by John Creasey
“I don’t believe you.”
“Nor do I,” muttered Ingleby.
“Supposing I have my solicitor now,” said Mannering.
Bristow said: “As a matter of fact, Mannering, I telephoned your friend Pleydell after you had been charged. I knew that he was due in court two days ago, and hadn’t appeared, so he was either out of the country, or ill. He’s out of the country. He and his wife flew at short notice to the United States three days ago, over some complicated estate business, and are likely to be away for a month. His partners can act for you, of course, if you want them.”
Mannering echoed: “Partners.” In a disturbing way everything seemed to be working against him, and this last was in some ways the worst blow. Pleydell knew something of his past; Pleydell could deal with the police much better than anyone else. Each of his partners was strange to Mannering’s career and to his business. It would be almost impossible to brief another man quickly and fully; it would be better in some ways to act for himself.
“Well?” Bristow demanded.
Mannering said: “I’ll think about it. Why did you telephone?”
“I wanted to know what I would be up against,” Bristow said. “But even Pleydell couldn’t have got you home tonight. The police court hearing will be fairly easy in the morning. If you need anything, they’ll get it for you at Cannon Row.” He stood up. “And if I hear any news of Larraby, I’ll let you know.”
“Just tell me whether he’s alive.”
“You seem pretty sure that he’s in danger,” Ingleby interpolated, out of the blue. “That looks damned odd to me.”
“Looks what?”
Bristow was momentarily unable to meet Mannering’s eyes as he said: “Ingleby’s suggesting that if Larraby’s been attacked you might have as good a motive as anyone to attack him – a dead Larraby couldn’t betray you, could he?”
“Ah,” said Mannering. After a long pause, he added: “No, he couldn’t, could he? Bill, answer me this: why are you pretending to be so sure that you know what you’re doing? You’re the one man at the Yard who ought to know that there can’t be any truth in this. I can understand Ingleby being doubtful, and I know all about the other men, but you—”
He broke off.
Bristow looked out of the window, as if he could not meet Mannering’s gaze at all, and he leaned his hand heavily on the desk. A big truck roared past, rattling the windows. Bristow had a cigarette burning very low between his lips, and the thick grey smoke was coiling about his neatly trimmed moustache.
He said: “When you agreed to handle the Rett Laker jewels, you went too far. I suppose you thought that the robbery was too old for anyone to be interested in today, but you made a mistake. A big mistake. We believed that Laker would lead us to the jewels soon after he came out. We were watching him closely. The only people with whom he had close associations after his release were his relations, including Samuel Blest and his daughter, Rebecca. We can’t be sure whom he talked to by telephone, and occasionally he evaded our men watching him, but we have no reason to believe that he was in touch with anybody who had facilities for selling jewels – except you, at Quinns.”
Mannering exclaimed: “Quinns? What makes you think that he was in touch with Quinns?”
“No, dammit!” exclaimed Ingleby, as if he were cut of patience.
Bristow said, very precisely: “He was in and out of Quinns frequently. You must know it.”
“I don’t know anyone called Laker,” Mannering answered, but his voice had gone husky.
“Are you positive?”
“Yes,” Mannering replied. After a moment, he went on: “So he came to me under an assumed name. I’d never seen him to my knowledge.” He thought swiftly of callers whom he had not known until recently. One possibility was a man named Klein, but he wanted to be sure before he said so. “If I’d known—” He broke off, moistening his lips, feeling bitter towards Bristow, the Yard, everyone even remotely involved. Bristow could have told him that an ex-jewel thief was a regular visitor to Quinns. The Bristow of a few months ago would have telephoned him and said: “Oi, John, what’s this all about?” But Bristow had allowed Laker’s visits to pass without comment. It was now clear that he and Ingleby felt sure that Mannering had known the identity of his visitor.
Even if he had suspected this man Klein, the name Laker would have meant nothing to him. The case must have been heard when he had been away; he could not recall anything about it.
Could the Yard be blamed for refusing to believe that he, the owner of Quinns, the man with such a great knowledge of precious stones, was unaware of such a man’s identity?
The awful problem would be to convince the police, the magistrate, even the judge.
Would it really come to trial?
For the first time, Mannering was beginning to fear that there was no way to prevent it.
“I don’t think we’re going to get any further by talking about it,” Bristow said. “Chief Inspector, take Mr. Mannering across to Cannon Row. I’ve laid everything on.”
“Right, sir.” Ingleby was still dour.
Mannering said: “Don’t forget to look for Larraby,” and turned to go with Ingleby.
The sergeant who had been with him at Quinns was waiting outside, and they walked briskly back the way they had come. Doors were open now, although most had been closed when they had come in. Mannering saw faces at the doorways; plainclothes men, sergeants, inspectors, uniformed officers, all anxious to catch a glimpse of him. He felt as if his hands were fastened with invisible handcuffs; it was like being led out to the stocks.
He went down in the lift; five men were waiting in the passage when he stepped out, Ingleby in the lead, the sergeant just behind. He walked down the wide stone steps between them, and could not have felt more conspicuous if there had been a chain round his neck. Then he saw a man come walking briskly up, holding something at his side. It wasn’t until the man reached the foot of the steps that he put a camera to his eyes, cried: “Hold it!” and pressed. Vivid light flashed. Mannering was momentarily blinded. Ingleby cried out: “Stop him!” The photographer, knowing what to expect, made a rush for the gates, and only half-hearted attempts were made to prevent him from getting out.
When Mannering sat on the bed in the cell at Cannon Row, the light from that flash bulb seemed to glisten on the retina of his eyes, still dazzling him. He kept telling himself that he must get some rest, or he would be unable to cope in the morning, but there were too many things on his mind. The dead Samuel Blest; the injured man reeling against the wall; Larraby; the false jewels which had become real; the girl, the motorcyclist, Lorna – and the fact that the ex-jewel thief, Laker, had been coming in and out of Quinns, without his knowledge.
Surely someone at the shop had recognised him – Larraby must have, if no one else. He had been out of England, perhaps, but Larraby hadn’t; there was no reason to believe that Larraby had not known about Rett Laker.
It kept coming back to Larraby.
Chapter Twelve
Blacker Still
Lorna kept her finger on the bell push outside Larraby’s little flat, and could hear the ringing sound inside, but nothing else. Only now and again did a car pass. Once she heard some people laughing and giggling, not far away; happy people did not seem part of this chill night. She had been here for several minutes, the cold creeping into her, still alarmed by all that was happening. Why wasn’t Josh here? Why didn’t he answer?
She stopped ringing, almost decided to give up, and then tried once again. As the ringing sound came, she heard a car engine approaching at speed, then heard it change gear. Headlamps were switched on suddenly, and the car swung round the corner into the mews, shining on her, casting her shadow black against the wall. She turned round, wondering if this could be Larraby in a taxi, but it wasn’t a taxi. The car stopped a few yards away from her, a door opened almost as soon as the wheels stopped moving, and the driver jumped out and opened the back door. The reflect
ed light from the headlamps shone on Bill Bristow.
Lorna exclaimed: “Bill!” and turned and stepped towards him. She sensed his reserve before she reached him, and it did nothing to ease her anxiety about John. But this man was an old friend, an old family friend; Bristow had done more to help John over the years than anyone.
“Good evening, Mrs. Mannering,” Bristow said. His tone was obviously calculated to establish a mood of formality. “May I ask what you’re doing here?”
Lorna said: “I want to talk to Josh Larraby. Is John—?” she broke off.
“I’m sorry that it was necessary to detain Mr. Mannering,” Bristow said. “Isn’t Larraby in?”
“I can’t get any reply.”
“Have you a key?”
“No,” Lorna said. “No, but John has.”
Bristow said: “If Mr. Mannering has a key, perhaps it’s one of these.” He took a bunch of keys out of his pocket; they made a jingling sound. Lorna, recognising the large key-ring as John’s, knew that the police had taken his keys. She gulped down a lump in her throat, as Bristow asked: “Would you recognise it?”
“No.”
“Try the door with these, please,” Bristow said to the man who had jumped out of the car; and stood watching as he obeyed. Lorna stared at the door and the pale hand in the light from the car’s headlamps. Bristow didn’t speak. Key after key scraped against the metal of the keyhole, but didn’t go into the hole itself. At last the man said: “Ah, that’s it,” and after a moment the key turned in the lock, and the man pushed the door wide open. “Shall I lead the way, sir?”
“Yes. Are you coming, Mrs. Mannering?”
Lorna answered “Yes”, in a low-pitched voice, and followed Bristow into the narrow hall. She heard Bristow tread on something which made a grating sound, and he looked down; he appeared to have trodden on a piece of glass. He looked round, but saw nothing else, and went in the wake of the first man. Lorna had visited here occasionally, and she knew that it would take only a minute to search. If Larraby were here …
“There he is!” exclaimed the Yard man.
“He’s here?” Bristow sounded startled.
“Sleeping like a log,” the other Yard man declared, and went further into Larraby’s bedroom. Lorna could hardly believe that Josh was in the room. She told herself almost wildly that it must be a mistake; it must be someone else. She made herself step after Bristow, looked over his shoulder, and saw Larraby lying on his side. She did not know that he was lying in exactly the same position as Samuel Blest had been when he was found dead.
Larraby didn’t appear to be hurt, and there could be no mistaking his snow-white hair. The two men and Lorna stared down at the back of his head, the one arm over the bedclothes with the pyjama sleeve rucked up to the elbow in an almost child-like attitude of repose.
Next to the bed was a small table with a telephone on it; the telephone should have woken him.
“Larraby!” Bristow spoke sharply, but the old man did not stir. “Larraby!” The other Yard man went forward and shook Larraby’s shoulder. His head moved to and fro, but he made no sound or movement of his own accord. Chilled and dismayed by all that had happened, Lorna felt that she wanted to shout at the manager of Quinns. Then quite suddenly new fear stabbed into her, and she cried: “Josh!”
She pushed past Bristow, reached the bed, called “Josh!” again, bent down, and turned Larraby’s head. She raised it a little, and it lolled back. His eyes were closed and his mouth slack.
“No,” Lorna said in a choking whisper. “He can’t be dead. No!”
“Let me see, Mrs. Mannering,” Bristow said brusquely. Tension showed in his voice, and in the way he moved. The other man rounded the bed, while Bristow took Larraby’s wrist, and felt for the pulse. Lorna stared at the policeman’s lean, strong hand, and at Larraby’s pale, veined one, with the very thin fingers and beautifully shaped nails, and for a few seconds she felt as if she could not breathe. Now she wanted to scream for a different reason.
Why didn’t Bristow say something? Why didn’t—?
“He’s alive,” Bristow told her at last, “but the pulse is very slow.” As if to himself, he muttered: “It seems like some kind of drug.” He let Larraby’s arm fall, and said: “Telephone for a doctor and an ambulance.” As the other man picked up the receiver, Bristow pulled back one of Larraby’s eyelids, showing the white of the eye vividly, unpleasantly. The slackness of his body seemed to give Bristow the lie; no one could have looked more dead. “Not a pin point,” Bristow observed, in a matter-of-fact voice. “It isn’t one of the morphine drugs. He could just have made sure of a night’s sleep.” Obviously Bristow didn’t believe that. “We’ll look after him, Mrs. Mannering. You needn’t worry about that.”
Lorna said: “You’ve got to.”
“We will,” repeated Bristow, and then asked in the same quiet voice: “Is John in any financial difficulties?”
Lorna stared.
“No, of course not.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m quite sure. What makes you ask—?” Lorna broke off, in sudden understanding.
Bristow said: “Something must explain what’s going on. Do you remember having met a man named Rett Laker?”
“No,” said Lorna, tautly.
Bristow shook his head, slowly. Lorna had the impression that he hated the situation and what he had to say; there was no doubt of his seriousness.
“John most certainly did. There isn’t any possible doubt about it. Laker visited the shop frequently – until three weeks ago, when he died.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Over the period concerned, at least eight detective officers can testify that it’s true,” Bristow declared, and put a hand on her arm. “Lorna, what’s the trouble? How bad is it?”
The gentleness of his voice, the friendliness of his manner after the earlier aloofness, the familiarity of his touch upon her arm, all combined to make her feel sure that he was deeply concerned, and the doubt which had come to her mind earlier flared up again. John knew Laker, and yet had denied it absolutely. Bristow wouldn’t make such a statement unless he were quite sure of himself. If John had lied about Laker, what else had he kept from her? Was he in some kind of serious financial trouble, enough to explain him taking desperate chances?
Suddenly, angrily, she thought: No! Bristow’s trying to trick me.
“Lorna—”
“The only trouble is that he tried to help this girl this afternoon.”
“You really mustn’t deceive yourself,” Bristow insisted. Although he released her arm, his voice and manner were still gentle. “It’s much more serious than that – and it began a lot earlier than this afternoon. Lorna, my dear, if you want my advice, and I give it to you as a friend, persuade John to tell us what is happening. He wouldn’t take part in an affair like this without good reason. It’s possible that he’s being forced into it, and daren’t—”
“It isn’t possible, and he knows nothing more than he’s told us,” Lorna said. “And I certainly don’t want your advice.” She looked down at Larraby, seeing that his body was as limp as ever, and wondered what secrets were hidden inside that white head. “Look after Josh,” she said huskily, and turned and went out of the room. Bristow and the other man stared after her, then Bristow followed her to the passage, but she was already at the front door, and going out.
“Lorna!” Bristow called, but she ignored him and stepped down into the cobbled yard. The driver of the police car was standing by it, and Bristow’s shadow was thrown from the doorway. The driver moved, as if he meant to impede Lorna, then stopped as Bristow called more formally: “This won’t help you or your husband, Mrs. Mannering.”
Lorna walked towards the mouth of the mews, her shoulders back, her head high. She knew that both men were staring after her, but did not look round. A clock struck one, not far away; was that one o’clock or half-past twelve? It mattered, because there was still something she needed to do,
and she did not know whether or not it was too late. She wanted to go and see the Blest girl. Blest! She walked towards Berkeley Square, and saw two taxis with their For Hire signs lit up, waiting near a night club which had an obscure little doorway. She went to the first.
“I want to go as far as Notting Hill,” she said. “And back after half an hour or so.”
“Anywhere you like, lady.”
Lorna sat back in the taxi, playing with the clasp of her handbag. Her head was aching, and her mouth was dry, but she lit a cigarette, and stared at the road in front of the driver, trying to picture John in a cell, trying to reconcile everything she knew with the doubts which would not vanish from her mind. The worst blow was the statement that John had known Laker. If he had, why hadn’t he told her so? Why lie to her? Didn’t he know that he could trust her?
Suddenly, she thought: Tom will know! She leaned forward and tapped at the driver’s window, and he turned his head. “Will you go to Meyrick Street, Hammersmith, first, please – number 17.”
“Okay, lady.” The driver certainly meant to oblige.
Tom Wainwright came down from his bedroom, five minutes after Lorna had called at the house, and his mother hovered in the background, as if to make sure that she learned exactly what a late call like this was about. Tom’s dark hair was standing up like quills on one side of his head; he looked sleepy and his grey-green eyes were huge. He wore bright pink pyjamas with a grey dressing-gown loosely tied round his lean body.
He listened …
“No, Mrs. Mannering. I didn’t know anyone named Laker, and no one of that name came and asked for Mr. Mannering. But he makes some appointments for himself, you know, and I’ve often known people refuse to give their names.”
“How many, recently?” asked Lorna; and when Tom rubbed the end of his nose as if trying to rouse himself properly, she went on: “This man came out of prison a year ago, and died about three weeks ago, so it would be someone who didn’t visit the shop until last year, and stopped coming sometime last month. Does that help?”