Chapter Fourteen

Dilemma

Lorna had plenty of time to ponder and even to brood over that remark, for Mannering rang off, after promising to get back as soon as he could, and in an almost fatherly way, urging her to have some rest.

To her surprise she actually dropped off to sleep for half an hour, and felt much better for it. She was able to consider the situation much more dispassionately, but still realised that his remark had thrust her into a dilemma.

When after getting home he said much the same thing – that she was much more likely to be able to make Forrester talk – her immediate reaction was still to think: No! I don’t want another tête-a-tête with Tom Forrester. Yet John was almost certainly right; once Forrester had recovered from his annoyance, he was likely to talk more freely to her than to John. She was aware of the scrutiny of John’s hazel-brown eyes; became aware of the change from the quizzical to the puzzled in his expression. If she didn’t answer soon he would know that something was the matter.

Was it? Or was she exaggerating?

Should she – oh, nonsense! She hadn’t exaggerated Forrester’s attitude or the strength of her own emotions.

Her silence had lasted too long, now, for her to avoid making some explanation, and it wouldn’t be fair to wait until John asked what was troubling her. So she rested a hand on his arm, and said: “He’s a very headstrong man.”

Mannering was still puzzled, and frowning as if bewildered, too.

“Yes, I know. But—” he widened his eyes in astonishment. “That kind of headstrong? He made a pass at you?”

“He was positively passionate,” Lorna replied, her eyes suddenly brighter.

“But not, I trust, over-persistent?”

“No, darling,” she said. “He took ‘no’ for an answer very nicely.”

“But you’re not sure that he always would, and don’t want to try to make him talk,” Mannering remarked. “Well, well!”

“I’m simply not sure that I want to use my womanly wiles on him,” elaborated Lorna. “He might come to the conclusion that I was trying to make a deal with him.”

“Ah,” Mannering said, laughter sparkling in his eyes. But was there something as well as laughter? It was never really possible to be sure, and she wasn’t sure now. “He’s a strikingly handsome chap and I don’t doubt that he finds a lot of women compliant.” She was startled at his choice of word, but hoped that it didn’t show in her eyes. “Darling, this has its fascinating aspects.”

“Hat it, sweetheart?”

“Yes, beloved. The pretty little Julie has decided to try to weaken my manly resistance, and handsome Tom is now exerting his masculine charms to involve you. Can it be that she’s just a natural sex-kitten needing a strong pair of arms – in addition to the pair she has already! – and that he is simply knocked sideways by one of the loveliest women he’s ever met? Or—”

Lorna bobbed a mock curtsey.

“Thank you, kind sir!”

“The truth will stand for ever! Or have they put their heads together and created some other, combined motive? Julie planning to seduce me; Thomas trying to seduce you. I wonder what they’re really after.” He mused for a few moments before going on in a brisker voice. “I know what we’ll do! I’ll tackle Forrester while you tackle Julie!”

“What on earth makes you think that will get results?” asked Lorna.

“If it doesn’t, we can think again,” Mannering replied; the idea obviously pleased him. “Shall I go to him as an angry husband?”

“Oh, John! No!”

“All right, all right,” Mannering riposted. “I’ll go as a would-be counsellor and guide, and you go to Julie as a kind of mother figure. Darling,” he went on, moving suddenly and taking her into his arms, “if it weren’t for the murder here and the attack on you, this would really be fun!” He hugged her tightly as they stood body against body, he sought her lips and kissed her with fierce passion before drawing back, quite breathless. “I love you,” he declared. “Since that time in Australia when I thought we had reached the end of the romance in our marriage, I have loved you more than ever.” He kissed her again, drew back and went on: “That is a simple fact. Here is another. I don’t own you, body and soul. I believe – you know I believe – that there is a limit to self-denial and—” he broke off, drew his head back yet still held her close. “I needn’t go on, need I?”

“No,” Lorna said huskily. “No.”

He kissed her more gently, and let her go.

During this time, Chief Inspector Willison was putting the results of his investigation down on paper, and there were two aspects of it. First, the murder at Mannering’s flat and the attack on Lorna Mannering. Second, the mystery of the Fiora Collection. This was in an official report, which was now ready to be typed out. The key question was why the thieves were obviously convinced that Mannering had the jewels. It could be that, like the police, they had been tipped off by an anonymous telephone call: “If you want to find the Fioras, try Mannering at Quinns.” Now that he was convinced that the jewels were not at Mannering’s flat the possibility that they were at Quinns had to be considered. The last paragraph of the report read:

There is no evidence on which to base a request for a search warrant effective at Quinns. Nevertheless, a search would be invaluable. I would be prepared to ask Mannering for permission to search. If it were withheld then I might use the cuttings books as prima facie evidence that he might have in his possession jewels and objets stolen years ago. This would be thin but might reasonably be considered justification for obtaining a search warrant.

He would submit this to the Chief Detective Superintendent in charge of the investigation, and perhaps have it passed on to the Commander, the Chief Executive of the Criminal Investigation Department, who was responsible to the Assistant Commissioner for Crime.

The second set of notes, not yet made as an official report, were about Mannering’s press cuttings books and his interest in crimes most of which had been investigated by Bristow, who had served the Yard for thirty years before joining Mannering at Quinns.

Was that so remarkable?

Reading through sensational newspaper reports of the exploits of the Baron created a vivid mind picture of the situation. Reading Bristow’s reports of his investigations in the ‘unsolved’ section of Records, showed that Bristow had often suspected Mannering but had never obtained proof. Yet after Mannering had bought Quinns, he had become a consultant at the Yard! But despite frequent consultation his own activities had often been investigated, by Bristow helped sometimes by first Detective Sergeant, next Detective Chief Inspector, now Chief Superintendent Gordon, who had recently been put in charge of one of the London divisions.

Before Willison committed himself to an opinion, he decided, he must consult Gordon.

Sitting at his contemporary-shaped desk in the square, bare office one wall of which was window, Willison picked up the telephone, and said: “Get me Mr. Gordon, of North West Division.”

“I’ll call you back,” the operator said mechanically.

Willison rang off, and opened a folder with notes and reports on Tom Forrester and Julie Clarendon. Forrester had inherited some two thousand pounds from his father five years ago. He had been an art student for years, and for some time had tried to earn a living by his painting.

“Queer stuff,” Willison said to himself. “Damned queer.”

Julie Clarendon’s story was – although Willison did not realise it – basically identical with what Bristow had told Mannering.

Both of the young people appeared to be in the clear, but there were the two factors which Willison thought were of key importance: the indications that Mannering and Julie were old acquaintances, and the fact that Lorna Mannering had spent well over an hour with Forrester that morning.

Willison’s telephone bell rang; he expected Gordon, but instead it was Detective Sergeant Joslin, of Fulham, the man in immediate charge of the reconnaissance of the flat in Riston Street.

“Yes, Joslin?” Willison was as aloof-sounding as ever.

“I’ve the final report on Mrs. Mannering’s visit to Forrester,” Joslin announced.

“Let me have it,” ordered Willison.

“They were together in the front room for at least half an hour before going to the rest of the house,” Joslin stated.

“On whose evidence?”

“The landlord’s – the old man downstairs.”

“And is he quite sure?”

“In his opinion they went to bed together,” declared Joslin. “He can’t be sure, though. He says they talked for a while and then fell silent. The next thing was floorboards and bedsprings creaking, and a few minutes later they were both on the landing.”

“Do you think the old man is reliable?” asked Willison.

“He’s got sex on the brain,” answered Joslin. “I would say he’s quite truthful but he might not interpret what he hears properly. He says this is what happens very often just after Julie Clarendon comes home from her office across the road. And there have been other women visitors who have followed this kind of routine.”

“What conclusions have you reached?” Willison asked coldly.

“No conclusion, sir, but I’m sure of one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“If the old chap’s got it right, then Mrs. Mannering has probably known Forrester for some time. But she’s never been there before – at least the old man has never seen her and he doesn’t miss much.”

“What makes you think Mrs. Mannering’s known Forrester for some time?”

“She isn’t the kind who would jump into bed with a stranger!”

“I imagine you’re right,” Willison conceded, almost regretfully. “Put it all in your report.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Have you anything else on the Clarendon girl?”

“No, sir. No evidence at all that she’s ever seen Mannering in Riston Street.”

“Right,” Willison said, and rang off.

There was no evidence at all that Julie Clarendon had seen Mannering anywhere – not even that she had visited Quinns before the previous morning. According to everything the police could find out, the statement that the couple had gone to enlist Mannering’s help with Forrester’s paintings was quite true.

After he had noted Joslin’s reports, Willison’s telephone bell rang again. This was almost sure to be Gordon.

“Mr. Gordon, please,” he said.

“Mr. Gordon’s on holiday in Switzerland,” a man answered apologetically. “Chief Inspector Bell is deputising for him. Can he help, sir?”

“No, this is personal,” said Willison, hiding his disappointment. “When will Mr. Gordon be back, do you know?”

“On Monday week,” the other answered. “Sorry we can’t help, sir.”

“Can’t be helped. Goodbye,” Willison said mechanically, and rang off.

He sat back for a few minutes, staring out of the window. He couldn’t wait to find out whether Gordon had ever had any grounds for suspicion; unless this case went sour on him, he would get results within a week. So he would have to use his own judgement. These old Baron robberies had for so long been on the ‘unsolved’ list that few men at the Yard would ever think of disinterring them but – could they be used to make the Mannerings talk? If not, to get that search warrant for Quinns? Was it even conceivable that after the years in which the investigation had been dead and buried, that new evidence would enable him to do what Bristow and Gordon had failed, utterly.

If he could—

Willison’s heart began to race.

He had jotted down a list of the jewels whose loss had been attributed to the Baron. There were fifty-one robberies with an average loss of £10,000: over half a million in the values of twenty-odd years ago. The present-day value would be nearer two, probably three millions!

Proving who had stolen them, perhaps even getting some back, would be one of the greatest triumphs of Scotland Yard. If he succeeded he would become one of the key figures at the Yard, and his future here would be absolutely assured.

What other explanation could there be of Mannering’s interest in these old robberies?

“I’m going all out to get him,” Willison murmured aloud; and added slowly: “I am going to get him.”

The direct way was to prove that Mannering had handled the Fioras recently.

Mannering was alone that evening, back in the study at the flat. Lorna had to talk to a painters study group at one of the big London Colleges of Art; she should be home about ten. He was glad to have a chance to think. The more obvious danger from Willison had receded in his mind. No one was going to believe anything which might be raked up about the early robberies, and as there had been no evidence at the time of their occurrence there wasn’t even the remotest likelihood that evidence could be found now.

So he pushed that possibility to the back of his mind.

The key mystery was the Fioras.

He stretched out for the telephone and flicked over the pages of the telephone directory. Sir Gordon Sangster, said to be so ill, had a small town house in Mayfair, and Mannering checked the number and dialled it, letting what he knew of Sangster pass through his mind. The man was a wealthy industrialist who had given large sums to different art foundations, to which generosity he owed his knighthood. He had always been a collector of jewels, and had been an occasional customer at Quinns for many years. Mannering knew he was a careful buyer, extravagant only where emeralds and rubies were concerned; but if he bought stolen jewels, he might well have one of the finest collections in the world: and a prize piece would obviously be the Fiora Collection. On today’s market it must be worth a quarter of a million pounds. Could he have had it hidden away, all these years?

A woman answered and she sounded young.

“Sir Gordon Sangster’s house.”

“Is Sir Gordon there, please?”

“I’m afraid he’s much too ill to speak to anyone,” the woman replied.

“Oh, I am sorry,” Mannering said. “I do hope he will soon be better.”

“Thank you,” the other answered quite formally. “Can I help you at all? I am his daughter-in-law.”

“You’re very kind,” Mannering said, and hesitated as if not sure what to add. Then he went on: “My name is Mannering – John Mannering, and this is a business matter. Who is handling his business – or rather the particular business of his collecting of precious stones?”

There was a long pause, before the woman replied in a much sharper voice: “No one, I’m afraid. Goodnight.” And she rang off.

Mannering also rang off, very slowly.

There wasn’t any doubt about the change in the speaker’s tone, or that his name had caused it. Why should Sangster’s daughter-in-law be so sensitive; could she know that some of the jewels stolen from her father-in-law had not been lawfully his?

He telephoned Bristow, who answered so quickly that he must be sitting close to the telephone. For no particular reason, he felt enormously glad that Bristow worked for him, and that they had been so frank with each other that morning. Somehow it set the seal on their association.

“Bill, have you any reason to doubt that the Fioras inquiry is being kept quiet because Sangster himself is so ill?”

“That – and the fact that it suits the police,” Bristow answered.

“Do you know anything about his son and daughter-in-law?”

“Just a few incidentals,” Bristow answered, “and that only about the son. I was once at the Sangster house after a burglary and Bruce, the son, was there. He was about seventeen, at the time and had just been expelled from his public school – quite a minor one, as I recall. He’d already been expelled from at least two major ones. Sex and smoking, I gathered. Why, John?”

“Would he be about Tom Forrester’s age?” asked Mannering.

“Middle twenties by now,” Bristow mused. “So yes, they’d be of an age.”

“Minor public school,” Mannering remarked. “I wonder if it could have been the same school for each of them? Whether young Sangster and young Forrester know each other?”

“It would be well worth finding out,” Bristow said. “And that shouldn’t be difficult, in the morning.” After a pause, he went on: “Have you heard from Willison again?”

“No. Why?”

“He telephoned me about an hour ago and asked if I would go and see him in the morning. I know I’m under an obligation to help the Yard where I can, but they could overdo it, and if you’d rather I didn’t I’ll turn him down.”

“You go,” Mannering decided promptly. “We need to find out what’s in his mind.”

“I must say I would like to,” said Bristow, in a voice which carried an overtone of uneasiness.

Mannering pondered Willison’s activities for a few minutes after Bristow had rung off, but did not feel particularly worried. He was beginning to worry about Lorna, however. She wasn’t exactly late, but it was already past ten-thirty. She was usually home much earlier. There was a general mood of uncertainty and disquiet, and he was probably over-sensitive. If she wasn’t here within twenty minutes or so, he would telephone the Chelsea Art College, where—

The telephone bell rang.

“That’ll be her, to say she’ll be late,” he said aloud, and picked the receiver up again.

“Hallo, darling,” he said, so sure that it was her. “What time will you be home?”

“Never again, sweetheart,” a man replied, “unless you’re prepared to do a deal with me about the Fioras. I want a hundred thousand pounds for them and your wife, by noon tomorrow. I’ll call you again when you’ve had time to think about it. Think very hard.”

The man rang off.