Chapter Fourteen

Remand

“… and in accordance with the indications which I saw at the apartment on the top floor of 28, Green Street, Chelsea, I came to the conclusion that the accused had been the only person in a position to carry out the assault upon the then injured man who has since died,” deposed Ingleby. “Subsequently I took the accused into custody on a less serious charge and later was advised of the death of the man assaulted. I thereupon charged the accused with the wilful murder of Stanley James Farmer, and he replied that he was not guilty. It is the request of the police that the accused be remanded in custody while full inquiries can be made.”

Ingleby stopped.

Mannering stood in the dock above the crowded court, trying not to meet Lorna’s eyes too often. Even across the court he could see that they were red-rimmed, and had dark patches under them; she hadn’t had much sleep. Tom was with her. Chittering was in the reporters’ benches, which were so crowded that it was almost impossible for them to make notes. The rest of the court was jammed tight with people. The only space was on the bench itself, where the magistrate sat in solitary state, and immediately below him, where his clerk was busy writing the evidence of arrest.

The magistrate, Mr. McKenzie-James, was a middle-aged benevolent-looking, balding individual who wore pince-nez.

“Is the accused represented?” he inquired.

No one answered, and the clerk looked up, testily.

“Is the accused represented?”

“Yes, sir,” said Lloyd, a stocky man from Pleydell’s office. Mannering had talked to him for an hour this morning, and at least felt certain that he knew what he was about. “I represent Mr. Mannering, and I would like to assure the court that he has a complete answer to this and in fact to any other charges which have been most unfairly hinted at by the police, and pleads not guilty.”

“I see,” said McKenzie-James.

“And with your permission, your Honour, I would like to apply for bail in this case. The accused is a highly respected and wholly reputable citizen. He has afforded the police a great deal of assistance in the past and in fact has been responsible for bringing many criminals to justice. Given the opportunity of personally conducting the investigation into this murder it is likely that he will once again be able to find the truth ahead of the authorities. My client is of course fully prepared to offer the highest recognisances and seven persons of the highest reputation are prepared to act as surety for him. He—”

“Your Honour,” Ingleby said, when Lloyd had finished, “this is the gravest charge which can be made and the police are not satisfied that the accused would stay in the country if allowed to carry out any kind of investigation which might obstruct the police. We consider a remand in custody is the only safe course.”

The magistrate said: “Mr. Lloyd?”

It was a foregone conclusion, Mannering thought grimly. No one could alter the course of events. Lloyd could try, but on a charge like this bail was unthinkable; the application would make a good Press story, that was all.

Lloyd was sweating in the stuffy court. Lorna was watching Lloyd as if she really believed that she could will the magistrate into making the concession. Bristow, who had kept out of the witness box, was sitting with the Public Prosecutor’s solicitor, fingering his moustache as if wishing that he could light a cigarette. To Mannering, there was an air of unreality about the whole situation. It was difficult to believe that he was the central figure; as difficult to believe the picture he had been shown in the Globe. Between Ingleby and the sergeant, he had looked as if he were being hustled to his cell.

“There is so little positive evidence against my client, who is quite sure that it can be easily established that the dead man received the injuries which afterwards proved fatal before he arrived at the flat in Green Street. My client’s special knowledge of such situations is likely to enable him to find the conclusive evidence before the police, and thus save himself from the obloquy of a prolonged period of suspicion. Any amount of bail could be met, your Honour.”

“I’m quite sure it could,” said the magistrate drily. “However, I cannot see that your client could harm himself or his case if he were to pass on any special knowledge which he has to the police – I am quite sure that their only interest is to find out the truth. The accused is remanded in custody for eight days and will appear in this court on the eighth day by which time I trust the police will have finished their inquiries.”

“We hope to have them completed, sir,” Ingleby said. He gave a satisfied smile. “Thank you, sir.”

Lorna was looking across the room at Mannering; smiling. Smiling. No one could know what that cost her. Mannering raised a hand to her, and pointed to the door which led to the rooms behind the court. She stood up. Chittering raised his right hand in greeting. Tom muttered something. Lloyd pushed his way through the crowd of officials towards Lorna, obviously to bring her to the back of the court.

Mannering felt the touch of a court warder’s hand on his arm – a firm touch, which could tighten, which could be like a steel band. He turned round, slowly. There was a rustle and a clatter of feet on bare boards, as nearly everyone tried to get out. Mannering went down the four steps to the door which was being held open, and stepped into the old, bare-walled passages which led to the police quarters, the magistrates’ quarters and the cells. He shivered.

So much had gone wrong, so many things pointed the finger of accusation, that it was almost possible to believe that he could be sent for trial, that he could even be found guilty. He saw Bristow staring at him; Bristow looked away quickly. He was an old friend, remember. Why was he behaving as if he thought that there was no serious doubt about Mannering’s guilt? Was he putting on an act simply to impress his colleagues, or did he believe the evidence to be overwhelming?

Mannering was led into a small, bare, bleak room, with a barred window. A moment later Lloyd came in, and immediately behind him, Lorna. Mannering’s heart leapt as she came, arms outstretched. He held them tightly, drew her to him, could feel the fast beating of her heart, the soft fullness of her breasts, the agitation of her breathing. They stood together without speaking for what seemed a long time, until Lloyd coughed and said drily: “You have five minutes.”

Mannering almost crushed Lorna’s hands.

“Yes,” he said. “Thanks.” He saw Bristow at the doorway, and gave a faint smile. “Thanks for something, Bill.”

Bristow closed the door.

“John, my darling,” Lorna said in a steady voice. “What do you want us to do?”

That was so right, so exactly right. Mannering raised his hands, as if hopelessly, saw the gleam in Lorna’s eyes, could imagine what she was feeling, could even imagine the doubts she had known.

Mannering said: “We’ve seven clear days, and that should be enough. Bristow told me that Larraby’s been drugged but isn’t dangerously ill. It’s certain that he opened the strong-room under some kind of pressure, and the first thing is to find out why. My guess is that he’s been told that if he doesn’t keep silent, you’ll be in danger, but it’s only a guess. The first hope, then, is Josh.”

“Yes,” said Lorna. “I realise that. John—”

“Mannering,” Lloyd said, “did you see a man named Klein, Jacob Klein, at Quinns?”

So it was Klein.

“Yes. A dealer from Nairobi.”

“Is this him?” Lloyd produced the snapshot, with that of Samuel Blest hidden by a slip of paper. Mannering studied it for a moment, then looked hard at Lloyd.

“Yes. Why?”

“His name is Laker – or was Laker.”

Mannering began: “What—” and broke off. He stared at the photograph again. The blood in his veins seemed to become colder and colder now that the worst was known. This ex-killer had been to Quinns, often. Who would believe that Mannering had not known his real name?

Lorna said: “Darling,” and broke off in her turn. He glanced at her. “Yes,” he went on, “I saw him half a dozen times or more. He told me that he was a dealer from Nairobi, and that he had bought a great deal of jewellery from some European and Indian families who wanted money transferred to banks in England – they hadn’t felt safe with so much jewellery on their hands.” He could picture the man now, with his rather harsh, heavy voice, a man he had not liked particularly, but who had seemed to know a lot about precious stones.

“Did you do any business with this Klein?” asked Lloyd.

“No,” said Mannering, slowly. “We didn’t get to that stage. He said that he was going to do a big deal, and wanted it all over in one go. He also wanted assurance from me that I had outlets for half a million pounds worth of jewellery, mostly old fashioned – Georgian, Victorian, Edwardian. Once convinced that I had, he haggled over the commission I should have. He—”

Mannering broke off, almost unbelievingly.

“Go on,” said Lloyd, heavily.

“He made sure that I had the outlets, and was certain that I could sell half a million pounds worth of jewels to specialised dealers and private collectors. He said that he was anxious to make the deal secretly, so that reports that the British and Asians in Kenya and other parts of Africa were selling out wouldn’t get about. It sounded plausible.”

“Did you agree to deal with him?”

Mannering said, heavily: “I would have. I asked for the usual references about his integrity, and guarantees that he had the right to sell the jewels. He said he would get them once we’d settled terms. I wanted ten per cent on any sales, he offered five. We didn’t reach agreement, and when he didn’t turn up again, I thought he’d gone to someone else.” Everything about Klein, alias Laker, was vivid in his mind; the rather pale skin, a “prison” skin but not unlike the pallor which some people acquired when living in hot climates; the full lips, the slate grey eyes, the rather wide nostrils. He had not been a handsome man.

Lloyd said: “I can tell you that the jewels Laker stole were worth nearly half a million pounds, so the few you’ve seen were only a sample. It looks as if he wanted to pass stolen jewels off, and when you asked for assurances about his right to them he backed down.”

“Yes,” Mannering agreed stiffly.

“John,” Lorna said. “John, did he always come alone?”

“Yes.”

“Did he … did he talk about anyone else in with him?”

“No,” Mannering said. “He said that he was staying at the Overseas Club, and twice I left messages for him there. He picked them up all right.” Mannering’s mind was beginning to work more swiftly and clearly, and there was a more confident note in his voice. “He tried me out and found that I wouldn’t handle stolen stuff, and then – he died. I could understand it more if he were alive.”

“Understand what more?” demanded Lloyd.

“The planting of the other jewels,” Mannering said. “I could understand it if he were planning to blackmail me, but … it’s far too late. Even if he were alive, it would be too late now that the police have made this charge.” He was rubbing his hand across his forehead, looking at Lorna, but trying not to think about her, and what the next week was going to mean to her. “Someone killed Blest,” he went on. “Someone killed Farmer. How did Klein alias Laker die? Lorna—Lloyd! Listen to me. Someone killed Blest and Farmer, and the same man might have killed Laker. So we want the murderer – it’s the one defence I’ve got. Is Chittering with us?”

“He’ll do anything he can.”

“Get him to plug that line by implication – I’m not the murderer, so the murderer is still at large. As soon as Larraby can get about, have him go to his friends in the trade – we need to find friends of Klein alias Laker. Have the girl Blest and have the motorcyclist Terry McKay closely watched and followed. If there’s nearly half a million pounds worth of stolen jewellery hidden away, someone is going to release it on to the market.”

He stopped speaking.

He saw from Lorna’s expression, as well as from the solicitor’s, that he had not moved them to hope. And he knew exactly why. He had told them to do the obvious things, only the obvious things, and much more was needed.

What did they expect him to do? Work a miracle?

Lorna said: “We’ll do everything, darling, everything we can, but … working without you will be like working with one arm.”

As she stopped, the door opened, and after a pause, Bristow said: “Ready, Mannering?”