Chapter Ten

Arrest

Ingleby held a necklace close to his eyes, and seemed to linger over the stones lovingly, as if touched by a kindred passion to that which Larraby and Mannering felt for precious stones. He stood very still for a long time, then handed the jewels to one of the others, who took them almost reverently. The third policeman gave a nervous snort of a laugh.

At last, Ingleby spoke.

“Are these the fake jewels, Mr. Mannering?”

Mannering said: “No, they’re not fakes.” After the first moment of shock, he felt more able to cope; now that he knew the worst he was in much more control of himself, and his voice was steadier. “They’re genuine – the jewels as well as the settings.”

“And yet you—”

“I’ve never seen them before,” Mannering asserted.

The policeman who had given the snort of a laugh did so again.

“You’ve never seen jewellery which was safely locked away in your own strong-room?” asked Ingleby; his voice dripped with disbelief. “Perhaps you could explain how they came to be here.”

Only Josh Larraby could have opened the strong-room and left so little sign that anyone had raided it, Mannering reminded himself. Josh. Loyal Josh. Mannering remembered all that had happened between them in the past, in a single swift kaleidoscopic vision – Josh, straight from jail, deeply grateful for a chance to rehabilitate himself, winning a reputation for honesty, and at last fully trusted in the trade.

“Can you, Mr. Mannering?” insisted Ingleby.

Mannering said: “No, not yet.”

“You never will,” muttered the snorter.

“But I’ve never seen them before,” Mannering repeated. Even to him this sounded ridiculous. “Miss Blest brought me roughly made glass replicas of all these, set in imitation settings. I put them in this strong-room myself.” He remembered the grubby little bags and grubby cotton wool in which the stones had been wrapped, and now began to ask himself questions. The first and obvious one was: why should anyone put the real jewels in place of the old? Robbery in reverse did not make sense. But somewhere behind all this lurked sense: a cold, cunning, considered intelligence had directed this thing.

“Take that statement down, sergeant, will you?” ordered Ingleby. Immediately, one of the men made a great fuss of taking a notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Mr. Mannering states that these jewels are unfamiliar to him – is that it, Mr. Mannering?”

“Let’s have it right,” Mannering said. “I have never seen the jewels before, but I have seen imitations which were brought to me by Miss Rebecca Blest this afternoon.”

“And—” invited Ingleby. He sounded as if he was on top of the world.

“I have no idea how these came to be in my strong-room.”

“Can’t you make a suggestion, Mr. Mannering?”

“No,” Mannering replied. “I’ve nothing more to say.”

“Well, I have,” said Ingleby, and his voice roughened. “John Mannering, it is my duty to charge you with being in possession of precious stones knowing them to be stolen, and I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.”

There was utter silence, until the policeman gave that snort of a laugh again; but it wasn’t really gloating, he was suffering from suppressed excitement. Ingleby was gloating, though; he looked as puffed up as a toy balloon.

“Have you anything to say?” His voice rang out.

“Not yet,” Mannering said, with difficulty, “except to deny that these jewels were here with my knowledge.”

He chose each word most carefully, while all the time he seemed to see Josh Larraby’s eyes, clear, trustful, trusting – and he saw those two books standing out a little from the shelf. The sinister truth of what had happened was dawning on him, and taking effect slowly. He was under arrest. He would be brought up before the magistrate in the morning and charged with being in possession of stolen jewels, and – he would be remanded. His main hope, for the time being, was to be remanded on bail. There had been plenty of times in the past when he had been on the point of arrest, but he had never felt so certain that he would not escape the police court hearing.

There was Lorna.

He felt sticky and hot

“Open the other safes, Mr. Mannering, will you,” asked Ingleby. “We might as well make a job of it, now we’re here.”

Mannering thought: Lorna, in an empty kind of way, and took out his keys again, opened the safes, and watched as the police went through the contents, one by one. He knew every piece of jewellery, every miniature, every little objet d’art which was here for safe keeping. There were dozens of pieces which would have been worth stealing, and yet nothing had been touched; he would have found out during the search if anything at all had been taken away. Someone had broken in here, or been allowed in by Larraby, had taken the false Laker jewels and replaced them by the genuine ones, and then gone off, leaving a fortune untouched.

It simply didn’t make sense.

Mannering reminded himself that only someone with a cold, keen intelligence could have planned a thing like this. So he would be bound to find out the reason, soon. It had been done with deliberate purpose, and that purpose was hanging over him like a weight that might drop and crush him at any moment.

Lorna.

Ingleby said: “If you wish to telephone your wife before we go, that will be permissible, Mr. Mannering.”

“Ah,” said Mannering. “Yes. Thanks.”

Lorna was dozing in bed when the telephone bell rang, and she sat up with a start, glanced at the bedside clock, and saw that it was after twelve o’clock. Why had John been so long? She leaned slowly sideways and picked up the telephone, jumpy because she had been startled, annoyed with herself because she had so nearly dropped off to sleep.

“Mrs. Mannering,” she announced.

“Hallo, my sweet,” John said, and although he spoke clearly and almost heartily, Lorna sensed on the instant that something was badly wrong; there was an attempt at reassurance in his voice which did not ring true.

“John!”

“Something has misfired,” John went on, too easily. “Someone left some stolen jewels at Quinns tonight, and the police want me to explain what it’s all about. I’m going over to the Yard now, and I don’t think I’ll be home until morning. I’ll call you as soon after eight o’clock as I can. Sleep well.”

“John, don’t ring off.” Lorna was sitting upright, her heart thumping. She could picture him sitting in that little sewing chair, overlapping it on each side, with the tea tray on a stool between him and the bed. “Just how serious is it?”

“It could be unpleasant,” Mannering answered carefully, “but there’s no need to take that for granted. I’d like the night to think about it, and if necessary we’ll get Toby Pleydell over in the morning.”

“John, are you – are you under arrest?”

There was a long pause, and Lorna wanted to cry: “Are you?” but made herself keep quiet.

John said, very quietly: “Yes, darling, but I’m not very worried about it.”

“You’re not worried!” she began, and choked the words back. It was bad enough for him already. She must not do anything to make the situation worse, but a dozen questions reared up in her mind. She couldn’t just ring off and let things hang fire like this. John must talk to Toby Pleydell, their solicitor, now. If John were under arrest he had every right to. Under arrest! She thought of the man who had been injured, who might have been attacked in this very apartment, according to the police; and she thought of the man who had been murdered that afternoon. This wasn’t simply a misunderstanding over stolen jewels, this was murder – and John was already under suspicion.

“Good night, sweet,” Mannering said.

“John! I must call Toby—”

“I don’t think it will help, tonight,” Mannering said. “The morning will be time enough. I expect to see Bill Bristow soon, and I think I can convince him that the charge is a mistake. Try to take it easy for tonight.”

Lorna began: “But John—” then swallowed the words, drew in a deep breath, and said: “Yes, of course I will, if you’re not worried there’s no reason why I should be. If you haven’t telephoned by half-past eight in the morning, where shall I come?”

“Just check with the Yard,” Mannering said.

“All—all right, John. And you try to get some sleep.”

“I’ll sleep like a log,” Mannering assured her with that false heartiness. “Mind you do, too. Good night!”

He rang off, with that last absurd injunction ringing in Lorna’s ears.

She held the receiver in her hand for a long time, staring at it, as if trying to conjure up a vision of John’s face; and of his eyes. She felt quite sure that he was deeply worried, even though he had tried to keep it from her, and gradually fear took possession of her. She did not start to telephone Toby Pleydell, but pushed the bedclothes back, put on her dressing-gown, and went across to the dressing-table, mechanically running a comb through her long hair, not noticing the strands of grey. How often had she sat doing that with John standing just behind her? She could judge from his expression the moment when he was going to slide his arms round her, when his hands were going to cup her breasts, when he would make her turn to look at him, and kiss him.

Now, the mirror was empty; dull.

She felt the stirring of panic, and it was useless to tell herself that there was no need. She felt her breath coming quick and short. Her grip on the comb tightened. But she did not move.

The police must feel sure of themselves – that was a fact she had to accept, and it made the situation worse.

They had found something at Quinns …

It wouldn’t be the first time if John had stored jewels for someone else, knowing they had been stolen. All his life he had taken chances, often desperate chances. Sometimes, in the early days before their marriage, he had actually stolen precious stones, and in those days she had fooled herself that it was a good thing to steal from the rich to give to the poor. She had put that idea aside long before he had. Yet the past too often loomed over them to threaten today’s happiness. And the old days of the Baron had never really been buried. When he had told her about Rebecca Blest, there had been a gleam in his eye and a ring in his voice which had betrayed a lively interest in the mystery. But for that, he would never have taken the trouble to go to the girl’s home.

Had she taken him fake jewels?

The question was firm in Lorna’s mind almost before she realised its significance. If she herself began to wonder if he had told the truth, was it surprising that the police had doubts? She hated herself for the question, yet once it was there, its importance grew and grew. Why had John gone to see the girl? Why hadn’t he waited until she returned to him? It was easy to understand him offering more than the jewels were worth – that was a characteristic gesture. But what had made him take that extra trouble?

Did anyone else know why? Larraby, for instance?

Lorna turned away from the mirror, got up and went to the telephone. It was natural to turn to Josh in moments of difficulty, for the old man was not only wise but wholly reliable. He was probably asleep, but was used to being disturbed by night.

She dialled his number.

The ringing sound went on and on. For the first half minute she was not surprised; then she began to worry. If Josh were in, he would surely have heard the bell by now, no matter how soundly he had been sleeping. The bell kept on ringing. Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr. Why didn’t he answer? Wasn’t he at home? And if he wasn’t, why not?

Why should old Josh be out after midnight?

Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr.

After a long while, she put the receiver down very slowly, and began to dress. She wanted to see Josh Larraby, and if he had run into trouble of any kind, she must tell the police at once.