Chapter Twenty-Two

Deadly Risk

Mannering heard footsteps outside the door, and stood up. It was nearly one o’clock. Two people were coming, besides the warder, and he tried to recognise the footsteps. Pleydell’s? As the door opened, the keys clanking, he recalled them: Pleydell’s and Bristow’s. Pleydell came in first, with a “Hallo, John”. Bristow followed. Bristow had a freshly-shaved, freshly-dressed look, and his gardenia was glowing white. The door closed behind them.

“Good morning, Superintendent,” Mannering said.

“’Morning, John,” returned Bristow.

“All friends together again, are we?”

“I’m a policeman and you’re a man accused of murder,” Bristow said. “So don’t expect me to apologise because I fully agreed with the charge.”

“And don’t you now?”

Pleydell said: “You’re an uncanny devil, John. You were right about the danger to Rebecca Blest.”

Mannering felt a flare of alarm.

“Is she all right?”

“Thanks to you, she is,” said Pleydell. “And thanks to the fact that the moment I told young Tom, he went haring off to Notting Hill, and got there in time to …” Pleydell told Tom’s story, and Bristow nodded agreement from time to time.

Mannering sat back on the upright chair, leaning on the two back legs, understanding a great deal, believing that he understood the reason for Bristow’s friendlier manner. But there was an undercurrent of anxiety in Bristow’s manner, and in Pleydell’s. Both these men had come to try to bring some pressure to bear. There was deep irony in that, and he wondered anxiously what they were after.

“… so what it amounts to is that Tom did what you would have done had you been free,” went on Pleydell. “He probably got there five minutes later than you would have. Incidentally, I also telephoned the Yard, and they arrived five minutes after Tom.”

“Five minutes too late,” Mannering murmured.

“That’s true enough,” admitted Bristow. “The girl would have been murdered if your man hadn’t got there so soon. Why were you so sure that she was in danger?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I’ve had a talk with her,” said Bristow, thoughtfully. “She seems to know what she’s about. She’s told me that although she formally identified the jewels in my office yesterday, she had doubts afterwards.”

“Then you know why I knew she was in danger.”

“Was that the only reason?”

“Listen, Bill,” Mannering said tautly. “This girl could have broken the police case. My counsel had only to prove one error to make a big crack in the prosecution, and you know it. These people don’t want any cracks unless they make them themselves.”

Bristow put his head on one side. “I still don’t know what you’re getting at, and I don’t believe I’ve been told the whole story. I know that Lloyd and you quarrelled, presumably because he wouldn’t do something you wanted, and I know that you’ve been talking to him and to Pleydell very freely. I can well believe that you’ve been conducting the investigation from here, and I’ve no objection if your agents keep within the law, but – if I don’t know the full facts, I can’t help you.”

“Bill, so far all you’ve done is help to get me convicted of murder,” Mannering said softly. “I don’t think I’ve any reason to trust any policeman over this, and particularly not you or Ingleby.”

“That’s reasonable enough,” Bristow admitted. “But the fact remains that if there’s urgently needed evidence, we are the only people likely to find it quickly enough to help you. If we have any grounds for withdrawing the charges next Wednesday, we’ll withdraw them. But if you take risks with other people – if you try directing dangerous operations by remote control, you’ll run bang into more trouble.”

Mannering looked at Pleydell.

“Toby?”

“He’s at least half right,” Pleydell conceded.

“How much have you told him?”

“Nothing more than the fact that you saw danger to the girl the moment you heard about her doubts of the jewellery.”

“But I know there’s something else,” Bristow insisted. “I’ve talked to Lorna. I’ve talked to Chittering. I’ve even tried to make your maid talk. And all I get are evasions and half-truths. If you really want to help yourself, do it through us.”

Mannering thrust both hands deep into his pockets, and leaned precariously back on the legs of the chair. He studied Bristow’s eyes, the clear, light grey eyes of a man he knew to be of great integrity, but in his mind he also saw Ingleby and the other policemen who had watched when he had left the Yard for the court. He realised that he was bitter; very bitter indeed. He also realised that bitterness would not help him; only a calm assessment of the circumstances could. Within the limits of his ability and Scotland Yard regulations, Bristow would save him, but – would Ingleby really work all out on it? Would any of the others? Hadn’t the Yard already prejudged him?

And if they hadn’t – what would happen if the police were to go tonight to see this man who had talked to Chattering? If he were a practised criminal, and so far he seemed to be outstandingly able, he would soon realise that the police were watching. From the moment he believed that the police were after him, the whole situation would change. Lorna would be in acute danger, while rather than allow himself to be caught, the man might allow him, Mannering, to be tried and convicted.

So, would it be wise, would it even be safe, to confide in the police?

He said: “Toby, just confirm one thing for me, will you? Everything I’ve told you is in absolute confidence.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’d like it to stay that way,” Mannering decided.

“Now—” Bristow began.

“Quite sure?” asked Pleydell, where Lloyd would have raised his voice and told him that he was taking grave risks with his own future.

“Yes.”

Bristow said, slowly: “John, you’re making a big mistake. I can imagine how bitter you’re feeling, and I don’t blame you. I believed from the beginning that you were trying to help this girl Blest, and up to one of your Sir Galahading tricks, and I wasn’t prepared to stand by while you were dealing with the jewels which Rett Laker stole. Remember that these particular jewels in our possession aren’t more than a tenth of the whole. We want them all, and we want to catch Laker’s accomplices as well as the murderer. But now that serious doubt has been thrown on the identity of the jewels brought to you, I’m prepared to rethink the situation. There are puzzling features about Larraby’s condition and the medical opinion is that he had been drugged with amytal. In short, your contention that the real jewels were planted at Quinns so as to involve you seems to have supporting evidence. If that’s established, we shall have a completely new situation. And this very morning, murder was attempted. There isn’t a lot of time to lose. I want to know everything you can tell me, and you’ll be making a grave mistake if you don’t come across at once.”

Mannering considered for a few moments, then said deliberately: “No, Bill. Not this time.”

Bristow looked at Pleydell. “Try to make him change his mind,” he said, and turned to the door. He glanced back but didn’t speak again, and Mannering studied his set face as he went out. The door closed behind him, and his footsteps sounded clearly in the passage.

Mannering felt very warm, and his forehead was clammy. There really was the possibility that he had made a grave mistake, and he had to remind himself that he was not taking a personal risk – this time, it was Lorna’s.

How great was it?

“I’ve a message from Lorna,” Pleydell said, as Bristow’s footsteps faded. “She wants to make the attempt tonight. Chittering will be all ready for trouble.”

“Aren’t you convinced that I’m crazy?” demanded Mannering.

Pleydell smiled faintly as he looked hard at his friend, and it was a long time before he answered. While waiting, Mannering felt a fresh disquiet of doubt creep into his mind. Again he felt the almost desperate longing to be outside, to handle the situation for himself; but it was an unattainable yearning.

“Well?” he asked sharply.

“John,” Pleydell said, “you’ve been at this kind of game for a long time. No one knows that more than Lorna and me. You’ve got a kind of sixth sense about the right thing to do. Bristow knows that, and thinks it might pay off, or he wouldn’t have given up so easily. He’s done his duty, and that’s as far as he will go. I think that you’re almost certainly right to try to handle this without the police, and Lorna and Chittering agree. There may come a time when they’ll have to go to the Yard, but that’s for an emergency.” Pleydell paused, before he added: “I’ve only one real worry.”

Mannering was feeling much, much better.

“What is it?”

“What would probably succeed if you were handling it yourself, might fail because Lorna and Chittering won’t be able to sum up the situation as quickly, and won’t be able to work under pressure as well as you do.”

“I know,” said Mannering, heavily. “I know. Lorna’s behind me?”

“A hundred per cent.”

“Toby, I think they ought to go tonight,” Mannering decided. “And I still think Lorna will be safe enough, provided only Chittering goes with her. The risk will come if the police follow, or if Tom or anyone else shows up. The police might follow Lorna and Chittering, without saying what they mean to do. If there’s any evidence of it, call the whole thing off. Is that clear? Lorna and Chittering must go alone.”

“I’ll see that they do,” promised Pleydell.

When the solicitor had gone, Mannering sat back on the chair, with his head resting against the wall, his eyes closed, his lips set tightly. Everything that had been said passed through his mind, as though it were a fine mesh screen. He could imagine all the risks, and all the chances of failure. Out there by himself, he was sure that he could have coped. Could the others? Was there any reasonable hope that they could?

He felt sure of only one thing: if the police went with Lorna and Chittering, or if they followed, and the criminal found out, that would be the end of the chance. Bristow had put his finger on the weakness of his own case. The murderer and those working with him still had the rest of the stolen jewellery. At the first real threat of danger, they would fade out, and hold on to the jewellery for a long time before trying to dispose of it.

The obvious fact crept up on Mannering as he sat there, his mind roaming over the whole of London – so obvious that it could easily be overlooked.

The key to this affair was the fact that someone had nearly half a million pounds worth of precious stones. What could they want him to do – except sell it for them?

Every time Lorna caught sight of a policeman, that night, she wondered if the man would report to the Yard that he had recognised her. Every time a man appeared to be following her too closely, she wondered if it was a plainclothes man. Even at Hammersmith Broadway Underground Station, where a trickle of people went in and out, she felt that she was being watched.

Chittering was near her, but they had not arrived together.

Lorna was wearing a cloth coat and a beret, and carrying a handbag with a shoulder strap, with the thousand pounds in notes. Nothing could prevent her from looking distinctive, but no one would have suspected her tension or her nervousness. Most men who passed glanced at her.

It was nine-fifteen; the time that Chittering had been told to bring her here.

She saw him now, standing by the ticket machines further inside the station. He did not make any sign, but kept looking her way. She walked about, to try to ease the tension, and was facing the interior of the station – and Chittering – when she heard a crash just outside. She turned, in alarm. A woman cried out: “Oo look!” Two cars had collided, the front of one with the back of another, and a cyclist had been thrown to the ground. In that instant, a crowd seemed to rise from out of the pavement, and two policemen appeared as if by magic and went to the spot. Lorna found herself tempted to go nearer, resisted the temptation, turned round and looked for Chittering.

He wasn’t in sight.

He had been, only a few seconds before.

Where on earth—?

A man came up behind her, took her arm, making her jump in alarm, and said into her ear: “Walk straight on, Mrs. Mannering. We are going to take a short ride by tube, and then by car to a place where we will meet a certain Mr. Smith.”

Lorna heard the deep, low-pitched voice, glanced round, and saw the dark face of the man by her side, noticed the dark fingers gripping her arm. This was a coloured man, stocky, powerful, knowing exactly what he was about. He led the way towards the barrier, showed two tickets, kept his hand on her arm, and went on: “You’ll be all right, Mrs. Mannering, if you do what you’re told. You won’t come to any harm. You just do what you’re told, ma’am. Mr. Smith’s a man of his word.”