by John Creasey
Bristow leaned across the desk and lifted the telephone, then waited. Mannering sat back in his chair. You could work on what Bristow had said any way you liked, and the answer was the same: danger, if he went on. He was in no danger from Bristow now, this bridge had been crossed, but—
The envelope was in his pocket; obviously O’Malley had tried to frame him. Yet O’Malley wouldn’t have framed Shayne, that easy way.
If O’Malley hadn’t killed Shayne, who had?
Who had a motive?
Robert Ley, of course; Charles; Celia – yes, and when he faced all the possibilities, even Marion. Passions were mixed up with this affair; as well as deep human emotions.
Was anyone else in danger from an unknown killer?
Was he wrong, to doubt whether O’Malley was the murderer?
Bristow said gruffly, “Yes,” and put down the receiver. He lit a cigarette, and growled: “O’Malley’s flown from Marble Court. It was his place. All papers are burned; there’s no trace of any other hideout. Watch yourself, John. O’Malley’s a killer and you’re in his way.”
Did Bristow see the obvious? That Robert Ley above all people, had reason to want Shayne dead?
“Has O’Malley a patron? Was he bluffing and is he the kingpin of this game? O’Malley and his patron, real or imaginary, knew that Shayne was getting this stuff, and wanted it for a different motive. That explains O’Malley.”
“It doesn’t explain who killed Marcus Shayne – or why,” said Bristow cryptically. Yes, he saw the obvious. “Well! You’d better go home and get Lorna to put you to bed.”
Bristow put a police car at Mannering’s disposal, and Sergeant Tring drove him to Lord Fauntley’s house.
The maid who answered the door seemed surprised to see Mannering but he went to the morning room, which Lorna liked to use when she was home. He opened the door – and saw Celia Brent, alone. She sat in front of a small coal fire, with her head back and her eyes closed.
Mannering said, “Hello! How are you?”
Celia started and opened her eyes.
“I’m all right!” She jumped up and backed away from him. Her eyes were shadowed with dark circles, and swollen, yet too bright. All the signs of an emotional storm, not yet gone, were there. “There’s nothing the matter with me, it’s the others. I’ve a right to lead my own life. I tell you I have!”
“Of course, you have, Celia.”
“Then why don’t you let me?”
There was only one way to pacify her.
“I want to, if you’ll let me,” he said, and she looked astonished, incredulous.
“Charles is a good chap, and the others—”
“They hate me! So do you—oh, I can see what’s behind your smooth words. You and your wife think you can smooth me over, but you can’t. You—”
“Where is Lorna?”
“She’s gone out, with Charles. She—there you are, you’re lying! You sent for her.”
The words struck Mannering like a sharp sword.
Chapter Twenty
“I didn’t send for her. Where has she gone? Answer me!” The look in his eyes scared her.
“There—there was a phone call. She answered it. She said you wanted to see her and Charles. I didn’t want him to go with her, I knew it was a trick.” Her eyes glittered wildly. “You didn’t phone her, so it was a trick! I knew it. She—”
Mannering turned, and while she raved, telephoned Shayne’s flat. Bristow was still there, listened, and was brisk.
“I’ll put a call out for Lorna and Charles Ley, just in case O’Malley’s been busy.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
If O’Malley hurt Lorna, then—no, it was useless to think like that. There could be a simple explanation – it might even have been a ruse to get Charles away from Celia.
Celia was sitting down, heavy-eyed, spent and exhausted. He questioned her and she answered dully. It had been half an hour ago, she had no idea where they had gone.
Lorna had lied about the caller, unless someone had made her believe that he had called. No. She’d gone because someone she knew had called her, and that surely meant Marion or Robert Ley. The last time he’d seen Robert Ley, he had been a broken man, but if Bristow were right, he was madly jealous, so not himself; and had perhaps killed Shayne.
Mannering turned to the door as someone approached hurriedly; a woman! Hope leapt as he went to the door, but it opened before he reached it, and Marion stood facing him.
She was a beauty in furs, and quite as alarmed as he; she showed it more as she stretched out her hands. Her first words betrayed one thing, the depth of her feelings for Shayne.
“John! Is it true about Marcus?”
“Yes.” He gripped both her hands.
“To be killed in the midst of such work—”
Mannering glanced at Celia, and drew Marion into the hall.
“Yes, I know. Damnable. But the work’s still to be done.”
She closed her eyes and then said quietly: “I came away as soon as I heard. Robert called me up.”
“Why come here?”
“Robert said Charles was here, and I wasn’t to go to our flat.”
“Oh, yes. He was.”
“John. What else has happened?”
“Did Robert say he was in touch with Lorna?”
“No. Why should he have done!”
“Someone called up Lorna and Charles, and they left here in a hurry.” Mannering led her to the drawing room, away from a door at which Celia might stand and listen. “Marion, I’ve got the jitters. You know Bob’s in a hell of a sweat.”
“What on earth makes you say that?”
So he told her what had happened at Shayne’s flat, watching her closely, but seeing only astonishment and alarm in her eyes. He asked her whether she knew that Shayne was really Brent, and she said slowly: “No, John. I’d no idea. How much does Celia know?”
“That all the world’s against her because she had no right to be born.”
Marion said, “Poor Celia. And—his daughter! I’ll see her, John. Unless there’s something I can do.”
“Nothing. Help her if you can.”
The Leys’ London flat was not far away.
Mannering went to the bell-pull in the hall and, when a maid appeared, said briskly, “If Lady Ley or Miss Brent ask for me, I have gone to Sir Robert’s flat.”
The rush of events had driven some things from his mind. Twenty yards along the road, he remembered the envelope, now in his side pocket. He wanted to look at the envelope. At Oxford Street, he hurried to the Underground Station and went to a lighted corner.
Then he took the envelope out, and opened it carefully. This wasn’t a copy of the damning documents. There was a fold of chamois leather, with a snap-fastener. Inside was a cylinder, about half an inch in diameter and some four inches long; it was made of cardboard, with a screw top. He’d seen this before, or one like it.
Yes! At the Brockenhurst hotel, in O’Malley’s room. He touched the screw-cap, then snatched his hand away. Was this a booby trap? Would it explode if he opened it, and—
Damn it, he’d find out.
He unscrewed the cap. A trickle of white powder fell from the container to the ground. It left a dusting over his finger. Yes, there had been powder in the cylinder at Brockenhurst, but no one would wrap aspirins up with such great care as this—drugs? Was that Bristow’s horror?
He put his finger to his tongue; there was a bitter taste which made his cheeks taut, as if he’d tasted raw lemon. There was something else, too – a numbness on the tip of his tongue.
This was cocaine.
Bristow wouldn’t regard cocaine itself as a horror; but this was snow, all right.
Cocaine could destroy the minds and bodies of men, freely used, to give illusionary peace, make human beings little better than beasts.
Was O’Malley an addict? Either he or the man who had been with him at Brockenhurst. One of them had taken a sniff of the foul stuff, found
the container empty, and carelessly thrown it away. O’Malley wouldn’t have done that.
Mannering screwed the cap back carefully, replaced the container in its chamois-leather cover, and slipped it into his pocket. So O’Malley trafficked in snow, had planted this on him, thinking it would frame him; but Bristow would know that he didn’t handle drugs, and O’Malley had blundered.
The Leys’ London flat, in St. John’s Wood, was a tiny pied-à-terre. Mannering booked to Baker Street and hurried to the trains, still feeling shaken by the discovery.
He picked up a taxi at St. John’s Wood Station and reached Ley’s flat three-quarters of an hour after leaving the Portman Place house. It was one of four in a converted Victorian house, which stood in a small garden, separated from its neighbours by low brick walls.
His nerves were taut he tried the front door. It was locked, but the lock was simple; he worked swiftly and soon opened it, hardly thinking of what he was doing.
As he walked up the stairs to the first floor, he felt prey to nameless fears and one flashed into his mind and made him pause. Celia behaved as a drug addict would, when in need of snow.
He reached the front door and rang the bell. Immediately there was a movement.
A door opened inside, and he heard voices – angry voices; Then footsteps drew near and the voices subsided. A hand touched the door handle. He stood to one side, prepared for anything, even O’Malley; he was safe in a dark corner.
Then the door opened, light streamed out, and Lorna said sharply, “Who’s there?”
Charles Ley growled, “Well, who is it?”
Mannering stepped forward, sick now with relief.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lorna cried, “John!” and in her own relief, gripped his hands tightly, then strained against him. Mannering would have laughed but for Charles’s scowling, frightened face. Why was Charles frightened, too? What would be bad enough to scare a Pathfinder, whom modern legend said had courage above all men?
Mannering put his arm round Lorna’s shoulder and drew her into the flat, closed the door, and said: “What’s your trouble, Charles?”
Charles said, “He’s dying.”
“Who—” began Mannering, and stopped abruptly. Charles meant his father – Bob Ley, dying? What crazy turn was this?
Lorna said, “He took poison. Doctor Graham’s with him.”
Charles said, “He’s dying, and I’m to blame.”
Charles swung away, but not in time to hide the tears in his eyes, he moved off, without looking round.
“He thinks it’s because of their quarrel,” Lorna said, in a whisper. “He hardly knows what to do with himself.”
“Is Bob conscious?”
“He hasn’t been since we arrived.”
“Who sent for you?” Mannering asked.
“He called Charles up,” said Lorna. “He sounded all right then. It looks as if something happened immediately afterwards to make him take the stuff.”
Heavy footsteps sounded in the bedroom, the door opened, and Dr. Graham came in, big, husky, grey-haired, physician to the Fauntleys, well known in London’s West End, an acquaintance of Mannering.
He nodded to Mannering, and said: “Where’s the telephone?”
He looked round, saw one near at hand, and went towards it as Mannering asked, “Will he pull through?”
Charles turned sharply, haggard, ill, waiting on the answer.
“I don’t know,” said Graham, and dialled a number. He gave some highly technical instructions to someone at the other end of the line, then replaced the receiver and looked at Mannering. “Lady Ley should be told at once.”
Mannering dialled; Marion was soon on the line. “Marion, you’ve even worse to face. Sorry. Bob’s been taken ill.”
Marion said, “Ill? Or injured? Where is he?”
“Not injured. He’s at the flat. Charles is here.”
“I’ll come at once.”
Charles asked in a strangled voice: “Did Celia know my mother was in the same house?”
“Yes, and they weren’t fighting.” Mannering turned to Graham. “What chance is there of Ley coming round soon?”
“He might regain consciousness at any time,” Graham said, “but I can’t permit questions.”
“May I see him?” asked Mannering.
“There’s no reason why not, if you keep quiet. I’d like a word with you, in any case.” Graham led the way, and Mannering went after him.
Graham closed the bedroom door firmly.
Robert Ley lay in bed, his face grey, ghastly, his breathing soft, yet oddly laboured. His clothes lay on a chair at the foot of the bed and there was an unpleasant smell in the room. A bowl, covered with a towel, stood in one corner.
Graham said, “I brought a stomach pump with me. I’ve sent for a nurse as well as oxygen, Mannering. I doubt whether he will recover, he took a powerful dose. It depends whether I got here in time. I’ve pumped most of it out, I think, but—”
“What was it?” But Mannering knew the answer.
“Cocaine. There’s little doubt. Dilatation and immobility of pupils, rapt unconsciousness, convulsions—”
Mannering thought of the tube in his pocket, and thought savagely of O’Malley. O’Malley had not put the cylinder there to implicate him in drug trafficking, but to damn him for murder. But was it so simple? Had O’Malley been here? Had Ley tried to kill himself?
“Would you say that he was an addict?”
“If he had been the symptoms wouldn’t have been like this. You can get inured to it, just as you can to arsenic. But with this, you want more and more. No, he wasn’t used to taking it. One thing the police will want to know is: how did he get hold of the stuff? One of the things I want to talk to you about. The police will have to be told soon. His wife and son must be made to understand that without further delay.”
“Of course, I’ll fix it. Have you found any of the stuff?”
“This looks like a container.”
On a bedside table, Mannering saw a cylinder, a replica of the one in his pocket. There was a little pile of the white powder by it, and the cylinder was still three parts full. There was also a glass, half filled with water, and damp, white marks at the edge of the glass, as if Ley had drunk the water to wash the poison down, and some of the powder had stuck to his lips. A teaspoon was covered with a thick whitish film.
‘Have you touched those?” Mannering asked, sharply.
“No, of course not. I—”
Mannering swung out of the room. He burst in on the others and rapped out, “Have either of you touched the spoon or the glass in the bedroom? It’s vital. Have you?”
Lorna said quietly, “No.”
“You, Charles?”
“No. Why do you want to know?”
“Why assume he tried to kill himself? Why not think of murder? I do. The police will.”
Mannering went back into the bedroom.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and picked up the glass gingerly. He held it so that he could see all the marks on the sides. Graham watched him, the only sound in the room was Ley’s heavy breathing. Mannering frowned, turning the glass slowly. Someone with powder on his fingers – and Ley’s would have had some powder on – must have left clear imprints on the glass; but he could see no prints at all. He picked up the spoon as gingerly, holding it in the middle of the handle, between two fingers, and still using the handkerchief.
There were no fingerprints on the spoon.
“What are you doing?” Graham demanded.
“The spoon and glass have been wiped clear of prints.”
“Are you sure?” Graham examined the spoon himself, pursing his full lips. “I think you are, I—but, good heavens, Mannering, do you realise what that means?”
“That Ley wouldn’t have wiped them off himself.”
“You must call the police at once. At once!”
Mannering nodded, but before he reached the door the front-door bell rang. He s
aw Marion, flushed, breathless, come in. Lorna went forward; Marion looked at Mannering.
“How is he?”
Mannering said, “He has a chance, but it’s slim. I have to tell the police at once.”
“Police? You said it wasn’t an injury.”
“It wasn’t; it was poison.” He flung the words out.
“You mean he—” She broke off, but ‘tried to kill himself’ seemed to hover about the room.
“Poor Bob,” Mannering said, but Marion didn’t understand.
“May I go in?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Lorna went with her, Graham turned back into the room with them. Mannering went to the telephone. Charles’s eyes were cloudy and dull, and he muttered in a tone of sullen defiance: “If he took it, she made him.”
“That’s an ugly thing to say, Charles, even for you.”
“It’s the truth! She drove him to it. She’s been carrying on with Shayne for a hell of a time. She thought he didn’t know I didn’t think it would come to this.”
“It hasn’t come to anything yet.” Mannering said. “I don’t know much about Shayne and your mother, except that they worked together on a job which makes yours seem like skittles.”
“Don’t talk like a fool!”
“All right, I’m a fool. But if you make more distress for your mother, I’ll wring your silly neck. You and Celia between you seem to have a persecution complex.”
“Leave Celia out of this!”
“You brought her in. While she’s in, behave like a human being and not a bundle of nerves.”
Mannering lifted the receiver, while Charles stood watching, certainly shaken out of himself.
Soon Bristow was saying: “Any news of Lorna, John?”
“Yes, she’s here with me at Robert Ley’s flat. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Then see how fast you can get here with your brightest boys, Bill. Attempted murder of Sir Robert Ley, and it’s touch and go with him. Not bullets this time. Cocaine.”
“I’ll be there in—”