by John Creasey
“It wasn’t a burglary, it was an inside job. If we say nothing, the guilty party will wonder why and assume we’ve our own idea who did it. A time for frankness, I think.”
Mannering put his cigarette case and lighter in his pocket, with the jewels, and went along to Shayne’s room. When he tapped on the door, it opened almost at once. Meyer, fully dressed, stood looking at him in surprise.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Up with the lark,” said Mannering, cheerily. “Good morning, Meyer!” He stepped inside, where Shayne was sitting up in bed, with a dressing gown over his shoulders.
“I didn’t expect you so early, Mannering. Couldn’t you rest until you’d brought me the good news?”
“It isn’t quite as simple as that. What woke you so early?”
“Meyer heard a door bang, and thought he heard someone hurrying along the passage. By the time he reached the door no one was in sight.” Shayne’s eyes flared with sudden alarm. “Mannering, you haven’t been—”
“Robbed? No.” Mannering tossed the wallet onto the bed. “And I’m not even sure that the nighthawk was after these, but you’d better have them back.” Shayne picked up the wallet, feeling it as Mannering explained with Meyer listening.
Had Meyer been the prowler? The story of his wakefulness was plausible, but Mannering had passed this door and seen no one.
“So you think he might have been after the diamonds?”
“Obviously.”
“But who knew that you had them?” Shayne looked at Meyer, and frowned. “All right, Meyer, I’ll see you later.” Meyer went out. “You feel happier without him, don’t you?”
“Is he always up at six o’clock?”
“Usually before that. I am an early riser and like my bath before seven.” Shayne’s eyes were smiling; was there a hint of mockery in them? “He is absolutely trustworthy and you need not suspect him.”
“I hope you’re right. If you are, we’ve plenty to think about.”
“You mean that we might have been overheard talking in your room. Is it likely? The intruder might have been one of the servants, who thought he would get a picking from your wallet.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I think it’s possible, but I agree that it isn’t likely. O’Malley could have returned, I suppose, or sent an emissary, anxious to find out more about you. O’Malley probably knew who you were when he saw you last evening. He is a thorough rogue and a very able man. He might have reasoned that as he could not find the diamonds in my room, they were in yours. You are a collector, and O’Malley knows that I have sold pieces to other collectors here.”
“You may be right, but if the intruder were O’Malley’s man, he lived at the Grange.” Mannering lit another cigarette and went on, “It doesn’t solve the problem.”
“I’ll ask Marion to make discreet inquiries amongst the staff.”
“Why discreet? This time, we’ve nothing to gain and plenty to lose by keeping quiet.”
Shayne questioned that, argued stubbornly, and finally gave way reluctantly.
Mannering went downstairs before Lorna and sought out Lawrence, who was in the breakfast room. The old man’s lined face grew agitated as he listened to the story.
“I am extremely sorry that such a thing happened, sir. I had no idea there was anything amiss. You say you didn’t see who it was? It is so difficult to be sure that one engages respectable people these days, We had to dismiss one man who had excellent references – which were forged, I understand. He was detected, happily, before he made off with anything of great value.” Lawrence, always garrulous, went on at some length, and said finally, “I will institute inquiries at once.”
“I think you had better wait until Lady Ley is down.”
Lorna was in the hall, looking at one of the pictures near the foot of the stairs – a portrait of a woman whose loveliness matched Marion’s.
“Could the artist paint?” Mannering asked, lightly.
“Could he – my sweet! Only one man could paint a portrait like that – quite a well-known man, too. A Mr. Gainsborough. Let’s go out and see if you can tell a rose from a dandelion.” She was wearing a coat, and they went out and sauntered along the rose terrace.
They turned a corner – and stopped abruptly.
Not ten feet away, quite oblivious of them, probably unaware of anyone or anything else in the world, stood a man and a girl, arms about each other, kissing. Mannering and Lorna could not see the girl’s face.
Lorna pulled at Mannering’s arm.
They moved back hastily. “That’s what you’d do if you really loved me,” Lorna whispered.
When he released her, she was breathless.
Soon, they heard footsteps behind them, and the murmur of voices.
“So Charles got back,” Mannering said.
The young couple caught up with them, near the new west wing, with its clean Bath stone and simple architecture.
Charles was dark; dashing, like his mother; hard to picture as Ley’s son. The girl had a glowing freshness; there was radiance in her blue eyes and flushed cheeks. She was tall for a woman, tall enough for Charles. Her Women’s Air Force uniform fitted snugly; full-breasted, smart, she showed up Charles in brown corduroy trousers, jacket, and blue shirt.
He grinned as he saw them.
“Hallo, hallo, there!” They met, and Charles presented the girl casually. “This is Celia Brent – Mr. and Mrs. John Mannering. Mother told us that you were about. We arrived in the early hours of the morning.”
“She told us you were coming.”
Charles laughed. “Only one of us. I sprang Celia as a surprise.”
“He ought to have warned them,” said Celia.
The morning sun made the engagement ring on her finger sparkle. A single diamond with a pearl on either side. And the sparkle in her eyes matched that of the stone.
Charles was obviously so much in love that he took it for granted that Celia would be accepted without question. How old was Charles? Twenty-three or -four. Celia might be two or three years older; she wasn’t just a girl.
Celia went upstairs, Lorna went to the breakfast room with Charles, Mannering went up to refill his cigarette case, wondering how this development would affect the Leys. As he reached the passage, he heard Shayne speak – not in his mellow voice, but with a hardness that sounded ugly.
“I insist, do you understand? I should have been consulted.”
Celia said lightly, “Marcus, dear, I didn’t stop to ask you if I could fall in love. And since you know the family—”
“Until I have had time to consider I do not want it known that we have met before. This creates a delicate situation, and I want time to think.”
Celia said, “Marcus, I’m in love with him. Don’t forget that.”
“You wouldn’t be, if you hadn’t met him. Now go downstairs.”
Mannering backed a few paces, then stepped forward heavily. When Celia saw him, she smiled, but her radiance had gone, her beauty was that of a mature woman, not a girl. The sparkle in her eyes was one of anger.
What mystery lurked here? What did Shayne know of Celia? What gave him the right to command her, and persuade her to obey?. It was the first black mark against Shayne, the first blemish on the shining armour of sacrifice and valour.
He found Shayne in the great library, on the ground floor. A spacious, high chamber with panelled walls of age-darkened oak, tall, churchlike windows through which the sun shone and splashed pastel colours from the stained glass onto the leather books in solid shelves. It was quiet; a peaceful room.
Shayne was looking through The Times.
“Well, Mannering? Are you wide awake now?”
“Enough to say I’ll play.”
The paper was steady in Shayne’s hands; then began to tremble. Marion came in, caught sight of him, and exclaimed: “Marcus, what is it?”
“It’s all right. Mannering’s with us.”
“John!” Mari
on turned, took his hands tightly – kissed him. Her eyes were starry and her delight real – no doubt of that. “John, you’ll never regret it!”
“Has Lawrence told you about the trouble last night?”
“Yes.” Marion frowned, but her eyes remained bright. “I can’t understand it, but—you’re the detective. Do what you think is necessary. If you’d said ‘No,’ I think I would have called this Black Sunday.”
Shayne said quickly, “Why? What else is there to worry about?”
“Charles – and this Celia. Oh, I’m being a possessive mother! It was a shock, and I’m so much on edge. I mustn’t let her see it, though.”
Mannering thought. The new intrusion, Celia, only affected him because of her association with Marcus, which might have some bearing on Shayne’s activity. Shayne could have a dozen mistresses without detracting from his ‘work’; and there was little doubt that he was doing all he said.
Few knew that he had this enemy.
There was no love lost between him and Celia.
Charles was outside, calling, “Mother, Mother!” Marion hurried out, and Shayne folded The Times and put it aside.
“Yesterday, I was lucky to escape death. I’ve thought a lot about it. They might succeed at the next attempt, or – any time. If they do, will you carry on where I’ve left off?”
“Need we be gloomy?”
“A wise man makes his will early.”
But Shayne thought it wise to conceal from him the fact that he knew Celia. How much more was he concealing? How much was devil, how much saint? Queer fact; he thought of Shayne in extravagant terms, imagined him a lordling priest and the library his great abbey.
“Where are those diamonds?” Mannering said.
“Ferris stayed overnight, and will take them to London today. There is a shipment ready for America – it’s going with a convoy. You’d be fascinated by the way get the goods out of the country.”
“I’ll have a look at the next shipment,” Mannering said. “What do you want me to do first?”
“Catch O’Malley and find his master. Then—”
Mannering said dryly, “Then I’ll have passed the test and be fully admitted into mystic rites.”
“Mannering!” Shayne jumped up. “If you think I’ve kept anything back—”
“I’ll find O’Malley,” Mannering promised.
He heard a faint sound behind one of the bookshelves, the first he’d heard since Marion had gone out. It brought a sharp sense of danger and of being watched. Shayne, obviously still affected by the talk of ‘mystic rites,’ said he must see Ferris and went out. Mannering opened The Times and rustled it loudly as he crept towards the end of the bookshelves. He whistled faintly, too. He reached the end and looked round.
Robert Ley, glasses low on the high bridge of his nose, appeared to be deep in a book.
There was another door; Ley always moved quietly and the thick carpet deadened sound. Had he just come in? Or had he heard everything they’d talked about – and was he spying on Marion and Shayne?
Celia said, “Charles, darling. I’d love to see your village. Isn’t it one that belongs to the estate? Aren’t all the villagers servants?”
Charles grinned.
“No. Tenants, which is not the same. Coming with us, John?”
Lorna said, “No, we—”
“Do come,” pleaded Celia.
So they walked round the tiny church, with its grey stone and squat Norman tower, Charles talking of the history of’ the stained-glass window here, a beautiful thing which gave colour and beauty to the tiny nave. He told them that the brass figures on the floor, with lettering almost worn out by the tread of worshippers over the centuries, were of earlier generations of his mother’s family – the Clintons. Charles seemed to know every detail of that family history. His voice, quiet inside the church, told the story with affection and respect.
Here was sanctity and sanctuary, freedom from the emotional stresses and strains, from lurking fears, from the spectre of those forgotten creatures across the English Channel. Rest from O’Malley, from danger, even from the mystery of Celia and Shayne. Mannering watched Celia closely, saw the way she loved to touch Charles, how she looked at him while he talked, not heeding what he said.
Outside, the day was bright after the gloom inside the church. The hamlet’s one wide road was swept clean by wind and rain. The front door of the tiny village inn, with its thatched roof and mullion windows stood open, and on the threshold stood a man wearing a bowler hat. Above his head was an inn sign, a black bear; and the name, The Bear Inn.
The man stared at them owlishly.
Mannering recognised O’Malley standing there as if he had not a care in the world.
Chapter Ten
O’Malley appeared to be standing, basking, chiefly to remind Mannering of his existence. He actually smiled affably! As if it didn’t enter his mind that he could be charged with burgling the Grange.
Mannering was nearest the inn and O’Malley. He gripped Lorna’s arm and said softly: “I won’t be long. You carry on. Get them away.”
O’Malley drew nearer, noticed now by Charles and Celia.
Mannering said, “Here’s an old acquaintance, I think. Don’t wait.” He left the others with a “Right-ho!” from Charles and a preoccupied smile from Celia. O’Malley waited for him at the edge of the cobbled yard.
His blue eyes were smiling; no Irishman could ever look more Irish or more merry. Yet his voice was quite free from accent, unusual only because it was too precise. The impudent smile spread slowly from his crinkled eyes over his round face, with its button of a nose and full, curved lips. He wore the bowler hat on the back of his head and his thumbs were poked into the armholes of his waistcoat.
“I am glad you recognised me, Mr. Mannering! Could I have the pleasure of a few minutes’ private talk with you?”
“Before we go to the police?”
O’Malley’s eyes twinkled.
“Oh, come, you won’t try that! I want to do you a service. You did not report my visit to the Grange yesterday, did you? And isn’t that another way of saying that you preferred to keep it to yourself – and, perhaps, to Marcus Shayne.”
O’Malley turned and led the way into The Bear, resting a hand on Mannering’s arm confidentially. “Shall we go to my room? It is very comfortable, if small and humble.”
“Your room will do as well as any, Mr. O’Malley.”
“So you have discussed me with Shayne! Only he could have given you my name.”
They were in the narrow hall of The Bear; a smell of beer and spirits hung about, the little inn was snug and warm, a bright fire burning in the lounge. The staircase was on the right of the hall, and Mannering was led up to a narrow landing and into a long, lowceilinged bedroom, dark because of the overhanging thatch. It was at the front of the inn, probably the best room mine host could offer.
O’Malley beamed at him, as if they were old friends, showing no sign of anxiety. It was as if the encounter at the Grange was a thing of fantasy; and O’Malley was fantastic, with his baggy trousers and smooth tongue and the bowler hat which he tossed onto a chair. Did this mean that he’d fled from someone else the previous night? Perhaps from the police and not from Mannering?
“Sit down, and make yourself at home,” invited O’Malley, pushing a chair close to the glowing embers of a log fire and running his hand over his bald head. “I cannot offer you cigarettes, being a non-smoker.” He tossed more logs onto the fire and sat down on a little, upholstered stool. Mannering had the only armchair, which was fitted with wings and proved to be a dream of comfort. “But please smoke, if you would like to.”
“You’re very accommodating.”
“And so are you, I didn’t think you would accept my invitation, but then you are not an ordinary man. I have read about your career with great admiration. What a man! What a mind! And fancy, now – you’re well known to the police in London, aren’t you, to the great ones of Scotland Yard
?”
“I know some of them.”
“You don’t have to be modest with me, now. I want to be very frank with you, I do indeed. I am interested in the crimes of Marcus Shayne – I say ‘crimes’ deliberately, although it may annoy you, being a friend of his – if you weren’t, you wouldn’t be at the Grange, would you?”
“Wouldn’t I?”
O’Malley gave a soft but rollicking laugh. “You won’t give anything away, will you? Well, now, I am very interested in the crimes of Marcus Shayne. Ah, what a scoundrel he is, with a silver tongue and the face of a saint turned devil. I hope it won’t be long before you know him for the rogue he is, Mr. Mannering, and a mighty dangerous man. It’s the very least I could wish any man. I know that, because of his misdeeds, Shayne dare not go to the police. Didn’t he persuade you not to report my visit? Now, why won’t a frightened man go to the police? Why, I’ve made him jump myself, from here to Christmas, just by banging a door behind him! When I heard that he was attempting to get in touch with you, I remembered that you’ve friends among the police. O’Malley, I said to myself, O’Malley, that wicked man is going to ask the good John Mannering to assist him in his nefarious work – that, no less, of hunting me down!”
“And what did yourself say to O’Malley?”
“But, then, I am an Irishman! All the Irish talk to themselves, they say. I’ll tell you more, Mr. Mannering, about the quality of my work and the cunning of my mind. I decided to find out whether you were assisting Shayne from that charming cottage of yours.”
He smiled widely, wreathing his round, monkey-like face with deep grooves.
“So you’ve been to Holly Cottage, have you?” Mannering said, and lit a cigarette.
“Oh, yes, I have seen it. Indeed a friend of mine stayed nearby for a few days, on Friday and Saturday morning, as ever was. Would you be able to tell me how Superintendent Bristow is keeping?”
“Nicely, thank you. You’re fond of springing surprises.”
“Indeed I am! And there are surprises coming to Marcus Shayne and all his friends. Which leads me to the point which I am most anxious to make with you. The friends of Marcus Shayne—or, should I say, his business partners?—are not good friends of mine. Many of them are fooled by his soft voice and gentle manners, but I hope you are not one of them.”