The Missing Old Masters

by John Creasey

  ‘I’ve a complete dossier,’ Larraby said, picking up his brief-case. ‘It isn’t very different from the one on the man Jenkins. Both are knowledgeable about old paintings, each has been a runner for most of his life, each has served two prison sentences for theft.’ He took out a folder and placed it in Mannering’s hands.

  ‘Thanks,’ Mannering said, appreciatively. ‘Anything here about his associates?’

  ‘Nothing very much,’ said Larraby, ‘but he’s worked with one man on and off for years—I learned this from Mendlesohn.’ Mendlesohn was a picture restorer and framer whose knowledge of the business was almost inexhaustible. ‘A man named White, who sometimes calls himself Cobb, and sometimes Lobb.’ Larraby was speaking with great precision. ‘I’m wondering if this is your Lobb, sir.’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ said Mannering. ‘What do you know-about him?’

  ‘Only that he has been known to extort blackmail, sir; and that his knowledge of painting is extensive.’

  ‘And you really think that Joanna is being blackmailed !’ exclaimed Willis. ‘Why, it’s incredible!’

  ‘That’s what we have to find out,’ Mannering said, cautiously. He took the blackmail note which he had found in Joanna’s bedroom from his pocket-book, and passed it to Larraby. ‘Check this, will you, Josh—I think you’ll find it’s been written by our friend Lobb. And now,’ he added, ‘you’d better be on your way. Be careful with those pictures, and watch for trouble on the road.’

  ‘Do you seriously think there might be any, sir?’ asked Larraby.

  ‘Very seriously,’ said Mannering gravely.

  Ten minutes later, Larraby and Willis drove off in Willis’s TR3.

  Fifteen minutes later, as Mannering was paying the bill, Chief Inspector Fishlock entered the hotel.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Mannering,’ he said, without preamble. ‘At once please.’ Something in his manner was ominous, almost threatening. ‘Here or at the station; it doesn’t matter where, to begin with.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Informer

  Mannering finished with the cashier, turned and smiled at Fishlock, and saw two couples approaching the reception desk, obviously hotel visitors. But he stayed where he was.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ he asked mildly.

  Curious glances turned towards them.

  ‘Hadn’t we better find somewhere private?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ Mannering said. ‘I want to go round to The Kettle. How far is it?’

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ offered Fishlock, ‘and one of my chaps can follow in your car.’

  As soon as it was settled, Fishlock turned to Mannering, his expression the portentous one of a man about to deliver a broadside. ‘Now, sir—what were you doing in Lady Markly’s cottage last night?’

  Obviously, he expected the question to shatter Mannering’s calm; certainly he was surprised by Mannering’s chuckle.

  ‘So you learned about that!’

  ‘You don’t deny it?’

  ‘I don’t see why I should,’ said Mannering, as they moved off.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

  Mannering smiled. ‘You didn’t ask me.’

  ‘That is simply begging the question, sir.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ conceded Mannering, glancing at the other’s stern, set face, ‘but I had quite a day yesterday, Chief Inspector. Attempts on one’s life, foiled by a hair’s breadth, don’t leave much energy to face an interrogation. You were bound to want to ask a lot of questions, and I was too tired.’

  ‘Were you in the cottage when it was set alight?’

  ‘I was there when it burst into flames,’ Mannering answered. ‘I got out through the attic window, and to the best of my knowledge, no one saw me.’

  A quick look at the Inspector told Mannering he was giving nothing away.

  ‘It was your duty to report to us.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,’ said Mannering soothingly.

  ‘It’s not a question of offending me, it—’ Fishlock hesitated and then relaxed a little. ‘Why did you go there?’

  ‘To see what I could find.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Nothing of any consequence.’

  ‘You are aware that you committed an infraction of law?’

  ‘Technically, yes.’

  ‘Mr. Mannering. You may have a remarkable reputation in London, but here—’

  Mannering broke across his words sharply.

  ‘I’m not happy about what’s happening down here, Chief Inspector. At least one of the Cunliffe staff is a known criminal—’

  ‘Which one?’ interrupted Fishlock.

  ‘The footman—Anstiss.’

  ‘We were on to him,’ Fishlock said with satisfaction. ‘He seems to have realised it.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘He’s missing this morning.’

  So the police had not been able to identify the dead man, thought Mannering. All the same, they were bound to make intensive investigations. Perhaps it would be best, while not breaking his word to Colonel Cunliffe, to tell Fishlock part at least of what had been going on at Nether Manor. He was still turning this over in his mind as Fishlock asked abruptly:

  ‘Who came to see you here this morning?’

  ‘The manager of my London shop, and an assistant.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘I wanted to see them. I wanted information about Anstiss, Jenkins of The Kettle, and a man named White alias Cobb alias Lobb. Chief Inspector, I have very strong suspicions that these three men are involved in a pretty nasty art fraud. And I think they know that I’m on to them, and that is why I was run down by that lorry.’

  ‘Assuming you’re right, sir, are you sure it was you they meant to run down?’ demanded Fishlock, and when Mannering showed some surprise, went on: ‘How do you know it wasn’t an attempt to kill Colonel Cunliffe, who often used that particular car?’

  Mannering drew a deep breath.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I hadn’t even thought of it. Do you think Cunliffe is in danger?’

  ‘He could be. Mr. Mannering—’ Fishlock paused.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know where the Colonel and Lady Markly were last night?’

  ‘I didn’t see the Colonel yesterday evening—I was in late—but Middleton told me that he and Lady Markly were dining in Salisbury.’

  ‘They had planned to dine at Lady Markly’s cottage,’ Fishlock announced, ‘but changed plans at the last moment and dined at The Haunch of Venison. Whoever started that fire may well have known that they were to have been at the cottage. It could easily have been an attempt to murder Colonel Cunliffe. Do you see that, Mr. Mannering?’

  ‘All too clearly, Chief Inspector. However, I did not set fire to the cottage. Indeed, I came within an ace of dying in the fire myself. You can’t have it both ways.’

  ‘And nor can you, sir. You can’t have the co-operation and protection of the police unless you confide in them. Why did you go to Lady Markly’s cottage? What in particular did you hope to find?’ When Mannering didn’t answer Fishlock went on with great deliberation: ‘Mr. Mannering, the Cunliffe family has a great deal of influence and can call on a great deal of loyalty in this part of Wiltshire. We have suspected for some time that something abnormal has been going on here, but the local people won’t talk. There is no reason for you to keep anything to yourself for the sake of the family, is there?’

  ‘None at all.’ Mannering was sorry to have to lie, but he had, he reminded himself, given his promise to Colonel Cunliffe.

  ‘Then perhaps we can make a bargain, Mr. Mannering. You tell us why you went to the cottage last night and we will pos
tpone any charge of burglarious entry until we have had a chance to check your story. But don’t lose any more time, sir. This is going to be a very busy day.’

  Mannering studied the strong face and the set expression, and took a very real liking to Chief Inspector Fishlock.

  ‘I agree with you on the probable busyness of the day, Chief Inspector, but what do you stand to gain if you charge me? You couldn’t make a charge of fire-raising; in spite of my admission of guilt you can’t prove I was there. You might possibly hold me in custody overnight but by tomorrow I’d get bail. All you would do would be to take me out of circulation for twelve hours or so, during which time I couldn’t talk to Jenkins, Colonel Cunliffe, Lady Markly or any of the staff, each of whom might give something away.’ Mannering paused. ‘I won’t run, I promise you—I’ll stay here until this is all over.’

  ‘What do you hope to achieve?’ Fishlock demanded.

  ‘I hope to find the answers.’

  ‘What do you stand to gain from doing so? There’s no personal reason why you should risk your life, is there?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Then why do you, sir?’

  ‘My wife often asks the same question,’ said Mannering mildly. ‘She can’t understand what makes me enjoy mountaineering, what makes me enjoy confrontations with criminals, what makes me carry a tool-kit and nylon rope, both highly suspicious in the eyes of the police. I don’t even understand myself, Chief Inspector. But I don’t like art treasures being stolen and smuggled and treated as if their only value was the price they fetch, I don’t like attacks on my life, and I don’t like attacks on young women. These dislikes get me into many tight corners—as happened last night. Luckily, I’ve trained myself to get out of them and to use equipment which helps.’ He paused, then added drily: ‘I hope that helps you, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Do you know,’ Fishlock said in a gruff amazement, ‘I believe you!’

  Mannering chuckled. ‘Most policemen do after a while, but you’ve been much quicker than most. Now—let’s make a bargain, Chief Inspector. You give me any help I need, and twenty-four hours from now I’ll tell you everything I know or think I know.’

  ‘So you can put a time limit on to it.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘How is that, sir?’

  ‘I’ve been involved in a great number of investigations into art frauds, and the time always comes when the criminals realise that the game’s nearly up. Some just cave in. Some slip away quietly. Some make a big effort at a final killing. This is likely to be one. of the last. The man Lobb is a killer type. If my suspicions are correct, he’s fighting you, me and probably someone else whom we don’t know, as if his back were to the wall. That makes him doubly dangerous. Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘I see that it doubles the danger to anyone who gets in his way.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Yet you’ll still go on?’

  ‘Do you turn your back on a case because you might get hurt?’ asked Mannering.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Fishlock. There was a short pause before he added: ‘Why do you want to see Jenkins at The Kettle?’

  ‘He might have information for me. He asked me to come down about Eliza Doze’s pictures.’

  ‘So he knew about them,’ mused Fishlock. ‘I can’t imagine Eliza Doze being involved in crime—but you never know. This man Lobb, now. Are you sure he’s dangerous?’

  ‘Deadly.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Fishlock frowned. ‘If he doesn’t kill you first?’

  ‘If he tries again we might catch him red-handed,’ remarked Mannering.

  They had both tacitly dropped the possibility that Cunliffe, not Mannering, had been the intended victim.

  Five minutes later, deeply thoughtful, Fishlock pulled up in a street not far from the cathedral. Mannering’s grey Ford Cortina, driven by a police sergeant, pulled up behind him. From a wrought-iron arm attached to a nearby shop, hung, like an inn sign, a big copper kettle.

  ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. And you, too, Sergeant.’ Mannering took the ignition keys the sergeant held out to him.

  ‘I hope neither of us is going to regret this,’ Fishlock said grimly.

  Mannering paused for a moment to watch the two men drive off, then turned into the shop. It was small and gloomy, but as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light he saw the burnished sides of old copper and brass pans, a good display of pewter and some china figures that would grace any drawing-room. There were a few old prints and two or three paintings hanging on the walls. A door at the back of the shop was open and a woman appeared.

  She was young and attractive in a modern way, with a sheath dress and straight hair hanging to her shoulders. If this was Jenkins’s wife Dora, Jenkins was a lucky man.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Is Mr. Jenkins in?’ asked Mannering.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. He’s away on business. I’m his wife—can I help?’

  ‘He asked me to come down and see some paintings.’

  ‘Are you Mr. Mannering?’ Her voice rose.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Mannering, but my husband phoned a message to you only last night, to say he’d been detained on business in London. And he asked me to tell you that the paintings he thought would interest you weren’t on the market any longer.’ She spoke definitely, as if determined to convince him.

  ‘Well, it can’t be helped,’ Mannering said. ‘But now I’m here I may as well look round.’

  ‘You—you won’t be long, will you?’ She looked anxious, but it was an anxiety she hoped to conceal.

  ‘Only a few minutes,’ Mannering promised.

  ‘I’ve got to close the shop while I go and do some shopping you see, sir.’

  ‘In that case, I’d better not wait,’ Mannering said, and half turned towards the street door. He actually took a step towards it, followed by Dora Jenkins, then suddenly swung round, pushed past her and strode into the room beyond.

  Lobb stood behind the door. He had a spiked stick in his hand, raised to strike.

  Mrs. Jenkins gave a shrill squeak, but whether in protest or terror it was hard to say.

  Lobb looked at Mannering, raising the stick a few inches higher. The woman gasped. Mannering did not move.

  ‘This time you’ve had it, Mannering,’ growled Lobb.

  ‘Percy—Percy, don’t!’ breathed the woman.

  ‘You’ve really had it,’ Lobb repeated. He began to swing the stick as if he were going to throw it. ‘Close the door, Dora.’

  ‘Percy, you can’t—’

  ‘Go and close the front door and put the Closed sign up.’

  Mannering heard the woman’s agitated breathing, then heard her footsteps.

  ‘Why waste a perfectly good door?’ he said clearly. ‘The police will only knock it down if it’s locked.’

  The footsteps hesitated, stopped.

  ‘He’s bluffing,’ Lobb sneered. ‘Don’t move, Mannering. Lock the door and put the sign up, Dora.’

  She was half crying as she moved further away, but Mannering felt sure she would do what she was told. She was well inside the shop now and Mannering heard the door swing to, heard the lock click, then the bolt shoot home. He had not moved since he had stepped into the inner room, but now he turned to face his adversary.

  ‘You’re a fool, Lobb.’ He spoke dispassionately.

  Lobb grunted, nonplussed, a little wary.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ Mannering repeated. ‘You can kill too often.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘There’s a little story about a man who kills the goose that lays the golden eggs; you might read it to your advantage,’ Mannering suggested. ‘W
hy don’t you start thinking?’

  ‘Thinking?’ echoed Lobb, in a tone of disbelief.

  ‘Thinking. You know who I am, don’t you?’

  ‘I know you’re Mannering of Quinns.’

  ‘Quinns have five branches throughout the world, and more means of disposing of old masters than any other single company,’ Mannering said. ‘And Quinns is trusted by all the big collectors and the big dealers. You’ll do a lot better for yourself if you come to terms with me than you will if you kill me and sell where you can.’

  ‘You’re offering me a deal?’ asked Lobb slowly.

  ‘Why do you think I came down here?’ demanded Mannering. ‘And why do you think I came into The Kettle? If it comes to that, why did I take the paintings Anstiss stole and hide them away? When are you going to wake up, Lobb?’

  There was a long pause.

  Then Lobb threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Run with the Hare

  Dora Jenkins moved from the shop towards Mannering and Lobb, staring at Mannering as if at a worker of miracles. Lobb’s laughter echoed and re-echoed, and pewter and brass quivered musically on the walls and shelves. Dora’s face gradually cleared, and she began to smile; she had a deep dimple in her right cheek.

  At last, Lobb stopped laughing. ‘So you run with the hare’ – he guffawed again, and his whole body went limp – ‘and hunt with the hounds!’

  ‘When it suits me.’

  ‘And it suits you now, although it didn’t before.’

  ‘If you’ve a proposition to make it worth my while, it suits me now,’ Mannering said. ‘I’m not cheap.’

  ‘My God, Dora,’ Lobb said. ‘D’you hear him? Run with the hare … What do you know about this business, Mannering?’

  ‘I know that you think it’s worth murder.’

  ‘No!’ gasped Dora.

  ‘You tried to kill me, you tried to kill Joanna and you did kill Anstiss,’ Mannering said quite clearly.

  ‘Percy—!’