by John Creasey
He had only a glimpse of the man leaping at him from behind the door, face covered by a scarf, right arm raised. Given a split second’s warning, Levinson could have fought back, but before he fully realised the danger, he felt a heavy weight smash on his head. It did not knock him right out, just sent him staggering. Dazed, he banged up against the wall. Subconsciously, he realised the possibility of greater danger, and steeled himself to fight it off. No further assault came. He heard the door slam. Footsteps thumped on the stairs, getting fainter and fainter. By the time he could stand upright, hands pressed against his forehead, they had died away completely. His head throbbed with pain – where he had been hit now, and where he had struck it on the edge of the stairs at the mews. He seemed one great, throbbing ache from the neck up. He made himself move towards the bathroom, banging against a chair, and sent more thuds of pain through his head. God, it was awful. There was little light up here, even when he pushed open the bathroom door with his knees, for the bathroom overlooked a tall house in the next street. He ran cold water, dragged off his coat, collar, tie, and shirt, and gritted his teeth while he doused his head. The cold water stung with exquisite agony; gradually, that eased. He dabbed himself dry, and went into the living room. He dropped into a big, winged armchair, one of the few things he had inherited from his family, and leaned back against it, gingerly. He was not sure how long he sat like that; probably it was for twenty minutes. Now and again he opened his eyes to the comfort of increasing darkness.
At last, he muttered: “Must do something. I’m famished.” He got up. The pain was not so bad, although he could not move without a twinge or two shooting through his head. He went into the small kitchen and found himself comparing it with the spick and span contemporary style of the house in the mews. He had a few slices of ham in the small larder, cut bread, smeared on butter, and made some coffee.
Gradually, his headache eased.
“Who the hell was it?” he demanded aloud.
It had not occurred to him that he might have reported to the police, but now he began to wonder whether he should tell Mannering. A lot of use he was – knocked out twice in one day, when he was employed as a bodyguard. How far would Mannering be prepared to rely on him, if he admitted this fresh failure?
Why had it happened?
He put on a reading lamp, stood up, and began to look about the room. Everything seemed to be in order. His bedroom was, too. As far as he could see, the drawers hadn’t been disturbed. He had obviously arrived before the thief had been here long. But – what could a thief reasonably expect to find here? No one could possibly think that he was wealthy? Certainly he kept no valuables. He had a few good pieces of old furniture and pleasant pictures, but nothing of real value. Could the man have thought that he brought things here from Quinns?
He would have to tell Mannering, he realised; it was the only sensible thing to do. If Mannering learned about it later, and it might have to come out, he would take a very dim view of it being kept from him. Satisfied that nothing was missing, Levinson stood up to go to the telephone, which was by the door. As he reached it, he heard a sound on the stairs.
His heart began to beat fast.
He replaced the receiver very slowly; it made a soft ting! Could that be heard outside? He approached the door on tiptoe. It dawned on him that there were two people outside, and they were not making any attempt to hide the sound of their approach; they were simply walking up the stairs.
Could this be Chittering and Mannering?
Levinson stood by the solid wooden door, ears strained to catch the sound of voices. As he did so he asked himself how these men had got in. The street door should have been locked, for it was self-locking.
The newcomers reached the landing, and pressed the bell – a battery type fastened to the door, like that at Hillbery Mews. The harsh sound jarred Levinson’s head. He hesitated, not moving, and heard a man say: “He’s in all right.”
The voice was rougher than either Mannering’s or Chittering’s, and held an overtone of Cockney. Levinson stood to one side before opening the door; if there was another attack, he would be ready for it. In those few seconds he actually forgot the throbbing in his head.
Two men, both big, stood in the shadows of the landing.
“Mr Levinson?” That was the man with the Cockney voice.
“Yes.”
“Good evening, sir,” the other man said. “We are from New Scotland Yard.” He held out a card. “May we come in and ask you a few questions? We have reason to believe that you may be able to assist us in certain enquiries.”
Levinson was so shocked that for a moment he stood gaping. The men stared at him. He gulped, stretched out his hands, and read the card. As far as he could tell it was authentic; the owner of the card was Detective Inspector Belling.
“I don’t think I can help you about anything,” Levinson said as he stood aside. “But come in.”
He thought vaguely that they might be coming to ask questions about Mannering, or about the attack on Sara Gentian – if it had been an attack. He couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that he must be very cautious while talking to them. They were tall, one of them massive and thickset, the other – the Cockney – thin and bony. When they were all three in the living room, it seemed crowded; Levinson felt a sense of danger, and of menace.
11
ARREST
“Well, what do you want to ask me?” Levinson made himself ask.
The bony man said: “Mr Levinson, were you at the home of Miss Sara Gentian, at 3, Hillbery Mews, this afternoon?”
Levinson’s heart was already hammering. Above everything else, he wished that he could talk to Mannering; advice from Mannering would be invaluable. He remembered Mannering talking to a member of the staff who had been sacked, a few weeks ago, for lying to a customer about the date of a piece of Indian gold lace. The assistant had said it was circa sixteen hundred and in fact it was circa eighteen hundred and fifty. “If you’d told the truth you wouldn’t be in trouble, would you?”
He, Mannering, had wanted to tell the police about Sara; he, Levinson, had dissuaded him.
The massive policeman, Belling, said sharply: “Well, were you at that place?”
Levinson said: “Yes, I was.”
“That’s better,” said the Cockney. “Very wise to admit it. Why did you go there?”
The axiom that one should tell the truth seemed very easy to follow – but how far should he go? Should he name Mannering, and so involve him?
“What’s on your mind, Mr Levinson?” demanded Belling. He looked like a heavyweight boxer. “You must have had a reason for going there.”
“Of course I had a reason,” Levinson said sharply. “Miss Gentian had been to see Mr Mannering – he’s my employer – and—”
“We know all about Mannering.”
“I doubt very much if you know all about anyone.” It was a relief to be able to snap back. “He asked me to go and question her about her reason for coming to see him.”
“What was her reason?”
“You can ask Mr Mannering.”
“Don’t be smart,” Belling said.
It would be easy to lose his temper, but Levinson told himself that it wouldn’t help. These men had every right to make inquiries, especially since the girl was now at a nursing home, and the police had spent a lot of time at her flat.
“I’ll tell you what I can as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “If you want to know more about Mr Mannering, you’ll have to ask him. I went to ask Miss Gentian what she really wanted from Mr Mannering. He wasn’t satisfied that she had told him everything.”
“Was she at home when you got there?”
“Yes, she—”
“Did she let you in?”
Levinson moistened his lips. “No,” he answered uneasily. “No, I
didn’t get any answer. I looked through the letter box, and smelt gas, and—”
“Smelt what?”
“Gas – g-a-s. Gas.”
“What did you do?”
Levinson flushed. “I tried the door, and as it was open, I went in. The smell of gas was very strong, and . . .”
“The door was open?”
“We want the truth,” interposed the massive man.
“Was it open?” demanded the other.
Levinson said thinly: “I tell you I pushed the door, and found it open. I found Miss Gentian in the kitchen, with the gas oven on, but not lighted. I carried her upstairs and applied artificial respiration until I thought that she was out of danger. Then—” he broke off, thinking desperately of Mannering. He must not incriminate Mannering; must not say that he had been at the mews – and he must find a way of warning Mannering. What a mistake it had been not to telephone the police from the mews!
“Then what?” It was Belling who had the most menacing manner. “Out with it.”
“I left her.”
“You left her?”
“I thought she was all right.”
“Well, she wasn’t all right, was she? She’s had a serious relapse, and is very ill,” the Cockney said. “Why didn’t you telephone for us?”
“I—I didn’t think she would like me to.”
“So you didn’t think she would like you to – in her dreams, perhaps? She was unconscious, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, but—”
“Why didn’t you telephone for a doctor, even if you were scared of the police?” demanded the Cockney.
“I—”
“Let’s have the truth.”
Levinson flashed: “I can’t tell you the truth if you won’t listen to me. For God’s sake keep quiet!” He won a momentary silence. “I thought she’d tried to kill herself. I didn’t want anyone to know. I thought if I called for the police or even for a doctor the truth might leak out. Her pulse was nearly normal and I felt sure she wasn’t in any danger. I didn’t think there was any need for a doctor.”
“Are you trained in first aid?”
“No, but—”
“What made you so sure she didn’t need a doctor?”
“I tell you I thought she was all right!”
“I don’t think you thought anything of the kind,” said Belling ominously. “I think you thought it was safe to have a look round her flat while she was unconscious, and that while you were rifling the place she came round and telephoned us – and we arrived and scared you off. Neat trick, nipping out of that window, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” At first Levinson was too surprised to be frightened.
“Lying won’t help you,” the Cockney said. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“Listen, Levinson,” put in the massive man. “We know you were at the mews. You’ve admitted it. You answer the description of a man who was seen forcing his way into that house – he was seen by two people who happened to look into the mews. We know you took the miniature sword. Don’t waste our time. Where is it?”
“Miniature—” echoed Levinson. Now fear began to thrust its way into his consciousness. “I tell you I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t search the flat. I—I left the girl on the bed, and went—went back to the shop.”
“Lies won’t help you.”
“I tell you this is the truth!”
“And I tell you you’re lying,” the Cockney retorted. “We want to search this flat. We can get a search warrant without any trouble, but it would take a little time. You can give us your permission and make it easier for all concerned. What’s it to be?”
“You can search as long as you like,” Levinson muttered. “You won’t find anything that shouldn’t be here!”
“Let’s start, Jeff,” said Belling. He seemed eager at the opportunity. “It shouldn’t take long. This room, eh?” He barged across towards a small rosewood kneehole desk with two drawers on either side, and a shallow middle drawer at waist height. “Is this locked?”
“Nothing’s locked,” snapped Levinson.
He was feeling angry, scared, and baffled. He had always thought that he was capable of looking after himself in any situation, but this was beyond him. Two minutes talk with Mannering would make all the difference in the world. He glanced longingly at the telephone. Mannering might give him permission to tell the rest of the story, he certainly couldn’t say that Mannering had been at the mews, now. But – he had left Mannering there, and if this miniature sword—
Suddenly, he remembered the man who had been here when he had arrived; the second assailant! He had forgotten him completely until this moment.
The bony policeman Jeff was pulling open the drawers in the desk; the belligerent Belling was shifting books from the shelves on the wall by the fireplace. They worked very quickly, as if they had been doing this kind of thing all their lives; it was an alarming demonstration of efficiency.
They found nothing.
“I tell you there’s nothing here to interest you,” Levinson made himself say. “What—what’s this miniature sword like?”
“It’s an exact replica of the big sword which Lord Gentian took to Quinns this afternoon,” the Cockney stated flatly. “It’s worth between ten and fifteen thousand pounds of anybody’s money. Where is it?”
“I didn’t even know it existed!”
“Didn’t you?” sneered Belling. He was taking the cushions out of the chair on which Levinson had been sitting; they were tapestry covered cushions, rather threadbare. He thrust his thick hands down the side of the chair, pulled them out, thrust again – and then something made him stop moving for a long agonising moment. At last he moved his hand, very slowly, and turned his head to stare at Levinson. Levinson felt himself go cold.
“What—what have you found?”
“You know what I’ve found,” the detective growled. He pulled his hand from the side of the chair, cautiously; there was a sudden flash of light, like a red flame, then a yellow flash followed by a white.
Levinson lost all traces of colour as the Cockney stepped closer to him. The other man drew out the jewelled miniature, between his forefinger and his middle finger. He held it up like that, so that the jewels caught the light and made a kaleidoscope of flashing beauty.
“So you didn’t even know it existed.” Belling’s voice was rough.
“I tell you I didn’t. Someone must have put it there. I tell you—”
Levinson remembered his assailant again, and felt sure that the man had come not to steal but to put this incriminating evidence here. He felt too stunned to understand, but kept reminding himself that Mannering had been at the mews flat when he had left. Mannering, Mannering—
The Cockney detective was saying with obvious satisfaction: “David Levinson, it is my duty to charge you with being in possession of a piece of antique jewellery knowing it to have been stolen, and to warn you that anything you say may be noted down and used as evidence. Have you anything to say?”
Levinson was thinking, desperately: “Mannering was there after me.”
Chittering had gone, and Mannering was sitting in the study, feet up on a pouffe, troubled, wishing that Lorna would come back yet wondering just how much he would tell her. He had not heard again from Bristow. He kept turning over Chittering’s story in his mind, facing the inescapable fact that the big money battalions were involved in this; he was not yet sure how deeply involved. He had telephoned Lord Gentian’s home, twice, but been told by someone who sounded very frail that his lordship was out, and was expected back at half past ten. It was now nearly ten o’clock.
The telephone bell rang.
He was sitting within arm’s reach of it, legs stretched
out; had Lorna been detained longer than she expected?
“Mannering,” he said.
“Chittering,” said Chittering, as briefly.
He had a way of conveying a mood with silence, and somehow he alarmed Mannering. He had left only an hour earlier, after warning Mannering not to take any active part in the Gentian affair. Why had he called so soon? He kept silent until Mannering made himself say: “Joke over.”
“This is no joke, John. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Mannering thought: The girl’s dead. Then he thought: Something’s happened to Gentian.
“All right, you warned me. What’s happened?”
“Your hot-headed young assistant David Levinson has got himself arrested,” Chittering announced. “Our man at the Back Room at the Yard phoned the information in ten minutes ago. Levinson’s been charged with stealing a piece of jewellery from Sara Gentian’s flat. That’s the piece Bristow told you about, I imagine. Nasty situation, isn’t it? Either Levinson took it, so you’re in trouble that way because it might be thought that you put him up to it. Or he didn’t, in which case the police are going to pull out all the stops in the search for the real thief. You were at the mews, remember,” Chittering added ominously. “You and Levinson must have had equal opportunity.”
Mannering heard himself saying: “I don’t believe that the charge will stick. Levinson—”
“Had the jools in his flat, I tell you,” Chittering interrupted. “Don’t run away with the idea that this one is going to be easy.”
“It won’t be easy. Where have they taken him, Chitty?”
“Cannon Row.”
“I’ll go along and see him,” Mannering said. “Thanks. Thanks very much.” He hesitated, rang off slowly, and sat staring at the drawn curtains. Vividly, he remembered one positive fact.