after me very well.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Holmes’s hand lingered on the coffee-pot, a beautiful piece of Georgian silver. He fiddled with the knob at the top of the lid, and looked at Mannering with his protruding eyes. ‘Shall I pour out, sir?’ He kept rubbing his finger over the knob.
‘No thanks,’ said Mannering again.
Holmes stared intently at him, then glanced at the knob, and back again. ‘You will ring if there is anything you require, sir, won’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Why was the butler so insistent? Why had he looked so hard at the coffee-pot?
‘And if you would like anything to read, sir, you will find plenty of books in the library – the next room,’ said Holmes. He bowed, and turned away, but as he reached the door he swung round again and looked not at Mannering but at the coffeepot.
The door closed on him.
Mannering thought of the false eyes in the picture; he might be watched now. But Holmes had wanted him to look at the pot. He poured out coffee, sipped it, turned his back on the suspect picture, and held the coffee-pot firmly with one hand.
With the other he gripped the knob and pulled; it did not move. But there was a joint; it might be screwed on.
His fingers were tingling with the heat as he steadied the coffeepot and twisted the knob.
It moved.
Chapter Seven
Friend in Need
Footsteps sounded on the flagstones outside the window. Mannering put the coffee-pot down, and picked up his cup. Harrison and one of the gardeners appeared. The gardener stared in with undisguised curio
sity, Harrison gave Mannering a perfunctory nod – that might be construed into an olive branch. They were quickly past, but Mannering waited until all sound had faded before he turned to the lid again. The loosened knob unscrewed easily now. It was hollow inside.
He held it to the light, and saw a tiny screw of paper.
Holmes’s voice seemed to echo in his ears.
And if you would like anything to read, sir …’
He tried to shake the paper out, but it was lodged too firmly. He took out his knife, opened it and picked at the paper until it was far enough out of the knob for him to grip between his fingers. He pulled; the paper tore. He mustn’t damage it, must be steady. Gingerly he skewered the paper out, slipped it into his waistcoat pocket, screwed the knob back, and poured out another cup of coffee.
Was this a trap?
What need was there to trap him? He was already a prisoner. Better to assume the obvious, that Holmes wanted to help him. What of the other dangers?
If he could be watched in this room, perhaps he was never free from surveillance. In his bedroom, for instance; the fresco work, high up on the walls, or the ornate plaster pattern on the ceiling might conceal a spy-hole. Although he was sure it hadn’t been used the night before, the danger was real – but if he were to become afraid to move for fear of being seen, it would wear his nerves to rags. He would have to take reasonable precautions, that was all.
He fingered the screw of paper in his pocket, but this wasn’t the place to look at it.
He had been here for nearly two hours; no one would be surprised if he went out, and—
‘Look out!’ a man shouted.
The cry came out of the blue, and Mannering jumped up, paper forgotten. ‘Look out!’ The shouting came from the hall, followed by a flurry of footsteps; someone was running across the hall. ‘Stop her!’ Mannering reached the door in time to hear Harrison say in a savage undertone: ‘Be quiet, you fool!’
Mannering heard a sound nearer at hand, a sharp click. Then a cry, in a woman’s voice, and the slamming of a door. He turned the handle and pulled.