by John Creasey
“There is so little positive evidence against my client, who is quite sure that it can be easily established that the dead man received the injuries which afterwards proved fatal before he arrived at the flat in Green Street. My client’s special knowledge of such situations is likely to enable him to find the conclusive evidence before the police, and thus save himself from the obloquy of a prolonged period of suspicion. Any amount of bail could be met, your Honour.”
“I’m quite sure it could,” said the magistrate drily. “However, I cannot see that your client could harm himself or his case if he were to pass on any special knowledge which he has to the police – I am quite sure that their only interest is to find out the truth. The accused is remanded in custody for eight days and will appear in this court on the eighth day by which time I trust the police will have finished their inquiries.”
“We hope to have them completed, sir,” Ingleby said. He gave a satisfied smile. “Thank you, sir.”
Lorna was looking across the room at Mannering; smiling. Smiling. No one could know what that cost her. Mannering raised a hand to her, and pointed to the door which led to the rooms behind the court. She stood up. Chittering raised his right hand in greeting. Tom muttered something. Lloyd pushed his way through the crowd of officials towards Lorna, obviously to bring her to the back of the court.
Mannering felt the touch of a court warder’s hand on his arm – a firm touch, which could tighten, which could be like a steel band. He turned round, slowly. There was a rustle and a clatter of feet on bare boards, as nearly everyone tried to get out. Mannering went down the four steps to the door which was being held open, and stepped into the old, bare-walled passages which led to the police quarters, the magistrates’ quarters and the cells. He shivered.
So much had gone wrong, so many things pointed the finger of accusation, that it was almost possible to believe that he could be sent for trial, that he could even be found guilty. He saw Bristow staring at him; Bristow looked away quickly. He was an old friend, remember. Why was he behaving as if he thought that there was no serious doubt about Mannering’s guilt? Was he putting on an act simply to impress his colleagues, or did he believe the evidence to be overwhelming?
Mannering was led into a small, bare, bleak room, with a barred window. A moment later Lloyd came in, and immediately behind him, Lorna. Mannering’s heart leapt as she came, arms outstretched. He held them tightly, drew her to him, could feel the fast beating of her heart, the soft fullness of her breasts, the agitation of her breathing. They stood together without speaking for what seemed a long time, until Lloyd coughed and said drily: “You have five minutes.”
Mannering almost crushed Lorna’s hands.
“Yes,” he said. “Thanks.” He saw Bristow at the doorway, and gave a faint smile. “Thanks for something, Bill.”
Bristow closed the door.
“John, my darling,” Lorna said in a steady voice. “What do you want us to do?”
That was so right, so exactly right. Mannering raised his hands, as if hopelessly, saw the gleam in Lorna’s eyes, could imagine what she was feeling, could even imagine the doubts she had known.
Mannering said: “We’ve seven clear days, and that should be enough. Bristow told me that Larraby’s been drugged but isn’t dangerously ill. It’s certain that he opened the strong-room under some kind of pressure, and the first thing is to find out why. My guess is that he’s been told that if he doesn’t keep silent, you’ll be in danger, but it’s only a guess. The first hope, then, is Josh.”
“Yes,” said Lorna. “I realise that. John—”
“Mannering,” Lloyd said, “did you see a man named Klein, Jacob Klein, at Quinns?”
So it was Klein.
“Yes. A dealer from Nairobi.”
“Is this him?” Lloyd produced the snapshot, with that of Samuel Blest hidden by a slip of paper. Mannering studied it for a moment, then looked hard at Lloyd.
“Yes. Why?”
“His name is Laker – or was Laker.”
Mannering began: “What—” and broke off. He stared at the photograph again. The blood in his veins seemed to become colder and colder now that the worst was known. This ex-killer had been to Quinns, often. Who would believe that Mannering had not known his real name?
Lorna said: “Darling,” and broke off in her turn. He glanced at her. “Yes,” he went on, “I saw him half a dozen times or more. He told me that he was a dealer from Nairobi, and that he had bought a great deal of jewellery from some European and Indian families who wanted money transferred to banks in England – they hadn’t felt safe with so much jewellery on their hands.” He could picture the man now, with his rather harsh, heavy voice, a man he had not liked particularly, but who had seemed to know a lot about precious stones.
“Did you do any business with this Klein?” asked Lloyd.
“No,” said Mannering, slowly. “We didn’t get to that stage. He said that he was going to do a big deal, and wanted it all over in one go. He also wanted assurance from me that I had outlets for half a million pounds worth of jewellery, mostly old fashioned – Georgian, Victorian, Edwardian. Once convinced that I had, he haggled over the commission I should have. He—”
Mannering broke off, almost unbelievingly.
“Go on,” said Lloyd, heavily.
“He made sure that I had the outlets, and was certain that I could sell half a million pounds worth of jewels to specialised dealers and private collectors. He said that he was anxious to make the deal secretly, so that reports that the British and Asians in Kenya and other parts of Africa were selling out wouldn’t get about. It sounded plausible.”
“Did you agree to deal with him?”
Mannering said, heavily: “I would have. I asked for the usual references about his integrity, and guarantees that he had the right to sell the jewels. He said he would get them once we’d settled terms. I wanted ten per cent on any sales, he offered five. We didn’t reach agreement, and when he didn’t turn up again, I thought he’d gone to someone else.” Everything about Klein, alias Laker, was vivid in his mind; the rather pale skin, a “prison” skin but not unlike the pallor which some people acquired when living in hot climates; the full lips, the slate grey eyes, the rather wide nostrils. He had not been a handsome man.
Lloyd said: “I can tell you that the jewels Laker stole were worth nearly half a million pounds, so the few you’ve seen were only a sample. It looks as if he wanted to pass stolen jewels off, and when you asked for assurances about his right to them he backed down.”
“Yes,” Mannering agreed stiffly.
“John,” Lorna said. “John, did he always come alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did he … did he talk about anyone else in with him?”
“No,” Mannering said. “He said that he was staying at the Overseas Club, and twice I left messages for him there. He picked them up all right.” Mannering’s mind was beginning to work more swiftly and clearly, and there was a more confident note in his voice. “He tried me out and found that I wouldn’t handle stolen stuff, and then – he died. I could understand it more if he were alive.”
“Understand what more?” demanded Lloyd.
“The planting of the other jewels,” Mannering said. “I could understand it if he were planning to blackmail me, but … it’s far too late. Even if he were alive, it would be too late now that the police have made this charge.” He was rubbing his hand across his forehead, looking at Lorna, but trying not to think about her, and what the next week was going to mean to her. “Someone killed Blest,” he went on. “Someone killed Farmer. How did Klein alias Laker die? Lorna—Lloyd! Listen to me. Someone killed Blest and Farmer, and the same man might have killed Laker. So we want the murderer – it’s the one defence I’ve got. Is Chittering with us?”
“He’ll do anything he can.”
“Get him to plug that line by implication – I’m not the murderer, so the murderer is still at large. As soon as Larraby
can get about, have him go to his friends in the trade – we need to find friends of Klein alias Laker. Have the girl Blest and have the motorcyclist Terry McKay closely watched and followed. If there’s nearly half a million pounds worth of stolen jewellery hidden away, someone is going to release it on to the market.”
He stopped speaking.
He saw from Lorna’s expression, as well as from the solicitor’s, that he had not moved them to hope. And he knew exactly why. He had told them to do the obvious things, only the obvious things, and much more was needed.
What did they expect him to do? Work a miracle?
Lorna said: “We’ll do everything, darling, everything we can, but … working without you will be like working with one arm.”
As she stopped, the door opened, and after a pause, Bristow said: “Ready, Mannering?”
Chapter Fifteen
Remand Cell
Mannering said: “Yes, Bill, I’m ready.” He put his hands out to Lorna again, and she rested hers in his, trying not to grip too hard, trying not to show too much emotion. If she showed too much, it would suggest that she felt frightened of what might follow, that she had no confidence in the outcome. “Bye for now, darling,” Mannering went on. “It won’t be long. It’s the worst one we’ve had to face, because we don’t know what it’s all about, but we’ll find out.” He kissed her, squeezed her hands again, and turned away. “All right,” he said to Bristow, who opened the door wide. Two uniformed policemen were outside, and a man wearing a peaked cap – a warder from Brixton. Some wag further along the passage called out: “All aboard for Brixton Jail!”
Mannering walked side by side with Bristow, the warder in front, the two policemen behind.
“John,” Bristow said, “we only want to catch the guilty.”
“Tell that to Ingleby.”
“It’s true, and you know it.”
“Not this time,” retorted Mannering. “Ingleby and the others have forgotten how to be objective. They’ve taken sides already.”
“If you tell me of any clue which I can follow up to help you, I’ll see that it’s done.”
“Not this time,” Mannering said again. The warder reached the door leading to the street; it was ajar. He pushed it wide open, on to the bright sunlit buildings, on to the Black Maria pulled up outside, on to a crowd of hundreds of people, and cameramen jostling each other. A newsreel or television camera was placed on top of a van on the right, another across the road. There was a roaring kind of sound as Mannering appeared. “Now I know what the gladiators felt like,” Mannering said, and raised his voice: “Bristow, I don’t think I can rely on a square deal.”
“Anything for us, Mannering?” a newspaperman called.
“Any idea who really did it, Mannering?”
“Hold it!”
The police were outside in strength, pushing the crowd back. Lights were flashing. The movie cameras were whirring. Some teenage girls were giving vent to the squeals usually reserved for singing idols. Chittering was on the fringe of the crowd. Even in this situation, he managed to raise his hand in that reassuring thumb and forefinger salute. “We’ll get you out,” he seemed to say.
A passage was cleared through the crowd to the Black Maria. Newspapermen were rapping out questions to Mannering, who raised his hand to them, and smiled, actually laughed as one of the cameramen tripped over the kerb. The doors of the big black van opened, and Mannering saw two uniformed men inside; otherwise it was empty.
“Specially reserved for me, is it?” he asked, and climbed up into the van. The girls squealed again, a man called: “Hang all murderers, that’s what I say.”
One of the men held Mannering’s arm, the other closed the doors. In here it was very dark after the brightness of the street, and the sounds were cut off, too. Mannering lowered himself to one of the bench seats, leaned back with his head touching the van, and closed his eyes.
The engine started up and the van began to move slowly. He stayed there with his eyes closed. He could not think, yet; the situation was too vividly emotional. What must Lorna be feeling? He could still feel the pressure of her fingers, see the strain in her eyes. How long ago was it that he’d talked to her on the telephone without a thought of anxiety? How long ago was it since she had come into the flat, speaking flippantly to Ingleby, because she had been so sure that nothing really serious could happen?
The van gathered speed.
“You all right, Mr. Mannering?” one of the warders asked.
The “Mister” did Mannering good, in a ridiculous way; it told of a kind of respect, told that this man did not regard him as one of the unending trail of prisoners who were conveyed from here to Brixton Jail. Mannering opened his eyes.
“Yes, thanks. I’m as well as can be expected.”
“Fag?”
“Nice of you,” said Mannering. He took a cigarette from a familiar packet, accepted a light, then stretched out his legs. “How long does it take to get there?”
“Half an hour or so,” the warder replied. “It’s all according to the traffic. It won’t be so bad when you get there. On remand you can have what you want sent in, and they’re easy with visitors, too. The present Governor’s okay at the moment – the last one was a bit of a bastard.”
Mannering remembered meeting “the last one” at several social functions, and the remark amused him. Now that the immediate crisis was past, he felt less tense, and gradually began to think more objectively – not of what to do, but of how to start finding out the best plan of campaign.
With Larraby out of action, and the other staff immature, Chittering would be the best man to help. The newspaperman would actually have a double motive to help, and also to get a scoop for the Daily Globe. Lorna, Chittering, Tom as legman, and Lloyd as liaison between them and Brixton Jail. The cold fact that he would be unable to do anything for himself suddenly became more vivid, and his brief mood of relaxation passed.
How could he rely on the others to work at second hand? How could he hope to direct their activities if he could make no inquiries himself? He did not even know where to start.
If he were to have a chance, he must get out of Brixton.
Supposing he managed to escape? It would be difficult, but not impossible; few men knew more about the ways and means of escaping, of picking locks, of forcing windows. What would follow?
If he escaped and could establish his innocence – nothing important. If he failed, then he would be for ever on the run. Lorna would never know what it was like to have a feeling of security and safety. Sooner or later he would be caught, too; the continual feeling of being hunted might even make him give himself up.
So, should he try to escape?
If he did, and if he failed to clear himself, the world would judge him guilty. Up to the moment when he had appeared in court, escape would have had its advantages, but now – would it bring anything but risks and added dangers?
The charge was murder, remember.
The warder opposite him broke a long silence.
“Nearly there,” he declared. “Next stop will be the gates.”
Mannering wrenched his thoughts off the future, to cope with the immediate present. He could not see the great doors of the prison, but knew them well enough. The Black Maria stopped. Men spoke, then there was the sound of opening gates, the unmistakable rattle of keys, the hard voice of authority, then a squeaking sound. The van moved forward slowly, then stopped again. Mannering felt his tension rise to screaming point. One of the warders unlocked the doors and threw them open on to a bare bleak yard, with high walls and those massive gates.
Two more warders came up to take charge of him.
“Mr. Mannering,” the Governor said. “Certain regulations have to be observed, but within them we like to make things as easy as we can for anyone on remand. You can send out for special food, cigarettes, for anything you like within reason and of course you will wear your own clothes.
The warder had known his man.
On remand or not, this was prison. He felt as if the walls were closing in on him, as if the ceiling was creeping lower and lower. When the door was locked and the warder went away, he felt an overpowering sense of loneliness and of restriction. For that first hour it seemed as if the bottom had dropped out of his world. His mind fogged up, he felt almost panic-stricken – and all he wanted was to get out.
It must be possible.
The risks and the dangers did not matter. Any risk was better than staying here, helpless, damned. How could he expect anyone outside to find the vital evidence he needed? How could anyone else do what he had to do himself?
“I’ve got to get away,” he whispered. “I can’t take it – I’ve got to get away.”
“I know Mannering very well,” Bristow said to the Governor of the Prison. “He is an accomplished escapologist, a specialist in forcing locks, and a man of great physical courage as well as surprising ingenuity. Sooner or later, I think he’ll try to escape.”
“I’ll see that he doesn’t succeed,” the Governor said grimly. “I’ll have him watched very closely indeed.”
Lorna opened the door of the Green Street flat, and Ethel came hurrying from the kitchen, her hands wet, her face flushed. She took one look at Chittering behind Lorna, and said huskily: “So they kept him, ma’am.”
“Yes, Ethel,” Lorna replied. “For a little while.”
“I was praying he’d come back with you,” Ethel said. Lorna could see that she was close to tears, and hoped desperately that she wouldn’t break down; her own sense of frustration, of failure, of fear, was so acute. “I really was, ma’am, and—”
“Any messages, Ethel?” interrupted Chittering, sensing Lorna’s mood.