by John Creasey
“There!” he cried.
Inside the case was a nest, a bird’s nest – made of spun gold. Inside the nest were five jewelled eggs, and if one could judge from the look of them, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires were set in eggs of solid gold. Each the size of small hen’s eggs, they lay in the golden nest as if a fabulous bird which could lay jewelled eggs had left them there, and flown away.
“You see?” Pendexter Smith’s voice became almost shrill. His eyes glittered, his hands hovered about the eggs as if he suspected that Mannering would snatch them, and he meant to protect them with his life. “Five jewelled eggs in a golden nest, worth a hundred thousand pounds at least. The only one like it in the world, Mr. Mannering! Why, the gold itself must be worth ten thousand pounds.”
He watched Mannering, as if expecting a denial.
“Yes,” said Mannering slowly, “I can well believe it.”
“You agree?”
“It’s so obviously true.”
In the pause that followed, the old man looked at the girl, who was staring at him, not Mannering. Mannering judged her expression to be one of expectancy, but couldn’t really be sure. She didn’t look so very different from what she had all the time.
“Miranda,” said Pendexter Smith, “it’s beginning to look as if we’ve found an honest dealer.” His eyes snapped at Mannering. “How much do you drink they are worth to a collector, Mr. Mannering?”
“I’m not going to guess.”
“You can estimate, surely.”
“A collector who wanted them badly enough would pay your price.”
“You see, you see?” cried Smith, exultingly, “I was right! A hundred thousand pounds for the jewelled eggs.” He lifted the case, dropped it heavily on the desk in front of Mannering, and rubbed his hands together briskly, obviously beside himself with delight. “I knew I wasn’t far wrong, Miranda.”
Mannering then saw the strangest sight. The old man jumped up and put an arm about the girl’s shoulders, hugged her, and kissed her. That should have seemed obscene, but it did not. She turned to look at him, and now all the calmness had gone, her eyes glowed, her hands were raised and clenched. Mannering thought, “I believe it’s given her hope,” and certainly hope seemed to blaze in her eyes, giving her a new, fierce radiance.
“We’ll have you right,” cried Pendexter Smith, “don’t worry about it, we’ll have you right!” He squeezed her again, then turned to face Mannering, quivering with excitement. Standing, he was only as tall as Mannering was when sitting. “How soon can you sell them? Tell me, please, quickly.”
“I can’t even begin—” began Mannering.
“But it’s vital, I must sell them quickly! How soon?”
Mannering found it hard to say, “A week, a month, or a year. I simply don’t know. We’ll have to find a collector if we want the full price, and collectors with fortunes aren’t growing on every tree. There’s no way of telling you how soon you could get your hundred thousand. I’d certainly advise waiting for a month or more in the hope of getting several offers. ‘I think I know of two or three men in London who might be interested, others in Paris and Rome, more farther afield. You must be patient.”
Pendexter Smith thumped the desk, made a silver inkstand jump and the pen rattle, but did not make the case move an inch.
“But I can’t wait! I just can’t wait.”
“If you sell at once, you’ll get the value of the gold and the jewels plus ten per cent or so,” Mannering told him. “No more. If you wait—”
“But I can’t wait!” The old man began to froth at the corners of the mouth. “Don’t you understand? Can’t you get it into your thick skull? I just can’t wait. How soon?”
Mannering said, “You don’t need all the money at once, do you?”
“No, but—”
“You can borrow on the value, and—”
“So there you go,” breathed Pendexter Smith, “usury upon usury. You’ll lend me twenty thousand pounds at a ruinous rate of interest. Any fool would if he had the money, but I’m not doing business that way. I want a buyer quickly, can’t you find one in a week?”
“No.” Mannering was brusque.
With anyone else, he would have been annoyed by now. Perhaps he was annoyed with Pendexter Smith, but the girl calmed him. She no longer looked excited, but there was something different in her manner; a serenity touched with a happiness which hadn’t been there before. The word “hope” was in Mannering’s mind when he looked at her.
As she stared at the old man, there was deep affection in her expression; what won the affection of this young and lovely creature for so grotesque a man?
It was not a thing Mannering could begin to try to understand.
The old man was leaning forward.
“Listen, Mr. Mannering, I’ll sell for seventy-five thousand pounds. A quick buyer and I’ll take seventy-five, five per cent commission for yourself. Isn’t that worth the effort? Eh?”
His hands were clenched, there was no doubt about his desperate eagerness.
The girl was so lovely, too.
“I’ll lend you ten thousand pounds, free of interest, for three months,” Mannering said abruptly, “with the eggs as security, of course. If we haven’t found a buyer at your price we’ll have them valued and I’ll buy at valuation, which won’t be less than fifty thousand. Will that do?”
The old man didn’t answer at first.
The girl now watched Mannering, as if she knew that he had become a vital factor.
The old man said abruptly, suspiciously, “Why should you make such an offer? Come on, tell me—why should you lend money without interest? You just want to get your hands on the nest of eggs, that’s all, it’s a trick to—”
The girl moved, her hand rested on his shoulder for a moment. It seemed to startle him. They looked into each other’s eyes, and it seemed to Mannering that she was trying to convey a message which she could not express in words. She was truly dumb, of course, he no longer doubted that. Allied to such beauty, it was hurtful beyond words. And dumbness wasn’t all; there was no sign language between them.
Mannering said, “If I find a buyer, Mr. Smith, I’ll get a big commission. That would be well worth my investment. But please yourself what you do.”
Pendexter Smith turned away from the girl.
“Ten thousand pounds,” he said, as if to himself. “Free of interest.”
“Yes.”
“Today?”
“As soon as you’ve shown me your legal right to the nest of eggs,” Mannering said, “and if you can do that within half an hour, you can have the money today. It’s twenty minutes past two,” he added, “and the banks close at three.”
There was a long pause.
“Legal right,” echoed Pendexter Smith, in his attractive voice. All his tension was gone; it was as if he knew that what he wanted was within his grasp, and he could hot think beyond it. “What kind of proof do you want, Mr. Mannering?”
“Where did you get this from?”
“Oh, it isn’t mine,” said Pendexter Smith, “it’s Miranda’s. I’m simply helping her. Legal proof, now.” He was speaking almost in a whisper. “I can quite understand that you need some evidence of good faith. Yes, but—”
He broke off.
His eyes lit up, and he clapped his hands together.
“Oh, I can do it, I know the way. I can’t satisfy you in half an hour, but I can during this afternoon, if—” He hesitated, looked sharply at Miranda and then at the nest of eggs, and added more briskly, “If I may leave Miranda and this in your care while I go.”
“Is there anyone we can telephone? Or any way in which I can help?”
“No,” said Pendexter Smith, almost sharply. “No, I can manage quite well, thank you. I don’t want Miranda to come with me, though. If you’ll call a taxi for me, I’ll be back in an hour. Two, at most. Will she be in the way?”
“No, but—”
“A taxi, please, a taxi
!”
Mannering pressed a bell by the side of the desk, and Sylvester promptly opened the door.
“Sylvester,” said Mannering, “ask young Trevor to go and get a taxi, will you?”
“At once, sir.”
“Thanks.”
“Is it for a long journey?” asked Sylvester.
“Eh?” said Pendexter Smith. “Oh, no, City, that’s all. Not far. Hurry, please.” He was moving from one foot to the other, like an agitated bird. The door closed on Sylvester. “Mr. Mannering, you’ll give me a provisional receipt, won’t you? Forgive me, but—”
“Yes, of course.” Mannering drew paper, pen, and ink forward, and under the old man’s intense scrutiny, wrote out a receipt that he felt sure the man would like.
“This acknowledges receipt for temporary custody one spun gold nest and five jewelled eggs, of an approximate gold weight of 50 ounces, all being the property of Miss Miranda Smith and left in my custody by Mr. Pendexter Smith.”
The old man read it slowly.
“Excellent,” he pronounced, “most comprehensive!” He watched Mannering sign the note, then folded it across and across and placed it carefully in a worn, black leather wallet. He stuffed this back into the inside pocket of his long-waisted coat, then turned to the girl. “I won’t be long, Miranda, you needn’t worry.”
He smiled at her.
She smiled back, mechanically; Mannering was sure that she hadn’t fully understood. There seemed to be a kind of telepathy between her and Pendexter Smith, who patted her slim hand, then turned and bowed to Mannering; his little eyes almost invisible.
“I shall soon be back,” he promised. “An hour, at most.”
He went out of Quinns walking with some difficulty, as if he were at a loss without the girl’s support. Sylvester actually helped him into the taxi.
“Go to the Bank of England, first,” he said, “the Bank, please.” He pulled the door to, and it slammed. The taxi, already facing Bond Street, moved off and turned left into a stream of traffic.
Mannering did not see any of that.
Mannering was alone with a very lovely girl, who looked at him with those limpid eyes, which were almost blank; the expression “dumb blonde” crossed his mind and brought with it a twisting spasm of pain.
There was a small room on the first floor, with pictures round the walls, all old and valuable, a few objets d’art, a Chippendale table, and several comfortable winged-back chairs; this served both as waitingroom and show-room.
The girl would be better off there, and he would not be so conscious of her presence.
“I’d like you to wait in another room,” he said.
She looked at him, questioningly. Then she looked at his lips, and he thought he understood what she meant. He spoke very clearly and slowly, believing that she would be able to lip-read. After the first attempt, she shook her head, but stared at his lips until he tried again.
The next time, she nodded and stood up.
He took her upstairs, showed her magazines, some books filled with colour plates of jewellery, offered her cigarettes, and, when she had refused, left her on her own. She was quite calm.
Sylvester or his assistant went up to the room every ten or fifteen minutes. Mannering received several reports. Miranda was glancing at the books – she was interested mostly in the pictures – and finally, she was sitting and staring straight ahead of her, without expression.
An hour passed.
Two hours passed.
By then, Mannering was feeling edgy and ill-at-ease. Sylvester had taken the girl tea, and come down to report that she hadn’t stirred.
Mannering hurried up the narrow, twisting staircase, ducking by force of habit to save banging his head. He reached the room, but didn’t go in.
The girl was sitting where he had last seen her. The tray of tea, with two tiny cream cakes and some wafer-thin sandwiches, was on a table by her side, untouched. She was looking at the wall; and where before there had been eagerness in those lovely eyes, now there was fear that no one could possibly mistake.
“Miranda,” began Mannering, and went in.
She didn’t hear him; of course she didn’t. He took a step nearer, and she must have seen him, for she jumped wildly and then cowered back, holding her hands up in front of her face, palms outwards.
Chapter Three
The Missing Mr. Smith
“It’s all right,” Mannering said, very slowly. “It’s all right.”
The girl stared at his eyes, not at his lips. Her expression set his own heart thumping heavily, painfully. Slowly, he pointed at his lips; and she saw the movement.
“It—is—all—right.”
She let her hands fall, and they stayed like that. The fear did not leave her eyes. She looked round, from corner to corner, and then back at Mannering, as if hoping that he understood what she meant. He thought he did: she was asking for Pendexter Smith. He shook his head, mouthed, “He will be back soon,” then moved towards the table and poured out a cup of tea.
“Drink this, please.”
She looked at it, then took the cup and sipped; but her gaze was in a corner or on Mannering, as if she were still searching.
“He—will—soon—be—back,” Mannering tried to reassure her.
She looked blank.
“He—will—soon—be—back.”
The girl closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, they were misted as if with tears. She stood up, put the cup down slowly, and went towards the door. Mannering followed her.
At the foot of the stairs, Sylvester stood tensely.
He backed away. The girl went down, taking each step very carefully. At the entrance to the shop she hesitated, and then looked round with great deliberation. She glanced into the office, then walked straight to the front door.
Sylvester’s assistant, a youth in the early twenties, named Trevor, opened the door for her, watching her intently as he did so. Everyone who saw her seemed fascinated; hypnotised. That was partly because of her strained expression, with its look of fear and longing.
Mannering was close behind her.
The girl stepped into the street, and looked up and down, then turned; and her eyes were misty with tears, her lips weren’t so steady as they had been. She glanced at her watch, then at Mannering; and suddenly she turned and walked towards Bond Street. She seemed to glide along, at quite a remarkable pace. In Bond Street the crowds were thickening with the evening rush, everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Taxis, private cars, bicycle boys, all sped past; or came, sharply, noisily, to a standstill as a policeman’s arm raised. The windows of the exclusive shops drew little attention. Everyone was in a hurry, except the policemen standing on traffic duty at the cross-roads near by.
Yet everyone paused in their haste, to look at the girl.
A dozen men, as many women, caught sight of her, checked their headlong walk, and then, after staring at her, went past more slowly. Most of them turned back to look. A policeman took a moment or two off his pressing duty to look at Miranda. He knew the owner of Quinns well, saw Mannering, and seemed to be trying to ask a question.
The girl looked up and down, as if searching for the little old man. She saw no one remotely like him, no one to give her hope.
More and more people watched her. One lad, in his twenties, might have been gaping at a goddess.
Miranda glanced at her watch again. It was twenty minutes past five; and the old man had been gone for nearly three hours. She closed her eyes, and a tear squeezed its way through her lashes and fell upon her cheek. Two middle-aged women stopped, as if they could not bear to pass without offering help.
“Are you all right, my dear?”
The girl didn’t open her eyes.
“She’s quite all right,” Mannering assured them. “She’s had a nasty shock, but she’s with friends. Miranda, we’d better get back.”
He took her arm firmly. He wouldn’t have been surprised had she shaken his hand off, bu
t she let it stay. Two women dressing the window of a shop opposite stared. A notice in the window read: Stocktaking Sale Tomorrow.
Miranda Smith allowed herself to be led towards the shop, inside, and to the office. There, still in the case, stood the golden nest and the five jewelled eggs. The girl stood looking down at these, and tears came more freely, running down her smooth cheeks and making tiny lines in them.
“What are we going to do?” asked Sylvester, helplessly. “How can we help her?”
Lorna Mannering, in her studio above the Mannerings’ flat in Green Street, Chelsea, was looking out of the huge north light, over the roofs of London. She was in a calm and reflective mood. John would soon be back. They were both having a good period, her work was going well, he was busy without being overworked. The portrait on her easel was at the stage where she wanted to keep going back to examine it closely, seeking blemishes, ready with the simple stroke with brush or palette knife which would remove the blemish.
The light was still good.
She wore a green smock, so daubed with paint that it was almost a coat of many colours, but her dark, wavy hair fell loosely to her shoulders. She had a slightly sallow complexion, and in repose she could look sullen; almost aloof. She didn’t, now. Her well-marked eyebrows were almost level, she gave no hint of strain. She was contented.
It was half-past five.
She moved away from the big window in the roof towards the long, narrow window overlooking the Thames and the distant houses, the Battersea Power Station, the bridges. River traffic flowed, Embankment traffic hummed. Sometimes John came home this way, and it amused her to see whether she could pick out their Rolls-Bentley from the steady stream. It was surprising how many expensive cars passed; money wasn’t as tight as some people liked to make out.
The telephone bell rang. She could just hear it, downstairs in the living-quarters. She went to the instrument on a table up here, but it wasn’t switched through. She lifted the receiver and could hear without being heard if she spoke.
“Mr. Mannering’s residence,” said Ethel, their maid.
“Hallo, Ethel, is Mrs. Mannering there?”