Chapter Fifteen

Remand Cell

Mannering said: “Yes, Bill, I’m ready.” He put his hands out to Lorna again, and she rested hers in his, trying not to grip too hard, trying not to show too much emotion. If she showed too much, it would suggest that she felt frightened of what might follow, that she had no confidence in the outcome. “Bye for now, darling,” Mannering went on. “It won’t be long. It’s the worst one we’ve had to face, because we don’t know what it’s all about, but we’ll find out.” He kissed her, squeezed her hands again, and turned away. “All right,” he said to Bristow, who opened the door wide. Two uniformed policemen were outside, and a man wearing a peaked cap – a warder from Brixton. Some wag further along the passage called out: “All aboard for Brixton Jail!”

Mannering walked side by side with Bristow, the warder in front, the two policemen behind.

“John,” Bristow said, “we only want to catch the guilty.”

“Tell that to Ingleby.”

“It’s true, and you know it.”

“Not this time,” retorted Mannering. “Ingleby and the others have forgotten how to be objective. They’ve taken sides already.”

“If you tell me of any clue which I can follow up to help you, I’ll see that it’s done.”

“Not this time,” Mannering said again. The warder reached the door leading to the street; it was ajar. He pushed it wide open, on to the bright sunlit buildings, on to the Black Maria pulled up outside, on to a crowd of hundreds of people, and cameramen jostling each other. A newsreel or television camera was placed on top of a van on the right, another across the road. There was a roaring kind of sound as Mannering appeared. “Now I know what the gladiators felt like,” Mannering said, and raised his voice: “Bristow, I don’t think I can rely on a square deal.”

“Anything for us, Mannering?” a newspaperman called.

“Any idea who really did it, Mannering?”

“Hold it!”

The police were outside in strength, pushing the crowd back. Lights were flashing. The movie cameras were whirring. Some teenage girls were giving vent to the squeals usually reserved for singing idols. Chittering was on the fringe of the crowd. Even in this situation, he managed to raise his hand in that reassuring thumb and forefinger salute. “We’ll get you out,” he seemed to say.

A passage was cleared through the crowd to the Black Maria. Newspapermen were rapping out questions to Mannering, who raised his hand to them, and smiled, actually laughed as one of the cameramen tripped over the kerb. The doors of the big black van opened, and Mannering saw two uniformed men inside; otherwise it was empty.

“Specially reserved for me, is it?” he asked, and climbed up into the van. The girls squealed again, a man called: “Hang all murderers, that’s what I say.”

One of the men held Mannering’s arm, the other closed the doors. In here it was very dark after the brightness of the street, and the sounds were cut off, too. Mannering lowered himself to one of the bench seats, leaned back with his head touching the van, and closed his eyes.

The engine started up and the van began to move slowly. He stayed there with his eyes closed. He could not think, yet; the situation was too vividly emotional. What must Lorna be feeling? He could still feel the pressure of her fingers, see the strain in her eyes. How long ago was it that he’d talked to her on the telephone without a thought of anxiety? How long ago was it since she had come into the flat, speaking flippantly to Ingleby, because she had been so sure that nothing really serious could happen?

The van gathered speed.

“You all right, Mr. Mannering?” one of the warders asked.

The “Mister” did Mannering good, in a ridiculous way; it told of a kind of respect, told that this man did not regard him as one of the unending trail of prisoners who were conveyed from here to Brixton Jail. Mannering opened his eyes.

“Yes, thanks. I’m as well as can be expected.”

“Fag?”

“Nice of you,” said Mannering. He took a cigarette from a familiar packet, accepted a light, then stretched out his legs. “How long does it take to get there?”

“Half an hour or so,” the warder replied. “It’s all according to the traffic. It won’t be so bad when you get there. On remand you can have what you want sent in, and they’re easy with visitors, too. The present Governor’s okay at the moment – the last one was a bit of a bastard.”

Mannering remembered meeting “the last one” at several social functions, and the remark amused him. Now that the immediate crisis was past, he felt less tense, and gradually began to think more objectively – not of what to do, but of how to start finding out the best plan of campaign.

With Larraby out of action, and the other staff immature, Chittering would be the best man to help. The newspaperman would actually have a double motive to help, and also to get a scoop for the Daily Globe. Lorna, Chittering, Tom as legman, and Lloyd as liaison between them and Brixton Jail. The cold fact that he would be unable to do anything for himself suddenly became more vivid, and his brief mood of relaxation passed.

How could he rely on the others to work at second hand? How could he hope to direct their activities if he could make no inquiries himself? He did not even know where to start.

If he were to have a chance, he must get out of Brixton.

Supposing he managed to escape? It would be difficult, but not impossible; few men knew more about the ways and means of escaping, of picking locks, of forcing windows. What would follow?

If he escaped and could establish his innocence – nothing important. If he failed, then he would be for ever on the run. Lorna would never know what it was like to have a feeling of security and safety. Sooner or later he would be caught, too; the continual feeling of being hunted might even make him give himself up.

So, should he try to escape?

If he did, and if he failed to clear himself, the world would judge him guilty. Up to the moment when he had appeared in court, escape would have had its advantages, but now – would it bring anything but risks and added dangers?

The charge was murder, remember.

The warder opposite him broke a long silence.

“Nearly there,” he declared. “Next stop will be the gates.”

Mannering wrenched his thoughts off the future, to cope with the immediate present. He could not see the great doors of the prison, but knew them well enough. The Black Maria stopped. Men spoke, then there was the sound of opening gates, the unmistakable rattle of keys, the hard voice of authority, then a squeaking sound. The van moved forward slowly, then stopped again. Mannering felt his tension rise to screaming point. One of the warders unlocked the doors and threw them open on to a bare bleak yard, with high walls and those massive gates.

Two more warders came up to take charge of him.

“Mr. Mannering,” the Governor said. “Certain regulations have to be observed, but within them we like to make things as easy as we can for anyone on remand. You can send out for special food, cigarettes, for anything you like within reason and of course you will wear your own clothes.

The warder had known his man.

Mannering stepped into his cell. There was a narrow bed, an upright and an armchair, a small table, every “comfort”. And there was the atmosphere of prison, a curiously antiseptic kind of odour, a hushed silence which all noises broke harshly. The door was of iron, and there was a grille, above head height, but no window.

On remand or not, this was prison. He felt as if the walls were closing in on him, as if the ceiling was creeping lower and lower. When the door was locked and the warder went away, he felt an overpowering sense of loneliness and of restriction. For that first hour it seemed as if the bottom had dropped out of his world. His mind fogged up, he felt almost panic-stricken – and all he wanted was to get out.

It must be possible.

The risks and the dangers did not matter. Any risk was better than staying here, helpless, damned. How could he expect anyone outside to find the vital evidence he needed? How could anyone else do what he had to do himself?

“I’ve got to get away,” he whispered. “I can’t take it – I’ve got to get away.”

“I know Mannering very well,” Bristow said to the Governor of the Prison. “He is an accomplished escapologist, a specialist in forcing locks, and a man of great physical courage as well as surprising ingenuity. Sooner or later, I think he’ll try to escape.”

“I’ll see that he doesn’t succeed,” the Governor said grimly. “I’ll have him watched very closely indeed.”

Lorna opened the door of the Green Street flat, and Ethel came hurrying from the kitchen, her hands wet, her face flushed. She took one look at Chittering behind Lorna, and said huskily: “So they kept him, ma’am.”

“Yes, Ethel,” Lorna replied. “For a little while.”

“I was praying he’d come back with you,” Ethel said. Lorna could see that she was close to tears, and hoped desperately that she wouldn’t break down; her own sense of frustration, of failure, of fear, was so acute. “I really was, ma’am, and—”

“Any messages, Ethel?” interrupted Chittering, sensing Lorna’s mood.

“Only some newspapermen, and – oh, yes, there’s a call coming through from New York, from a Mr. Pleydell. He’s supposed to ring again at one o’clock. That’s everything, ma’am.”

Lorna thought: Toby’s heard, then. She went into John’s study, looked round drearily, and heard Chittering just behind her. “Chitty,” she said. “What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to get John out,” Chittering declared. “Lorna, there’s one thing of vital importance in this case. Absolutely vital importance.”

“Well?”

“He mustn’t escape,” Chittering said. “I’ve talked to Bristow, who expects him to try. I’ve talked to my Editor, who’ll be pro-John provided John doesn’t make a break. But in a desperate situation like this he might think it’s his only chance. He mustn’t.”

“Could we ever stop him?” Lorna demanded.

“This time I think we must,” Chittering said.

The line from New York was as clear as if from a house round the corner, and Toby Pleydell’s deep voice was firm and definite.

“You sit tight, Lorna, and I’ll be back by this time tomorrow. Yes, I’ve booked my plane. Now listen, there’s one thing of vital importance. I know John almost as well as you do, and the likely thing for him to try is to escape, so as to get busy himself. Tell him he mustn’t. Make him realise it would be a fatal mistake.”

Lorna didn’t speak.

“Are you there?” Toby demanded.

“Yes,” Lorna said, hesitantly. “Yes, Toby – why?”

“Why what?”

“Why does everyone want to keep John in prison?”

“It’s for his own good.”

“But why?”

Pleydell said, almost desperately: “If you can’t see for yourself, I don’t see how I can make you. John has taken chances before and got away with them, but there’s been nothing like this. I spent an hour on the telephone with Lloyd this morning, so I know the situation as well as Lloyd does. If the bulk of the jewels are found, giving a lead to the real guilty party, we have a very good defence. If they’re not found it will be tougher. There must be someone who saw the man Farmer come to the house. He must have been brought in a car by at least one other person. Once we can find a single witness to say that a car arrived at the crucial time, we’ll have created an element of doubt, and the right counsel will have a good chance of getting an acquittal. But if John escapes, he’ll be doing himself inestimable harm with the jury.”

“But the jury isn’t even thought of yet!”

“The jury is alive and kicking, and reading the newspapers,” Pleydell said grimly. “If John escapes and doesn’t find the evidence he wants, he won’t stand a chance of acquittal. He must be made to understand that.”

From the extension in the hall, Chittering called: “He’s right, Lorna.”

“Who’s there with you?” demanded Pleydell sharply.

“Chitty.”

“Talk it over with him,” Pleydell urged. “And whatever you do, get word to John that he mustn’t escape – at least until I’ve talked to him.”

Lorna said heavily: “All right, Toby.”

“That’s my girl!” There was a pause. “I know it’s no use saying take it easy, but – take it easy, my dear. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” Lorna said slowly. She put the receiver down, and stared out of the window at the houses across the street, until Chittering came and joined her. After a long silence, she went on: “It’s like a conspiracy of all his friends and enemies combined – first to get him into prison, then to keep him there.”

“Now listen,” Chittering said, protestingly. “You know it would be crazy for him to escape. You would normally be the first one to say so.”

“Would I?” Lorna asked, and went on heavily: “I suppose you’re right. And I suppose the truth is that I can’t see anybody but John himself getting out of this mess. Unless Josh Larraby—”

She broke off.

“I’ll try to find out if there’s any news of Josh,” Chittering promised. “I’ll call you soon.”

When he had gone, Lorna spent ten minutes in her bedroom, before going to join Ethel in the kitchen. Ethel’s face seemed to grow longer all the time, and she kept sniffing. Lorna went over and over everything she knew, trying to see the situation as John would.

Lloyd telephoned. He was going to see John this afternoon; had she any special message? “Don’t escape, don’t escape,” seemed a refrain in Lorna’s mind, and it was some time before she answered. “Just tell him Toby will be here tomorrow,” she said.

“Right, Mrs. Mannering. And I’ll try to arrange for you to see him soon.”

“Thank you,” Lorna said, formally.

She rang off again, and saw that it was half-past two. She felt heavy-eyed and physically tired; undoubtedly she would be wise to try to rest. She slipped off her dress and loosened her girdle, then lay down on the bed, sure that she wouldn’t doze off; but she did, and woke with a start, to see Ethel bending over her anxiously.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s Mr. Chittering,” Ethel said. “And he says it’s very urgent.”

“Chitty?” Lorna sat up in bed, glanced at herself in the dressing-table mirror, slipped out of bed, ran a comb through her hair, pulled on a dressing-gown, and went out. Chittering was in the study, and the moment she saw him, hope died. She had never seen him looking so glum.

“What is it?” she demanded, and steeled herself to take whatever blow was coming now.

“I hardly know how to tell you,” Chittering said, and his voice had a hoarse, nervous note. “The truth is—er, the truth is, Josh has come round.”

“But that’s just what we want!”

“It’s what we thought we wanted,” Chittering replied, and cold fear gripped Lorna. “But he says he can’t remember anything at all – that his mind’s a complete blank from the time he left Covent Garden last night. The police believe he’s clamming up to avoid saying what he knows.”