by John Creasey
“Well, sir, she’s in the studio, but—”
“Ask her to come to the telephone, will you?”
“Yes, sir, half a mo’.”
Lorna went to the hatch through which she had to climb down into the flat itself. There was a sturdy step-ladder always in position. She heard Ethel’s footsteps, saw Ethel’s tousled, pale-brown hair.
“All right,” she called promptly, “just switch me through.”
“Oh, you heard him,” Ethel said. “Okay, mum.”
She was willing; she would never be really good …
Lorna waited, her expression different now. In the past few seconds something had changed her mood completely. There were two reasons. First, the fact that she had heard John’s voice; it could still affect her; she could get almost mushy, especially in some moments. She hadn’t, then; she’d felt the warm glow which was so much a part of life. Then he’d spoken again, wanting her on the telephone, although it was an unwritten law that when she was working she wouldn’t be disturbed unless the telephone were switched through. Only an emergency would make him break the rule, he was more considerate than anyone else.
What was so urgent?
It did not necessarily mean trouble; it might do, but it probably didn’t. Her heart began to beat faster as she reasoned with herself. She seldom felt like this, and hardly ever without justification; as if she could tell that John had come face to face with trouble, that the serenity of the past few weeks had been broken abruptly.
“Hallo, darling,” Lorna greeted.
“Hallo, sweet,” said Mannering, and Lorna knew in a moment that it wasn’t too serious, she’d been silly. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve a problem.”
“I’ve finished work for the day.”
“Oh, fine! You can put on a hat and come to the shop?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I know I’m crazy,” Mannering said, and there was a hint of laughter in his voice – but it was rueful laughter, he wasn’t really amused. He was more puzzled than worried, Lorna thought, and that puzzled her in turn. “Take a deep breath, will you?”
“Taken.”
“The craziest thing happened this afternoon. I’ll tell you all about it later, with all details. The immediate thing is that I’m landed with a blonde, a—”
“Oh, darling,” Lorna said, and she became suddenly light-hearted; it wasn’t trouble at all, there was no shadow of menace upon them. “I thought you were after a murderer or half Quinns’ stock has been stolen! Is she a dumb blonde?”
He didn’t answer. “John, are you there?”
“Sorry,” said Mannering, slowly. “Yes, she is. She is exactly that—literally dumb. She came here with an old man and a fortune, the old man went off and didn’t come back. I don’t know a thing about her, where she comes from, where she lives, who she is. I’m going to see Bristow, but I can’t leave her here. Be a pet and come and get her.”
“You mean, she’s to stay with us?” Lorna didn’t exactly protest; just didn’t receive the news with any enthusiasm.
“Oh, she won’t be with us for long! But she’s scared out of her wits, and you’re more likely to help her than anyone else.”
It was Lorna’s turn not to answer.
The shadow, which had lifted, came back. For some inexplicable reason, it was darker than it had been. She knew that logically she had no reason for feeling the cold hand of fear, but all the same it touched her. With any other man, this would have meant that an afflicted girl had been left on her own, and was frightened because she was lost. With John Mannering, it meant – it might mean – almost anything. Already he was talking of going to Scotland Yard, and that brought sharp, hurtful memories of criminal cases he had investigated, of dangers faced, of fear and menace.
It was the side of his life that she hated, but it was part of him to take risks, to champion the cause of the helpless and frightened, to—
Nonsense!
“All right, darling,” Lorna made herself say brightly, “I’ll come at once.”
“Fine!” said Mannering. “Bless you.”
He rang off.
Lorna put down the receiver slowly. As slowly, she went to the hatch, and down the step-ladder, climbing backwards.
Ethel was coming out of the bathroom.
“I’m going out for an hour, Ethel, and I think we shall have a guest for dinner.”
“Oh, that’s all right, mum.”
“I shouldn’t make any fuss,” Lorna said, smiled, and went into her bedroom.
She tidied her hair, dabbed powder, looked at herself critically, and knew that she wouldn’t go out with a patched up make-up if it weren’t for the note of bewilderment and uncertainty in John’s voice.
She couldn’t throw off those shadows.
She wished that she could fight the mood off, but knew that only events would do that. Being married to the most renowned judge of precious stones, objets d’art, and certain periods of art in Great Britain was one thing. Being married to a man whom the thoughtless dubbed “an amateur tec” or those under American influence called a “private eye” was a vastly different matter. John seemed to act as a magnet to criminal cases which turned on precious stones. He had a history that was strangely chequered, but the simple facts now were that he worked with the police as often as he worked against them, and that he was as familiar with his name in newspaper headlines as he was with Scotland Yard and the business at Quinns.
Now he had a dumb blonde on his hands – with her “fortune”.
Lorna recalled his moment of painful silence on the telephone. There was no doubt at all that he meant dumb literally; the girl who had been landed on him at Quinns could not talk.
It wasn’t going to be easy. Abruptly, Lorna decided against more make-up, and hurried out, calling to Ethel as she closed the front door.
Five minutes later, she was in a taxi heading for the West End and Quinns.
Lorna had not seen the man standing in a doorway on the other side of Green Street, some distance along, staring at her. She was round the corner when he crossed the road, entered the Green Street house, and walked up the stairs.
He hesitated on the landing of the Mannerings’ flat, then took a gun from his pocket, weighed it in his hand, put it back in his pocket but kept a hold on it; then rang the bell.
Ethel answered.
When she saw him, she opened her mouth in a scream which wouldn’t come.
Chapter Four
Lorna Goes Home
Lorna Mannering paid the taxi off at the end of Hart Row, and walked to the shop. She looked right for Bond Street; her suit was by Dior, her shoes had come from Milan, she had an air about her which made women as well as men glance at her quickly and then look again. She was frowning as she hurried; still worried, but telling herself she was getting in a flap without any need.
Sylvester was at the shop door when she drew up. He opened it quickly, bowed, and smiled. She saw in a glance that he was troubled, too.
“Good evening, Mrs. Mannering.”
“Hallo, Sylvester.” She had time to smile; she always had time to be pleasant with those whom she liked. “I understand that we’ve a visitor.”
“We have indeed,” said Sylvester, “and I confess that I’m worried about it, Mrs. Mannering.”
Her heart missed a beat.
“Why?”
“I think you’ll understand when you see her,” the old man said.
Lorna nodded, and led the way to the rear of the shop. Mannering heard her coming, and moved out of the office. She judged from his expression that he was as worried as Sylvester. She hadn’t liked this before, and she liked it much less now.
He squeezed her arm.
“Thanks for hurrying, sweet. And sorry about wishing this on to you, but—”
“She isn’t ill, is she?” Lorna asked. “I mean—mental?” She raised her hands, helplessly.
“She’s physically dumb, she may be deaf,” Mannering said, “and
she’s certainly scared stiff. I wish I knew why. It can’t all be because the old man hasn’t come back. If she could say a word if would help, but—”
“I’d better see her,” Lorna said. They moved towards the narrow stairs. “What old man?”
Mannering told her, briefly; she knew the outlines of the story by the time they reached the waiting-cum-showroom. Another assistant, a young man in the late twenties, was dusting over some canvases which Mannering knew had been dusted four times in the last hour.
“All right, Wainwright, you can get off,” he said.
“Thank you, sir. Goodnight. Goodnight, Mrs. Mannering.”
Wainwright, an earnest young man anxious to learn the business, was the son of an old friend and client of Mannering. He reached the door, gave a rather taut smile, looked back at the girl, and then went out. His expression made Lorna’s heart quicken; she hadn’t yet seen the girl, but Sylvester, John and Wainwright were all equally affected.
“I didn’t think we ought to leave her alone,” Mannering said, half-apologetically.
They went in.
The girl was in the winged armchair in a corner behind the door. She stared at the window, the roofs, the blue sky, and the wisps of cloud. Her lips were set tightly, her body and her face was obviously at tension; but the harrowing thing was her eyes. They held all the fear that a child could hold. On a small table was a note-book and pencil, and Lorna saw Mannering’s writing; Sylvester’s, too – as if they’d tried to communicate with the girl that way.
There was no sign of her handwriting.
A floorboard creaked.
Mannering spoke.
The girl did not turn her head; obviously she had not heard them and did not know that they were there. Her hands were clasped in her lap. She sat upright, not leaning against the back of the chair – as if she dared not relax.
“Miranda,” Mannering called, loudly.
She didn’t glance towards him.
He went forward, across her line of vision, and when she saw him she started violently; a strange, gasping sound came from her lips, her gaze was transferred from the scene outside, to him. The sharpness of her fear faded when she recognised him; but as she watched, her breathing came in short, sharp gasps – the shock had really frightened her.
She looked at his lips.
“This—is—my—wife,” Mannering said, very clearly. “She—will—look—after—you.”
The girl shook her head, not comprehending. Mannering tried again, as Lorna stepped to his side. She looked at the girl with a compassion which had been born the moment she had set eyes on her.
The girl appeared to understand, this time, and looked at Lorna. She didn’t try to speak.
“All right, John,” Lorna said, “I’ll look after her. She can’t stay here any longer. I’ll get her home. I think we ought to ask Roy Richardson to come and see her.”
“Good idea,” Mannering agreed. The girl’s eyes still fascinated him. Her sleek, gold-coloured hair still had that lovely sheen, her complexion had no blemish, she had the freshness of a young girl – and fear which no girl should even begin to know. “Telephone Roy as soon as you get back, will you? He’s in Town, I saw him at the club a couple of days ago. If he can’t come himself, ask him to send someone who might know about—well, this. Although whether this is a doctor’s job—” He broke off. “Worth trying, anyhow.” He faced the girl again, and she stared at his lips, expectantly. “I—want—you—to—go—with—my—wife.” He pointed at her, then at Lorna.
This time, Miranda understood the dumb-show. She nodded, and stood up slowly. As she moved towards Lorna, something in her manner suggested that she was ready to trust herself to this woman who she had only just met. As faith, it was pathetic.
“Did you keep your cab?” Mannering asked Lorna.
“No.”
“You take the car, then. Is Ethel in?”
“Yes, darling!”
“Of course, she answered the telephone.” Mannering hardly knew what he was saying, he was so preoccupied. “You carry on.”
“When will you be home?”
“Oh, not late,” Mannering said. “Not late at all.”
He accompanied them downstairs and along to the car park, on a bombed site not far from Hart Row. The girl walked without looking right or left; as if she were sleepwalking. People stared at her. Mannering opened the door of his black Rolls-Bentley and helped the girl in one side, while Lorna switched on the ignition and pushed the self-starter.
“I won’t be long,” Mannering promised again.
“Try not to be.” Lorna smiled, mechanically, and started off.
Mannering stood and watched. Young Wainwright, in a taxi which was waiting outside a hat-shop near Quinns, looked out of the window, waved, and nodded.
Mannering had told him to follow them, but had said nothing to Lorna; he didn’t want to worry Lorna, there might not be any need to.
He watched the car turn the corner, with the taxi in its wake, then returned to Quinns.
Sylvester said, “The strong-room is locked up, sir.”
“Good. That man coming from the insurance company?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If he thinks the nest-egg should be taken to a safe deposit or a bank for the night, let him have his way. Don’t take it from here by yourself, though, ask for police guard. All clear?”
“Perfectly clear, sir.”
“Good.”
“As Larraby is away and no one is at the shop all night, perhaps you would like me to stay,” said Sylvester.
“No,” said Mannering. There was a limit to what one could ask of an old man. “If the insurance people are satisfied about leaving the nest-egg in the strong-room, I’ll have someone on guard in the street during the night. Perhaps you’d better stay here until I call you.”
“Very good, sir. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
The traffic in Bond Street was much thinner. A few dawdlers were looking at shop windows, mostly with the obvious look of sightseers up from the country. Mannering walked briskly, looking round for a taxi, but it was five minutes before one came along with its sign up.
“Scotland Yard, please.”
“Right, sir.”
London slid by. The driver drove through stately streets, where, for a few brief hours, there was parking room; past tall, stately houses; across Piccadilly, towards Clarence House and the atmosphere of centuries, the guards in scarlet tunics and bearskins; into the Mall, then St. James’s Park, thronged with women in light cotton dresses, men in their shirt-sleeves, children, eager to see the lake and the wild duck disporting themselves on or near it. Soon the taxi turned into Parliament Square, with the massive buildings on two sides, the Abbey and the Houses of Parliament on the others. The square was crammed with sightseers, there was much more traffic here. They were forced to stop. A couple standing on the pavement, the man with a camera at his face, caught Mannering’s attention. The girl was so like Ethel, their maid, that he had to look twice. It wasn’t Ethel.
Lorna and the girl should be home by now. They would be in five or ten minutes, anyhow.
He paid the cabby off outside the Embankment entrance to the big new C.I.D. building of Scotland Yard, and walked towards the steps leading to the main doors. A sergeant on duty in the hall recognised him.
“’Evening, Mr. Mannering, haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you for a long time.”
“My loss, Tom,” said Mannering, and shook a man who had not expected to be remembered at all. “Is Mr. Bristow in?”
“Mr. Bristow, sir? Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Oh, he’s had a bit of luck, Bill Bristow has,” said the sergeant. “Gone to South Africa on a job, gold-smuggling racket, it was in the papers a week or so ago. He isn’t likely to be back for another two or three weeks. Tell you who is in his office—Mr. Fenn.”
“H’m,” said Mannering, dubiously. “Ask him if he’ll spar
e me ten minutes, will you?”
“Right away, sir!” Mannering waited, smoked.
He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or sorry that Superintendent Bristow, whom he knew extremely well, wasn’t here. He would have gone straight up to see Bristow, being sure that Bristow would take him seriously and exert himself to help; but there would have been a drawback, too. Bristow belonged to a shadowy era in Mannering’s chequered career. Bristow knew that the now respected and highly reputable dealer in antiques, jewels, and objets d’art had once been a jewel-thief who had set London by the ears. Bristow was ninety-nine per cent certain that Mannering had forsaken that life of crime; but to Bristow, Mannering would always be the Baron, cracksman extraordinary.
Fenn was a younger man, to whom Mannering was the respected owner of Quinns who liked to play detective and sometimes did so with exasperating success.
Mannering knew him slightly. A tall, thin man, slightly convex about the midriff, with a long face, lantern jaw, dark eyes; a brooding kind. He had advantages which few Yard men had; was well-read, well-bred, educated at a lesser Public School and Cambridge. There were those who said that he was likely to have a brilliant career.
The sergeant came from the telephone.
“He’ll be glad to see you, sir. You don’t need anyone to show you the way up, do you?”
Mannering grinned and winked, as the sergeant expected. Mannering hurried to the lift, which was empty, open, and on the ground floor, took himself up to the second floor, and then walked towards Fenn’s—really Bristow’s—office. He tapped, and went in on a deep “come in”.
Fenn was on the telephone. He stood up, slowly, rather awkwardly because of the instrument, and waved to a chair. Mannering sat down. Fenn did more listening than talking. Now and again he grunted or made a monosyllabic comment, to show that he was alive. He had big, dark, bold brown eyes; intelligent eyes. Mannering had a feeling that he was glad of the chance to assess his visitor; that he was deliberately letting the telephone conversation drag on, so that he could size the caller up.
That didn’t matter.
Outside, the traffic hummed along the Embankment, the quiet wind rustled the branches and the leaves of the plane-trees. A few miles along on the Embankment, Lorna would be at the flat, where several of the windows also overlooked the Thames. She would be there with the girl, Miranda, and probably she had already called Roy Richardson, she wouldn’t lose any time.