by John Creasey
“You wait a minute. Of all the low-down, miserable, two-timing, creeping things that call themselves policemen, you’re the lowest. Why didn’t you tell me this was a drug job? I’m not a Victorian maiden who mustn’t hear any word about—”
Bristow hung up on him.
Mannering took out cigarettes, and he and Charles lit up. “You know, Charles, you’ve had bad luck. Three different kinds of strain. Your job is bad enough. It must be its own fiendish kind of hell on those nights flights over Germany, leading the others, getting everything the Nazis can fling at you in the way of night-fighters and ack-ack.”
“Now what are you up to?”
“I’m trying to put you straight. If the war job isn’t enough, you have the worry about your parents. How long have you thought this about Shayne and your mother?”
“Too long.”
Mannering said, “You’ve said more than you know. Then to cap it all, you meet Celia, and she had her own particular private hell. Two hells together make a pretty hot fire.”
The bedroom door opened; Marion and Lorna came out, Marion went into the study and sat on a low chair in front of the electric fire. The others joined her.
Lorna stood by Mannering’s side.
“Your head, John. Who—”
“O’Malley.”
Marion turned and looked at Charles. Anxiety, which bordered on grief and was burdened by helplessness, did not take away her beauty. In her eyes there was silent appeal, as if her heart was crying out to her only son, but her lips could not echo the cry. Charles drew back, stood motionless – then slowly went towards her. Before either spoke, he dropped to his knees and their arms went around each other.
Mannering said. “Lorna, my sweet, you gave me a nasty turn. Disappearing into the blue.”
Lorna said, “But I told Celia that we were coming here, she promised—”
“You told Celia!” exclaimed Mannering. “But Celia said she didn’t know.”
“Of course, she knew!”
Charles came towards them. The front-door bell rang, but no one moved in the room. Dr. Graham walked heavily across the hall, said, ‘Hallo, nurse,” and went back to the bedroom. Charles stood near Mannering, while Marion rose slowly to her feet, and looked as if she dared not even breathe.
Charles growled, “What’s this?”
“Charles, you heard me tell Celia where we were coming and what to tell John.” Lorna’s voice was sharp. “She didn’t tell him.”
“She must have.”
Mannering said, “She’s pretty well worked up. She might have forgotten, she might not have heard you properly, but she certainly didn’t tell me.”
No need to make this worse for Charles, to force him, now, to believe that Celia had lied. But she had lied, deliberately. Why?
Chapter Twenty-Two
The telephone bell rang.
Charles said, “She must have forgotten. What does it matter, anyway?”
Mannering said, “It’s odd, that’s all.” He went out of the room to the telephone in the hall and lifted the receiver. “Hallo? … Yes, this is …”
A man had asked, “Is that Ley’s home?” but didn’t wait for the full answer. The line went dead, Mannering stood in the hall, wondering who had called, why his voice had frightened the caller away. He dialled the Fauntley house.
A maid answered.
“This is John Mannering. Is Miss Brent there?”
“Why, no, sir.”
“Right, thanks,” Mannering said, rang off and hurried to the study, flung the door open, startling all three. Shock tactics were needed with Charles.
“Charles, I think Celia’s in danger. Where does she stay in London?”
Charles said, “At Chelsea, with a friend – 7, Withy Court, it’s near the river. But what danger? Are you trying to scare me?”
“We’ve plenty on our hands without making more,” Mannering said. “I think we’d better—” Then the front-door bell rang again.
This was Bristow, of course, and he wanted time to think, time to find out why Celia had lied. By lying, she had kept him away from the flat and from Ley; why? Had she feared them meeting while Ley remained conscious? Doubts and fear showed in Charles’s face.
Mannering went to the front door.
Bristow came in, followed by the stolid Platt.
“How is Ley?”
“Not good, but could be worse.”
“I hope he pulls through, not only for his own sake. He can probably fit the final pieces in the puzzle.”
“Final?” asked Mannering sharply.
“Yes, we’ve got O’Malley,” Bristow said.
A dozen questions flooded into Mannering’s mind, but this was no time for questions. That quiet: “We’ve got O’Malley,” meant everything – or nearly everything. Bristow seemed sure of himself, sure that he had all the answers now, or would have when he had talked with Ley. Did he know how Shayne smuggled the jewels here or shipped them overseas? Mannering saw the whole thing in clear perspective now.
Shayne’s death, the attempt on Ley, his own danger, the affaire between Shayne and Marion—had that existed?—Charles overwrought nerves, Celia’s neurosis and Celia’s lie; all of these things were unimportant. Beyond them lay two others: the horror of cocaine and the way it was being used; and the plight of the desolate people in Europe. They needed help, more help than they could ever get, and if Shayne’s help was not replaced, there would be a new tragedy.
He must replace Shayne.
Get the rest over; fit in the pieces of the puzzle, satisfy Bristow, bring Celia and Charles together, reconcile everyone – so as to clear a way to help those people who knew only misery.
Bristow said, “Where is Ley?”
“In the bedroom. The doctor—”
Bristow pushed past him to the bedroom door, which was ajar. Graham blocked the doorway and they talked in undertones before Bristow shrugged and drew back. Mannering saw that the door of the study was also ajar.
“Who else is here?” asked Bristow.
Mannering told him and said: “Where did you get O’Malley?”
“Waterloo. He’d a ticket for Winchester in his pocket. I think he was going to pay you another visit.”
“What would he have tried to plant this time?”
“Snow, probably. He had plenty of the stuff in his case, packed in cardboard cylinders. Enough to kill a division of troops or to spread mental and physical degeneracy through a whole city of people. We found more of the accursed stuff at his flat, more still at railway stations, where he’d checked valises. We found the checks on him. Cocaine in bigger quantities than we’ve ever found before.”
“Your ‘horror’?”
“Part of it.”
“Now I want to know the rest.”
Bristow said, “You shall. When I told the Assistant Commissioner you’d come across the drug angle, he said you could know the rest. Chiefly to warn you what you might be mixed up in. Cocaine has been smuggled here from the Middle East and from here on to the Continent – mostly to France. And John – it’s being used over there on a vast scale, to break down the morale of the French people. To smash resistance. It’s a Nazi trick, but not altogether theirs. Someone here has been making vast profits. O’Malley, probably. I once thought Shayne was involved, but now I’m inclined to think that O’Malley was pointing all the evidence at Shayne, smothering his own trail with red herrings.
“We’ve had a lot of reports about the spread of snow in France. And we’ve picked up several bodies of addicts, driven mad when they couldn’t get their supplies, and who flung themselves into the sea. The French – all occupied Europe – are near starvation. Cocaine eases their misery for a little while, gives a devilish, illusionary relief. Imagine what would happen if the traffic didn’t stop.”
Mannering said, “I can imagine. Aren’t there supplies in Germany for the job.”
“Not enough. And it can’t be imported from the Middle East very well, although t
here’s some smuggling into Greece. Most of the stuff comes here and is sent across the Channel.”
“Shayne was on the jewel racket only. O’Malley and possibly someone behind him was working the snow. We’ve found documents and other evidence in O’Malley’s luggage to close it down – the whole organisation here and in the Middle East is finished, except that we don’t know all the people this end who worked with O’Malley. We will, before we’ve finished.”
Mannering said, “Well, get it over. Suspect anyone here?”
“Do you?’
“I do not. But whoever tried to kill Ley might know plenty. This was an attempt to silence Ley.”
“I suppose O’Malley could have done it, but I doubt it. O’Malley isn’t the only crook concerned, John. He didn’t kill Shayne or Meyer.”
“We found the gun, tucked behind some furniture at the galleries. It had prints on it – a woman’s prints. It’s undoubtedly the gun used to kill them. O’Malley denies any knowledge of the murder. He’s admitted that he went to see Shayne, found him dead, and Meyer dying. He saw a woman leaving the shop, and hinted that she gave him – O’Malley – particulars about Shayne’s plans.”
“Do you know her?”
Bristow said, quietly, “It was Lady Ley, John.”
Mannering had a picture of Marion, at the Grange, talking to Shayne. Of Marion, when she asked whether it were true that Shayne was dead. His heart rejected the accusation, his mind accepted the fact that she could have lied about when she left the Grange, could have been in London for hours, long before he had arrived.
He said, “I don’t believe it. O’Malley’s evidence isn’t worth a penny.”
“There is more. We’ve a set of Lady Ley’s fingerprints on the gun.”
“I still don’t believe it. Motive?” Mannering said sharply.
“Lady Ley and Shayne were lovers, and he had thrown her over. Don’t turn your back on facts.”
“I’ve known them lie.” But fingerprints didn’t lie. Had Marion completely deceived him? ‘What about Ley?”
“She probably poisoned him, although I’m only guessing there,” Bristow said. “She had time.”
“She went straight to Fauntley’s place from the Grange.”
“She told you she did. It would have been easy for her to give Ley the stuff, pretending it was medicine – yes, I’m still guessing, but it would be a pushover for her to persuade him to take it. No man would sit back and let himself be poisoned.”
“But why kill her husband, when her lover was dead?”
“To be free of them both.”
Mannering shook his head slowly. “No, Bill. I don’t believe that she killed Shayne. I doubt if she came here. Is there any other evidence that a woman was seen to come from the shop about the time of the shooting?”
“Yes – we’ve several witnesses.”
“With descriptions of Lady Ley?”
Bristow shrugged. “The usual assortment of impressions, of course. Tall and short, fat and thin – but we’ll have her picked out in an identification parade; I’m not very worried about that. Prints don’t lie.”
“But you’re wrong, Bill. If a woman killed Shayne and Meyer, there’s another candidate. A woman with a good motive for killing Shayne, a woman whom O’Malley would want to protect – which probably explains why he’d tried to implicate Lady Ley – and someone with a powerful motive for poisoning Ley.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Celia Brent. Shayne’s illegitimate daughter. She hated him, had a grudge against the world, shows every sign of neurosis that’s probably partly due to her old bitterness about her origin, partly cocaine addiction, and she lied to me tonight, Bill. She had time to get to Ley’s flat, poison him, get back to Fauntley’s house, and be there waiting for me. They’re cunning when they take the stuff, and her neurosis has turned her mind, anyhow. Forget Lady Ley. Celia’s your woman.”
Bristow began, “Now, John—”
“It’s shouts at us! She’s the enemy Shayne knew, the enemy who hated him so bitterly, who made his life a living hell. Someone close enough to pry into his secrets, to pass them on to O’Malley – yes, she was O’Malley’s patron. Oh, it’s Celia. Shayne was the reason for her shame: haunt, hunt, and kill him. Ley opposed her marriage, could sour her great triumph, and she was past reason. She knew O’Malley was on the run, she lost her head, so killed Ley. Primeval instinct ran wild.”
“Fingerprints, John!” Bristow said harshly.
“What are you going to do?”
“Charge Lady Ley and take her along for questioning. I’ll question Celia later. Come on, Platt.”
“You’re wrong,” Mannering said.
Charles Ley came out of the study and went into another room, closing the door softly. Bristow and Platt went into the study, to Marion. Lorna and Marion had been talking; their voices broke off immediately the detectives entered. Mannering went to the main bedroom and stepped inside. Graham and the nurse were adjusting the oxygen apparatus and didn’t look round. Mannering peered into the hall and saw Charles tiptoe across the hall, take his hat from a peg, and go to the front door. Every movement he made was stealthy, furtive.
He went out and the front door closed softly behind him.
Mannering stepped swiftly into the hall, reached the front door, and switched off the hall light, so that it wouldn’t shine through to the staircase. A faint blue landing light, aid to blackout, showed Charles’s head and shoulders at the foot of the stairs. Keeping close to the wall, Mannering followed him, Charles reached the sidewalk, and turned right. Mannering cut across the garden to the low wall, vaulted it, and repeated the move three times, keeping pace with Charles. He came out of a garden just behind Charles, who did not even turn his head, but walked on quickly. Mannering kept Charles in sight, crossing to the other side of the road and keeping pace with him.
Charles reached the main road and hurried on. Near the gloom of Baker Street Station, there were taxis about. One stopped for Charles, and Mannering heard Charles say: “Withy Court, Chelsea, I’m in a hurry.”
The cab door slammed on Charles, the cab moved off. Mannering was lucky with another. The journey seemed never ending, like the anxiety in his mind.
At last the cabby called, “What number?”
“Seven.” Mannering saw the rear light of a car ahead of him; probably Charles’s taxi. “Will you wait?”
Mannering gave the man a pound note. “I’ll double that.”
“Okay, sir!”
At Number 7 there was a name board in the hall; and on one small notice, a bold: ‘Celia Brent – Flatlet 3, First Floor.’ He went quickly upstairs and stood outside Celia’s door.
It was closed; locked.
He heard voices inside, Charles’s, then Celia’s.
Mannering began to work at the lock.
It was easy. He soon pressed back the lock, making hardly any sound, hoping that little was covered by the voices.
He opened the door an inch, and heard Charles say in a hoarse voice: “… he told Bristow that you had worked with O’Malley, against your father, because you hated Shayne.”
“But why should I hate my father?” Celia demanded, sounding distraught “Charles, darling, I—”
“Because you’re illegitimate. As if that mattered!”
“Oh, it’s absurd!” Celia cried. “Mannering is trying to protect someone else. He’s against me, they’re all against me, you can’t believe this monstrous thing, you just can’t!”
“You went to see Shayne at Bond Street. I know you did because I saw you there,” Charles said. “I couldn’t find you here, so—”
“Charles!” Celia’s voice was shrill. “That’s not true!”
Mannering thought: “So Charles can damn her.”
“I saw you,” Charles repeated. “Then I lost you. I didn’t know about the other flat. I went to the flat and had a row with father.” He seemed too hurt to raise his voice. “Father knew about Shayne’s
other flat. I think he wanted to see Shayne. I went along, and – well you know what happened.”
“Oh, my darling.” Celia’s voice was soft, now – pleading, beseeching. “You mistook someone else for me. I didn’t go to the shop. I came straight here when I reached London. Darling, don’t look like that. Charles!”
Charles said, “I saw you.”
“I tell you—” Celia began.
Charles said, “I don’t care what you did to Shayne. I hated him. But if you knew that O’Malley was going to try to throw the blame onto my mother, I’ll strangle you. You always pretended you were sorry for her and for your father. I would have known nothing about their affaire but for you. I—oh, that doesn’t matter a damn! I’m in love with you. But if I thought you had anything to do with poisoning father, and trying to frame mother, then—”
Celia cried, “Charles, I’m not a devil! I didn’t know what O’Malley planned. I hated my father so much, that’s all I ever thought of. If you only knew what a shame it’s been! Then I discovered that he had told your father the truth. Charles, I only tried to help. O’Malley said your mother and Shayne were spies. I was to try to find out how they worked, but I—I fell in love with you. I couldn’t help myself. And then—”
“If only I could believe that it was O’Malley who tried to blame her—”
“I swear it, Charles! Oh, darling!”
Mannering saw her shadow move, her arms rise, then fall upon Charles’s shoulder. “I’m so frightened, Charles. I—I hated Marcus, but I didn’t mean to kill him, I meant to frighten him. I must have been mad, I didn’t know what I was doing! I had some papers which I’d found at my father’s flat, explaining all that he’s done. I put them in his pocket.”
She seemed distraught, but was acting, as she had acted so often. She had meant to make a clean sweep of everyone who had opposed her. Would Charles be fooled, even now?
Charles said, “If it was an accident, all right. We can get over that. The other thing—”
“I didn’t try to blame your mother! I swear I knew nothing. After it had happened I threw the gun away, it seemed to burn my fingers. When I knew what I’d done I was horrified. O’Malley came in, made me go. I don’t know what he did.”