by John Creasey
“Not necessarily,” Mannering said. “He might judge it wiser to take them to the Yard for identification. Jewels as jewels wouldn’t be significant. They would matter only if they were stolen.” He stood up from the sewing chair, went to Lorna’s long mirror, looked at his reflection in it, and saw Lorna’s reflection, too. She was quite beautiful, but pale and very anxious – nearly as anxious as he. He felt as if a net was tightening round him, and that there was nothing at all he could do to free himself – he could not even see where the next strand of the net would tighten. “I’d give a lot to know what they’re thinking at the Yard,” he went on. “There isn’t much doubt that they could put me on a charge.”
Chief Inspector Ingleby had worked at New Scotland Yard long enough to feel no awkwardness whenever he went there from the Division. Most of the senior and many of the junior officers were old friends of his, and usually he enjoyed an excuse for a visit. He was not greatly enjoying himself tonight. His suspicions of Mannering were very strong and fully justified, and yet there were imponderable factors which made him uneasy and uncertain of himself. Mannering’s reputation, for instance, was so good that it was almost inconceivable that he would allow himself to become involved in dealing in stolen jewels, and with murder – but certain pieces of evidence were irrefutable. After leaving Mannering’s flat, Ingleby had radioed the Yard and asked if it would be possible to see Chief Superintendent William Bristow, Bristow was the doyen of Yard superintendents, he was the specialist in precious stones, and he knew Mannering very well. Some said that the two men were close friends.
What Ingleby did not know – and what very few at the Yard even suspected – was that in their early days Bristow and Mannering had been on opposite sides of the fence. Bristow was the one person in England who was quite sure that Mannering had once been a jewel thief known as the Baron. There had never been proof; but all his life Bristow had believed that one day events might establish that proof, probably when it was least expected.
Ingleby went into a small office which had been made available for him for the evening, and immediately asked a detective sergeant on duty: “Is Mr. Bristow coming?”
“He’s on his way.”
“Good,” said Ingleby. “That means I’d better look slippy.” He sat down at a bare-topped table, and made notes in a good, flowing hand, putting them in chronological order much as Mannering had done for Lorna. Finished, Ingleby telephoned the Westminster Hospital, where the injured man had been taken. A policeman on duty there to answer inquiries reported: “They’re operating, Mr. Ingleby, but no news has come through yet.”
“Telephone me at the Yard if there’s any word,” Ingleby said. “Extension 524 – and if I’m not there, ask for Mr. Bristow.”
“Right, sir.”
Ingleby rang off.
He had recovered from his exasperation and annoyance, and wondered whether Mannering realised that he had deliberately heightened the tension between them, acting as if he was much more angry than he had in fact been; his sole purpose had been to try to make Mannering lose his temper. He hadn’t succeeded altogether. Now Ingleby lit a cigarette, thought longingly of the drink Mannering had offered, and browsed a little nostalgically about being stationed at the Yard. It was the hub of the Metropolitan C.I.D. and a Divisional job would never be quite the same.
The door opened, and Bristow came in.
He was a man of medium height, not particularly massive, with regular features which somehow failed to make him good-looking. He had a close-clipped grey moustache, the middle of which was stained yellow with nicotine, and in his well-cut grey jacket he wore a fresh-looking gardenia. Bristow’s nicotined moustache and his gardenia were bywords at the Yard, and no one here now took the slightest notice of them. He had a quick, brisk manner and brisk movements; he shook hands briefly with Ingleby, pulled up an armchair, and invited: “Tell me all about it.”
Ingleby reported, making frequent references to his notes. It was quite impossible to judge Bristow’s reaction. The Yard man smoked a cigarette and a half during the recital, and the only movement he made was to take a cigarette from his mouth and tap the ash off into the fireplace.
“… and that’s about it,” Ingleby said, at last. “I had Mannering worried, I’m quite sure about that.” When Bristow made no comment, he went on almost uneasily: “The question is, sir, is there enough for a charge against Mannering?” “Good God, yes!”
“That’s what I thought,” said Ingleby.
“Wouldn’t put it past Mannering to have hit that man if he’d come to raid the flat,” Bristow went on, and lit a third cigarette from the stub of his second. “But his story sounds reasonable – and it’s hardly the kind of yarn he would spin if he were trying to cover up some crime.”
“You mean, you believe it?”
“Too early to say what I believe yet,” said Bristow. “You say that you think Mannering was badly shaken when you pointed out the fact that this injured man might have been attacked in his flat.”
“He was shaken all right.”
“Wouldn’t be likely to be so shaken if he really had done the thing,” Bristow pointed out, reasonably. “But that isn’t much to do with whether we ought to charge him or not. Apart from the hammer, did you find anything else on the injured man?”
Ingleby pointed to some oddments placed out on a small table: keys, money, wallet, ticket, some letters, two handkerchiefs, a book of matches, a shoe-lace, and a piece of white chalk.
“That’s the lot, sir. His name’s Joe Farmer.”
“Any record?”
“No, nothing known against him. I checked just before you arrived. And he’s still alive.”
“If he dies, Mannering could find himself on a murder charge,” Bristow said. “The only charge we could prefer if we pulled him in now would be causing grievous bodily harm. I’d have been happier if we could have found some jewels at Mannering’s place. If this chap could have proved him a fence, then Mannering might have taken the risk and attacked him. It would be more convincing if the man was dead, but he may have looked pretty dead, and if it happened that way Mannering would have been racing against time. He’s pretty cagey, you know; there isn’t any way he can get stuff out of his flat, is there?”
“I think I’ve made sure of that,” answered Ingleby.
“Good. The first thing is to get that search warrant, and while we’re at it, we’ll get one for Quinns,” Bristow decided. “If we find anything, we’ll hold Mannering for the night at least. What else have you done?”
“Else?” Ingleby looked startled. “Well—”
“This girl, Rebecca Blest.”
“She’s being looked after by the neighbours downstairs, some people named Ashton. There’s a daughter of about Rebecca Blest’s age to keep her company.” Ingleby seemed pleased with this report. “Young Terence McKay has gone home. To make sure there’s no collusion between them and Mannering, I’ve started to check if they knew one another before. As far as I can find out, the girl did go to Mannering with these jewels of Laker’s, only to find that they were false, and Terence McKay did meet the girl for the first time this afternoon – I haven’t discovered any evidence that they knew each other before. That part of everybody’s story seems to be true.”
“Any motive established for the murder of Samuel Blest?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Right,” said Bristow, crisply. “You go and fix that search warrant, and say I’m ready to support it. I’ll lay on a couple of good men to go along with you – men who know Mannering’s flat,” Bristow added drily. “And when the flat’s been searched, you can go over to Quinns.”
“Mr. Bristow,” Ingleby said, and then hesitated.
“Yes?”
“You’re not at all sure about Mannering being in the clear, are you?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time that Mannering had got himself into a jam by trying to be quixotic,” Bristow said gruffly, “and it wouldn’t be the first ti
me that Mannering handled stolen jewels in a kind of juggling act. I wouldn’t put it past him to be trying to get the real jewels back in place of the false ones for this Rebecca Blest girl. Unusual name, isn’t it? What’s she like?”
“She’s a sweetie,” Ingleby said. “About twenty-three, and just the kind of girl I’d like my son to marry.”
“Couldn’t give me a better description,” Bristow said. “You couldn’t describe a better bait for Mannering, either. I wonder if these crooks are making a fool out of him.” Under his breath he added what he so often thought: “One of these days his past will catch up with him.”
Chapter Eight
Part Of The Past
Josh Larraby, the manager of Quinns, was part of Mannering’s past, in much the same way as Bristow, although they were at extreme ends of the scale. Larraby had one love, which seemed to have been born in him, and which had strengthened over the years: a love for precious stones. He had worked for years with a West End jeweller, and the passion had developed into a craving and the craving into a mania, until the time had come when he had stolen a number of superbly beautiful jewels – and been caught.
That should have been his ruin.
After he had served his years of imprisonment, he had gone to Mannering for help. Against the advice of the police and his friends, Mannering had given the ex-convict a job at Quinns. That was over twelve years ago, and during those twelve years Larraby had been promoted from odd-job man to messenger, from messenger to general assistant, and finally to manager of the shop. It no longer occurred to Mannering that there might be the slightest reason for distrusting Larraby, and he believed that the police also felt sure that Larraby was completely honest.
Larraby was now in the middle sixties, rather frail-looking, with curly hair which had turned almost white, and a rather deceptively pale face and gentle expression; a kind of universal uncle of a man.
That night, he had left Covent Garden a little after ten o’clock, humming a tune to himself, having been pleasantly entertained by a reasonably good performance of Figaro. He would have walked home had it been earlier; as it was, he went to the Strand, took a Number 15 bus, got off opposite Selfridges and walked through Mayfair towards the mews where he had his small flat.
London was part of life to Larraby. Its pavements, its medley of buildings, its noises, its silences, its lights and its shadows, its smells and its vastness, all seemed natural to him, and he did not know what it was to feel nervous. He turned into the mews, walking over the cobbles without making much noise with his rubber-soled shoes, and taking out his keys as he reached the front door. On his ring were keys not only of the flat, but of Quinns’ front door. Only he and Mannering could get into Quinns; no one else had keys.
Larraby pushed the front door open, and went in, closing the door behind him, for there was a lamp in the mews opposite the door, and the light shone through the frosted glass panel. He was still humming when he kicked against something stretched across the passage. He pitched headlong, taken absolutely by surprise, alarmed in that moment only by the fall. Crashing down, he turned to one side so that he took the worst of the blow on his right shoulder, but could not prevent his head from banging on the floor. That caused a wave of pain which nearly made him unconscious. He lay helpless for what seemed a long time. Suddenly, without a second’s warning, a light went on.
Through the tears of pain in his eyes Larraby could see a man’s feet; suddenly one moved, and he felt the pointed toe bury itself in his shoulder. He cried aloud with greater pain, now much more badly frightened.
“Get up,” a man ordered, roughly.
The pain seemed to be spreading from Larraby’s head throughout his whole body, and he had no strength in his arms or in his legs. He tried to scramble to his feet, but could not. He felt a hand at the collar of his coat, pinching painfully, and was hauled to his feet and pushed roughly to one side. He thumped against a wall, and would have fallen but for its support. The pain in his head was still excruciating, especially at the back of his eyes, and he could see only with difficulty. But he was able to make out the shape of two men, one of them in the doorway of his bed-sitting room, the other near the front door.
The man by the door said: “Take his keys.”
Larraby tried to back away, but he could not; the man nearer him pulled him forward by the shoulder, spun him round, and thrust a hand into his trousers pockets. He found the keys at the second attempt, and drew them out, jingling. Then he waved them in front of Larraby’s eyes, so that the brightness sent scintillas of light stabbing from them, as if they were jewels.
“Now listen, Larraby,” said the man by the door. “We’re going for a little ride. We’re going to Quinns. We’re going to break in, and you’re going to open the strong-room for us. If you try any tricks or make any trouble, you’ll have your skull cracked in like Humpty Dumpty.” He drew his hand from his pocket, and held up a hammer; Larraby did not know that it was exactly like the hammer which Ingleby had found earlier in the evening, but he did remember that vicious kick, and the pain now easing in his head.
“Got all that?” the man demanded roughly.
Larraby muttered: “Yes. Yes, I’ve got it.”
His head was hurting too much for him to think clearly, but one thing was certain: he could not do anything to help himself here. It would take some time to go to the shop, and to get inside – and by that time he would probably be feeling better, and be much more able to cope. There were devices at the shop which could be called on to raise an alarm – devices which he and Mannering had developed to meet such an eventuality as this. At the moment he must do what he was told. Especially, he must avoid further violence. He had to use every second in order to recover his strength and his nerve.
“Make sure you don’t try any tricks,” the man said. “Or else…”
He raised the hammer suddenly and violently. Larraby backed away – and with a backward sweep, the man smashed the head of the hammer down on a picture on the wall. The glass shattered. Tiny slivers like darts stuck in the wall, into the man’s clothes, even into his hair. The man himself was startled, and swung round. His expression showed the viciousness and the brutality in him. He recovered quickly, and said: “We’ll get that cleared up – send Blackie to do it. Now, Larraby, if you don’t want your head cracked like that glass—” He broke off.
Larraby moistened his lips.
“I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
“The first thing is you’ll walk out of here with my pal, and go to the car across the mews,” ordered the man with the hammer. “Just get in the back, like he tells you. Pretend he’s a friend of yours.”
Larraby didn’t speak as he began to obey.
The man with the hammer opened the door, and the light from across the way showed clearly on the whitewashed walls of the other houses in the mews. Light glowed yellow and friendly at two square windows, and a car passed the end of the mews, heading for Oxford Street. Larraby saw a Vauxhall car parked where the man had said. The other man took his arm, above the elbow, gripping him painfully, and started across the cobbles. Larraby made no attempt to get free. He sat in a corner of the car, edging over as the other man got in beside him. Then the one with the hammer came out of the flat, slammed the door, and walked boldly across and took the wheel. Larraby saw his big hands with their tough-looking, spatulate fingers and nails bitten down almost to the quick. The man started the car and drove off with a kind of restrained strength which told of the brute in him. He swung round the corner out of the mews too quickly, and a cyclist swerved to avoid him. “Bloody bikes,” he swore, and then put his foot hard down on the accelerator.
Larraby thought: The police will stop him.
The man seemed to wake up to the risk he was taking, and slowed down. It was only a five-minute drive to Quinns, but he drove past the end of Hart Row and glanced along it, as if to make sure that no one was lurking there, then took the next turning to the right. So he knew there was anoth
er way to the car park. He stopped the car at the far end of Hart Row, and switched off the lights and the engine. Now only the single lamp near Quinns spread light, but there was diffused glow from Bond Street. Little traffic passed.
The man with the hammer said: “Okay, Fred.”
The man named Fred opened his door, said: “Out,” and then pulled Larraby with him. Larraby got out. The night air struck cold at his bare head and his face, and he shivered. He could see the narrow front of Quinns, could even make out the name in gilt lettering on the dark fascia board above the shop. The other man got out, and they ranged on either side of Larraby, powerful and menacing.
The leader said: “Go and open the door. Don’t go in – just open the door. Don’t forget, we’ll be watching.” After a pause, he added: “Go with him, Fred.”
“Okay.”
“You know what to do if he tries to pull a fast one.”
“I know what to do.”
“And I’ll finish him off,” the leader said.
Larraby felt himself shivering uncontrollably as he went to the front door. He could get into the shop, and there was just a chance that he could push the door open, dash in, and close the door on the man. But if he tried that and failed, would they have any mercy on him?
He did not think they would.
He reached the porch, remembering how he had closed and locked the door this very evening, after Mannering had left. Mannering. He owed more to the proprietor of Quinns than to anyone living, and would make any sacrifice for him. Yet his fear was agonising. Only a few years ago, his predecessor in management had been murdered in a raid on the shop, and when Larraby had taken over the job, Mannering had talked to him, in that office at the back.
It was almost possible to hear his words.
“Josh, I don’t care what the circumstances are, I don’t want you or anyone else killed trying to protect anything at Quinns. Is that clear? If it ever becomes a question of letting thieves get away with a haul, or risking your life, let them get away with it. You know as well as I do that nine times out of ten they won’t stay free for long, and we’ll get the stolen things back. If we don’t, we’re fully insured. So never take risks with your life, Josh. That’s a condition of the job. Understand?”