Chapter Nineteen

The Flora Collection

“Mr Mannering,” said old Pendleton, who had worked on disguises for Mannering for nearly twenty years, “I am delighted to see you.” They were in a small room rather like a theatrical dressing-room, in his small terrace house near Whitechapel Church. He was small and old and wizened. “And I take the liberty of an old friend.”

“Tell me,” Mannering said.

“You are very tired.”

“Yes,” Mannering admitted. “But I still have a lot to do.”

“In the morning, I can make you this man’s double,” declared Pendleton. “It will take only two hours. If you will now sleep until half-past eight, I will guarantee to wake you in good time.”

“I doubt if I shall sleep,” Mannering demurred.

“Then you should take a little white tablet which I will give you, with some warm milk and a lacing of brandy—” Pendleton broke off, appealingly.

“All right,” Mannering conceded. “I’ll be sensible.”

If he slept, he told himself, he would forget for a while.

He slept; soundly.

In a small box-room at Sangster’s house Lorna slept, fitfully; she was locked in, there was no window, but at least she was not bound to the bed. In another room Bruce Sangster slept with his wife, and on the same floor, his aged father was more in drug-induced coma than in sleep itself.

At Bristow’s apartment, both Forrester and Julie slept well.

In Riston Street, so did the Pagets and, across the road, the old man with his snoring.

“A little more hair on the left sideburn, yes,” said Pendleton. “And a snip or two on the back of the head. How well your hair has kept its strength, Mr. Mannering … Now, let me look at your ears. You need some wax, but that is no problem.” Deftly, the old man worked on the outside and the lobe of an ear, glancing frequently at one of Forrester’s self-portraits emphasised the ears and the temple. “He is a remarkably gifted young man, this artist. I think he uses fewer strokes with pencil or brush than any I know and yet he is not careless or pop. Oh, this modern pop art!” He stuck the extra wax on to Mannering’s ear with an odourless liquid glue. “Excellent! … Such talent, so often wasted in protest … Now, the other ear,” He fashioned another lobe, and added: “There is a slight scar which I shall have to simulate. How good will the light be, Mr. Mannering? … Not too bright? Good! And how long must the disguise last? … Only a few hours? That is easy. Now had you answered by saying a few weeks that would have been different … Now, a waisted sheepskin jacket, blue denim shirt, a pair of Levis, and you will pass for this young man even to those who know him well, but the impersonation would have to be short-lived … Good! Now, see for yourself,” he urged.

Mannering stepped forward so that he was enclosed on three sides by a mirror. And even he was startled at the change which had come upon him.

He looked like Tom Forrester in the face and head and shoulders, but was too thick at the waist. As he smoothed his stomach, Pendleton said: “I can lend you a rubber stretch belt, which will help you there.”

The belt made Mannering’s stomach and hips not only flat but deceptively slender, yet was comfortable to wear.

Soon Mannering was driving across London.

At half-past eleven he left the car a few hundred yards away from Riston Street, in Wandsworth Bridge Road, walked past a little parade of old shops, turned into the street and went straight to Number 20. The door opened as he pushed the gate, and Paget stood there, in obvious agitation.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“A word with you, Clive.” Mannering spoke in Forrester’s voice, accurately enough to get by.

“I can’t. I’ve a visitor coming.”

“I won’t keep you five minutes,” Mannering said, and pushed the other inside. “Where is Doris?”

“She’s gone to her mother’s for the day.” The man was too much on edge to notice that this ‘Forrester’ was a larger man; and the danger-moment was past.

“That’s good,” Mannering said. “And now, Clive old boy, I want to know what you’ve been up to lately. You’re working with Bruce Sangster, aren’t you? Come on, tell me,” he repeated roughly. He took Paget’s right arm and twisted it behind him, thrust him forward and up the stairs. Paget kept kicking against the treads, he was so terrified. Mannering pushed him into the bathroom, tied him hand and foot as he had Forrester the previous night, and then slapped a piece of adhesive tape over his lips. “I’ll be back for you,” he said roughly, and stepped out, closing the door.

He went to the front room.

A few people were in the street, including two women on their doorsteps and three younger women pushing prams, one with hot pants which showed every curve imaginable. There was no sign of activity at Number 17 and he reached the door and took out Forrester’s keys. Before he found the right one, the door opened and the old man backed away, as if in sudden alarm.

“Might as well kill a man as frighten him to death,” he complained. “And where have you been? Had two messages for you, I have. I thought you were never coming back.” His rheumy old eyes were surely too weak to let him suspect that this was not Forrester.

“I’ve been out about some painting,” Mannering answered briskly. “Who are the messages from?”

“A Mr. Bruce,” the old man answered. “He said he’ll be here at a quarter to twelve, and if that Mannering comes, he’s to stay. What’s on?” The frail voice then became gruff, the man thrust his face closer to Mannering’s and asked: “What’s up? You having some luck at last? Eh? Tell me, Tom boy, are you breaking through?”

“I’ll break through before I’m finished,” Mannering said sharply.

He broke off.

That was the moment when he realised that he didn’t know the old man’s name. At the back of his mind there was a name ending in Ed. Fred, Ed, Ted, something like that, but he couldn’t be sure. So he had to phrase his comments so that he need not use any name.

“What’s up?” the old man demanded. “What’s up with you today, Tom, boy?”

“I’m sick of myself,” Mannering said. “That’s what’s up.”

“Why, what have you done, Tom?”

“I kicked Julie out. Isn’t that enough?” Mannering was on edge to get away not only from the cross-examination but from the pale grey eyes. They had a shrewdness which troubled him, a directness which might well pierce the disguise. Nonsense! thought Mannering, and pushed his way past the old man; it was darker in here, but he need not worry too much, for his back was to the daylight; no one could possibly scrutinise him in such a light.

“You don’t have to worry about Julie,” the old man scoffed. “She’ll come running back at a crook of your finger.”

“I’m not so sure,” Mannering said. He was now between the other and the stairs. What was that name? Ed, Ted, Fred, – Ed, he was sure. “Are you going to be out for long?”

“Only going to get some baccy,” the other said eagerly. “Like me to open the door when Mr. Bruce comes?”

Again, Mannering was caught in two minds, not being sure which was the usual thing to happen. The old man probably smelled a smile, which meant money, hence his friendliness. There was no point in making him hostile, and even if he didn’t open the door he would peek from his own room to see who it was.

“Not until I call down to say it’s all right,” he said.

“Of course, Tom, of course! Don’t worry at all. You just give a shout and I’ll open the door.”

Mannering went upstairs as the street door closed. Now he had the flat to himself, but could not be sure for how long – nor how much longer he must wait. Had he done anything wrong? Would he have been wiser to allow the police to watch here, or at least to watch Sangster’s house? Nonsense! The risk to Lorna would have been too great. When he had her back he could take any risks; but not yet.

It was quarter past eleven; he probably had half an hour to kill.

Kill.

He moved about the living room, studying the portraits, even more impressed by their skill. It might be simply virtuosity, there might not be a real streak of genius, but most were good. Among the best were some of Julie, two of them little gems.

Never mind Julie! She was safe.

He heard someone come in, went to the stairs to make sure who it was, and saw the small grey head with its bald spot. Now it was simply a matter of waiting and there was only one place to wait: in the front room. He pulled a chair close to the side of one window from which he could see the Wandsworth Bridge Road end of the street; he took it for granted that Bruce Sangster would come from that end. Suddenly, a small motor-cycle turned into Riston Street, and slowed down. A man in a black jacket and a crash helmet painted white with a red emblem on it, began to peer about him, at the numbers.

He stopped, parked the machine, and walked towards Number 17, taking his helmet off as he moved. For the first time, Mannering was sure beyond doubt that this was Bruce Sangster, who looked younger than his years in this outfit.

Sangster disappeared from sight, beneath the window. After a moment, there was a loud bang on the iron knocker. Mannering heard a shuffle of feet downstairs, and the old man appeared at the door.

Fred: that was his name. Fred.

“Let him in,” Mannering called.

“Right, right,” the old man called up.

Mannering stood in the bathroom doorway. He heard the street door open, then the old man speak in his querulous voice.

“Yes. Who is it?”

“My name is Sangster,” the caller replied, “and I’ve come to see Mr. Forrester.”

“Old Tom boy? He’s upstairs, unless I’m much mistaken. Tom! Tom, boy!” Fred raised his head as he peered upstairs, but Mannering hardly noticed him, he was so intent on Sangster. “Tom! It’s a Mr. Sangster for you.”

Mannering made himself call: “Ask him to come up.” He opened the front room door wide, and then went to the head of the stairs. Sangster came up quickly, and the angle at which Mannering saw his face was exactly that from which he had seen it in Green Street.

It was, gloomy on the landing, but Sangster’s eyes seemed very bright.

“Hi,” he said briefly. “Did you do what I told you?”

“Yes,” Mannering answered.

“I didn’t think you’d make any mistake.” There was a sneer in the other’s voice, a sneer on his heart-shaped face. The worst thing about him was that he was so evil yet had the face of an angel. There was a fringe of curly golden hair and an angelic expression until one saw the tautness and the thinness of his lips. “Mannering will show up in twenty minutes.”

“You seem very sure.”

“I am sure,” Sangster said, icily.

“I don’t see how—” Mannering began.

“You never could see further than the end of the nose on your face,” Sangster sneered. “The jewels would be enough in themselves, but I made doubly sure.” He actually laughed. “I kidnapped his wife! And he’ll come along for her sake. When he does, he’ll get a hell of a shock.”

Sangster laughed again, and Mannering felt icy stillness in his veins for he did not know what this man meant, knew only that he was most certainly in the presence of evil. And it was evil. Everything he had heard about this young man had pointed towards that, and here he was, the personification of it.

Mannering made himself speak in a fair imitation of Forrester’s voice.

“What kind of shock, Bruce?”

“A hell of a shock,” repeated Sangster, and for a moment it seemed as if he were not going to explain. But at last some sense of vanity, of boastfulness, perhaps of pride in himself, rose to the surface, and he went on: “From now on, he and I are partners. I’ve a tape recorder here.” He took a small transistor-type recorder from his coat and placed it on a bedside table. “Our deal for the Fiora Collection will be recorded. My voice won’t be on it. Yours will. Yours and Mannering’s, doing a crooked deal. Once I’ve got that on record you’ll both do whatever I tell you. You’ll work for Mannering. When I tell you to paint a copy of an old master, you’ll paint it and he’ll sell it as the genuine article. And when I want to pull off a deal in objets d’art or jewellery or antiques, he’ll co-operate. If he doesn’t or if you don’t—”

Sangster broke off; smiling. It was like a leer; satyrish. But it was much more than that: he was not dealing with an ordinary man but with a psychopath.

“You—you swine,” Mannering made himself say.

“So I’m a swine. So you’re a fool. You let me get a hold on you when we were at Letts together, and you’ll never be free. That will teach you not to steal from lockers. You’ll live your life the way I want you to from now on. From today on. So will Mannering. And he’ll stand to lose more than his reputation, too. That wife of his is quite a woman. If Mannering makes trouble, his Lorna will pay. Only remember one thing, Tom.” He gave his biggest smile yet. “Don’t call me a liar. I don’t like it.”

Without the slightest warning, without any change in his smile, he struck Mannering savagely across the face. Mannering staggered back. Sangster, as if completely sure that he was in no danger, moved towards the window.

“He should be here soon,” he remarked. “I’d better be ready to show him I mean business.”

Mannering, teeth clenched, anger raging through him, saw Sangster slip his hand inside his jacket and then draw off his waist a leather belt or waist band, about six inches wide. He placed this on the bed and unrolled it, much as Mannering might have unrolled his tool kit. It stretched three feet up the bed, at least. He unfolded it, doubling its depth, and on that instant the morning light touched the jewels there.

Mannering caught his breath.

All his life he had worshipped precious stones; even today they exerted a near fatal fascination for him. He longed to touch, to stare at, to possess. And here was one of the most beautiful and varied collections of rubies and emeralds in. the world. One ruby was the size of a pigeon’s egg. Two rubies were nearly as large. They seemed to glow and to sparkle; to absorb light and yet to scintillate. They were set in rings, ear-rings, brooches, pendants, bracelets – there was a comb set in gold and fit for any queen. Mannering felt the magic, near magnetic attraction of them; they even affected his breathing.

“Look out of the window and see if he’s coming,” Sangster ordered. “He’s late already. He’ll have to learn that I don’t like being kept waiting.”

Mannering did not move towards the window, but instead stood between Sangster and the landing door. Sangster, surprised, took a step forward.

“Mannering isn’t coming,” Mannering stated. He had never felt less like himself, or more like another personality altogether, so absorbed was he in the part he was playing. “You aren’t going to get your evidence, Bruce. Roll those jewels up again and give them to me.”

As he spoke, as the stupefaction crept over Sangster’s face, he took an automatic pistol out of his pocket, waved it towards the other, and went on sharply.

“Do what I tell you. I don’t like being kept waiting, either.”

Sangster stood absolutely still. His expression seemed to say: ‘You must be mad!’ Actually he said: “Mannering will be here at any moment, and—”

“No he won’t,” Mannering retorted. “I’m here in his place. And the police will be here before you’ve had time to get over the shock. They’ll be at your father’s, too—everywhere you might try to run to earth. You’ve been run to earth already, Bruce. Here. By me. You tried to push me around too much, and you had to be stopped. Mannering showed me how to stop you.”

“Why, you—” began Sangster, and leapt forward, his mouth wide open and his eyes rounded and glaring.

Mannering fired at him.

The bullet actually went through the padded shoulder of the coat, but Mannering did not think it touched the flesh. The sharp report and the flash made Sangster back away, danger and fear of death overcoming his fury.

Mannering thought: It’s nearly over, thank God. It’s nearly over.

And that was the moment when the old man spoke from the open doorway. His voice was firmer and his manner more authoritative than it had ever been as he said: “Drop your gun, Tom. Drop it on the bed and don’t turn round.”

Sangster said in a throbbing voice: “Nice work, Fred.” ‘Fred’. “Very nice work. Now the first job is to find out whether he’s telling the truth about the police.”

Mannering dropped the gun.

This was the first time since the affair had started that Mannering had felt really afraid for himself. And sick at his own blindness. Grey-haired old Fred was the wheel on which these crimes had turned.