The Stolen Legacy

by John Creasey

  “Only some newspapermen, and – oh, yes, there’s a call coming through from New York, from a Mr. Pleydell. He’s supposed to ring again at one o’clock. That’s everything, ma’am.”

  Lorna thought: Toby’s heard, then. She went into John’s study, looked round drearily, and heard Chittering just behind her. “Chitty,” she said. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to get John out,” Chittering declared. “Lorna, there’s one thing of vital importance in this case. Absolutely vital importance.”

  “Well?”

  “He mustn’t escape,” Chittering said. “I’ve talked to Bristow, who expects him to try. I’ve talked to my Editor, who’ll be pro-John provided John doesn’t make a break. But in a desperate situation like this he might think it’s his only chance. He mustn’t.”

  “Could we ever stop him?” Lorna demanded.

  “This time I think we must,” Chittering said.

  The line from New York was as clear as if from a house round the corner, and Toby Pleydell’s deep voice was firm and definite.

  “You sit tight, Lorna, and I’ll be back by this time tomorrow. Yes, I’ve booked my plane. Now listen, there’s one thing of vital importance. I know John almost as well as you do, and the likely thing for him to try is to escape, so as to get busy himself. Tell him he mustn’t. Make him realise it would be a fatal mistake.”

  Lorna didn’t speak.

  “Are you there?” Toby demanded.

  “Yes,” Lorna said, hesitantly. “Yes, Toby – why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why does everyone want to keep John in prison?”

  “It’s for his own good.”

  “But why?”

  Pleydell said, almost desperately: “If you can’t see for yourself, I don’t see how I can make you. John has taken chances before and got away with them, but there’s been nothing like this. I spent an hour on the telephone with Lloyd this morning, so I know the situation as well as Lloyd does. If the bulk of the jewels are found, giving a lead to the real guilty party, we have a very good defence. If they’re not found it will be tougher. There must be someone who saw the man Farmer come to the house. He must have been brought in a car by at least one other person. Once we can find a single witness to say that a car arrived at the crucial time, we’ll have created an element of doubt, and the right counsel will have a good chance of getting an acquittal. But if John escapes, he’ll be doing himself inestimable harm with the jury.”

  “But the jury isn’t even thought of yet!”

  “The jury is alive and kicking, and reading the newspapers,” Pleydell said grimly. “If John escapes and doesn’t find the evidence he wants, he won’t stand a chance of acquittal. He must be made to understand that.”

  From the extension in the hall, Chittering called: “He’s right, Lorna.”

  “Who’s there with you?” demanded Pleydell sharply.

  “Chitty.”

  “Talk it over with him,” Pleydell urged. “And whatever you do, get word to John that he mustn’t escape – at least until I’ve talked to him.”

  Lorna said heavily: “All right, Toby.”

  “That’s my girl!” There was a pause. “I know it’s no use saying take it easy, but – take it easy, my dear. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” Lorna said slowly. She put the receiver down, and stared out of the window at the houses across the street, until Chittering came and joined her. After a long silence, she went on: “It’s like a conspiracy of all his friends and enemies combined – first to get him into prison, then to keep him there.”

  “Now listen,” Chittering said, protestingly. “You know it would be crazy for him to escape. You would normally be the first one to say so.”

  “Would I?” Lorna asked, and went on heavily: “I suppose you’re right. And I suppose the truth is that I can’t see anybody but John himself getting out of this mess. Unless Josh Larraby—”

  She broke off.

  “I’ll try to find out if there’s any news of Josh,” Chittering promised. “I’ll call you soon.”

  When he had gone, Lorna spent ten minutes in her bedroom, before going to join Ethel in the kitchen. Ethel’s face seemed to grow longer all the time, and she kept sniffing. Lorna went over and over everything she knew, trying to see the situation as John would.

  Lloyd telephoned. He was going to see John this afternoon; had she any special message? “Don’t escape, don’t escape,” seemed a refrain in Lorna’s mind, and it was some time before she answered. “Just tell him Toby will be here tomorrow,” she said.

  “Right, Mrs. Mannering. And I’ll try to arrange for you to see him soon.”

  “Thank you,” Lorna said, formally.

  She rang off again, and saw that it was half-past two. She felt heavy-eyed and physically tired; undoubtedly she would be wise to try to rest. She slipped off her dress and loosened her girdle, then lay down on the bed, sure that she wouldn’t doze off; but she did, and woke with a start, to see Ethel bending over her anxiously.

  “I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s Mr. Chittering,” Ethel said. “And he says it’s very urgent.”

  “Chitty?” Lorna sat up in bed, glanced at herself in the dressing-table mirror, slipped out of bed, ran a comb through her hair, pulled on a dressing-gown, and went out. Chittering was in the study, and the moment she saw him, hope died. She had never seen him looking so glum.

  “What is it?” she demanded, and steeled herself to take whatever blow was coming now.

  “I hardly know how to tell you,” Chittering said, and his voice had a hoarse, nervous note. “The truth is—er, the truth is, Josh has come round.”

  “But that’s just what we want!”

  “It’s what we thought we wanted,” Chittering replied, and cold fear gripped Lorna. “But he says he can’t remember anything at all – that his mind’s a complete blank from the time he left Covent Garden last night. The police believe he’s clamming up to avoid saying what he knows.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lorna Pleads

  “Josh,” Lorna pleaded, “try to remember.”

  The old man lay in bed at a nursing home not far from the flat in Chelsea, where he had been transferred by the police. A policeman in plainclothes, with a pencil in his hand and a notebook on his knees, sat in a corner of the room. Lorna sat on one side of Larraby’s bed, a hand resting on his thin, white arm. He looked very pale, a ghost of himself. His eyes held a vacant look; Lorna felt quite sure that he was not pretending. He really could not remember. That drove her even closer to utter desperation.

  “Josh—”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mannering,” Larraby said; his voice was very weak. “If I could remember, I would tell you, but I don’t. I simply don’t. I went to the opera last night, I do remember that – if it was last night.” He pressed his hand against his forehead and closed his eyes; when he opened them again, they seemed filled with pain, and their expression was vague and haunted. “I don’t remember when it was, I just remember that it was the day that Rebecca Blest came to see Mr. Mannering, he was so troubled because she had brought him false jewels.”

  The policeman began to write.

  “Josh,” Lorna said, and she tried to keep the note of urgency out of her voice, for fear of worrying Larraby too much, “did Mr. Mannering show you those jewels?”

  Josh stared.

  “Did he, Josh?”

  “No,” replied Larraby, and his voice fell away to a whisper. “He came out of the office and told me what had happened. I could have seen the jewels if I’d wished, of course, but there was no need. Mr. Mannering would know whether the jewels were genuine or not, far better than I. Why do you ask?”

  Lorna said: “I’m very anxious to know.”

  “Is Mr. Mannering in trouble?”

  “In a kind of trouble—” Lorna began, and the policeman in the corner coughed warningly; she had been allowed here to question Larraby provided only that she did not tell him
what had happened. “But he’s been in trouble before, Josh.”

  “How well I know it,” Larraby said. “I wish I could be up and about, to help him, but I feel so—so weak, so terribly weak. I’ve never been like this before, Mrs. Mannering. Will—will you answer me a simple question truthfully?”

  There were so many that Lorna wanted to ask, but she said: “If I can, Josh.”

  He moved his hand to take hers, hitched himself up a little on his pillows, and asked: “Have I had a stroke, Mrs. Mannering? That’s what I rather suspect. Am I dangerously ill?”

  “The doctors say you haven’t had a stroke, and you’ll be perfectly all right if you rest,” Lorna answered. “You mustn’t worry about the shop, we’ll manage there. Do you feel up to answering a few more questions?”

  “I think so, Mrs. Mannering.”

  “Did you see the man Klein when he came into Quinns?”

  “Well, yes, I did once,” answered Larraby. “I had a strange feeling that I had seen him before somewhere, but I couldn’t recollect where, one’s memory isn’t so reliable at my age. I did mention it to Mr. Mannering in passing, but it was of no significance. Usually I was out when Mr. Klein called. I understood that he was hoping that Mr. Mannering would act for him in some substantial private sales, but nothing came of it.”

  “Do you know why it didn’t?”

  “No,” replied Larraby, after a pause. “No, except that Mr. Mannering said that he thought the man was trying to get service on the cheap.”

  “I see. And last night – you really don’t remember anything?”

  Larraby hitched himself further up on his elbows, looked at Lorna very straightly, and asked: “What am I supposed to remember, Mrs. Mannering? What has happened? Why are you here instead of Mr. Mannering himself?”

  Lorna said: “They weren’t false jewels, they were real ones – and stolen. That’s what the police say, anyhow. They were found—”

  “I’d rather you didn’t make that statement,” said the man who was taking notes. “That’s giving a lead.”

  Larraby turned on him testily: “What does it matter if she gives me a lead? What has happened?”

  Lorna said: “Josh, Mr. Mannering is in Brixton Jail, on remand on a serious charge. You may be able to help him if you can only remember what happened after you got home last night – and after you left Covent Garden. Try to remember.”

  “I’ll remember, somehow,” Larraby said, vehemently. But he dropped back on his pillows as if the news had shocked him badly. He could not stop himself from closing his eyes.

  “So old Josh doesn’t remember,” Mannering said, in a hard voice. “And you really think it’s genuine loss of memory?”

  “I’m sure it is,” Lorna told him. “I can’t believe he’s pretending.”

  “It could be induced. The amatyl drug can do that. Not that it helps us.” Mannering paused. “Everything’s coming at once, isn’t it?” He looked at Lloyd, who had already told him that Pleydell was on his way, and glanced at the warder who was at the door, able to hear everything that was said. It was a precious enough privilege to see Lorna; he knew that he must take no risk of offending the Governor’s ruling – that all conversation with her must be clearly audible. He saw that Lorna looked rested, her eyes a little less bright; but her tension was alarming in itself. He said almost inanely: “We’ll have to put our thinking caps on, won’t we?”

  “John,” Lorna said.

  “Yes, my sweet?”

  “Do you remember … what happened in 1949?”

  “1949?” echoed Mannering, and frowned. “No, I can’t say that offhand—” He broke off, recollection flooding sudden and swift – recollection that in 1949 he had been on the point of arrest, inside Scotland Yard, with Bristow about to charge him. He had fooled Bristow, climbed out of the office and escaped from the Yard. Later that night, he had found the proof he wanted of his innocence. He felt a new tension, because it seemed as if Lorna was telling him that he would have to do that again. “Oh, yes,” he added, and forced a laugh which sounded natural. “I remember. Why?”

  “You mustn’t—” Lorna began, and glanced at the warder then at Lloyd, bit her underlip, and went on: “It wouldn’t be so easy or so safe, John. You’ve got to think of something new. That’s vital.”

  “Something new,” Mannering echoed. “Something new?” He realised at once what she meant, knew exactly what Lloyd had been hinting at earlier. They would know what his reaction was likely to be, would know that above everything else – he wanted to get out of here, to hunt for the killer and for those jewels.

  “John—”

  “All right, my sweet,” Mannering said. “I’m very anxious to see Toby, anyhow – no offence, Lloyd. When did you say he’s due?”

  “He’ll be here in the morning.”

  “Everyone’s rallied round, anyhow,” Mannering said. “How are the newspapers?”

  “They’ve got it all over the front pages, but they haven’t taken sides yet,” Lloyd said. “Mrs. Mannering, I think we should go – we mustn’t overstay our welcome.”

  Mannering gave a brittle kind of laugh.

  “Welcome! No, that would never do. Tactfully said, Lloyd. Sorry. All right, my sweet. I have a little sense left, and I’ll remember 1949.”

  When they had gone, he sat down on the upright chair and looked at the iron door with its iron grille, and which kept him out of the passage. He could still hear their footsteps, but that was unimportant compared with the significance of what Lorna had urged. “Don’t escape,” she had pleaded, and there wasn’t much doubt that she had been put up to that. “Don’t escape, don’t escape.” At least they acknowledged the probability that he could. Of course he could! He had been here a whole day, now; he had studied all the movements of the warders; he had examined that lock on the door. With patience he could get a strand or two of wire off a window grille, and could unlock this door in a few seconds, without much trouble. He felt sure that if he chose the moment rightly he could walk out of here. In the event, it probably wouldn’t be so easy as he told himself, but if he had once broken out of Scotland Yard, he could from here.

  “Don’t escape,” Lorna had said. “Don’t escape.”

  Find some other way of saving his neck!

  Lloyd had said plenty, too, before Lorna had come in. “As things are at the moment, Mr. Mannering, I am quite sure that we have a very good chance of establishing your innocence. We don’t know what new circumstances might turn up, of course.”

  Such as an attempt at escape.

  Lloyd had talked Lorna into that advice, he had convinced her that it was wise.

  Everything in Mannering called out to pick this lock, and to get out of here. If necessary he must overpower the guard and take the keys of other doors, but – supposing he succeeded? What would happen? Had Lloyd virtually been telling him that he would be throwing away the chance that he had now? Was that the reason for his insistence that the talk with Toby Pleydell, tomorrow, was of extreme importance?

  Mannering felt sweat beading his forehead. The warder was peering at him through the grille, as if perturbed by what he saw. He made himself light a cigarette, drew in deeply, exhaled slowly.

  If he couldn’t get out of here, what could he do?

  He made himself answer.

  He could decide what had to be done, and find a way of making the others do it. He could come to grips with the problem here as well as anywhere else. It was easy to be swept off his feet by emotional anxiety, by the shock of what had happened, but somewhere behind all this must be a rational explanation, waiting to be discovered.

  “Make your mind work,” he abjured himself savagely. “Make it work.”

  “What’s the man Mannering been like?” asked a senior warder, when the daytime warder went off duty. “Any change in him since his wife and solicitor came to see him?”

  “In a way there is,” the other man answered. “He kept muttering to himself for a while, and paced up and do
wn a bit. Then he sat down and began to write, screwed up the paper, and started all over again. He’s been at it for an hour or more. If you ask me, he’s got the wind up.”

  “Any sign that he might try to escape?”

  “Not a thing,” the warder assured him. “I know all the tricks they get up to, and he hasn’t used one yet.”

  Mannering put a dish of ice-cream, half finished, on to the dinner tray, then pushed his chair back from the table, stood up, and lit a cigarette, with the same harsh drawing of smoke that betrayed his tension. Yet he felt calmer. The result of his thinking was down in black and white, and he could hand the notes to Toby Pleydell and Lloyd in the morning. There wasn’t really a great deal, nothing startlingly new, but at least he had been able to marshall the facts clearly, and to write down what needed doing.

  He picked up a writing pad, and read:

  1.Trace the man or men who brought Farmer to (a) the house or (b) to the flat. Job for Chittering.

  2.Trace a neighbour or passer-by who saw a car arrive at about 8 o’clock last evening. Alternatively, find neighbours who heard a car in the street. Job for Tom, supported by Chitty.

  3.Check Rebecca Blest, her father, and all other relatives. Job for Lloyd/Pleydell/an Inquiry Agency.

  4.Check all associates of Rett Laker, before and after his imprisonment, get names of his prison associates, anyone with whom he might have made plans about finding or disposing of the jewels when released from prison. Job for Inquiry Agency. Police might help.

  Mannering looked up from the list and closed his eyes against a new rush of fear. The savage truth was that even if there were a development from Point 4, someone outside would have to follow it up. He did not know anyone but himself who could; no one else would take such desperate chances. Why should they? No one else had his specialised ability, either, except, to a degree, the police.

  He read on:

  5.Check Larraby’s movements last night and find out if he was away from his apartment. Check for his fingerprints on the two books which were disturbed – Collis’s Regency Jewellery and Handbook of American Jewel Merchants. Possible job for Chitty.