The Stolen Legacy

by John Creasey

  Mannering was feeling much, much better.

  “What is it?”

  “What would probably succeed if you were handling it yourself, might fail because Lorna and Chittering won’t be able to sum up the situation as quickly, and won’t be able to work under pressure as well as you do.”

  “I know,” said Mannering, heavily. “I know. Lorna’s behind me?”

  “A hundred per cent.”

  “Toby, I think they ought to go tonight,” Mannering decided. “And I still think Lorna will be safe enough, provided only Chittering goes with her. The risk will come if the police follow, or if Tom or anyone else shows up. The police might follow Lorna and Chittering, without saying what they mean to do. If there’s any evidence of it, call the whole thing off. Is that clear? Lorna and Chittering must go alone.”

  “I’ll see that they do,” promised Pleydell.

  When the solicitor had gone, Mannering sat back on the chair, with his head resting against the wall, his eyes closed, his lips set tightly. Everything that had been said passed through his mind, as though it were a fine mesh screen. He could imagine all the risks, and all the chances of failure. Out there by himself, he was sure that he could have coped. Could the others? Was there any reasonable hope that they could?

  He felt sure of only one thing: if the police went with Lorna and Chittering, or if they followed, and the criminal found out, that would be the end of the chance. Bristow had put his finger on the weakness of his own case. The murderer and those working with him still had the rest of the stolen jewellery. At the first real threat of danger, they would fade out, and hold on to the jewellery for a long time before trying to dispose of it.

  The obvious fact crept up on Mannering as he sat there, his mind roaming over the whole of London – so obvious that it could easily be overlooked.

  The key to this affair was the fact that someone had nearly half a million pounds worth of precious stones. What could they want him to do – except sell it for them?

  Every time Lorna caught sight of a policeman, that night, she wondered if the man would report to the Yard that he had recognised her. Every time a man appeared to be following her too closely, she wondered if it was a plainclothes man. Even at Hammersmith Broadway Underground Station, where a trickle of people went in and out, she felt that she was being watched.

  Chittering was near her, but they had not arrived together.

  Lorna was wearing a cloth coat and a beret, and carrying a handbag with a shoulder strap, with the thousand pounds in notes. Nothing could prevent her from looking distinctive, but no one would have suspected her tension or her nervousness. Most men who passed glanced at her.

  It was nine-fifteen; the time that Chittering had been told to bring her here.

  She saw him now, standing by the ticket machines further inside the station. He did not make any sign, but kept looking her way. She walked about, to try to ease the tension, and was facing the interior of the station – and Chittering – when she heard a crash just outside. She turned, in alarm. A woman cried out: “Oo look!” Two cars had collided, the front of one with the back of another, and a cyclist had been thrown to the ground. In that instant, a crowd seemed to rise from out of the pavement, and two policemen appeared as if by magic and went to the spot. Lorna found herself tempted to go nearer, resisted the temptation, turned round and looked for Chittering.

  He wasn’t in sight.

  He had been, only a few seconds before.

  Where on earth—?

  A man came up behind her, took her arm, making her jump in alarm, and said into her ear: “Walk straight on, Mrs. Mannering. We are going to take a short ride by tube, and then by car to a place where we will meet a certain Mr. Smith.”

  Lorna heard the deep, low-pitched voice, glanced round, and saw the dark face of the man by her side, noticed the dark fingers gripping her arm. This was a coloured man, stocky, powerful, knowing exactly what he was about. He led the way towards the barrier, showed two tickets, kept his hand on her arm, and went on: “You’ll be all right, Mrs. Mannering, if you do what you’re told. You won’t come to any harm. You just do what you’re told, ma’am. Mr. Smith’s a man of his word.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Motive

  Lorna went down the staircase to the platform, stepped into a train which drew in noisily, and got out at Earl’s Court, when the coloured man touched her arm. She felt numbed. There was no sign of Chittering, no indication that she had been followed. She stepped on to the platform at Earl’s Court, and the coloured man said: “Now listen carefully, Mrs. Mannering, and do exactly what you are told. Go to the main exit, and just wait there. A man from a dark blue Vauxhall car will come for you. Will you recognise a blue Vauxhall?”

  “Yes.”

  “That man will take you to Mr. Smith,” the coloured man said. He gripped her arm as if he had not yet finished, and lowered his voice: “Just one question, ma’am. You haven’t been followed by the police, have you?”

  “No,” Lorna said, stiffly. “That was agreed.”

  “That’s good, that’s very good,” the coloured man said. “Mr. Smith wouldn’t like it if the police were following you. Good night, ma’am.”

  He let her go, and she still had the money.

  She walked slowly towards the foot of the steps. A dozen or so passengers had got out of the train, and most were waiting to change to another line. She went up the steps. No one appeared to take any notice of her, and there was no sign of Chittering. A uniformed policeman at the exit was standing about and rubbing his hands together; he took no notice of her. Several other people were standing and waiting, and a young couple just in front of her were nuzzling each other. The policeman turned and strolled off. As soon as he was out of sight, a man came from one side and ranged himself by Lorna.

  “Got the money?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Hand it over then.”

  “When I’ve got the information,” Lorna said.

  “Just give me the money, and follow me,” the man ordered.

  What would John do in these circumstances? That was the pressing, urgent question on Lorna’s mind.

  She gave the man the bag and he looked inside. She was afraid he would just walk off, but instead he said: “This way.”

  He led her fifty yards along the road, to a dark coloured car; a Vauxhall. She could not see his face properly, for his coat collar was turned up. He was a man of medium height, and white-skinned. He opened the door of the car, waited for her to get in, then joined her. A man at the wheel started off immediately.

  Lorna knew the district reasonably well, and knew that they were heading for the Paddington area, but before long they turned into a side street. The driver hadn’t spoken. All she could see was the back of his head, and his shoulders. The street was dark, with only one lamp burning. She began to feel terribly afraid, but made no comment and stared straight ahead. The driver went out of this street, then turned corner after corner; she felt sure that he was checking whether they were being followed. Finally he pulled up by a stretch of waste land, where buildings had been demolished. Across the patch of land there were blocks of flats with many lighted windows, but they seemed a long way off.

  It was lonely here, and deserted, and her fears grew into dread.

  The driver said: “You got the money?”

  “Yes,” the man answered.

  “Checked her for a tape-recorder?”

  “No.”

  “Well, check.”

  Lorna steeled herself against the touch of the man’s hands, as he patted her clothes and felt inside her pockets. Finally, he gave her back the empty bag, and said: “She’s clean.”

  “Good. Now, we needn’t be long, Mrs. Mannering,” said the driver. “Why didn’t you bring the police?”

  “Because—” she broke off. “Because my husband advised against it.”

  “Mannering did? How come?”

  “He sent me word through his sol
icitor.”

  “So he did,” said the man at the wheel, with deep satisfaction. He did not turn his head, but she could see that his ear was white, too. He had a powerful voice, with a touch of Cockney, vaguely familiar because of that Cockney twang. He wore a dark trilby hat, pulled low over his forehead, and was muffled with a scarf as if this were a bitter winter’s night. “He’s no fool, I’ll say that for him, and he’s used to taking risks. Well, he can clear himself of this trouble if he’ll take enough risks – and if you’ll join him in them.”

  Lorna didn’t speak.

  The man said: “Farmer was going to do a deal with Mannering. He was going to tell him what I was planning, and he reckoned Mannering would see him right. Well, someone else saw him right. I was waiting for him when he came to Green Street, and his skull wasn’t as thick as he thought it was. It nearly was – he lived longer than I meant him to, but not too long. You could do with a witness to swear that Farmer was hurt before he got to Green Street, couldn’t you?”

  Lorna almost choked. “Yes.”

  “I can find him,” the man said. “I can find three reputable citizens who will come forward and clear Mannering. They will be able to stand up to any interrogation, and the police will have to drop the charge. It’s that easy. And don’t make any mistake, Mrs. Mannering – I made sure no one else could give this kind of evidence. It’s my witnesses or none at all.”

  Lorna asked: “And what does my husband have to do to – to make sure of their testimony?”

  “Good question,” said the driver, still looking straight ahead. “In fact, that’s the key question, Mrs. Mannering. He has to find three hundred thousand pounds, and see that I get it in cash. He can still make a good profit – because he’s got to buy Rett Laker’s jewellery with the money. I’ve been waiting for that stuff for fifteen years. I waited until Laker came out of prison, then I did a deal with him, and got my hands on the jewellery at last. But it wasn’t any use to me without a good market, and I’d got my market all prepared. Quinns, that’s my market. I once thought Mannering would buy it straight, knowing it was hot, but Laker alias Klein checked on that and we decided it wouldn’t work. We started to try Mannering out again through the girl, but—”

  The man by Lorna’s side said: “You don’t have to tell the story of your life.”

  “Okay,” said the driver, after a short pause. “Okay, I don’t. Mrs. Mannering, Quinns has got to buy the jewellery for three hundred thousand pounds, in one go. Quinns can find the money. I know its financial strength. The stuff ’s dangerous to me. I want to get rid of it, but I don’t want to use the ordinary fences – they’d try to chisel, or they’d squeak. So Mannering’s risk is having stolen jewellery to dispose of, that’s all. If he’s forced to it, he won’t find it so difficult, and I never knew the man who would give up a hundred-and-fifty thousand pounds to keep his hands clean.”

  Smith stopped.

  The man by Lorna’s side said: “You heard him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Lorna said. “Yes, I heard him.” She hesitated before asking: “What guarantee is there that the witnesses will come forward?”

  “You don’t get any guarantee,” said the driver. “But they’ll come forward all right. If they don’t, you’ll tell the police the whole story, and the hunt will be up. I don’t want that. I want a nice quiet life, with Mannering worrying about the police because of those jewels. It’s a straight deal, Mrs. Mannering, and you’ve got twenty-four hours to fix it. Mannering can sign cheques in prison, and you can get him to sign a blank cheque, and fill in the details afterwards. It will be a straightforward business arrangement, a purchase from an unknown collector – Mannering often does big deals like that, so it won’t be remarkable. Will it?” He barked the question.

  “No,” Lorna made herself answer.

  “So that’s it, and all about it,” said the driver. He had not turned his head once. “You get the money, sterling or dollars will be all the same to me, and you’ll get instructions how to hand it over tomorrow afternoon. Don’t tell anyone else about this. Just get Mannering to sign a blank cheque. Don’t tell your lawyer friend, on a job like this, you couldn’t rely on him. And remember this, Mrs. Em – if you don’t come with the money when I tell you to, there won’t be any witnesses, there won’t be a chance in hell for Mannering. That clear?”

  “Yes,” she said, quite firmly.

  “All right, you can go,” the driver said. “You walk straight on here, turn right, and then you’ll find yourself in Earl’s Court Road, and you can take yourself home. Don’t make any mistake, Mrs. Em – and don’t imagine there’s any way out, because my witnesses can talk two ways.”

  Lorna caught her breath.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They can swear that Farmer was banged over the head in the street, or they can swear they saw him going upstairs without anything wrong with him. They can be just the witnesses the police need to prove their case, see? I haven’t worked this out to be beaten at the post. Either I get that money, or Mannering will be found guilty of killing Farmer up in your flat. There’s no other choice.”

  The man next to Lorna leaned forward, pressed down the handle, and pushed open the door. After a moment she got out, awkwardly, and stumbled. The man made no attempt to help her. She stood in the dark street with the desolate stretch of land behind her, and felt terribly afraid. She heard the engine of the car start up, and began to walk the way the man had told her.

  Then cars swung into the street at either end, headlights blazing, and two men sprang up from the waste land. One of them shouted: “This way, Mrs. Mannering! This way!”

  She spun round. She heard the roar of the Vauxhall’s engine, and the whine of the other engines, and then heard a rending, crunching sound. She turned her head, and saw the Vauxhall heading towards her, already over the kerb. She flung herself to one side, caught her foot against some rubble, and pitched forward. A man shouted: “Stop there! Police!”

  The Vauxhall bumped over the waste land, and the two policeman who had been hiding there jumped to one side. The Vauxhall gathered speed. Lorna tried to pick herself up, but slipped again. Great lights were behind her, from the converging police cars. Men were jumping out of moving cars, and shouting. She saw seven or eight of them chasing after the Vauxhall, but it was going fast over the waste land towards the backs of the blocks of flats, and it had a hundred yards start.

  Then two men came to help Lorna to her feet. One of them was Ingleby.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Good Neighbours

  “So you had Lorna trailed by radio reports from police cars and police call boxes, and you converged on the car as soon as she’d got out,” Mannering said bitterly. “And you’ll try to persuade me that you thought that directly she was away from the car, she was clear of danger! This man who calls himself Smith will believe that she lied to him, that she knew the police were there. He’ll kill her for it.”

  Bristow said: “That’s simply looking on the gloomy side.”

  “Is it?” Mannering said. He felt viciously angry. “You lost Smith and his companion, and Lorna can’t say what they looked like. She couldn’t even swear to the identity of the coloured man who took her to Earl’s Court.”

  “He can’t help anyway,” Bristow said. They were in the cell at Brixton, and Pleydell was sitting by, listening without making comment. “We picked him up – he was followed from the station. He swears that he doesn’t know who Smith is or where he lives, he simply acted as a messenger. It was the coloured man who picked up the messages from Laker alias Klein at the Overseas Club, and he had precise instructions what to do last night, and just carried them out. When he first came to England from Jamaica he had a very rough time, committed several burglaries, and sold the stuff to this man Smith, through an intermediary. Then Smith blackmailed him into doing what he wanted.”

  “Can he identify Smith?”

  “He says he’s only seen him in the dark, and always
when Smith was at the wheel of a car, so that he only saw his back.”

  “So Smith’s as free as the air, with a hate for Lorna and a fortune in jewels still stashed away,” Mannering declared.

  “John,” murmured Pleydell, “there are advantages, you know. After this, the police can’t proceed with their charge. They’ll have to withdraw it – I think I can persuade them to shorten the remand period, and to have a special hearing.

  Chittering was taken by train out to Wimbledon late last night and turned loose in the middle of Wimbledon Common, but his and all the other newspapers have the story, and it will be all over the front pages. And Bristow’s men did make sure that Lorna came to no harm.”

  Mannering said gruffly: “If they’d handled this properly they could have caught the men.” He stood in front of Bristow. “Haven’t you any idea at all where to find them?”

  “Not yet,” Bristow admitted. “But until they’re found, you and Lorna will have every protection.”

  “This chap might wait a year or more before he tries to get his own back,” Mannering said roughly. “And you know it. He waited fifteen years to get those jewels, and now he’s still got them on his hands. What I can’t understand—”

  He broke off.

  The problem, as a problem, was pressing more heavily on his mind. His anger was fading, his fears for Lorna were in the future – certainly there was no immediate danger for her.

  “… is why they let Rebecca bring the fake jewels – and poor fakes at that. What did Lorna say? Laker as Klein checked that I wouldn’t play with stolen jewels, and they were going to try again through the girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “But they wouldn’t get anywhere by sending me the fake jewels,” Mannering protested. He began to walk about the cell, one hand in his pocket, the other clenched in front of him. “If they’d tried to persuade me to handle the real stuff, through Rebecca, it might have made some sense. If I’d once taken the job on for her, I would have been landed with the stolen jewels, and they might hope to make me keep selling them, by blackmailing me. But the fakes were pointless.”