Chapter Fifteen
Stand and Deliver
Mannering sat with the receiver in his hand for a long time.
The shock had gone through him like a knife thrust, and he was only just beginning to recover. There was so much that he must do, but it was useless to start until he was in control of himself; and he wasn’t, yet: he was actually trembling.
At last, he put down the receiver.
He stared at the lambent beauty of the brandy in the decanter near the telephone, and then at the glass by its side. Slowly, he shook his head. As slowly he looked up the number of the Art College, and dialled. A woman answered at once.
“Oh, yes, she left at the usual time, Mr. Mannering,” she said. “But taxis were very difficult tonight. I’m sure she won’t be long.”
“Thank you,” Mannering said.
He rang off, stood up and began to walk about the flat. It was useless to blame himself, but he should have gone to meet her, or at least made sure she didn’t come home alone. She seldom did, anyhow, but walked most of the way with friends who attended the lectures.
Suddenly, he cried out: “My God, if he hurts her!”
He sat down on the edge of the chair, and dialled Bristow. This time there was a considerable delay, but at last Bristow answered, and he still sounded wide awake. As Mannering told him what had happened, his breathing began to get harsh, but he did not interrupt until Mannering finished. Then Bristow asked: “What do you want me to do?”
“Telephone the Yard, and ask them if they can get my line tapped quickly,” Mannering said. “Tell Willison, if you can get hold of him, that I’m going to do exactly what this man tells me, except that I can’t give him the Fioras as I don’t have them. The priority is to get Lorna back, but we must learn all we can in the process. If the police hear the demand then Willison is less likely to assume that I’m up to monkey business.”
“I’ll try him right away,” Bristow said. “Shall I call you back?”
“No. I’d rather this chap can get straight through to me,” Mannering said.
“I understand,” Bristow said gruffly. “Shall I come over?”
“No, not yet,” Mannering replied. “Thanks. I’ll let you know when I need you.”
He rang off. The ting! of the telephone sounded very loud, but at last it faded, the signal for the beginning of the period of waiting. The man who had telephoned had intended to let him sweat, of course; and not being over-demanding of money was clever. A hundred thousand pounds was not expensive for the Fioras alone, but – Lorna.
He clenched his teeth, and after a few seconds began to think more calmly and clearly about every aspect of the case. Where was the link between all the people involved? Who were they? He picked up a pencil and wrote out a list very swiftly.
Was there in fact a connection between all of these, or had the Forrester/Julie visit been a coincidence?
“No,” he declared aloud. “The man was in their attic, and tried to kill Forrester. It’s too much for coincidence. And there’s no certainty that Paget is involved; and none that he isn’t, either.” He kept imagining a ting! at the telephone, but it didn’t ring. At least the police should have had time to arrange for the tapping. The waiting was becoming unbearable, he must do something: anything—
There was the ting!
He snatched up the telephone and heard only the burring sound; no one was on the line. He kept the earpiece close, feeling almost stupid – and heard the ting! again.
It was the front door.
He placed the telephone receiver back, heavily, and stood up. The front door bell rang more loudly. He crossed to the room door and the hall in long strides, but hesitated before touching the door handle; at last he opened but kept the door on its chain to make sure that it could not be thrown back into his face.
He asked steadily: “Who is it?”
“Oh, Mr. Mannering,” Julie Clarendon gasped. “Oh, John! Thank God you’re in! ”
Very carefully, Mannering looked out into the dimly-lit landing. He could see no one else; just the girl very close to the door. He unfastened the chain and opened the door wide enough for her to slip through, and as she came in he closed the door quickly and slid the chain into its slot.
Then he turned to look at Julie.
She was peering up at him intently, and her eyes seemed to glow. There was something both pathetic and appealing about her, but he was very, very wary, far from sure that she could be trusted. Before he spoke she moved, almost fell towards him, and he had to put out his arms to save her from falling. She huddled against him, her body so warm and soft, her silky hair just at a level with his chin.
She began to cry.
And she began to shiver.
He did exactly what he had done when this had happened before; changed his position, lifted her, and carried her off – not to the bedroom or the study, but into the big drawing room. Drawn up in front of the tall fireplace with its brass fire-irons and the beautifully wrought brass firescreen was a long couch, and he placed her on this, and quickly drew away.
She looked so tiny, lying there.
And seductive?
She didn’t move, but stared up. Her mini-skirt was rucked up high but not indecent by today’s standards. Obviously she had been crying for a long time. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the curving lashes damp and stuck together, making her look forlorn.
“What is it?” Mannering asked quietly.
“I—I—I’ve nowhere to go,” she sobbed.
“What’s happened at Riston Street?” Mannering demanded.
“Tom’s thrown me out.”
“Nice man. Why?”
“He suddenly lost his temper, he just went berserk. He has before, he’s threatened to throw me out before, but never—”
“Whoa back! Isn’t it your flat?”
“That doesn’t make any difference,” she said miserably. “It’s his home and workshop and studio.”
“Don’t you pay the rent with your typing fees?” demanded Mannering.
She nodded but didn’t speak.
He had one ear alert for the ringing of the telephone, one listening to what Julie was saying. He was aware of the fact that if he were not so worried about Lorna he would be able to concentrate much more on Julie’s story; on her ‘plight’. There was no way of being sure that she was telling the truth, but what she said seemed in character for Tom Forrester. In one mood the great lover, in the next, the heartless brute.
When would the kidnapper call back?
“Do you mean he literally threw you out,” he asked. “Yes, the beast! I—I told him he was behaving like a pig to you and Mrs. Mannering, that he ought to tell you the truth, and—and he picked me up and carried me downstairs. Then he threw some clothes and things out of the window. I—I’d nowhere to go, and—” she faltered, then struggled up for the first time; the new sitting position made her even more provocatively attractive. “Where is Mrs. Mannering?” she sounded alarmed.
“She’s out at a meeting,” Mannering managed to say calmly.
“She—she will be back, won’t she?”
Mannering made himself say: “Yes. Very soon.”
“So I can stay, can’t I?”
“What about your friends the Pagets?”
“They won’t help,” she stated scornfully. “They always do whatever Tom wants. They’re his friends more than mine.”
This didn’t square with what Paget himself had said but there was no more reason to believe Paget than to believe Julie; there might be less. Mannering watched the girl closely as she sat still further upright, looking so very young.
He thought: Why doesn’t the telephone ring?
He said: “Has he ever thrown you out before?”
“Not—not literally. He’s talked about it often enough, though.”
“Why didn’t you have him thrown out?”
“Oh, please,” she protested. “I can’t. I simply can’t. He’s a—he is a genius. And I love him. I feel responsible for him. When people actually have real genius you can’t apply the usual standards of behaviour to them.” She was speaking now with great dignity and in a level voice. “If he were anyone else I wouldn’t just live with him, I’d insist on marriage or nothing. Oh, I don’t care on moral grounds but I don’t believe men should get away with as much as they do. It—it’s different where a genius is concerned.”
Was she over-emphasising her belief that Forrester was a genius? Was she trying to fool him, Mannering, for some obscure reason? Or did she actually believe what she said?
He thought: Why doesn’t the telephone ring?
He said: “What did you really quarrel about tonight, Julie?”
“The way he was behaving towards you, I tell you. The fact that he lied to you and Mrs. Mannering. I know he lied to her, he told me so.”
“What about?”
“The—anging attempt.”
“Was it suicide?” demanded Mannering.
“No. Someone tried to make him talk, and—well, I got back and the man ran away. Or I thought he did. He must have stayed in the attic.”
“Do you know what Tom was to talk about?” asked Mannering gruffly.
She said slowly, uncertainly: “Yes.”
“Then why?” Mannering demanded.
“He’s involved with some criminal, I don’t know who. It’s got something to do with jewels.”
Mannering’s heart began to thump and for the first time he forgot the telephone, all his attention concentrated on this girl. It was possible that she was telling the truth, not because of his questions but spurred on by her own anger and resentment.
“Who is the man he’s mixed up with?”
“A—a thief.”
“What thief?”
She said in a gasping voice: “A—a man Tom knows stole some jewels, a famous collection called—I think it was called the Fiona Collection.” That name was very, very close to ‘Fiora’ and some of the parts of his puzzle began to fall into place, even the possibility that the attack on him, Mannering, had been intended to frighten, not to kill. “He asked Tom to look after them and Tom promised to, and—and then he hid them away. After I’d got him down he was conscious, and he told me what had happened. I—I drugged him so that he wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone else.”
“Such as the police,” Mannering said drily.
“It—it could be,” Julie agreed. “He made me promise to let everyone think it was attempted suicide so that no one would suspect he had been attacked, and start asking questions. He—he didn’t want you or the police to think that anyone had any reason to want to kill him.”
“Otherwise, we would want to know why.”
“That—that’s right,” Julie said, woefully. “That’s exactly how Tom thought. I was against him coming to you about the paintings, but I think he really wanted help over this—this matter of the jewels. It was after you came to the flat that I wanted him to tell you the truth. I said you would almost certainly help him and in any case not give him away. I started on it again tonight, that’s when he lost his temper and when—” Julie went on in a dreary voice—“he threw me out. I didn’t know where to go to, so I came here. I can stay the night, can’t I? Your wife won’t mind, will she?”
In a strangled voice, Mannering said: “No, she won’t mind.” Then he thought: When is the telephone going to ring?
On that instant, it rang.
He turned round very deliberately and went towards it, while Julie sat without moving and watched him with desperate intensity. He picked up the telephone, noticing without thinking that the time by the mantlepiece clock was twenty minutes to twelve.
He said: “Mannering.”
“John,” Lorna said in a steady but obviously strained voice, “I’m quite sure that if you don’t do what this man wants, he will kill me. He says—” she seemed to swallow her words, but they became distinguishable again. “He says that he killed the man Walker, and that he’s committed murder before. I’m in a room with him now, an ordinary kind of bedroom. I haven’t—I haven’t been molested, darling, but—”
The man’s voice came clearly above hers drowning it, and there was menace in the tone: menace Mannering could not possibly fail to understand.
“That doesn’t mean you won’t be, sweetheart. If your loving husband doesn’t think you’re worth the money, I have to get something out of it, don’t I?” Mockery sounded in his voice as he went on, obviously standing closer to the telephone: “She’ll be all right, Mannering, if you do what I tell you. And you won’t need a pencil, it’s simple to remember. Take one hundred thousand pounds in cash to Tom Forrester’s studio in Fulham. Hand it over to him. He’ll be the messenger. I’ll let him bring your wife back unmolested as she said. She will have the Fiora Collection with her. Believe it or not,” he went on with the mocking note much more noticeable in his voice. “Twelve noon, on the dot, tomorrow. Don’t be late, and don’t try any tricks, such as going to the police. If I so much as smell a policeman, I will cut your wife’s throat even if I have to cut my own as well.” There was what seemed a very long pause before he said: “Your wife is very kissable, Mannering. Listen.”
There was a moment’s pause; and then the unmistakable sound of a kiss.
A moment later the speaker said, “Good night”, and the line went dead.