Chapter Twenty

Double

He could not be sure that the old man had a gun, but he could not take the risk of guessing wrong. He was acutely and vividly aware of Bruce Sangster’s expression, and the naked evil in it. He did not doubt that Sangster would be viciously violent in order to find out what he wanted to know, but that in itself was unimportant. When he was convinced, he would get away as fast as he could.

And he would kill without compunction; once caught he would get a life sentence for Jacob Walker’s murder, and one more killing would make no difference.

He moved close to Mannering, and without blinking his eyes, struck him across the cheek with his right hand, sending him reeling, then striking him with his other hand, just as viciously. Mannering’s head rang, and he began to sway. He gritted his teeth and struggled to keep his balance. Sangster’s face was going round and round, nothing about him seemed to stand still.

“Are the police really on their way?” he demanded, harshly.

Mannering said: “They’re on the way.”

Sangster raised his hand to strike again but old Fred moved past Mannering, making the blow impossible. He held a small automatic in his right hand, with a kind of nonchalance which suggested that he was not unaccustomed to it.

“It’s no use knocking his block off,” Fred reasoned. “You can’t make him speak the truth if he can’t speak at all, can he, Tom? Now, let’s have the truth – every bit of it, Tom boy!”

In this room the light from the window was good. Both men, who knew Tom Forrester well, stood only a foot or two away, scrutinising him closely, searching his face for signs of the truth. They would not be fooled by the disguise for long, and once they realised that he wasn’t Forrester but Mannering, they might well tear him to bits. There was one hope and only one, and he drew a deep breath and used that hope.

“I am not Tom Forrester,” he said. “Tom is on his way with—”

They realised that truth on the same instant. Both of them flinched, physically, and for a split-second they were off their guard. Fred’s gun actually pointed towards the floor.

Mannering sprang backwards.

Going forward would give them a chance to recover. Going backwards might save him. And Fred had left the door wide open. As he rocked on his heels Mannering caught at the door with his right hand. As he staggered on to the landing, it slammed. Simultaneously, two shots rang out, one sharp, one a roar; the two men had recovered at the same moment. The door closed tight but there was no time to lock it. Mannering darted into the bathroom and slammed that door; his fingers, icy cold, kept steady enough for him to shoot the bolt.

Two more shots followed. One bullet splintered a door panel, one made a bulge above the lock, but neither penetrated fully. Mannering put one foot on the decorated pedestal, both hands on the edge of the hatch, and hauled himself up, remembering the low rafters and keeping his head low. He heard the bathroom door groan and creak as he backed away, pulling at the hinged hatch cover. He caught a glimpse of Sangster darting into the bathroom as the hatch slammed down.

Then he stood on the hatch cover, to prevent it from being pushed open.

It began to heave beneath him as Sangster pushed, but Sangster had no chance while all Mannering’s weight was on it. Again Mannering gripped a rafter, for support. Now that this part was virtually over, reaction had set in. He kept his mouth open and let his teeth chatter and his body shake.

Sangster was screaming at him but there was no sound of Fred.

“Come down you flicking liar! Get down from there. I’ll cut your throat, I’ll break every bone in your body!” After a pause there came a sharp click, as if he had pulled the trigger. Mannering stepped off the hatch for the first time as a bullet did strike and splinter it, had he still been standing on it, the bullet could have bruised if not broken his foot.

Then, came other sounds, particularly of car engines, roaring.

The hatch cover lifted an inch, then dropped into place.

Car doors slammed and more engines raced.

Crammed in a corner of the attic was an old leather trunk, and Mannering stretched out and gripped it, finding it almost impossible to move. He dragged with both hands, until it was over the hatch, and as he dragged he saw the white lettering, faded and scratched but still quite readable. It said:

THOMAS FORRESTER
LETTS COLLEGE.
HERTS.

Down below Mannering there were thudding footsteps, but up here everything was still. In the far distance a man was shouting and raving: could that be Sangster? Mannering moved towards the roof window, and opened it. Gentle breezes blew. He hauled himself out but kept down low, creeping forward until he could see into the street. A big car had just pulled up, and a uniformed policeman opened the door.

Chief Inspector Willison climbed out, with Bristow behind him. It was as if Bristow had joined forces, again with Scotland Yard.

Mannering edged further forward, lying flat on his stomach, concealed from the people in the street. It would not be long before some of the police began to push at the bathroom hatch but Mannering was held here by a compulsion he could not resist. He had to know what the men below were saying. He heard a man walk forward and say: “Good morning, sir.” That was alert Detective Sergeant Joslin.

“What’s the latest?” Willison demanded.

“We’ve caught Bruce Sangster, and he’s behaving like a lunatic. If he goes on like this we’ll need a strait-jacket, sir.”

“Not Mannering?”

“He’s not been here, sir. The only other man seen was Forrester.”

“Did you get him?”

Joslin said clearly: “No, sir. We caught the old man who lives downstairs, trying to get out the back way. His pockets were stuffed with rubies and emeralds—”

“The Fioras?” barked Willison.

“I should think so, sir, but I’m no judge of jewellery.”

“Mr. Bristow here can look them over,” Willison said, with great satisfaction. “What have you got on Sangster?”

“You’ve got enough on Sangster to know he’s probably holding Lorna Mannering,” Bristow rasped. “The Sangster place must be raided now.” He was glaring at Willison, and Mannering could tell the depth of his emotions, the acuteness of his fear for Lorna.

Willison drew a deep breath, and then leaned into the car and gave instructions for a raid on Sir Gordon Sangster’s house. When he had finished, he turned back to Joslin, and asked coldly: “Well—what exactly have we got on Sangster?”

“He shot and wounded one of our men, sir. And he carried a waist-belt obviously used for keeping the jewels in – two or three are still in it, sir, attached to a kind of self-adhesive felt. That’s why he tried to get away, I should say. So there’s little doubt they’re our men.”

“But no Mannering?” Willison asked, as if he couldn’t believe that this was true. “Only Forrester, who—”

“Here is Forrester,” Joslin exclaimed, and Mannering’s heart seemed to jump a mile.

For Forrester was standing at the open door of a taxi which came from the Wandsworth Bridge Road direction. Mannering took a chance and peered over.

No one looked up. Instead, Bristow, Willison and Joslin lined up on the kerb, their backs to the houses. In the distance there was sound of Sangster’s voice still ranting. Nearer, was a ring of policemen and old Fred, who was handcuffed to a young detective in plainclothes, and taken to a police car.

He stopped short, and stared at the real Forrester, and his voice came husky but clear.

“Well, Tom boy, they caught me red-handed. I know I’m an old rascal, but the time’s come to tell the cops you only did whatever you did because Sangster blackmailed you. You’ll be in the clear, Tom boy, don’t you fret. And that’s only one of the things I’ll tell them when I turn Queen’s Evidence …” He went on, as cunning and crafty as ever.

Forrester was out of the taxi, now, and saying: “What’s going on?” He glared at Bristow. “Why did you try to keep me away? Who the hell are you to think I can’t handle my own affairs?”

“That’s right, Tom boy,” said old Fred. “Give it to them.” He cackled with laughter. “It wasn’t until your double shook the living daylight out of me that I realised you had a double. He really fooled me.”

“Double!” exclaimed Joslin.

“Did you keep the real Forrester away?” Willison asked Bristow, his voice suddenly cold.

“Yes, I did. I’ll go into details later,” Bristow said. “The first task is to find Lorna Mannering. I want to go to Sangster’s house.”

In the silence which followed, while Willison was making up his mind how to respond, Sangster’s ranting sounded nearer, the raving of a man who was out of his mind, who might have killed Lorna before he had left his home that day. Had Mannering known that he had been on a knife edge between sanity and madness he would never had taken the chance of waiting. If Lorna was dead – the fear was like a knife thrust in his breast.

Then the driver of the car which had brought Willison and Bristow leaned out of the open door.

“Message just in from Information, sir. Our chaps have found Mrs. Mannering in a room in Sir Gordon Sangster’s house. Mrs. Sangster isn’t there, sir. Will you—”

Willison was already moving towards the car, and Bristow was close behind him.

Mannering rolled over so that he could not be seen, relaxing while relief surged through him in enormous waves. After the shock ending of the suspense, he felt both weak and sick but a few minutes later his heart was racing with exhilaration. He moved back further from the edge and crept across the roof-tops. Someone was thudding nearby, probably the police trying to open the attic hatch. He moved gingerly until he was a dozen houses away, and did exactly as he had when he had last been on these roofs. This time no one saw him; or at least, no one called out. He dropped into the service alley and ran to Wandsworth Bridge Road, near the shops. The parade was thronged with people but no one took any notice of him. He drove the long way round to the garage, sat in the car and cleaned off the greasepaint with pure alcohol kept in the garage for that purpose, loosened the gum and pulled off the extra hair. Looking much more like himself, he left the car in the garage and walked towards Chelsea.

A taxi came along, from behind him, and stopped at his call. He sat comfortably until they reached Green Street, where he paid off the taxi and went up to his own flat. No one was on the landing, no one was inside. He went up to the attic studio, took off the rest of the makeup, and then went down and changed into a dark suit. He had just finished, and for the first time relaxed completely, when there was a ring at the front door bell; next moment came the sound of a key in the lock. He was in the hall when the door opened and a policeman came in with Lorna only a pace behind him; and on the instant she saw Mannering.

She looked pale and tired but unhurt: “John,” she said. “Oh, John! Thank God!”

At Riston Street, Willison, who seemed aloof and almost hostile with Bristow, finished searching Number 17 and then went across to Number 20. When there was no answer, he had one of his men force a window, and climb in. Stiff and horrified, Paget was exactly where Mannering had left him. When he learned that both old Fred and Bruce Sangster were under arrest he began to talk freely.

He had been forced to do what he had, he claimed; he had been blackmailed, he hadn’t had a chance …

“You’ll have a chance to tell all that to a judge and jury,” Willison said. He gave orders for this little house to be searched, and then went across to Number 17, where Bristow was in the downstairs front room, checking over the jewels. As if indifferent to Willison’s coldness which verged on hostility, he looked up and nodded with satisfaction.

“Undoubtedly the Fioras,” he pronounced. “Only two pieces missing, both of them rings, when we add these to the other lot. I suggested to Joslin that your chaps should search upstairs.”

“And no doubt my chaps did exactly what you advised – as if they were your chaps. Bill—” Willison made the name sound as if it were chilled—“do you know who doubled for Tom Forrester?”

“No,” Bristow replied.

“Can you guess?”

“Anyone can guess,” Bristow retorted.

Willison said distantly. “I guess that it was Mannering. I’ve done a lot of guessing in the last day or two. Some people would call it deducing.” Willison drew in his breath. “But for the impersonator we might never have caught the men we did. I’m beginning to see how you and he used to work together. Give him a message for me, will you?”

“Yes,” Bristow said.

“Thank you. It’s simply this. I don’t propose to try to rake up the past. But if he ever becomes involved in criminal activity, no matter how good the motive, and if I can prove it, I’d handle him with no more leniency than I will Sangster.”

The two men, Bristow so upright, grey-haired and clean-cut; Willison with his fair hair, fair eyebrows, almost colourless eyes, stared at each other; and Willison went on: “Don’t let him make any mistake, will you? And don’t make any mistake yourself. A retired police officer would get less mercy from the law than anyone else.”

Bristow said, very quietly: “I came to realise that sometimes you get more justice if you bend the law. Think about that, will you?” There was a long silence between them, one which neither broke, for Tom Forrester came running down the stairs, angry as ever.

“Someone’s stolen four of my self-portraits! There’s something to get back, they’re a damned sight more valuable than a few odds and ends of jewellery!”

Bristow was taken aback.

Willison said coldly: “A witness, Clive Arnold Paget, has accused you of stealing certain artist’s materials, and of conspiring to pass off known fakes for signed old masters. I must ask you for a statement, Mr. Forrester.”

Something in his glinting eyes stifled the protest on Forrester’s lips.

By the time his statement was ready, including an admission about the painting materials taken from an art school, but a denial of the rest, the police had begun a thorough search of the treasure house in the strong room at Sangster House. Bristow knew enough to be quite sure that either Sangster or his son had been replacing genuine works of art with copies, and building up fortunes in overseas banks. His wife, young and pretty, broke down under questioning and explained why: “His father had disowned him,” she said. “They’d come to hate each other. That—” there were tears in her eyes as she went on: “That’s the only reason Bruce didn’t kill him, why he had to keep him alive. Once he was dead, all the treasures would go to museums and publicly owned art galleries, and the substitutions would be found out.”

Sangster himself, kept under opiates, was too ill to speak, but it was soon obvious that his son learned that the old man had acquired the Fioras knowing them to have been stolen. Bruce in turn had stolen them, and tried to find a market, but the ordinary fences were too nervous, and Mannering had seemed just right. With good nursing the old man began to recover, but even when he heard what his son had done over the years he made no comment. It was as if he had cut Bruce not only out of his will, but out of his mind. He did not live long enough to be charged with possessing stolen jewels.

At the trial, Bruce Sangster was found guilty of murder and sentenced to life imprisonment. Old Fred was given five years imprisonment, which was for him ‘life’, for attempted murder by using a fire-arm, and conspiracy to dispose of jewels knowing them to be stolen. Paget was sentenced to five years for his insurance frauds. Forrester, who gave Queen’s Evidence, was not charged, but he became a central figure at the trial. As a result when the first exhibitions of his paintings was held, hundreds stood in line to visit, and little red ‘sold’ stickers soon began to appear on picture after picture. There were some complaints from the elderly, for the exhibition was held at Riston Street.

“There isn’t a better place to show just what they’re like,” Lorna said to Tom Forrester.

“Oh, I agree,” Forrester said, “but if only the young and physically fit can get upstairs, that’s a damned shame. Art belongs to everyone, not just to the few.” He glared as if accusingly at the Mannerings.

“John,” Lorna turned to Mannering, who was by her side, “isn’t there some way of enabling everybody to go upstairs?”

“I think we could put in a hoist, worked with a small electric motor, or even by hand,” Mannering answered.

After the third week, there was nothing left to sell, but Forrester began to paint with furious haste, little gems which he flung off as if they were sparks from a hammer on an anvil. These sparks seemed to strike into Julie’s, eyes, and make them radiant. She was here, there and everywhere, at the little house, although Forrester seemed to take her no less for granted.

“Yet she couldn’t be more happy,” Lorna said, as they left, one day towards the end of the exhibition. “I’ve a feeling that he might make love to a thousand women, but only be in love with her.”

“The perfect husband,” Mannering said straight-faced; and a moment later the sparks began to fly from Lorna’s eyes. She was still looking at her radiant best when they reached Quinns. There, Rupert Smith and young Armitage were like Edwardian twins, each deeply immersed in a customer’s needs. Bristow was behind the carved partition, examining some jewels with the help of a watchmaker’s glass.

Life was back to normal at the little shop of great renown.