Chapter Twenty-One

Friend

“Hallo, John,” Toby Pleydell said. “Sorry I’m late.”

He came into the cell at Brixton, tall, lean, a Punch of a man with a hooked nose and greying hair, about Mannering’s age, and a friend of his since schooldays. Socially, they had everything in common. Sight of Pleydell did Mannering more good than anything had for the past three days.

They gripped hands as the warder closed and locked the door behind him.

“Thanks for rushing,” Mannering said. “I’m sorry to be a damned nuisance.”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Pleydell. He took off his top coat, draped it over a chair, and took out cigarettes in a gold case. He looked immaculate, and quite fresh, in spite of the long flight. “One or two preliminaries first. I’ve had a talk with Lloyd, and of course I’m taking over completely.”

“Lloyd doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence,” said Mannering. “Does he think I used the hammer?”

“He thinks the police might be able to build up a case which would be hard to beat. And he’s half right, too – about the reward, for instance. We mustn’t offer it, but I could swing the Globe to, and that would let you out.”

Mannering sat on an upright chair, smiled tautly, and nodded: “So you’ve also been talking with Chitty.”

“We had a breakfast session with Lorna,” said Pleydell. “Can’t understand her, she wants you back!” He waited for a moment, before going on: “I think I’m bang up to date with the whole situation, and there are only a few things which you don’t yet know. Entry into Blest’s flat, for the murder, was by key or skeleton key – that’s firmly established. The picture taken from Larraby’s place is still missing, and no one has any idea where to look for it. Larraby’s improving, but still in the nursing home, and his memory is still a complete blank. I haven’t seen him, but Lorna has and he’s heard what’s happened. Lorna says that he’s almost distraught.”

“He would be,” said Mannering, slowly.

“There’s still no word about anyone seen in Green Street about the time Farmer came to see you,” said Pleydell, “except one thing, which isn’t really any help.”

Mannering’s eyes brightened.

“Go on.”

“Last night, Chittering had a telephone call,” said Pleydell, and he told Mannering exactly what Chittering had told Lorna, going into precise details. Mannering first felt a sense of shock, which gradually turned into excitement. He clenched his hands on the table between him and Pleydell, and fought against interrupting. Pleydell managed to make the scene near the mews vivid, and made no comment, just recited the bare facts.

Mannering said: “So it’s beginning.”

“What do you mean?”

“There had to be a motive for it all. It’s beginning to show.”

“You mean—” Pleydell began.

“I mean that sooner or later there had to be a demand of some kind, and this looks like the start of it,” said Mannering. Excitement and bitterness welled up and warred inside him. He jumped to his feet, knowing that the warder outside the door could hear, and cried: “If only I were out of this bloody place, if only I could go and talk to this man!”

“Keep quiet!” Pleydell said sharply.

“Quiet? Toby, don’t even you understand? It’s all coming out, now. This is a form of blackmail, and this move is the beginning of it.”

“It could well be a hoax.”

“Does it sound like a hoax?”

“Now listen, John—”

“All right, all right,” said Mannering, and dropped back on to the chair. The feeling of frustration which had caused the eruption was a little less acute, but he knew that he was wrong to give way to it, that Pleydell was right to make a rational approach. “It could be a hoax, but it doesn’t sound like one to me. It sounds like the beginning of the squeeze. One thousand pounds, for introduction to a man who could save me. Then the introduction. Then another demand. Then—”

“You’re only guessing.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Mannering. “I’m only guessing, but when Lorna has seen this chap, it will be more than guessing.”

“You want her to?”

Mannering stared. “Of course.”

“Isn’t there grave danger for her?”

Mannering said: “Even you, Toby? Is Lorna the only one who can see this as I do?” He leaned across the table, and went on evenly: “Listen, old chap – there isn’t anything else to do. This job has been very cleverly handled, even brilliantly handled. The other side has judged this call to perfection – at a time when Lorna and I are bound to be stretched pretty taut, but while there’s still time for us to believe that we can save the situation. As for danger – of course there isn’t any physical danger for Lorna.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“But if anything were to happen to Lorna, how could this unknown man get his hands on any money? Who but Lorna will pay for this kind of information? Lorna’s absolutely safe while she appears to be willing to do what this man wants. If she refuses, if she tries any tricks, if the police were to watch when she goes to the rendezvous, then there would be plenty of danger. But the man’s so clever that he wants her to take Chittering. He isn’t asking her to go alone, which would practically make her tell the police and ask for their protection. She’ll be as safe as houses. If there’s danger, it will come later.”

Pleydell said: “I wish I could be so sure, but I’ll tell Lorna.”

“Toby.”

“Yes?”

“Only Lorna. Not the police.”

“Only Lorna and Chittering,” Pleydell promised.

“Thanks,” said Mannering. “Thanks.” After a moment or two, he went on: “Now – what else is there?” He began to walk about the room, trying to get this last crisis out of his mind, trying to remember everything else that Pleydell had told him. “Entrance to Samuel Blest’s flat by key … no trace of the coloured man who picked up the messages for Klein at the Overseas Club … no trace of that picture. Why steal that picture? Why break the glass?” He paused again, but only for a moment. “That’s about it, and no one could say it was very much. Nothing else at all?”

Pleydell said: “One thing, John, which could help a lot.”

“Now come on,” urged Mannering. “Why hold out on me?” He felt his heart hammering. “Good news of a kind, then?”

“Rebecca Blest isn’t sure that the jewels the police showed her are the ones which she brought to you,” Pleydell announced.

Mannering stared. “Rebecca says that?” He sat down again, feeling too numbed for excitement. “So, she isn’t sure. She doesn’t hate. She’ll say that in court although it might help me to get off?”

“She’ll say it.”

“Toby,” Mannering said, “for the first time I think things might work out. I really think they might. Go and see Lorna right away, won’t you?”

“Straight from here,” promised Pleydell.

Mannering watched him go.

He noticed every movement and everything about Pleydell. They were of a height too. Pleydell stood by the door, and called out: “I’m ready.” It was a voice which Mannering could imitate without difficulty. He stood to one side. When the door opened, the warder would appear and look straight up at him – that was the moment of danger for the warder, and for Mannering if he tried to escape. It would be easy, up to a point. He could overpower Toby and could change into his clothes. He could wait for that warder, deal with the man, and get outside. And then? It might be difficult, but it could be done. Everyone would be expecting Pleydell, remember – a tall, lean man.

Was it madness?

“John,” Pleydell said, before the door opened. “I’ve never known the police so watchful. They’ve got special men posted, at all the gates of the prison.”

It was almost as if he could read Mannering’s thoughts; and, in a way, he could almost certainly guess at them. He had known Mannering for so many years, there were inevitable and specific trains of thought in such circumstances.

“Is that so?” Mannering made himself say.

“It’s so.”

“Thanks,” said Mannering.

“Ready, sir?” asked the warder.

“Yes,” said Pleydell. He smiled and waved, then went out quickly. As the door closed, Mannering said softly: “You cunning old fox!” He gave a high-pitched laugh, and that in itself told him how worked up he was; how little things affected him – and now there was much more than a little thing: there was good reason for hope. If Rebecca Blest testified that she wasn’t sure of the identity of the jewels, it could be the beginning of the end of the prosecution’s case. Long live—

“My God!” breathed Mannering, and his voice rose. He ran to the door and banged on it. “Warder!” The man wasn’t in earshot; he was letting Pleydell out of the door along the end of the passage. “Warder!” he shouted again, and there came a brief pause, followed by footsteps. He stood back as the warder opened the door; another man was with him, as if to corroborate Pleydell’s warning of the powerful watch. “Sorry,” choked Mannering, “but see if you can get Mr. Pleydell back for me, will you?”

“I think we’ll be able to catch him,” the warder said. “Just to make sure, I’ll phone a message through to the gates.”

“Toby,” Mannering said urgently, “look after Rebecca Blest. She’s a vital witness. See that she comes to no harm. If the other side knows what she’s prepared to say in court, then they might think she’s better dead.”

Rebecca got up a little after nine o’clock that morning, her eyes rather heavy, her heart heavy as it always was on the first moment of waking, and of realisation. The little bedroom was chilly, and she shivered as she crossed to the bathroom. Ruth Ashton had been sleeping up here with her, and must have been gone for half an hour or more. She normally left the house at twenty past eight, to get to her typing job in the West End by nine o’clock. It was very cold. Rebecca switched on the electric fire, and made some tea. She went back to her bedroom with it, switched on the fire there, sat on the bed with her feet dangling before it, and said: “It’s time I went back to work!”

She wouldn’t be going back until the day after tomorrow, for tomorrow was the day of the funeral. She wished that it was over. She hated the prospect, and until it was over she would feel dreadful. Yet, quite honest with herself, she admitted that there were already moments when she forgot. Once or twice last night, for instance, when she had been with Terry. Her heart was lighter even now, at thought of him. He could make her laugh, he could make her smile, above all he could make her feel that she was wanted, that she was not really alone in the world. The feeling of loneliness since her father’s death had in some ways been worse than anything else.

When it was all over, she and Terry—

She allowed herself to day-dream, although at the back of her mind there was the realisation that there might be no justification for such dreams. They had known each other only a few days, and although he was kindliness itself, Terry might just be feeling great pity for her, and only be anxious to help. Yet there were moments when she felt that he already thought much more of her than that.

It was nearly ten o’clock.

“My goodness!” she exclaimed. She jumped up, hurried into the kitchen with the tray, then went and washed, dressed and made up. By the time she had finished it was half-past ten, and she was very hungry.

The ordinary sounds of the street floated in, including children shouting, but she hardly noticed them. She made some toast; it was years since she had cooked a full breakfast, except on Sundays. She sat in the kitchen overlooking the back yard, and the backs of the houses in another street like this. Three lines of washing were hanging so motionless that this would obviously be a bad drying day. She had a few smalls to wash herself, but they could dry in the kitchen. Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes; there would be no more washing for her father.

Why had this terrible thing happened?

She was standing there, with her eyes filled with tears, when she heard a sound. She didn’t think much about it at first, for sounds travelled clearly in this house, and noises across the landing often seemed as if they were in the flat itself. She kept seeing an image of her father’s face, and fighting back emotion.

She heard another sound; a rustling.

For the first time, she was startled and a little scared. She looked towards the door, but nothing moved. She didn’t hear the sound again, but it was almost as if someone was moving along the passage. She made herself get up. Her heart was beating faster than usual, and she was breathing more quickly, too.

It must be nonsense!

The front door was closed. The other doors were ajar, except that of her father’s bedroom. It had been imagination, of course; she hadn’t heard a sound of any kind except from the street. Trying to reassure herself, she went across to her bedroom and pushed the door open cautiously. It didn’t go right back against the wall, but she didn’t realise that was significant. She went into the room – and heard a sound again, just behind her, close behind her. She swung round. She saw a man leaping forward, his hand raised, a hammer in it. His face was hidden by a mask, his head covered with a cloth cap, and he wore a big, shapeless overcoat. She screamed: “No!”

She struck out blindly, and pulled at the door; and it was the door which got in his way, so that he smashed the hammer against the wood. She heard him swear.

She rushed out into the passage, gasping for breath, trying to scream but unable to make much noise. She reached the front door and snatched at the latch, but she missed it, and tore a fingernail. She was gabbling to herself: “Oh God, dear God, help me, help me!” She heard a door bang, and at the same time she heard a shout from outside. She screamed again – and this time it was a piercing shriek which seemed to deafen her. She tried the door again as footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a man cried out: “All right, I’m coming! I’m coming!”

She turned round. The man with the scarf over his face was standing only a few feet away from her, the hammer still in his hand; and she knew that if he struck her with it, she would die. She felt sure that this was the man who had killed her father.

“No, no, no!” she screamed.

“Open the door!” cried the man outside. “Open it!”

The man struck at her with the hammer, and in wild fear she kicked at him. His blow missed, and she heard him gasp with pain. Then he swung round and ran away, limping, towards the kitchen. As he disappeared, slamming the door, she began to sob.

She was still sobbing when she opened the door to Tom Wainwright, from Quinns. It was too late to give chase, then.