by John Creasey
6.Check everything possible about the youth Terence McKay. Check nature of the meeting. Find the constable whom the girl said spoke to them, ask the Yard to find out from him if the encounter between McKay and R.B. had seemed accidental – as Tom has said.
7.Find out why I’ve been framed – what good will it do anyone?
He put the pad down and picked up his pen, adding:
8.Was Farmer the man who telephoned me saying he could give me the genuine jewellery? If so, why was he killed?
9.Find out how man got into Blest’s flat in Notting Hill. Find out what means of forcing entry was used. Find out if any other jewellery found at the flat as a result of the police search. Job for Chittering.
10.Find out if Rebecca Blest could have been putting on an act. Find out if she had any associates among criminals, her boyfriends, the lot. Job (a) for Lorna (b) for Inquiry Agency.
Although he did not write it down, there was a job for him; if anything was found against the girl or young McKay, who could follow the information up? Who could work on it until the full significance was known?
He could.
If he were free.
He made himself write on:
11.Find out if Klein alias Laker called in person at the Overseas Club for those messages. If not, who did? And why use the Overseas Club?
12.What has caused Larraby’s loss of memory? (if it is genuine). Shock – injury – drug? Get a medical opinion.
13.Why did Klein alias Laker really come to Quinns? Did he want to do a deal through me? Was there deeper significance in the man’s visits than there appeared?
Chapter Seventeen
One By One
“No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Mannering,” said the little woman with the mop of grey hair. “I didn’t hear anything that night. But then, I had the television on, and you don’t hear anything outside with that on, do you? I do wish I could help you. I’m sure it must be very worrying to have Mr. Mannering in this plight.”
Lorna said mechanically: “Yes, it is. Thank you, Mrs. Grey.”
“Oh, that’s a pleasure. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Cornhill, next door but one, asked me the same question only this morning. I believe a newspaperman had been worrying her about it. Everyone in the street is very anxious to help. We all feel so proud of Mr. Mannering.”
“You’re very good,” said Lorna. She forced a smile, and turned away. “Good night.” It was after six o’clock. She was tired, her mouth was dry, her feet ached because she had been walking to and fro, or standing and talking to people in Green Street, for the past three hours. This was her own particular assignment, and it seemed to be as futile as the rest. No one could remember hearing a car, or seeing anyone walk from a car to the house, or walk along the street. Green Street seemed to have been peopled by ghosts about the time that the man Farmer had come to the flat.
There was one more house, and two flats in it. She called at the ground floor one. An elderly man whom she knew by sight kept her on the doorstep, said that he had already told the police that he had noticed nothing unusual on the evening in question, and good night. The door closed sharply, nearly slammed. Lorna hesitated, then went up the stairs toward the first floor flat. She had been received pleasantly by most of the neighbours, but a few had been like this man: not openly hostile, simply aloof. They thought John guilty, of course.
As she approached the higher flat, she heard a child crying. A squealing infant was the last thing she wanted to cope with now. Another child called out, shrilly. Lorna hesitated, with a finger at the door, and as she did so she heard the street door open again, and a man come hurrying up. She recognised a plump, merry-faced, youngish man, who left the house on the tick of eight o’clock every morning. He stopped short.
“Can I help – oh, Mrs. Mannering!”
“I wanted to ask your wife a question or two, but she seems to have her hands full,” Lorna said.
“Oh, Meg’s used to that,” the man declared. “Noisy brats, aren’t they?” He thrust his key into the door, pushed the door open, and raised his voice to a stentorian: “Daddy’s home!”
The shrill calling, and even the baby’s crying, ceased. A longlegged girl of seven or eight, and a plump boy of four or five, came flying out of a room on the right, as if intent on bringing their father down. By some trick, he managed to hoist each of them shoulder-high, the girl in his right arm, the boy on his left. At the same moment, a very tiny woman, who looked too young to be married, came hurrying out of the room, with a baby in her arms – the baby naked except for a napkin. She stopped short at sight of Lorna.
“Why, Bert! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We met on the doorstep,” her husband explained. “Okay, kids, that’s enough. Popsie, take Simple Simon from your mother for five minutes – any objection to the enfants terribles hearing, Mrs. Mannering?”
Lorna said faintly: “None at all.”
“Always better to let ’em listen. It’s guaranteed to keep ’em quiet for at least ten minutes,” Bert said. His mastery over his children was remarkable to see. He found time to tickle the naked baby on its plump little belly before leading the way into a room on the right.
It was a living-room, with piles of toys in one corner, everything out of place, the mantelpiece crowded with letters, ornaments, bills, matches, two bottles, and some birthday cards obviously for one of the children, on which the number 5 was displayed.
“Sit down, Mrs. Mannering,” Bert invited, and pushed a chair into position; the child-like mother cleared another chair and sat down. “The police were here last night, and a newspaperman this morning – wasn’t he, Meg?”
“A Mr. Chittering,” Meg remembered. She had huge eyes, very dark blue.
“I know they’ve been worrying you,” said Lorna, “but I feel I must try to do something myself. I expect you know that a great deal will turn on whether this man Farmer was attacked before he reached Green Street – or, rather, before he went upstairs to our apartment.”
“That’s what the police hinted,” said Bert. “They’re fair enough, Mrs. Mannering. They tried to find out, all right, but there wasn’t a thing we could tell them. I don’t mind admitting that by the time we get the mob to bed, we’re just about exhausted. This room is at the back of the house, too – we collapse and listen to television until bed time. The night before last was our usual routine.”
“I only wish we could help,” the little woman said, as if she meant it.
“I’m sure you do,” said Lorna, and did her best not to speak mechanically. “It’s a dead hour between nine and ten o’clock. I suppose that’s why no one noticed anything.”
There may have been nothing noticeable to remember, she reminded herself glumly. But if two had been “helping” a third to the doorway, for instance …
“Funny thing about not noticing,” remarked Bert, briskly. “I was reading a life of a Scotland Yard chap the other day – dare say your husband knew him, Mrs. Mannering, chap named Bell – and he was saying how many people miss what goes on under their noses, but remember it if something happens to jog their memory properly. I’ll tell you what – I’ll go and have a chat with some of the neighbours tonight, get them talking. It’s amazing what comes out when half a dozen people start a get-together. We know the Lampleys and the Cornhills and the Robbs. They all live nearly opposite your place. Something might make them remember if they saw or heard a car.”
Lorna said: “You’re very good.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Bert, cheerfully. “Only too glad to help Mr. Mannering if we can – we’re very proud of him in Green Street, you know.”
“Proud?” echoed Lorna.
“Kind of reflected glory, you could say,” explained Bert, crisply. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“I must be going,” Lorna said. “Thank you very much indeed, Mr.—” She realised suddenly that she didn’t know his surname, yet they had been neighbours for years!
She saw him grin.
&
nbsp; “Entwhistle,” he informed her. “Good old north country name, Mrs. Mannering.”
Lorna crossed Green Street a few minutes later, glancing up at the houses on the other side of the street. A few years ago there had been an empty site here, and her house with two others had been the only ones left standing after a bombing raid. Now, a block of flats was being built, and they would have to move before long, so that these houses could be demolished to make room for another block; she and John had two more years on their lease. The new flats weren’t yet finished, and the builders had left huge piles of sand and gravel, great stacks of bricks and timber, on the site, which showed up eerily in the lamplight.
Lorna went upstairs, thinking how little she knew of the neighbours. Everyone in Green Street could have been forgiven for thinking she and John were hopeless snobs. Well, weren’t they? “We’re very proud of him in Green Street, you know.”
A car turned the corner, as Lorna waited on the porch. It slowed down and stopped opposite her, and Chittering called: “That you, Lorna?”
“Hallo, Chitty.”
“Had any luck?” Chittering closed the car door and came towards her with his long stride.
“Nothing at all,” Lorna answered. “Absolutely nothing at all.”
“Ruddy people never keep their eyes open,” Chittering complained. He took her key from her, opened the street door, and gave the key back. The lift was on the ground floor. There was only just room for the two of them, and it crawled up to their floor. Chittering pushed open the gate. “Never feel I dare talk in that lift,” he remarked. “I always think that if I breathe too heavily it might stop.” He saw the front door of the flat open, and Ethel appeared.
“Here we are, Ethel,” Lorna said.
“Have you had any good news, ma’am?” Ethel inquired eagerly.
“Not yet, I’m afraid.”
“Well, it’s only the matter of time, I’m convinced of that,” said Ethel, with determined optimism. “I must say it’s been as trying as it possibly can, now that Mr. Pleydell’s been delayed.”
“What?”
“That’s one of the things I had to tell you,” said Chittering, unhappily. “There’s heavy fog in New York, and both the airports are out of action. Toby will be twenty-four hours late at least.”
Lorna didn’t feel that she could speak.
“Will you stay to dinner, Mr. Chittering?” asked Ethel, anxious to change the subject.
“If I’m not being a nuisance.”
“You must stay, Chitty,” Lorna made herself say. She took off her hat with a weary gesture which had almost become characteristic, and went towards her bedroom. “Help yourself to a drink. I won’t be five minutes.” From the door, she asked: “Did Mr. Lloyd say he was coming round tonight, Ethel?”
“Yes, ma’am, about nine o’clock.”
After he had been to Brixton, Lorna thought miserably. She dropped on to the dressing-table stool, kicked off her shoes, wriggled her toes, and for a few moments felt as if all she wanted to do was to stretch out on the bed and try to sleep. Eventually she got up, washed, put on powder and a dab of rouge and lipstick, changed her shoes, and hurried back to the study, where Chittering was nursing a whisky-and-soda.
“Pour me a sherry, will you?” Lorna asked, and stretched out her hands to the coal fire. She watched Chitty pour, took the drink, and went on: “I suppose it’s all bad news, or you would have told me by now.”
“It’s one dead end after another,” growled Chittering. “Enough to drive you to drink.” He forced a laugh. “Want it straight?”
“Please.”
“Right. Tom and I have been working, Lloyd’s private inquiry contact has been busy, too, and the Globe’s detailed a couple of chaps to help. And it’s still blank, blank, blank. Take Rebecca Blest and her father. She seems completely genuine. She’s a typist in an office, and earns ten pounds seven a week. Her father worked for forty-three years in the same shipping company, as a clerk, and retired on a small pension. They had no money to speak of until this legacy. They inherited all of Rett Laker’s estate, and at first thought it was worth next to nothing. The jewellery seems to have been a complete surprise to them. There isn’t much doubt that there’s something phoney about the legacy. No jewels were mentioned in the will, and we don’t know that the girl’s father told her all he knew. Probably he knew the truth, and knew that nearly half a million pounds worth is stashed away somewhere. Not that it helps us much now.”
Lorna said: “No, I suppose not.”
“Then, this Terence McKay. I’ve seen him, Tom’s seen him, and Lloyd’s agent has, too. He works in an engineering supplies warehouse. He was out on errand on Tuesday afternoon, with permission to go home when he’d finished his last delivery. There isn’t the slightest indication that he’d ever seen Rebecca Blest until Tuesday afternoon. None of the neighbours has noticed him – not even the Ashtons who live downstairs, the family with the lanky daughter and her whining voice.”
“I know the one you mean,” said Lorna.
“I’ll bet you do! Her father has appointed himself a kind of Protector of Rebecca – she’s going to move downstairs with them until everything’s over. Neighbours can be decent, and even the clots have kind hearts.” Chittering pursed his lips. “Next, Josh Larraby. He might have taken some amytal, a drug which causes short term amnesia – loss of memory for a short period – and can cause it spasmodically. There’s no way of being sure, now. It would be out of his bloodstream before the doctors suspected what caused his trouble. If he’d had blood tests and all the rest yesterday morning the medics might have been able to tell, but not now. There’s no certainty about anything except that he genuinely doesn’t remember.”
Lorna closed her eyes.
Ethel said timidly, from the door: “Dinner’s all ready, Mrs. Mannering.”
She had cooked a chicken to perfection. Lorna picked at it, and noticed wryly that the situation didn’t stop Chittering from eating heartily; now and again he slowed down, as if almost ashamed to demonstrate that he was so hale, hearty and unaffected.
He kept up a running commentary.
“… can’t be sure of the fingerprints of those two books which John told us about. They’re being checked with Larraby’s, now – the police raised no objection to us taking the books as they’d already finished. They aren’t exactly being co-operative, but they aren’t being really obstructive.”
“I should think not!”
“Tell you one thing that Bristow did let out,” said Chittering. “In Fanner’s pockets there was a note of this telephone number, and they’ve found a C.I.D. man who noticed Farmer near a call box at Hyde Park – they’re thorough, you see. It was almost certainly Farmer who telephoned John and said he had the real jewels. Not that Bristow admits that he called about the real jewels, but he admits that Farmer might well have been the man who telephoned here. I saw Bristow myself, and tried to find out if there’s anything new known about Laker alias Klein’s associates since Laker came out of prison. Apparently he lived in a small flat in Fulham. He saw his brother-in-law a few times, but practically no one else. He’s not been in touch with any of his pre-prison-day friends at all – in fact as Klein he kept to himself, except for these regular visits to Quinns and to his brother-in-law, Blest.”
After a pause, Lorna asked: “Does John know all of this?”
“Lloyd’s been told everything, and should be telling John about now.”
“So we’ve really drawn an absolute blank,” Lorna said. It was hard to get the words out.
“’Fraid so,” agreed Chittering, unhappily. “The one thing that could lead to something is from the Overseas Club. The messages for Klein weren’t collected by Laker alias Klein himself – they were collected by a coloured youth, who is a member of the club. He hasn’t been in for nearly a month – not since Laker died – and the club’s promised to let me know if he turns up again. I expect the police have made the same request, too. Oh – one other th
ing. Bristow’s puzzled because a picture Larraby used to have on the wall of his hall, just behind the front door, has disappeared. It’s a peculiar thing – the nail for it was hanging on the wall, but the picture’s vanished. It’s possible that he took it away himself, of course, but – well, there was some broken glass in the passage, too. Did you notice any?”
“I thought there was some on the floor,” Lorna said. “How did you find that out?”
“Bristow wanted to know if I’d seen any picture there. Larraby’s cleaning woman told him, eventually – I don’t know whether Josh himself has been told about it.” Chittering pushed his chair back, and looked moodily into Lorna’s eyes. “I know how grim you must feel about all this. I couldn’t be sorrier.”
Lorna asked: “How do you think John feels?”
Chapter Eighteen
Mannering Proposes
“And that’s everything,” Mannering said to Geoffrey Lloyd.
“I’m afraid so, John.”
“And Toby won’t make it for at least another twenty-four hours,” remarked Mannering, quite mildly. “Last night that would have made me want to hit the roof. Brixton must have a soothing effect.” His smile was taut, in spite of what he said. “Well, let’s see what we’ve got in the bag. This coloured chap who picked up the messages at the Overseas Club – will you see that your inquiry people and Chitty keep at that?”
“Of course.”
“And the fact that Laker left his unspecified everything to his brother-in-law,” said Mannering, intently. “Was Samuel Blest quite the innocent that we’re told? Or did he know much more than he told his daughter? Why should Laker leave to a guileless brother-inlaw an estate which might prove to be worth a fortune, unless he was sure that he could make the brother-in-law do whatever he wanted?” Mannering gave a brief smile. “Count that out, but the key question remains. Why did Laker leave the estate, including jewels which were not specified to—?”
He broke off, and his eyes brightened.
“Got something?” asked Lloyd.