Nest-Egg for the Baron

by John Creasey

  “Then we won’t have any truck with him,” Mannering had said, with outward solemnity.

  Wainwright had grinned.

  “And while I was in the East End I made a few inquiries about that man Dibben,” he went on. “He has a shocking reputation. He’s a—ah—mobsman, of course, and has quite a reputation for forcing locks. It’s common rumour that he works for Crummy Day. And Day uses a lot of young chaps to lift—steal, sorry, sir—for him. He buys the stuff. I’m told Day’s reputation is bad even among crooks,” went on Wainwright, with great precision. “No one trusts him.”

  “Did you see Dibben?”

  “No, but I met his wife.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Wainwright, with great candour, “she is quite a nice little thing, pretty and really quite smart. She wouldn’t say anything about Dibben, but obviously she was worried about him. He’s been away for several days. It’s common talk among his friends that he’s ‘working’.”

  “You managed to get around,” Mannering had remarked.

  “As a matter of fact, I met a friend of Josh Larraby’s, right at the beginning,” Wainwright had said. “He has a little trinket shop in Chenn Street. He recognised me, and—well, I had a kind of open sesame to all Larraby’s friends. He has an astonishing number, all knowledgeable,” Wainwright had gone on, “in his way he’s quite a genius.”

  Larraby was now the manager of Quinns; had at one time been Mannering’s contact man in the East End and, before that, been in prison for four years for jewel robbery. Wainwright didn’t know that, and Mannering didn’t enlighten him.

  But Larraby was getting old, Wainwright apparently saw his chance of getting well in the line of succession. And now that Sylvester had gone …

  Mannering went across to Lorna, put his hands on her shoulders, and looked at her and his own reflection in the dressing-table mirror. She hadn’t been satisfied, but he saw no reason to complain. They looked at each other steadily, Mannering quiet and sombre, Lorna pale and still tense.

  He told her about Sylvester.

  He could see the little colour she had left ebbing from her cheeks. She didn’t speak. In a lot of ways he wished she would.

  He didn’t tell her about Dibben’s message, but that was poor consolation, because she knew that a man had been lying in wait for him.

  He said, “It won’t last much longer. If Miranda could tell all she knows, she might be able to put an end to it in a matter of hours.” He squeezed Lorna’s shoulders, then moved away, sitting on a window-seat, lighting a cigarette. “No, don’t move.” He could see her profile in the mirror while her face was turned towards him. He didn’t smile.

  “There was one thing Richardson said that I didn’t tell you,” Lorna said. “Miranda’s trouble was caused by a shock, and another shock might cure her. Also—” Lorna paused.

  “Yes,” said Mannering, softly.

  “A shock big enough to cure her might also kill her, or else turn her mind for the rest of her life,” said Lorna with great precision.

  Mannering said, “I see.” He moved restlessly, frowning. “What actually made Miranda scream?”

  “I think it was your gun.”

  Mannering didn’t speak.

  “She’d screamed before, upstairs,” Lorna said. “It was the scream that made me go to the window. She was looking out, and I heard this sound, it was—well, uncanny’s hardly the word. It really scared me. Then I ran to the window. She was looking at the man across the road, and he had a gun, pointing it at you. I think—”

  She broke off, jumped up, spun round. Mannering was off his seat and streaking towards the door in a split second.

  For Miranda screamed again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A Cause of Fear

  As Mannering reached the hall, the awful screaming stopped. The door of the drawing-room was ajar, and Mannering saw Wainwright, who had been in there with Miranda, with his back to the door. Mannering ran in. Miranda was sitting in an easy-chair, her face buried in her hands, sobs wracking her body, but hardly a sound coming from her lips.

  Wainwright turned a pale face towards Mannering.

  “What happened?”

  “I—”

  “What on earth happened!” Lorna came hurrying in, turned on Wainwright, and was flushed and angry. “What did you do to her?”

  “But—but I didn’t do a thing,” Wainwright protested. “On my word I didn’t, Mrs. Mannering. She looked much better. I’d tried to keep up a kind of conversation with her, and fact—in fact I think I made her smile. Then I needed to use a handkerchief, and I pulled it out of my pocket. Thi—this fell out.”

  “This” was on the floor; an old-fashioned automatic pistol, nearly black, a relic of the First World War.

  “And that scared her?” asked Mannering softly.

  “Well, I can’t think of anything else. Until that moment I thought everything was going along so nicely. She was much more relaxed.”

  Mannering picked the gun up. The girl wasn’t looking.

  “Where did you get it?”

  Wainwright coloured almost as furiously as ever Brash could do.

  “Well, one of the fellows I saw this afternoon sold it to me. He said that if I were going after Crummy Day I’d probably need it. I knew that Larraby sometimes carries a gun, and there was that armed man last night. The whole ruddy business is violent, anyhow!” he snapped, suddenly defiant in his determination, “I thought it would be wise to have some kind of protection. If you don’t agree—”

  “I think I do agree,” said Mannering, mildly.

  Wainwright said weakly, “Oh.”

  Mannering looked at Miranda’s bowed head. She was much quieter, and Lorna had moved away from her.

  “But you’ll need a licence,” Mannering went on. “I don’t think there’ll be much trouble about that.” He looked straight into Wainwright’s eyes. “Quinns was raided this afternoon. Sylvester was killed.”

  Wainwright didn’t seem to understand. He just stared bleakly. Then his expression began to change, he actually backed away until he touched the arm of a chair; and he looked as if his legs would fold beneath him.

  “The old boy—killed?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a long pause.

  “So that’s the way they work,” Wainwright said slowly. “Kill an old man. What about Trevor? You always insist that at least two should be at the shop. Don’t say that Trev—”

  “Sylvester had sent him out, as I was downstairs in the strong-room.”

  “Oh, God,” groaned Wainwright. He clenched his fists, and then burst out, “Look here, Mr. Mannering, when are we going to get at them? I’ll work night and day if only we can see them hanged for that!”

  “We’ll get at them soon,” Mannering promised sombrely. “But you’re not working tonight, Ned. You had only a couple of hours’ sleep last night, you’ll be a wreck and easy meat if you don’t catch up on rest. If I need anything urgently, I’ll call you.”

  “Promise?” Wainwright was so like a boy.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, all right,” Wainwright conceded. He looked at Miranda’s bowed head, as if there were something she did not want to see; or was afraid to open her eyes for fear of what might be close to her. “Goodnight, Mrs. Mannering. We—we’ll get through.”

  He went out.

  His last glance was at Miranda.

  His last words brought the first smile to Lorna’s lips since Mannering had come home. That smile brought a sudden peace to the Mannerings, for no good reason they felt better.

  Men were in Green Street and at the back of the house now, and there was little risk of another attack here; so little, that Mannering did not even allow himself to think about it.

  “If only you knew why they wanted to kill you,” Lorna said.

  “That’s only one of the questions I’d like answered,” agreed Mannering. “Why does the sight of a gun scare Mirand
a like that?”

  Before Lorna could speak, Ethel tapped.

  “Yes, Ethel?” Lorna called.

  “Dinner’s ready, ma’am, I don’t know whether you know.”

  Again Lorna smiled in spite of herself. “Bless you, Ethel! Yes, we’re coming.” She stood up slowly, turned to Mannering, took his hands and gripped them tightly. “Get it over, John, don’t let it drag on,” she begged. “I hate every minute of it.”

  “It won’t be long now,” said Mannering.

  But a question haunted him.

  What had he seen or what did he know that made the killers want him dead?

  Fenn said to Mannering, “No, I haven’t much else. If it makes you happy, Brash’s prints were on the assegai which killed Revell.” His gaze was cold. “Pendexter Smith has come round, and says that he didn’t remember anything at all after leaving your shop. That might be the truth. The evidence is that he was under the morphia when Revell was murdered last night. These psychiatrists are virtually beaten by Miranda Smith, but Richardson says it’s almost certainly a case of the collapse of certain nerve-centres, which a shock might correct. And a shock might also kill her.” Fenn paused to let that sink in. “The man who attacked you at Quinns is conscious, but the doctors won’t let me question him. You broke his back.”

  Mannering didn’t speak.

  “Freddy Bell, the man you captured here at the flat, still won’t talk,” went on Fenn. “If it’s news—he’s been inside twice. He’s known to be pretty close with Crummy Day, and we had an eye on him for a murder job a few months ago. We couldn’t fix it on him, but we’re still trying.”

  “What do you know about Crummy?”

  Fenn gave a quick, unexpected smile.

  “Crummy Day is a pawnbroker, and probably the most successful fence in London today—and as you’re so ill-informed about things like this, perhaps I ought to add that a fence is a receiver of stolen goods,” Fenn said, heavily sarcastic. “Also, he is the particular pawnbroker who apparently interests a young man named Wainwright. Wainwright, of course, did all his investigating this afternoon off his own bat; he didn’t tell you anything about it!”

  Mannering said, “I give up.”

  “Who named Crummy Day?” asked Fenn. “Dibben?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. And that’s one of the reasons why I came round to see you myself,” Fenn said. “I don’t have to take action on what you tell me, but if Grimble heard a thing like that I’d be forced to do something. What did Dibben say about Crummy?”

  “That he had sent Brash to Dragon’s End.”

  “That all?”

  “That’s all he admitted.”

  “Well, I’ve been after Crummy Day for a very long time,” Fenn said softly, “but I’ve never got very close to him. He’s been raided twice, when hot stuff ’s known to have been on the premises—he’s a three-storey place at Aldgate, with the shop on the ground floor—and he got away with it. We’ll find out how, one of these days.” Fenn’s discursiveness gave Mannering the impression that he hadn’t yet got to the main point. “He’s as sly as they come, too. I’m told that he’ll buy from new people in the game, and pay pretty well, but once they’re known to the police, he drops them.”

  “He didn’t drop Dibben.”

  “Oh, Dibben’s on his payroll,” Fenn answered. “These other people—Freddy Bell and Middleton, the man whose back you broke, seem to be strangers. Middleton hasn’t a record. I can’t find a line from them to Crummy Day, and don’t think it would be any use raiding Crummy’s place yet. He’s got this hidey-hole, always has time to get the hot stuff into it.”

  Quite suddenly, Mannering realised why Fenn had come and what he was getting at.

  Fenn was almost bland.

  “If you won’t object to me making a suggestion, Mrs. Mannering, I’d like your husband to have a word with Dora Dibben.”

  Lorna said mildly, “Wainwright reports that she is surprisingly neat and quite pretty.”

  “Your young man gets around,” said Fenn, as if he were surprised. “She’s known to be scared of the police, but she might talk to Mr. Mannering. It’s worth trying. If Crummy Day is the man behind all this—”

  “You could hold him on suspicion?” suggested Lorna.

  “I haven’t a case that would stand up,” said Fenn. He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late! I must fly.” He jumped up. “No, I won’t have another, thanks. Goodnight, Mrs. Mannering.”

  He was gone two minutes later.

  In the study Lorna said, “John, how much do you think Fenn knows?”

  “About what?” asked Mannering absently. Then: “He thinks it would be a good idea if I were to have a look at Crummy Day’s place—break in when Crummy isn’t expecting visitors. For a Scotland Yard cop—” He broke off, and chuckled. “Especially for Nicholas Fenn!”

  “That’s what I mean,” Lorna said. “What do you think he knows? If Bristow had suggested that, you’d know it was because he was remembering the Baron. Can Fenn know about the past?”

  “I don’t care what Fenn knows,” Mannering said thoughtfully. “I’ll go and see Dora Dibben, and I think I’m going to have a look at Crummy Day’s place soon, too.”

  Lorna said, “I don’t think you should. No,” she protested when Mannering was about to interrupt, “I don’t simply mean what I always do. I know you’ve got to fight this time, but think—Fenn practically invited you to go to Crummy Day’s. Supposing he wants to catch you there.” She leaned forward and gripped Mannering’s hands. “We could trust Bristow, but can we trust Fenn? Bristow would know you had nothing to do with the crimes, but Fenn might believe that you’re involved with Day. Quinns is a wonderful centre for holding stolen goods. I don’t think—” She paused again, and Mannering didn’t interrupt, but gave her a chance to finish her case: “I don’t think I trust Fenn,” she went on slowly. “I think he wants you at Crummy Day’s.”

  “So do I,” said Mannering mildly. “I needn’t let him catch me, though.” He moved his hands until he was holding her wrists. “Don’t worry so much, my sweet. If Day’s the man employing the killers, we want Day. Fenn may be positive that it’s Day but have nothing to use against him. The certain thing is that these swine killed Sylvester, and if they have long enough they’ll get me. It isn’t a job to sit on.”

  “Listen to me,” Lorna urged. “Don’t go tonight. Wait until you’ve had a chance to talk to Dibben’s wife, and to Pendexter Smith. Especially Pendexter. If you get nothing out of them—”

  She didn’t finish.

  It was nearly twelve o’clock next morning when Mannering passed the Horsebox, at Midham, and drove through the High Street towards Dragon’s End.

  He had already seen Dora Dibben. She measured up to the reports of her, but he didn’t think she knew anything – except that Dibben had told her on the telephone that a man had had him where he wanted him; and let him go.

  “No one’s ever given him a break before,” Dora had said, with a kind of defiance. “If only the police would—oh, what the hell! He’s right for me, and I’m not going to let him down, see.”

  “That’s fine,” said Mannering. “Stick to it, Mrs. Dibben.”

  Having Dora meant that Dibben’s luck wasn’t all bad.

  The sun was shining, the great mass of Dragon’s End showed red and ugly against the pale sky. An elderly woman opened the door, grumbled, went upstairs, and then returned and took him up to Pendexter Smith’s bedroom. The old man was in bed; he looked like a mummy surrounded by white sheets and huge pillow-cases.

  “Mr. Mannering, I’ve just seen that London policeman, Chief Inspector Fenn,” Pendexter greeted, “and I can’t tell you another thing, not another thing.” He licked his lips, as if nervously. “I’m truly grateful for the way you’re looking after Miranda, that—that was the first thing I asked about. She has plenty of money, she can afford any fees. While—while I’m like this, will you continue to help her?”

&n
bsp; There was something oddly pathetic about Pendexter Smith; but possibly he traded on his age, his cracked voice, his pathos.

  “Can’t you help her more?” Mannering asked sharply.

  “Oh, no. A poor, frail old man like me—”

  “What happened after you left my shop?” Mannering demanded abruptly.

  Pendexter Smith said slowly, deliberately, “I have told the police about it, three or four times. I was walking towards the solicitor’s office. It is approached through a narrow lane. I felt everything going black, and must have fainted. I don’t remember anything.”

  That was his story, and he was going to stick to it.

  Mannering said, “All right, Smith, but let’s have some of the truth. Why were you so anxious to sell the nest-egg?”

  “I wanted to turn it into money for Miranda so that she could invest it and have an income,” said Pendexter Smith promptly, “and I wanted to make sure I could trust the dealer. You’ve a wonderful reputation, but I preferred to rely on my own judgment of men, and I wanted to see how you would behave. Admirably,” he added, hoarsely, “admirably! And for your kindness to Miranda—”

  “Why don’t you try being kind to Miranda. Just tell the truth. Why did you talk about giving her hope? What was frightening you? Something was—what was it?”

  Pendexter closed his eyes, and stretched out a frail, clawlike hand for a bottle of pills on a bedside table. Fumbling, he unscrewed the cap, shook a tablet out on his hand, and swallowed it.

  “I must rest,” he said chokily. “Must rest. I’ve told you everything I can.”

  When he was back in Chelsea Mannering looked across at Lorna, smiled, and said lightly, “I think you get younger every day.”

  “Living with you makes me twice my age,” Lorna said, but she was unusually relaxed for a time of strain. “Well, I can’t argue any more, I know you’ll have to try to raid Crummy Day’s. But don’t forget that Fenn may have sown the idea to make you risk your neck.”