by John Creasey
“And—” invited Ingleby. He sounded as if he was on top of the world.
“I have no idea how these came to be in my strong-room.”
“Can’t you make a suggestion, Mr. Mannering?”
“No,” Mannering replied. “I’ve nothing more to say.”
“Well, I have,” said Ingleby, and his voice roughened. “John Mannering, it is my duty to charge you with being in possession of precious stones knowing them to be stolen, and I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.”
There was utter silence, until the policeman gave that snort of a laugh again; but it wasn’t really gloating, he was suffering from suppressed excitement. Ingleby was gloating, though; he looked as puffed up as a toy balloon.
“Have you anything to say?” His voice rang out.
“Not yet,” Mannering said, with difficulty, “except to deny that these jewels were here with my knowledge.”
He chose each word most carefully, while all the time he seemed to see Josh Larraby’s eyes, clear, trustful, trusting – and he saw those two books standing out a little from the shelf. The sinister truth of what had happened was dawning on him, and taking effect slowly. He was under arrest. He would be brought up before the magistrate in the morning and charged with being in possession of stolen jewels, and – he would be remanded. His main hope, for the time being, was to be remanded on bail. There had been plenty of times in the past when he had been on the point of arrest, but he had never felt so certain that he would not escape the police court hearing.
There was Lorna.
He felt sticky and hot
“Open the other safes, Mr. Mannering, will you,” asked Ingleby. “We might as well make a job of it, now we’re here.”
Mannering thought: Lorna, in an empty kind of way, and took out his keys again, opened the safes, and watched as the police went through the contents, one by one. He knew every piece of jewellery, every miniature, every little objet d’art which was here for safe keeping. There were dozens of pieces which would have been worth stealing, and yet nothing had been touched; he would have found out during the search if anything at all had been taken away. Someone had broken in here, or been allowed in by Larraby, had taken the false Laker jewels and replaced them by the genuine ones, and then gone off, leaving a fortune untouched.
It simply didn’t make sense.
Mannering reminded himself that only someone with a cold, keen intelligence could have planned a thing like this. So he would be bound to find out the reason, soon. It had been done with deliberate purpose, and that purpose was hanging over him like a weight that might drop and crush him at any moment.
Lorna.
Ingleby said: “If you wish to telephone your wife before we go, that will be permissible, Mr. Mannering.”
“Ah,” said Mannering. “Yes. Thanks.”
Lorna was dozing in bed when the telephone bell rang, and she sat up with a start, glanced at the bedside clock, and saw that it was after twelve o’clock. Why had John been so long? She leaned slowly sideways and picked up the telephone, jumpy because she had been startled, annoyed with herself because she had so nearly dropped off to sleep.
“Mrs. Mannering,” she announced.
“Hallo, my sweet,” John said, and although he spoke clearly and almost heartily, Lorna sensed on the instant that something was badly wrong; there was an attempt at reassurance in his voice which did not ring true.
“John!”
“Something has misfired,” John went on, too easily. “Someone left some stolen jewels at Quinns tonight, and the police want me to explain what it’s all about. I’m going over to the Yard now, and I don’t think I’ll be home until morning. I’ll call you as soon after eight o’clock as I can. Sleep well.”
“John, don’t ring off.” Lorna was sitting upright, her heart thumping. She could picture him sitting in that little sewing chair, overlapping it on each side, with the tea tray on a stool between him and the bed. “Just how serious is it?”
“It could be unpleasant,” Mannering answered carefully, “but there’s no need to take that for granted. I’d like the night to think about it, and if necessary we’ll get Toby Pleydell over in the morning.”
“John, are you – are you under arrest?”
There was a long pause, and Lorna wanted to cry: “Are you?” but made herself keep quiet.
John said, very quietly: “Yes, darling, but I’m not very worried about it.”
“You’re not worried!” she began, and choked the words back. It was bad enough for him already. She must not do anything to make the situation worse, but a dozen questions reared up in her mind. She couldn’t just ring off and let things hang fire like this. John must talk to Toby Pleydell, their solicitor, now. If John were under arrest he had every right to. Under arrest! She thought of the man who had been injured, who might have been attacked in this very apartment, according to the police; and she thought of the man who had been murdered that afternoon. This wasn’t simply a misunderstanding over stolen jewels, this was murder – and John was already under suspicion.
“Good night, sweet,” Mannering said.
“John! I must call Toby—”
“I don’t think it will help, tonight,” Mannering said. “The morning will be time enough. I expect to see Bill Bristow soon, and I think I can convince him that the charge is a mistake. Try to take it easy for tonight.”
Lorna began: “But John—” then swallowed the words, drew in a deep breath, and said: “Yes, of course I will, if you’re not worried there’s no reason why I should be. If you haven’t telephoned by half-past eight in the morning, where shall I come?”
“Just check with the Yard,” Mannering said.
“All—all right, John. And you try to get some sleep.”
“I’ll sleep like a log,” Mannering assured her with that false heartiness. “Mind you do, too. Good night!”
He rang off, with that last absurd injunction ringing in Lorna’s ears.
She held the receiver in her hand for a long time, staring at it, as if trying to conjure up a vision of John’s face; and of his eyes. She felt quite sure that he was deeply worried, even though he had tried to keep it from her, and gradually fear took possession of her. She did not start to telephone Toby Pleydell, but pushed the bedclothes back, put on her dressing-gown, and went across to the dressing-table, mechanically running a comb through her long hair, not noticing the strands of grey. How often had she sat doing that with John standing just behind her? She could judge from his expression the moment when he was going to slide his arms round her, when his hands were going to cup her breasts, when he would make her turn to look at him, and kiss him.
Now, the mirror was empty; dull.
She felt the stirring of panic, and it was useless to tell herself that there was no need. She felt her breath coming quick and short. Her grip on the comb tightened. But she did not move.
The police must feel sure of themselves – that was a fact she had to accept, and it made the situation worse.
They had found something at Quinns …
It wouldn’t be the first time if John had stored jewels for someone else, knowing they had been stolen. All his life he had taken chances, often desperate chances. Sometimes, in the early days before their marriage, he had actually stolen precious stones, and in those days she had fooled herself that it was a good thing to steal from the rich to give to the poor. She had put that idea aside long before he had. Yet the past too often loomed over them to threaten today’s happiness. And the old days of the Baron had never really been buried. When he had told her about Rebecca Blest, there had been a gleam in his eye and a ring in his voice which had betrayed a lively interest in the mystery. But for that, he would never have taken the trouble to go to the girl’s home.
Had she taken him fake jewels?
The question was firm in Lorna’s mind almost before she realised its significance. If she herself began to wonder if he had told th
e truth, was it surprising that the police had doubts? She hated herself for the question, yet once it was there, its importance grew and grew. Why had John gone to see the girl? Why hadn’t he waited until she returned to him? It was easy to understand him offering more than the jewels were worth – that was a characteristic gesture. But what had made him take that extra trouble?
Did anyone else know why? Larraby, for instance?
Lorna turned away from the mirror, got up and went to the telephone. It was natural to turn to Josh in moments of difficulty, for the old man was not only wise but wholly reliable. He was probably asleep, but was used to being disturbed by night.
She dialled his number.
The ringing sound went on and on. For the first half minute she was not surprised; then she began to worry. If Josh were in, he would surely have heard the bell by now, no matter how soundly he had been sleeping. The bell kept on ringing. Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr. Why didn’t he answer? Wasn’t he at home? And if he wasn’t, why not?
Why should old Josh be out after midnight?
Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr.
After a long while, she put the receiver down very slowly, and began to dress. She wanted to see Josh Larraby, and if he had run into trouble of any kind, she must tell the police at once.
Chapter Eleven
Questions
Mannering felt the gaze of the policeman and the plainclothes men at Scotland Yard as he was taken up the wide stairs towards Bristow’s office. He doubted whether any of these men knew exactly what had happened, but rumour of his arrest would have spread by now, and would be a sensation at the Yard. One of their own consultants, one of the most respected men in the jewellery and antique trade, here under a serious charge. Men he knew slightly stared at him, some openly, some covertly. A sergeant on duty at the reception hall, whom he knew well, ignored him. Ingleby wore an expression of almost blissful satisfaction as he led the way, and stopped at a door marked: Waiting Room. He opened it, looked inside, and said to the sergeant who had come with him – the man with the snort: “Wait here with him, Joe.”
“Right.”
Ingleby moved away, and as he went out of the room, Mannering called quietly: “Ingleby.”
Ingleby stopped. “Well?”
“Why the hate?” demanded Mannering.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“If you’d caught a murderer you’d been after for years, you couldn’t be more pleased with yourself.”
Ingleby said: “Couldn’t I?” He hesitated, then came back into the room, closed the door, looked Mannering up and down, and said evenly: “All right, Mannering, I’ll tell you why I hate your guts. You’ve been a consultant at the Yard for as many years as I can remember. If there was one man in London I thought I could trust, it was you. I recommended you to anyone who wanted a genuine valuation for jewels. I’ve argued with a dozen of my colleagues over you – I’ve claimed that you were the one man who was incapable of handling stolen jewels.
And most of them agreed with me. I shouldn’t think there was a jewel merchant in London more trusted by the Yard, and by the Divisions. Until a few days ago, I was just a mug, like the rest. Then I began to hear these rumours, and we got the reports that you’d been handling Rett Laker’s jewels.” Ingleby stopped, moistening his lips and giving the impression that he did not quite know how to go on. The sergeant was staring at his superior officer now, not at Mannering. Ingleby’s eyes showed a cold light, and his voice was hard when he went on: “Rett Laker committed worse than murder when he got those jewels. One of his victims was crippled for life, and a woman was so badly injured that she’s never been right in the head since. I hated Laker and men like him as much as I respected you, and when I knew you’d been handling that kind of filthy jewellery—”
Ingleby broke off.
After a long pause, Mannering said: “Thanks for that, anyhow. Just get one thing into your head, will you? I had never seen those jewels until tonight.”
Ingleby turned on his heel.
Mannering heard the door close with a snap, then took out cigarettes, lit one, remembered the sergeant, and offered him one; the man shook his head. Mannering had a feeling that the sergeant was beginning to wonder if there could be anything in his, Mannering’s, insistence, but he was not left to wonder. Ingleby came back, and said gruffly: “Superintendent Bristow is ready to see you.”
“Now we might get somewhere,” Mannering said, but that was as much to raise his own spirits as in hope.
In a way, Bill Bristow was as familiar as Larraby to Mannering, and at the Yard he was a kind of father figure. Now he sat behind his tidy pedestal desk in a big room with the windows overlooking the Thames. Lights shone on the dark water from Westminster Bridge, car lights sped like moving diamonds over the bridge and on the far side of the river. Immediately beneath the window, on the Embankment, there was a haze of light, and the buzzing of moving cars, Mannering was almost as familiar with this as with Bristow. It was many, many years since he had stepped into this office and not been greeted with a smile, a ‘hallo John’, and a handshake. Now, Bristow sat in his chair, stony-faced, and Mannering stood in front of him, with Ingleby on one side.
“Well, Mr. Mannering.”
“Et tu, Bristow?” Mannering murmured. “Mind if I sit down?” He pulled a chair closer to him, half-prepared for Bristow to say no; but Bristow made no comment, and Mannering sat down. “Bill,” he went on, “I wouldn’t expect Ingleby to take any notice of this, so I saved it up for you.”
“Saved what up?”
“I’m worried about Josh Larraby.”
“Why?”
“Because he was the only man who might have got into the strong-room tonight.”
Bristow said, slowly, heavily, disgustedly: “My God, you have reached bottom, haven’t you?”
Mannering’s great effort to be composed, the sense of relief that he had felt at seeing Bristow, the feeling that this situation would not become too desperate, all vanished. There was something in Bristow’s expression which he feared, and even dreaded; some implication in that “My God, you have reached bottom, haven’t you?” which seemed to tell of disgust. Bristow’s eyes were very bright and steady, but there was no hint of a smile or of friendliness – or of goodwill. Mannering said sharply: “What are you driving at?”
“You know as well as I do,” Bristow said, coldly. “I thought that if you were ever caught red-handed you would have the guts to take what was coming to you, not use Larraby as a scapegoat. Don’t you think that old man’s had enough trouble? Do you think he would risk going inside again?” Bristow leaned forward, and went on with deliberate emphasis: “Or is this the price you’ve extracted from him? For lifting him out of poverty and giving him a chance, he must cover up for you if you ever got caught.”
Mannering said: “So I’ve sunk low.” He fought back his resentment, returned Bristow’s cold gaze, and went on: “I would like my solicitor, at once.”
“I asked you a question.”
“I heard it,” said Mannering. “And I want my solicitor here, because I’ve finished talking to you. If you want the situation to be legal and formal, that’s all right with me. But when the case is over, blame yourself for any harm that comes of it. If Larraby’s hurt, if he’s dead, remind yourself that you and your stooges were so busy following false trails that you didn’t give a damn about his danger.”
“What danger?”
“You can’t be that dumb.”
“I don’t want rudeness, and—”
“You don’t want rudeness!” cried Mannering. Now he was beginning to act his part; he had needled Bristow, and that might put an edge on to Bristow’s hostility. “Forget what you want. Just try to get it into your head that Larraby was the only man, beside me, who could have got into my strong-room tonight, and nothing in the world would have made him do it unless he was under threat. I’ve always told him to give in if he came up against an emergency with his life at stake – a
nd his life must have been at stake for him to allow anyone into Quinns to plant those jewels. Find Josh, and you stand half a chance of discovering what happened. You also stand a chance of finding him with his head bashed in, like the other victims of this killer. Put out a call for Josh Larraby, and get a move on.”
Bristow hesitated, then put his right hand on the telephone. He lifted it, said: “Information,” and waited. Then he went on: “George, I want a general call out for a man named Josh Larraby, who … Yes, that’s right, Mannering’s manager at Quinns. I’ll go to his flat, you go to his friends, and pick him up wherever he is. If you can’t find him quickly, try the hospitals and casualty wards. Is that clear?”
After a pause, Bristow rang off.
Mannering said heavily: “Thanks.”
“Mannering,” Bristow said, relaxing a little, “why don’t you stop trying to fool us? I’ve put out a call for Larraby because there’s a ten per cent chance that you’re right, but there’s a ninety per cent chance that you’re trying to mislead us. That girl brought you the real jewels this afternoon, and you had your own reasons for saying they were false. What were they?”
“Those jewels were false.”
“The moment I heard that they’d been found at Quinns, I went to Notting Hill, and talked to the Blest girl myself,” said Bristow. “She was glad of a chance to talk – she’d refused to have a sedative, and was desperately anxious to have something to do. She said that she felt absolutely sure that she brought you the real jewels, and was astounded when she heard that they were false. She also said that no one else at Quinns saw those jewels, so no one could corroborate your story that they were false. Now, let’s have the truth: why did you lie to her? Were you under some kind of pressure?”
“No, Bill,” Mannering said. “I didn’t lie to her.”
“You’re not seriously insisting that someone broke into Quinns, took away some fake jewels worth a few hundred pounds, and left thirty or forty thousand pounds worth of genuine jewellery in their place?”
“That’s exactly what happened.” Mannering was almost tired of saying it.