Chapter Three

Did The Lady Lie?

“Well, well,” said Mannering, into the telephone. “And she didn’t tell me.”

“Who didn’t tell you what?” demanded Chittering. “What’s it all about, John? Another of your damsel in distress escapades? The more I know, the more I may be able to help.”

“So you could,” said Mannering, drily. “Yes. I’ll keep in touch. Thanks.” He rang off deliberately, hearing Chittering calling his name urgently; at that moment he did not want to have to concentrate on the newspaperman.

He sat back and pictured Rebecca Blest’s face, especially her clear eyes, and told himself that it was difficult to believe that she had lied, even by implication. He recalled the jittery way she had spoken of her uncle, and her tense: “It’s almost as if he had stretched out from the grave to hurt my father.” Grave, not prison. Had she passed over the fact that Uncle Rett had spent a long time in prison because of embarrassment, or family pride, or shame? When she had learned that the jewels were faked, wasn’t her normal reaction likely to be that an ex-jail bird uncle knew something about it – and in the kind of mood any honest girl would have been in, wouldn’t she have confided in him?

“I’d like to find out,” Mannering said in a thoughtful voice, and then the telephone bell rang on his desk. Was it Chittering, trying again? Fleet Street bred a race of men who never gave up. He heard Larraby, his manager, speak on the extension, and a moment later there was a tap at the door.

“It’s Mrs. Mannering, sir.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Mannering, and picked up the receiver as Larraby’s grey head disappeared from the doorway. A warm note came into his voice, “Hallo, darling. If this is to inquire why I’m not home, I’m nearly on my way.”

“It’s to explain why I’m not home,” said Lorna Mannering. “John—”

“Hmm?”

“Could you stand an evening on your own?”

“Oh, I should think so,” said Mannering airily. “I haven’t been to the Soho Strip area for a few weeks, and—”

“You stay away from Soho strips and strippers unless you take me with you,” Lorna ordered. “Darling, Meg Ustley wants me to do a portrait of her seven-year-olds, and to talk about it over dinner. I think she might be able to persuade me.”

“You go and be persuaded,” Mannering encouraged. “I’ll eat at the club, and—”

“Ethel’s home, and she’ll have dinner ready,” Lorna said. “I’ll call and tell her that I won’t be in. Must rush, darling – ’bye.”

Mannering said: “Stipulate a big fat fee” – and rang off much more slowly than he had from Chittering.

He glanced up at Lorna’s portrait of him, feeling mild pleasure at the fact that she had found a subject which she was eager to paint, and then thought of Rebecca Blest as she might be if Lorna put her on canvas. Very beautiful, with a touch of Millais of the Bubbles era. Pretty? It wasn’t exactly the word. Simple? Was she so simple, if she had lied even by implication?

He glanced at his notes, and saw her address next to the name of Samuel Blest. If Blest were a true name, then Rett Laker was her mother’s brother; Mannering was never very good at working out other people’s family trees, and wasn’t quite sure where that came in. He memorised the address: 127, Mapperley Street, Notting Hill. But for Lorna’s telephone call he would not have thought of going there, but the news from Chittering had piqued him, and if he appeared on the doorstep, he might startle the girl into telling the whole truth. It was now half-past six; he could be at Notting Hill by half-past seven, and back at his flat by eight, for dinner.

He locked his desk, went out, and saw Larraby getting up from a long desk-like counter behind the shop. From here he could see the whole length of the shop itself, but could not be seen from the window or from the front door.

“Time you went home, Josh,” Mannering said.

“I’m in no hurry,” said Larraby. “Shall I lock up?”

“Will you?” asked Mannering, and as an afterthought he added: “I’m going to see the girl Blest. I think she might be trying to dangle me on a piece of string.”

“I didn’t get that impression,” said Larraby.

Mannering smiled. “Nor did Tom!”

He left Larraby to the ‘locking-up’; which meant switching on the current which was the first defence against burglars, and putting the electronic devices, the second defence, on Active. As he moved away from Larraby, he heard a woman’s voice: “Darling, that’s absolutely beautiful.”

The depth of feeling, almost of emotion, could not be mistaken. The electric relay system carried conversation from outside the window into the shop, for thieves had been known to confide in accomplices just before making a raid, and many had been thwarted without knowing that their plotting could be overheard.

Mannering saw a couple standing at the narrow window, looking at the single diamond watch which lay there against a background of black velvet. The watch had been made for an ill-fated Queen of France, and was now nearly priceless, although some collector would probably buy it and lock it away so that he could gloat over his riches and his rarities.

“… I’ve never seen anything like it,” the woman was saying.

Mannering stepped out into Hart Row. The man glanced at him; heavily-built, well-dressed, wearing a curly-brimmed bowler hat. He gave Mannering a rueful half-smile; his wife was absorbed in the watch.

“… I can’t guess how much it would be,” she said, almost sighing.

Mannering murmured: “When it was sold at Christie’s seven years ago, the reserve price was twenty-one thousand pounds.”

“Twenty-one thousand!” The woman spun round.

“I’ll have two of them,” said her husband, airily. “One for each wrist.”

Mannering touched his hat to the woman, and went on, annoyed by the man’s flippancy although he had no good cause to be; but a watch like that, any genuine antique or really old jewellery, any objet d’art, was a thing to reverence, not to joke about. He was wondering rather wryly: “how pompous can one get?” as he walked along to his car. It was parked at the end of Hart Row, at a small site which would soon be built on, so giving him a parking problem. The car, a silver grey Bristol, was being admired by two youngsters, who backed away hurriedly as he approached.

As he eased his way through the dwindling traffic of the West End, Mannering contrasted his own circumstances with those of Rebecca Blest, for instance. Money in moderate amounts hardly affected him or Lorna, and in recent years profits from Quinns had risen sharply, although his accountant frequently told him that he could safely charge more than he did. That girl had believed that she was in sight of a fortune, and had been so terribly disappointed.

Mannering could not tell himself why he was anxious to find out whether she had known that Uncle Rett Laker had been a jail bird or not. If he had to give a reason, he would probably say that it was to find out whether a pair of pretty eyes had fooled him; he had felt so sure that the girl was absolutely honest.

At two minutes to seven, he turned into Mapperley Street. This was near the main road, and the houses on either side were of four storeys. A few plane trees bordered the pavement. A few houses were newly painted. Many of them had several bell pushes in the front porch, showing that they had been turned into flats. He stopped near number 100, got out, and strolled towards 127. The first thing which caught his eye was a motorcycle propped up outside the front door. Was it the motorcyclist of whom Tom had talked? If so, had that been a chance meeting, or one by arrangement?

He found the street door ajar. A little name plate said: “H. Ashton – Ground Floor.”

“S. Blest – 1st Floor.”

He went into a gloomy hall and up a flight of narrow steps to the first floor, and as he did so, he heard a woman crying.

Rebecca Blest did not think she would ever understand why she had been willing to let Terry McKay take her on the pillion of his motorcycle, but when she reached the street door of her home, about half-past seven that evening, she knew that she was very glad Terry was there. She disliked the thought of going to talk to her father, hated the thought of disappointing him, felt that without the stranger, she would have been utterly alone. When he had come from the telephone, cheerfully reassuring her about Mannering, she had felt relieved and free from the deepest anxiety – that she and her father were being cheated.

“According to my brudder-in-law, this Mannering is quite a guy,” McKay had assured her. “Even the great men at Scotland Yard consult him about jewels sometimes. It looks as if you’re in the safest of safe hands, what with Mannering and me! Not looking forward to telling your old Dad, are you?”

“Not a bit.”

“Tell you what, let me give you some moral support,” Terry had said. “I needn’t come in, I can stall around, and if you need a shoulder to weep on, it will be there. How about that?”

“No, you’ve been too good already—”

“Woosh!” Terry McKay had said, and put a hand at her elbow, hoisted her to her feet, paid the bill, boomed a cheerful good night to Luigi, and led the way outside. He had ridden to Notting Hill very carefully, as if to make sure that Rebecca had no possible cause for alarm, and just before seven they had reached the street.

“And I shall stay here until you come down to give me marching orders,” McKay had declared. “I’m not hungry, take your time!” He had watched her go into the house, noticing that the street door was unlocked, and then he had walked up and down Mapperley Street, glancing up at the window of her flat occasionally, quite prepared to wait tor hours …

Rebecca went upstairs.

The familiar gloomy staircase seemed to be more than ever full of shadows and blackness tonight, although she knew that it was because of her mood. This was the worst moment – between closing the street door, and opening the front door of the three-roomed flat. Her footsteps dragged until, near the landing, she made herself put on a spurt, and reached the front door briskly. She took out her key, still moving quickly, fumbled for the keyhole in the poor light, and then dropped the key. “Little fool!” she snapped at herself, and bent down to grope for it. She picked it up, took a firmer hold, and tried again. This time she found the keyhole at the first attempt. She turned the key, drew a deep breath, and thrust the door open; then called out, in a cheerful-sounding voice: “I’m back, Dad!”

Her father did not answer.

“Hey, there!” she called again. “I’m back!” She closed the door behind her, and, forcing gaiety, went hurrying into the big front room, overlooking the street – the living-room and dining-room, the general purpose room, with the telephone, the old furniture, the old carpets, most of which she could remember from her childhood.

There was still no answer.

“Dad, where are you?” she called.

She was already puzzled, but not yet worried; usually her father would call “Half a jiff!” even if he were in the bathroom. She turned towards the rooms on the other side of the narrow passage, and saw that the bathroom door was ajar, but there was no sign of movement. He must have gone out, she told herself, but was even more puzzled because tonight of all nights she had expected him to be in, waiting – waiting so eagerly. She shouldn’t have stayed out so long with Terry; she had only herself to blame. With so much at stake, her father must have been beside himself with anxiety.

“Dad!” she called.

She heard nothing, but noticed that his bedroom door was closed. She hesitated, just outside it. He might have been taken ill, of course – it was quite possible that the delay and the anxiety had affected him so that his heart had played him up again. She still hesitated, now afraid of what she might find, then suddenly grasped the handle of the door firmly, and thrust the door open.

“Father, are you all right?”

He was there, but did not answer. She saw his feet at the foot of the bed. The head of the bed was behind the door, to keep him out of draughts; the window was on one side.

She hurried further in, anxiety sharpening her voice: “Father, are you—?”

She stopped half-way to the bed, staring round and down at him, so dreadfully shocked that she could not move. In fact, she could hardly breathe, for what had happened was so terrible.

He lay on his side. He was fully clad. Someone had smashed heavy blows on his balding head, so that there was only blood and horror.

Rebecca felt her senses swimming. She felt nausea, which suddenly affected her whole body, and she began to tremble. She backed away, clutching at the door for support, and then suddenly turned her head away, so that she could not see, and buried her face against her arm.

She began to struggle for breath; apart from the sounds she made, there was only an awful silence.