by John Creasey
“Enough to make me want to find out more,” said Mannering. “Wait for a minute.” He went to the door and Susan wheeled in a tea trolley, smiled and bobbed to Julia, and went out. “Tea?” He began to set out plates and cups and saucers on small tables. “Now if you threatened to take away my afternoon tea you might frighten me.”
“You will be frightened if you go on with this.”
“Not so frightened as poor Fay. I think she is in the hands of what they call a heartless adventuress, and I don’t think it’s good for her.” Mannering poured out. “Milk and sugar?”
“Thank you. Fay will be all right if you leave her alone, but might not be if you harass her too much.”
“Do you travel with knock-out drops in your pocket, or have you a variety of ways for silencing the talkative and the inquisitive?” His hand was steady as he poured out milk. “I’m still worried about Fay. She’s nearly a rich young woman, and I should hate to see Jacob’s money get into the wrong hands.”
“Nearly,” Julia said softly. “Why nearly?”
“Probate hasn’t been granted yet. And some obscure relative of Jacob may turn up and claim that he wasn’t in his right mind when he made that will. As an executor I think I can make sure that it is several months before Fay inherits, and that should give me time to find out all you don’t want me to know. You’re taking on a lot more than me, Julia: You’re taking on the law in its most tedious form. You won’t be able to hurry it, any more than you’ll be able to stop me from probing. And you’ve whetted my appetite. I haven’t been so hungry for information in years.” His eyes laughed at her. “I’m glad you called, it makes you human and tells me that you’re also frightened. Have a sandwich.”
She took one.
“What will make you forget Fay?”
“I can’t forget her. Jacob Bernstein made me an executor of his will, so I have to see the thing through. Don’t waste time trying to scare me by threatening to tell the police how much I haven’t told them.”
“I’m afraid you’re a fool,” said Julia gently.
“My wife would agree with you.”
“And yet I think you’ve some common sense, and you must know that I’m serious.” She leaned back, and he saw that her eyes were a deep blue, almost violet. She looked more lovely now than when she had been at Fay’s flat. “Where have you put the Tear?”
Mannering almost gave himself away, looked down at his tea and stirred it earnestly, then looked up as if he had just understood what she had said.
“What’s that?”
“I asked you where you’ve put the Tear.”
“That’s hardly funny.” His voice grew harsh, he looked at her with sudden, cold hostility. “Your friend the murderer took big risks to find the Tear; I’ll take bigger ones to get it back.
She said: “He didn’t take it because he couldn’t find it. You wouldn’t let Fay go in. You were there from the time he left until the police arrived, and if the Tear had been at the shop they would have found it. Where have you put it?”
“You should use a more reliable burglar.”
“He reported immediately that he hadn’t been able to find it.” Julia Fiori finished her tea and put the cup down, and said softly: “Four people have died because they had possession of the Tear but had no right to it. Money doesn’t give you, didn’t give Jacob Bernstein and doesn’t give anyone, the right to own the Diamond of Tears. Three men and a woman have died because they thought they could keep it from its rightful owner. Others will try and others will die, if they hold on to it. I shouldn’t feel safe walking along the street if I were in your position.”
“So you’ve committed all the murders,” Mannering said drily.
“I’ve committed none. I know the history and I know the truth about that diamond. I know that whoever wants the Tear will stop at nothing to get it. He’ll brush you aside as ruthlessly as he did Jacob Bernstein. Where is it?”
“If I knew, you’d get it over my dead body. I don’t.” He gave a short, convincingly bitter laugh. “I thought I did, but the thief was smarter than Jacob, and knew his pet hiding-place. I was anxious about it—I have a prospective customer.”
“I’ve told you that money can’t buy the Tear, or the safety of anyone who owns it.”
“You’ve told me a lot of odd things and I don’t believe half of them.” He stood with his cup in one hand, saucer in the other, and made every word count. “I shall find the killer of Jacob Bernstein; I shall find the Tear. If Fay Goulden wants to keep it I’ll make sure that she can, safely. I know the strength of the police and of the other side. I know there are a lot of things I can do that the police can’t, but before it’s over the police will catch the foul brutes who commit murder for that stone.”
Julia Fiori opened her handbag suddenly, and Mannering started back, half expecting her to show a gun – but all she had in her hand was an envelope. “Look at these.”
“What are they?”
“True stories about the murder of the other people who owned the Diamond of Tears. Read them, and see whether you enjoy your tea afterwards.”
He slipped the envelope into his pocket.
“Later. We’re at war, Julia. More tea?”
“No. Do you remember telling me that you’re a married man?”
“Well?” He spoke more sharply.
“If you don’t care for your own safety, think of your wife’s.” She looked straight into his eyes, which had gone bleak again. “You think you know a great deal, actually you know little. I don’t want the Tear. I should be afraid of it. But I know something about those who do, and how far they’ll go to get it. You’ll understand more when you’ve read those reports. They’re confidential police reports, the full story was never told in public. Jacob was lucky. He was killed quickly. But they will make you suffer, and not just physically. Mannering, you must listen.” Her voice was composed, her earnestness touched with desperation. “I’ve told you that if I had the Tear I shouldn’t feel safe to walk along the street. Every minute of every day I should be afraid—for myself, my relatives, my friends. I’ve never been more serious. I’m helping Fay because she needs help badly. I want you to forget the Tear—let them have it, and then wash your hands of it, not because I’ve any regard for you or your wife, but because I’m fond of Fay.”
She stood up quickly. Although he wanted to scoff at her he felt on edge. She turned to the door, reached it first, crossed the hall and opened the front door. She didn’t speak again until she was on the landing. Then: “Get rid of the Tear tonight. They’ll come here and search for it. Let them find it. That’s your only hope.”
She turned and walked down the stone steps, her footsteps ringing clearly. She did not look back, but Mannering stood by the open door until he heard her go out of the house.
The telephone bell rang …
“Oh, darling,” said Lorna, “I can’t get away for several hours yet. I just have to stay here, unless—”
“You stay,” said Mannering. “Where are you?”
“At the Richmond Gallery. It’s the Exhibition Committee, and it would be unforgivable if I left now.”
“You must certainly stay!”
“Has anything happened?”
“Odds and ends, they’ll keep until I see you tonight.” He wiped his forehead, surprised to find it cold and damp; he hoped his voice didn’t betray the effect of Julia Fiori’s last words. “I may not be in until late. Chittering is making himself a busy bee. I haven’t seen the police for some time, I think they’ve given me a clean bill.”
“How late will you be?”
“Not a minute later than I can help,” said Mannering. “I—here’s Chittering now. I’ll be seeing you.”
He rang off, dropped into a chair, and called himself a fool. Because a woman had threatened him with unk
nown horrors he shouldn’t feel like this, but he did. Or was it because of what he already knew about the Tear? He touched the envelope in his pocket as Susan came in briskly. “Shall I clear, sir?” He nodded. He lit a cigarette and went across the room to the cocktail cabinet, poured a stiff whisky, sipped and drank.
“I’m crazy!” he told himself.
But he went back to the telephone and dialled Whitehall 1212, and was impatient until Bristow came on the line.
“Hallo, John. Going to confess?”
“Yes. The Tear has got under my skin.”
“Well, where is it?”
“I’ll send you a postcard. Bill, someone who wants the Tear badly thinks that I know where it is. I can’t give you names, but I’ve had a nasty jolt.”
Bristow said slowly: “Yes, you sound as if you had. What is it?”
“Threats. Against Lorna.”
“Perhaps that will teach you not to make a fool of yourself. What kind of threats?”
“Can you put a good man on to watch her? She’s at the Richmond Gallery in Bute Street, and in committee for the next hour or so. After that she’ll come straight here. I have to be out. I’d prefer not to have this on my mind.”
“I’ve never known you impressed by threats before,” said Bristow. “Well, I was going to have your flat watched, anyhow. John, don’t get your fingers dirty. I tried to warn you earlier, but you wouldn’t take me seriously. You’ve taken the other people seriously, which is something. This is a foul job.”
“Meaning?”
“Come round here one day and I’ll show you the unexpurgated reports of what happened to the earlier owners of the Diamond of Tears. ’Bye.”
Mannering read the reports of how three men and a woman had died; and as he read he seemed to be withdrawn from this friendly room and friendly city, to be exposed to bleakness and horror which sent a chill along his spine and brought a cold sweat to his forehead. They were written in straightforward language, with no effort to make the flesh creep – and the effect was greater than if he had been reading some vivid narrative of imagined murder.
Each man had died the same way.
Not one had been recognisable afterwards; each had been identified after long investigation by the police. The medical reports, brief and revealing, told what had happened to them before death; and the quiet room seemed filled with dark shadows.
He turned to the story of the woman’s death – and started back, dropping the papers, sheering away from them as if the horror had come into the room. For fastened to the last story was a photograph of what had once been a woman; mutilated, despoiled. He steeled himself to pick up the papers again, to turn the photograph over and to read of what had been done to a wealthy woman of renowned beauty and intelligence – and then, he made himself study the photograph.
Darkness fell slowly, yet it was a long time before he stretched out a hand and switched on the light – and as he touched the switch the telephone bell rang. He let it ring and jar through his head, then took off the receiver and said harshly: “Who is that?”
“I’m glad you’ve read them,” said Julia Fiori. “Now will you believe me when I tell you you must give up the Tear?”
Chapter Ten
The Fat Man
He could fetch the Tear from the post office, leave it in some obvious place, go out and keep both Susan and Lorna away from the flat until the thieves had been and gone. Or he could tell Bristow what he had done, and leave a note to tell the thieves that for the Diamond of Tears they must apply to Scotland Yard.
Or he could go on as he had started.
The first method would remove all fears, real and imagined; and betray the memory of Jacob Bernstein. The second might well anger the thieves, make them suspect that he still had the jewel. Even if they believed him they might call off the hunt until Fay inherited everything, including the Tear, then strike again.
That amazed him most; his absolute conviction that at all costs they would get the Tear. He might save himself, yet leave Fay a potential victim of a great horror.
Only fear would allow him even to consider that.
Questions crowded into his mind.
Why had Julia kept five imitation Tears in her jewel-drawer? Why had she kept a note of Bernstein’s will? How had she obtained it? Would he be wise to see Bristow again, tell him everything, leave him to tackle the job? Would it really help Fay or anyone if he himself persisted? There must be a limit to pride, was there really anything stronger than pride tormenting him, urging him to carry on?
Better see Bristow, now, while the mood was on him. He needed to conjure up only two pictures in his mind’s eye; Lorna, as she was, and the woman as she appeared in that photograph.
He started at a tap on the door.
“Yes?”
“I’m just going, sir, is there anything else you want?” Fair hair, confined in a tiny hat above a freckled face, appeared at the door.
“No thanks. Have a good time.” It was Susan’s evening off-duty.
“Oh, I will. I’m going to a dance,” said Susan. The front door slammed. The only sounds came from outside, a hum of traffic, the mournful hoot of a tug on the river. He stood at the window, looking out over the lighted streets on both sides of the Thames, his resolve weakening even now. But for Lorna he would take a chance. While he had the Tear, and while the others had a chance to get it from him, he could draw their fire and perhaps lure them into a mistake they wouldn’t make with Bristow.
He put on his hat and coat, slapped his gloves against his thigh, and went out, pulling the door behind him, shutting out the light.
Two figures loomed out of the darkness; one in front, one behind him. He saw the first, drew back, felt his hat tipped over his eyes and a blow smash on the back of his head. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
There was too much light. It hurt his eyes, no matter how tightly he kept them closed, and the pain spread from his eyes to the back of his head, his head and shoulders seemed to be on fire. He heard a strange grunting, groaning sound, which stopped abruptly as he realised he was making it himself. The light was like fire, too – the fire of lightning, white and brilliant but there all the time; it didn’t fade.
It hadn’t come suddenly, but slowly and with increasing effect, lite the remorseless pressure of a tightening vice. He heard the drumming of the blood in his ears. He could think of nothing else, gave no thought to where he was or how he had got there, or to what had happened before. There was no past; only the agonising present and a menacing future.
Then other sounds came; a muttering, as of voices. They seemed far away. There was a shadow over his eyes, which gave him slight relief. It disappeared, and the light blazed mercilessly down on him. The voices drew nearer, as if someone were talking to him.
A new pain streaked through his head; he knew that fingers were touching and probing. That stopped, and he realised that he was gasping with mingled pain and relief. He could not distinguish the words, but knew that the speaker was close to him. Someone touched his arm, pulled up his sleeve until it tightened about his forearm and the blood pumped vigorously through the veins, pain in another place. He felt a sharp prick in his forearm and a lingering pressure which made his arm swell until the shirt and coat sleeve were like iron bands round it. He had been given an injection.
The light went out; blessed darkness came.
Gradually the pain dulled. He could move and feel ordinary things, and even begin to think. He didn’t think far back yet; only about the men who had talked, the injection and the relief from the glaring light. Slowly he began to wonder where he was and what had happened to him. Then he remembered Julia Fiori, and a flood of other recollections came. The most vivid was a picture of what had once been a woman, and it struck a new note of horror. It soon faded. He felt relaxed and free from pain and full of a
new confidence, as if he knew that all would be well.
He moved his hands and legs.
He was lying flat, on something soft; a bed, of course. He could touch the sides without moving his hands far, so it was a single bed. He was warm, beneath an eiderdown. He pushed it back. His feet were cold, he couldn’t understand that for a while, but at last it dawned on him that his shoes were off and his feet weren’t covered; he drew them up beneath the warmth of the eiderdown. He was quite comfortable now, and drowsy – but it was the drowsiness before full wakefulness, not of sleep.
He heard music, a waltz played some distance away, perhaps from a radio. Footsteps drew near but passed the door which he could not see.
He sat up, slowly, expecting pain to surge through his head, but although there was stiffness there was no actual pain. He groped in his pocket for his lighter, and found it; a tiny flame flickered, showing the bed, a table and a lamp by it. He let the flame go out, groped for the lamp and found the switch. He closed his eyes against the light, but whatever they had given him had driven all pain away.
This was a small room.
The bed was in a corner, opposite a white-painted door. Alongside the head of the bed, in front of a curtained window, was a small walnut dressing-table, against another wall was a wardrobe; it might be a bedroom in any suburban house, cheaply furnished but with no little taste. There was a woolly fringe on the shade of the lamp, and by the lamp his cigarette-case, an ashtray and a glass of water. He took the glass and put it to his lips, then hesitated; was it safe to drink this? Drink up! There was no need for his captors to drug the water, they could do what they liked with him in his present condition. He drank deeply.
Soon, with a cigarette between his lips and leaning back on his pillows, he began to think more naturally. The sense of dread was missing, although he felt vaguely that it should still be with him. He caught a glimpse of his face in a side mirror of the dressing-table, leaned forward to get a better view. He looked pale, but saw neither bandage nor adhesive plaster. What had caused the pain? Where had that powerful light come from? He glanced up and saw the pale cylinder of fluorescent lighting in the ceiling; that explained it.