by John Creasey
Shayne lay on the floor, with a bullet wound in his forehead, glazed eyes turned towards Meyer. Meyer was almost unrecognisable, for his mouth was blown in.
Chapter Fifteen
Mannering went down on his knees by Shayne’s side.
He felt his pulse, then Meyer’s, before standing up.
Duval cried, “No, no!” He stared downward, as if the sight of his dead partner fascinated him. Somewhere near, a clock ticked loudly; and one chimed in a mellow tone.
“Who else should be here?” asked Mannering.
“There are two assistants, yes. But M’sieu Shayne told me he was going to send them away today, early. He wished us to have this talk without any danger of being overheard, M’sieu Mannering. Alas, he will never talk now. And—he was so good. As good as man can be! What shall we do, M’sieu? The—the police. But M’sieu Shayne—”
“You can’t keep murder from the police.” Mannering reached for the telephone, and dialled the familiar number: Whitehall 1212. There was no sign of a gun near the bodies.
The operator at Scotland Yard answered, Mannering asked for Bristow, who came quickly on the line.
“Hallo, John! News for me already?”
“Yes. Shayne has been murdered.”
Bristow caught his breath.
“Where are you speaking from?”
“The Leyden Galleries in Bond Street. Shayne’s here, with his valet, both shot at close quarters.”
Mannering rang off, and Duval said more soberly, “You know them well. It is good. This devil, we must find him soon. Even the police, and he did not want their help. He was afraid his great work would be spoiled.”
“Yes. Is there anything here about the secret work?”
“Not unless it is in his pockets. None of the private business is dealt with here, you understand. There are very few records. Always we take no chances.”
Mannering said, “The murderers will have been through his pockets, but we’d better make sure. Will you look through Meyer’s?”
“The police—”
“Won’t know, unless you tell them.”
“I shall not tell them,” murmured Duval. “No, I will not spoil the great work, but—the danger, it is much worse.”
Mannering began to go through Shayne’s pockets. From the inside of the coat he drew a wallet and a large envelope, heavily sealed but with the seals broken. He put them aside, then went quickly through the other pockets; there was nothing about the smuggling. He stood up and glanced through the contents of the wallet. There were several hundred pounds in five-pound notes; some business cards, stamps, registration card – but nothing likely to interest the police – except the money.
Robbery had not been the motive.
Duval was fumbling at Meyer’s pocket, as if reluctant to do that.
Mannering took the papers out of the sealed envelope; they were typewritten lists, and looked like a large business account; each item was marked with a price.
His eyes grew hard as he read.
He read the items typed on the list, and realised just how far Shayne had gone. There were dozens of items of jewellery, each clearly described, and against each was a note saying who had sent it to England, and how it had come. Ships – men concerned – everything was here. He glanced at two similar sheets. One disclosed how money – always silver – was smuggled into France, and how several underground organisations assisted the work of rescue. A fourth list gave details of transactions through the Overseas Assistance League, with the Swedish Red Cross; legal enough, not, like the others.
Had Bristow found them, they would give him conclusive evidence that Shayne had been smuggling goods into England, as well as smuggling money out; that the League was financed by the sale of gems smuggled from the Continent. There was a comprehensive financial statement, confirming everything Shayne had told Mannering; damning in the eyes of the police.
“What have you found?” Duval asked.
Mannering said, “Just a minute,” and turned to the last sheet. On it, Shayne, Duval, Meyer, Ferris, Marion, and another person resident in England were named; and there were also the names of the Spanish and Portuguese agents through whom Shayne worked. A million-dollar scandal, and, perhaps, the lives of a thousand men and women.
He looked up and said heavily: “Enough to put you and Lady Ley and everyone else concerned in jail for years, Duval. Is there a back way out?”
“You are sure of this?”
“Yes. That back door, is there one?”
“No. No! M’sieu, what—”
Mannering sat at the office desk, took a large envelope from a rack, and wrote swiftly: John Mannering, Esq., c/o The Rt. Hon. The Lord Fauntley, Portland Place, London, S.W.I. He tucked the other envelope and the papers, inside, sealed it, and stamped it from a book of stamps in his pocket. Duval, his eyes still dazed, watched him.
“Now keep your head. Go out and post that. If the police find that, everything’s over.”
“So.” Duval took the envelope and hurried out of the shop.
Mannering stood looking down at the dead men. Poor Shayne – half saint, half devil, or wholly saint? It didn’t matter, now. Savage murder, hatred, had overtaken him, and – he’d named Mannering as his heir.
Heir to what? Devilry, or work of mercy?
Was there doubt?
Examine the facts, and they were simple. Shayne would not have carried those papers about with him, knowing that he might be attacked at any moment. They’d been planted; a favourite O’Malley gambit. Kill Shayne, plant the evidence, and laugh while the police broke up the organisation.
“I want an heir, Mannering.”
Well, he had an heir. That work must go on, nothing must be allowed to stop it. Mannering looked at Shayne’s cold face, and knew that he could not fail him. And as he stared, all doubts faded; he knew that Shayne had told the truth. Duval came back, hurrying, agitated but pleased. “It is all right, M’sieu! I placed it in the red postbox.” A car pulled up outside.
“Good. Now forget it. If they ask you where you’ve been, you tried to get some cigarettes, but the shop was closed.”
The shop door opened and Bristow and two other plain-clothes men came in. Mannering knew them both: Detective Sergeant Willis and Detective Sergeant Platt, capable officers, who usually worked with Bristow. Bristow came first; and Mannering led him into the office.
“We found him a little over half an hour ago, just before I called you,” he said.
“This is M. Francois Duval, who—”
“I had the honour to be associated with M’sieu Shayne.” Duval bowed. “It is my hope that you will soon find his assassin, M. L’inspecteur.”
Bristow said, “We’ll try. Will you wait, please.” He turned to the dead men, but did not take long with them and his cigarettes came out.
The police surgeon, short and stocky, arrived with other detectives. A camera flashed into use; big men began a systematic search for prints under Bristow’s laconic instructions. Duval kept flicking specks of dust off his sleeve.
Another plain-clothes man came in.
“Ah, Ellis! I want you to see all the patrolmen and constables who have been on duty nearby this afternoon – we want descriptions of all people who’ve entered this place,” said Bristow. “Put a man on the nearby shops, too – those across the road especially. Inquire for any sharp noise, as a car back firing.”
“Right!” Ellis strolled out.
Now, Mr. Mannering – this way, please. Won’t keep you long, M. Duval.” Bristow smiled at the Frenchman, who bowed – and flicked. “He’ll wear his cuff out soon,” Bristow growled. “Know him well?”
“I’ve only just met him.” They were in a corner, near the back window. “Now, let’s have it.”
Five minutes was sufficient.
Bristow said, “Shayne was excited about that call, you say, knew where O’Malley was, thought he was near the end of his troubles. O’Malley didn’t agree. That what you think?”
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“It fits.”
“Describe Mr. O’Malley again.”
Mannering said, “Plump, pale round face, five-feet-eight, completely bald, blue eyes, snub nose – looks every inch an Irishman. Weighs about a hundred and eighty. Do you have to pick him up?”
“No. But I’m going to find out where he is. Any idea?”
“I don’t know where to find O’Malley or who he’s working for. Want me anymore?”
“Not now. I’ll talk to your French friend; he knows more about Shayne than you do.” Bristow led the way to the office, where C.I.D. men were measuring the position of the bodies and grey powder was smeared everywhere in the search for prints.
“I have to go, M’sieu,” Mannering said. “Where can I find you, if necessary?”
“I will be here, M. Mannering, in the morning. Tonight?” He flicked. “It is a matter for M. L’inspecteur to say. I wish to help in every way.”
Mannering went out and looked about him. A man wearing a green pork-pie hat, like O’Malley’s first one, passed. Mannering’s muscles tensed; a sign of nerves. Who wouldn’t be nervous, knowing that he was heir to Shayne’s enemy?
Was O’Malley the only enemy?
On the other side of Bond Street, among the thinning crowd, for it was now after six-thirty, was a tall, melancholy man whom Mannering knew to be Detective Sergeant Tanker Tring. Tring and the Baron were old enemies; Tring and’ Mannering old friends. So Bristow had sent Tring outside with instructions to follow him when he left the galleries. Mannering strolled along Bond Street, occasionally making sure that Tring was keeping pace with him on the other side of the road. Bristow meant this as a friendly gesture, was alive to the danger of sudden death, but Tring would be more nuisance than help.
Mannering quickened his pace at Piccadilly, where the crowds were thicker. His height gave Tring a good chance of keeping him in sight; he’d have to be slick to dodge the man. He hurried on, without glancing over his shoulder, but when he reached the first corner, he saw that Tring had been delayed by the crowds and was now twenty yards behind.
Mannering turned left, towards Piccadilly Circus. A line of traffic was held up at traffic lights on amber. He stepped into the road and reached the opposite pavement as the traffic surged forward. He jumped on a bus which was moving slowly past him, already crowded, and with people standing on the platform. He got off at the Circus. It was getting dark. A few lights shone out boldly, but would soon be blacked out. London looked dingy and drab; every other person was in uniform. Women strutted past him, invitingly.
Shayne was dead; he was Shayne’s heir – to an enemy and to murder.
Had Bristow sent anyone to Shayne’s flat?
Probably he didn’t know the place. It wasn’t in the telephone book, but the police would find a record of it at the galleries. The sooner he got there and searched, the better. There might be a copy of that list; if Shayne’s work were to go on, the police mustn’t find one.
He took a taxi to Craven Mansions in Westminster, and arrived twenty minutes after he’d dodged Tring. No one was loitering about; certainly no detectives.
The block of flats had been one of the last blocks built before the war. The rents were sky-high; only the very rich could afford to live there. The decoration gave an illusion of value for money; thick carpet muffled the sound of Mannering’s footsteps. Discreet wall lighting glowed in all the passages. The lift was not on the ground floor, and Mannering saw from a notice board that Number 11 was only one flight up, so he walked. No one was about.
He reached the door of Shayne’s flat, and put a hand to the doorbell – then drew back. Inside, a voice was raised; a woman whom he did not recognise.
“Let me gol I tell you I know nothing!”
A man said, “I don’t believe you.”
They were standing just inside the door, or their voices would not have sounded so clearly. Mannering recognised the man’s; Robert Ley was here.
Chapter Sixteen
There was silence now, as if Ley were waiting for the woman to admit that she had lied. The silence dragged on until Ley said angrily: “Tell me the truth!”
Mannering rang the bell.
If the police arrived and found Ley there it would involve him in the investigation. Keep Ley out of it, if he could. If Shayne and Marion were—had been!—lovers, it gave Ley a motive.
Why was he here? To probe into the truth of Marion’s association with Shayne? Who was the woman?
She said, “Who’s that?”
“Quiet!” growled Ley.
Mannering heard a hurried footstep and whispered voices. He put his finger on the bell again. The door opened. Celia stood there.
Mannering said slowly, “Well, well! It’s a small world.”
Great eyes in a lovely face were rounded. “Who—oh, Mr. Mannering!”
She was in uniform, and hatless. Her breast rose and fell agitatedly, although relief echoed in her voice. “What—what do you want?”
I never want anything, I just take what comes along.” He stepped inside, closed the door, and switched on the light of a spacious hall. Of course, she knew Shayne; it wasn’t really surprising to find her here. But Bob Ley. Ley came from a room on the right, eyes glittering behind his glasses; still angry, and nervous.
“’Lo, Bob. Get going, will you?”
“What do you want, John?”
“You, out of here, quickly.”
Ley looked tired. He sounded absurdly formal when he said: “I shall do nothing of the kind. I intend to stay until Shayne returns.”
“Why, Bob?” Mannering spoke lightly.
“That is my business.”
“Have you any right here?”
“I think so.”
Mannering swung round to the girl. “Have you?”
She said, “What right have you to ask?”
Mannering said, “You’re both wonderful! I half wish I hadn’t come. But I’ll be patient. Bob, scram. Celia, unless you’ve bona-fide reasons for being here, go with him.”
She glared and raised clenched fists.
“Don’t talk to me like that!” Her eyes were glassy, her breast heaved. “It’s all part of the plot. Damn you, all! You’re in it together, it’s a plot to get me away from Charles. You can’t! He loves me, he’ll do anything for me.” She was almost sobbing, and her hands were raised as if to strike them if they drew too close. “I’ve a right to live my own life, I’ve as much right to happiness as anyone. I won’t go, I won’t!”
Mannering said, “Quite good. Almost convincing.”
“John—” Ley began.
“Clear out, Bob. That’s good advice. I’ll deal with her ladyship.”
“Damn you!” screamed Celia. “Damn you, damn you!”
Ley said, “Miss Brent can’t be well. She—”
“I’m all right. If people would only leave me alone I’d be all right. I can lead my own life.”
“Message ends. Bob, Shayne was murdered this afternoon by a thug. His valet went out the same way. The police are curious, and will soon be here. Anyone here will be questioned, and can’t avoid getting involved. Take my advice.”
Ley backed away.
“Marcus—dead.”
Mannering heard Celia gasp, turned quickly, but was too late to stop her from falling. Ley went towards her.
“Get out, Bob! Have you touched anything except the doors?”
“I—I don’t think so.”
“Did you sit down?”
“John, I must help Celia. She—she looks dreadful.”
“You do, when you faint. Did you sit down?”
“No. I—”
“Which room did you go into?”
“I haven’t been in any room, I was here when—”
Mannering said, “Out, Bob!” He gave Ley a friendly push towards the door, then turned to the girl. She lay in a crumpled heap, face turned upward; and she looked waxen and old. Twenty-four! He heard the front door close, but it didn’t catch. Le
y’s footsteps sounded faintly. Mannering lifted Celia and carried her to a sofa, unfastened her coat and skirt. Warm flesh yielded beneath his fingers; she wasn’t wearing a girdle. He unfastened her tie, made her comfortable—
Outside Ley cried, “Charles!”
Mannering moved away from the girl and turned, as Charles came storming into the room, with his father just behind him.
Charles stood in front of Celia. He swung round, and there was hatred in his face and in his voice.
“What have you done to her, damn you?”
He glared at his father, fists bunched, ready to throw himself into attack. Ley seemed to wither up; there was no vestige of colour on his cheeks and his face was haggard.
“Charles, you must listen—”
“What have you done to her?” Charles’ voice was harsh with rage. He took a step nearer his father and went on slowly, each word like a saw. “I’m going to marry her, do you understand? I shall let nothing stand in my way. All your pride won’t make any difference. And I’m through with you!”
“Charles!” The pain in Ley’s voice was raw.
Charles approached Celia, bent down, and smoothed her forehead.
“It’s all right, darling,” he said gently. “It’s all right, nothing will make any difference.”
Robert Ley moved slowly towards the door, quickened his pace, and went out, this time making sure that the door was closed. Charles took no notice; Celia didn’t move. Mannering left them and looked into each of the seven rooms of the flat. One room, a study, was the obvious place for hidden jewels or papers; but while Charles was here he couldn’t force open drawers or the safe; and Bristow surely wouldn’t be long.
Mannering went back to the hall, where Charles knelt beside his love; and Celia opened her eyes.
“Celia!”
Her expression changed, she sat up abruptly, and stretched out her hands, lovely, appealing, frightened. Charles put his arms round her, kissed her gently, and spoke in whispers.
Mannering said, “Charles, Celia had a shock. Shayne’s been murdered. Did you know they were acquainted?”
“I—” Charles stood up. “Shayne murdered? But—”