Chapter Eight

Part Of The Past

Josh Larraby, the manager of Quinns, was part of Mannering’s past, in much the same way as Bristow, although they were at extreme ends of the scale. Larraby had one love, which seemed to have been born in him, and which had strengthened over the years: a love for precious stones. He had worked for years with a West End jeweller, and the passion had developed into a craving and the craving into a mania, until the time had come when he had stolen a number of superbly beautiful jewels – and been caught.

That should have been his ruin.

After he had served his years of imprisonment, he had gone to Mannering for help. Against the advice of the police and his friends, Mannering had given the ex-convict a job at Quinns. That was over twelve years ago, and during those twelve years Larraby had been promoted from odd-job man to messenger, from messenger to general assistant, and finally to manager of the shop. It no longer occurred to Mannering that there might be the slightest reason for distrusting Larraby, and he believed that the police also felt sure that Larraby was completely honest.

Larraby was now in the middle sixties, rather frail-looking, with curly hair which had turned almost white, and a rather deceptively pale face and gentle expression; a kind of universal uncle of a man.

That night, he had left Covent Garden a little after ten o’clock, humming a tune to himself, having been pleasantly entertained by a reasonably good performance of Figaro. He would have walked home had it been earlier; as it was, he went to the Strand, took a Number 15 bus, got off opposite Selfridges and walked through Mayfair towards the mews where he had his small flat.

London was part of life to Larraby. Its pavements, its medley of buildings, its noises, its silences, its lights and its shadows, its smells and its vastness, all seemed natural to him, and he did not know what it was to feel nervous. He turned into the mews, walking over the cobbles without making much noise with his rubber-soled shoes, and taking out his keys as he reached the front door. On his ring were keys not only of the flat, but of Quinns’ front door. Only he and Mannering could get into Quinns; no one else had keys.

Larraby pushed the front door open, and went in, closing the door behind him, for there was a lamp in the mews opposite the door, and the light shone through the frosted glass panel. He was still humming when he kicked against something stretched across the passage. He pitched headlong, taken absolutely by surprise, alarmed in that moment only by the fall. Crashing down, he turned to one side so that he took the worst of the blow on his right shoulder, but could not prevent his head from banging on the floor. That caused a wave of pain which nearly made him unconscious. He lay helpless for what seemed a long time. Suddenly, without a second’s warning, a light went on.

Through the tears of pain in his eyes Larraby could see a man’s feet; suddenly one moved, and he felt the pointed toe bury itself in his shoulder. He cried aloud with greater pain, now much more badly frightened.

“Get up,” a man ordered, roughly.

The pain seemed to be spreading from Larraby’s head throughout his whole body, and he had no strength in his arms or in his legs. He tried to scramble to his feet, but could not. He felt a hand at the collar of his coat, pinching painfully, and was hauled to his feet and pushed roughly to one side. He thumped against a wall, and would have fallen but for its support. The pain in his head was still excruciating, especially at the back of his eyes, and he could see only with difficulty. But he was able to make out the shape of two men, one of them in the doorway of his bed-sitting room, the other near the front door.

The man by the door said: “Take his keys.”

Larraby tried to back away, but he could not; the man nearer him pulled him forward by the shoulder, spun him round, and thrust a hand into his trousers pockets. He found the keys at the second attempt, and drew them out, jingling. Then he waved them in front of Larraby’s eyes, so that the brightness sent scintillas of light stabbing from them, as if they were jewels.

“Now listen, Larraby,” said the man by the door. “We’re going for a little ride. We’re going to Quinns. We’re going to break in, and you’re going to open the strong-room for us. If you try any tricks or make any trouble, you’ll have your skull cracked in like Humpty Dumpty.” He drew his hand from his pocket, and held up a hammer; Larraby did not know that it was exactly like the hammer which Ingleby had found earlier in the evening, but he did remember that vicious kick, and the pain now easing in his head.

“Got all that?” the man demanded roughly.

Larraby muttered: “Yes. Yes, I’ve got it.”

His head was hurting too much for him to think clearly, but one thing was certain: he could not do anything to help himself here. It would take some time to go to the shop, and to get inside – and by that time he would probably be feeling better, and be much more able to cope. There were devices at the shop which could be called on to raise an alarm – devices which he and Mannering had developed to meet such an eventuality as this. At the moment he must do what he was told. Especially, he must avoid further violence. He had to use every second in order to recover his strength and his nerve.

“Make sure you don’t try any tricks,” the man said. “Or else…”

He raised the hammer suddenly and violently. Larraby backed away – and with a backward sweep, the man smashed the head of the hammer down on a picture on the wall. The glass shattered. Tiny slivers like darts stuck in the wall, into the man’s clothes, even into his hair. The man himself was startled, and swung round. His expression showed the viciousness and the brutality in him. He recovered quickly, and said: “We’ll get that cleared up – send Blackie to do it. Now, Larraby, if you don’t want your head cracked like that glass—” He broke off.

Larraby moistened his lips.

“I’ll do whatever you tell me.”

“The first thing is you’ll walk out of here with my pal, and go to the car across the mews,” ordered the man with the hammer. “Just get in the back, like he tells you. Pretend he’s a friend of yours.”

Larraby didn’t speak as he began to obey.

The man with the hammer opened the door, and the light from across the way showed clearly on the whitewashed walls of the other houses in the mews. Light glowed yellow and friendly at two square windows, and a car passed the end of the mews, heading for Oxford Street. Larraby saw a Vauxhall car parked where the man had said. The other man took his arm, above the elbow, gripping him painfully, and started across the cobbles. Larraby made no attempt to get free. He sat in a corner of the car, edging over as the other man got in beside him. Then the one with the hammer came out of the flat, slammed the door, and walked boldly across and took the wheel. Larraby saw his big hands with their tough-looking, spatulate fingers and nails bitten down almost to the quick. The man started the car and drove off with a kind of restrained strength which told of the brute in him. He swung round the corner out of the mews too quickly, and a cyclist swerved to avoid him. “Bloody bikes,” he swore, and then put his foot hard down on the accelerator.

Larraby thought: The police will stop him.

The man seemed to wake up to the risk he was taking, and slowed down. It was only a five-minute drive to Quinns, but he drove past the end of Hart Row and glanced along it, as if to make sure that no one was lurking there, then took the next turning to the right. So he knew there was another way to the car park. He stopped the car at the far end of Hart Row, and switched off the lights and the engine. Now only the single lamp near Quinns spread light, but there was diffused glow from Bond Street. Little traffic passed.

The man with the hammer said: “Okay, Fred.”

The man named Fred opened his door, said: “Out,” and then pulled Larraby with him. Larraby got out. The night air struck cold at his bare head and his face, and he shivered. He could see the narrow front of Quinns, could even make out the name in gilt lettering on the dark fascia board above the shop. The other man got out, and they ranged on either side of Larraby, powerful and menacing.

The leader said: “Go and open the door. Don’t go in – just open the door. Don’t forget, we’ll be watching.” After a pause, he added: “Go with him, Fred.”

“Okay.”

“You know what to do if he tries to pull a fast one.”

“I know what to do.”

“And I’ll finish him off,” the leader said.

Larraby felt himself shivering uncontrollably as he went to the front door. He could get into the shop, and there was just a chance that he could push the door open, dash in, and close the door on the man. But if he tried that and failed, would they have any mercy on him?

He did not think they would.

He reached the porch, remembering how he had closed and locked the door this very evening, after Mannering had left. Mannering. He owed more to the proprietor of Quinns than to anyone living, and would make any sacrifice for him. Yet his fear was agonising. Only a few years ago, his predecessor in management had been murdered in a raid on the shop, and when Larraby had taken over the job, Mannering had talked to him, in that office at the back.

It was almost possible to hear his words.

“Josh, I don’t care what the circumstances are, I don’t want you or anyone else killed trying to protect anything at Quinns. Is that clear? If it ever becomes a question of letting thieves get away with a haul, or risking your life, let them get away with it. You know as well as I do that nine times out of ten they won’t stay free for long, and we’ll get the stolen things back. If we don’t, we’re fully insured. So never take risks with your life, Josh. That’s a condition of the job. Understand?”

Larraby had said: “I fully understand, Mr. Mannering.”

Never take risks with your life, Josh.

Supposing he made the attempt to lock these men out, and failed? They would certainly make him suffer for it, and might kill. But would they let him live, even if he did what they wanted? He could identify them. He would be a damning witness against them, and because of that they would probably kill him before they left. He could take that almost for granted; they would use him to get inside the shop and the strong-room, and afterwards they would kill him. So he would not be taking risks with his life; the risk was already there. If he tried to shut these men out, however, he would be fighting for a chance to live.

Never take risks with your life, Josh.

Larraby felt the man named Fred breathing down his neck as he used the keys on the double lock, and pressed the secret mechanism which would allow him to open the door without an alarm going off. His one chance would be to thrust the door wide open without making any sound, then to hack at the man’s shins. He needed only a split second.

He felt the door yielding, under the pressure of his trembling hand.