Chapter Twenty-Four

Good Neighbours

“So you had Lorna trailed by radio reports from police cars and police call boxes, and you converged on the car as soon as she’d got out,” Mannering said bitterly. “And you’ll try to persuade me that you thought that directly she was away from the car, she was clear of danger! This man who calls himself Smith will believe that she lied to him, that she knew the police were there. He’ll kill her for it.”

Bristow said: “That’s simply looking on the gloomy side.”

“Is it?” Mannering said. He felt viciously angry. “You lost Smith and his companion, and Lorna can’t say what they looked like. She couldn’t even swear to the identity of the coloured man who took her to Earl’s Court.”

“He can’t help anyway,” Bristow said. They were in the cell at Brixton, and Pleydell was sitting by, listening without making comment. “We picked him up – he was followed from the station. He swears that he doesn’t know who Smith is or where he lives, he simply acted as a messenger. It was the coloured man who picked up the messages from Laker alias Klein at the Overseas Club, and he had precise instructions what to do last night, and just carried them out. When he first came to England from Jamaica he had a very rough time, committed several burglaries, and sold the stuff to this man Smith, through an intermediary. Then Smith blackmailed him into doing what he wanted.”

“Can he identify Smith?”

“He says he’s only seen him in the dark, and always when Smith was at the wheel of a car, so that he only saw his back.”

“So Smith’s as free as the air, with a hate for Lorna and a fortune in jewels still stashed away,” Mannering declared.

“John,” murmured Pleydell, “there are advantages, you know. After this, the police can’t proceed with their charge. They’ll have to withdraw it – I think I can persuade them to shorten the remand period, and to have a special hearing.

Chittering was taken by train out to Wimbledon late last night and turned loose in the middle of Wimbledon Common, but his and all the other newspapers have the story, and it will be all over the front pages. And Bristow’s men did make sure that Lorna came to no harm.”

Mannering said gruffly: “If they’d handled this properly they could have caught the men.” He stood in front of Bristow. “Haven’t you any idea at all where to find them?”

“Not yet,” Bristow admitted. “But until they’re found, you and Lorna will have every protection.”

“This chap might wait a year or more before he tries to get his own back,” Mannering said roughly. “And you know it. He waited fifteen years to get those jewels, and now he’s still got them on his hands. What I can’t understand—”

He broke off.

The problem, as a problem, was pressing more heavily on his mind. His anger was fading, his fears for Lorna were in the future – certainly there was no immediate danger for her.

“… is why they let Rebecca bring the fake jewels – and poor fakes at that. What did Lorna say? Laker as Klein checked that I wouldn’t play with stolen jewels, and they were going to try again through the girl?”

“Yes.”

“But they wouldn’t get anywhere by sending me the fake jewels,” Mannering protested. He began to walk about the cell, one hand in his pocket, the other clenched in front of him. “If they’d tried to persuade me to handle the real stuff, through Rebecca, it might have made some sense. If I’d once taken the job on for her, I would have been landed with the stolen jewels, and they might hope to make me keep selling them, by blackmailing me. But the fakes were pointless.”

He broke off. Bristow was watching him closely, and Pleydell glanced at the Yard man, as much as to say: “It’s coming.”

Mannering felt a sudden warmth of excitement, an eagerness greater than he had known even when he had been told what had happened earlier in the night. Quite suddenly, he felt that he had at least half of the answer, and that it had been waiting for him to see. Every piece of information had its significance, and now he believed that he began to see the shape of the completed puzzle.

“… Rebecca brought the jewels from her father,” he said softly. “She believed them to be real, but – did he? After she had left for Quinns, he was murdered. Why? He must have known where his brother-in-law had been for the past fifteen years. He must have known that the jewels were not heirlooms, but were stolen property. Supposing he substituted the fakes? Supposing he refused to let Rebecca become involved? Supposing he threatened to give the secret away – the identity of Smith and the hiding place of the jewels – so as to protect her? That would explain his murder, wouldn’t it?”

Bristow said softly: “It could.”

“It certainly could,” said Mannering, and his voice was harsh with growing excitement. “And if Rebecca’s father was involved in this business, it could explain a great many things. Bill – someone got into his flat and killed him, and there were no signs of forced entry. Right?”

“Right.”

“A man got into the flat again yesterday morning and attacked Rebecca, and then vanished without a trace. Right?” Pleydell jumped up. “Good God!”

“Right,” said Bristow, in a tense voice.

“Bill,” Mannering said, “you haven’t done a lot to make me enthusiastic about you on this job, but here’s a way you can make amends. Take me to Mapperley Street, Notting Hill. Take me to the Blests’ flat. Let me search the place thoroughly – even if you’ve already been over it with a fine-tooth comb. Have as big a bodyguard as you like, but take it from me I won’t try to escape this time. I would just like to be in at the showdown. You can get a suspect out of Brixton to take him back to the scene of the crime, can’t you?”

“I should think I can,” said Bristow. “Yes, of course I can. Who else do you want at the flat?”

“Rebecca, I’m afraid,” said Mannering. “Lorna, too, because she might be able to identify either of last night’s men. Young Terry McKay, of course, and Chittering. And if you really want Ingleby there, I’ll forgive you.” His eyes were very bright, and his heart was racing. “I might even forgive you for being a son of a so-and-so, after all.”

A few of the people of Mapperley Street saw the two police cars which drew up outside number 127, in the middle of that afternoon. Several windows went up, doors opened, more and more people came to see what was going on. No newspapers had been informed, and Chittering had been told off the record. He was already in the Blests’ flat, with Lorna, Rebecca and young McKay. Mannering was helped out of the car by Ingleby, who had sat next to him throughout the journey. Two uniformed policemen were at the front door, which was open. Bristow and another Yard man came from the second car.

Just inside the hallway, moments later, Ingleby was standing with a large shallow box in his hands. In it was a piece of broken picture frame, and some tiny splinters of glass.

“From Larraby’s picture,” said Mannering keenly. “Where did you find those?”

“In the boot of a car parked outside,” Ingleby said. “So someone here went to Larraby’s flat.”

They walked upstairs, heavily, and the door of the downstairs flat opened a few inches; the woman Ashton glanced through, then closed the door.

The door of the Blests’ flat was also open, and a policeman was on duty.

“Well, now we’re here, show us how you can search this flat better than we could,” challenged Ingleby; there was still a note of sourness in his voice.

“Where do you want to start?” Bristow demanded.

Lorna was coming from the living-room, and Mannering did not answer Bristow, but looked at his wife, and smiled. He felt the glow of satisfaction which always came from realisation of her absolute loyalty, of the affection they had for each other, which could so easily have been taken for granted. He glanced from her to Rebecca, and to young McKay, who was looking stiff and awkward, as if alarmed. Chittering, with a bruise on his forehead and a bandage on his left hand, was sitting on the arm of a chair.

“Hallo, my sweet,” Mannering said to Lorna. “It won’t be long now, and for last night – just thanks.” He turned to Bristow. “I don’t think we need search up here, Bill. I think we should search downstairs, among the friends and neighbours. The neighbours could come in and out, remember – especially if they had a key. The neighbours were able to talk to Laker alias Klein whenever he was here with his brother. Laker had to talk to accomplices, yet none could be traced. Here’s the one obvious rendezvous, and the obvious people are the Ashtons. Remember that apart from Terry McKay, the only people likely to know when Rebecca began to doubt whether she had seen the right jewels at the Yard—”

“Ruth Ashton!” exclaimed Rebecca. Her eyes held a glint of unbelief. “Ruth?”

“That’s right,” said Mannering. “Ruth Ashton – so Ashton would know that if he wanted to have me where he wanted me, he had to get rid of you as a witness. The raider came in without being heard, and disappeared most mysteriously. Out of one window and into another below – there can’t be much doubt about that. Do you think there can, Bill?”

Ingleby said: “But we’d never given them a thought!”

“No, we hadn’t, had we?” said Mannering. “May I come down with you?”

“Yes.” Bristow said to Ingleby: “Go and call on the Ashtons. There’s a complete cordon round the street, John. No one will get away this time.”

“I hope not,” said Mannering. “I don’t think the Yard would ever live it down.”

They stood waiting, as Ingleby and two others hurried down the stairs to the ground floor flat; there came a thudding on the door.

“Bill,” Mannering went on, “let’s have a grandstand view.” Bristow led the way to the passage again, Mannering following him. Rebecca was talking in high-pitched whispers, and the name “Ruth” kept cropping up. Mannering looked down over the banisters, and saw Ingleby and the other man, Ingleby thumping on the door with a clenched fist, and calling: “Open in the name of the law. Open this door!”

The woman answered in a quavering voice: “All right, all right.” Ingleby and his man stood back, and Mannering saw the door open a crack. Because of his position, he could see better than Ingleby, and he was a split second ahead of Bristow in realising what was going on. The old woman was opening the door, and something bright glinted a foot or two above her head.

The man Ashton was there, holding a hammer.

“Look out!” Mannering cried, and as he shouted, the door opened wide and Ashton leapt forward, hammer sweeping towards Ingleby’s head. Ingleby glanced up at Mannering, then dodged to one side. The hammer brushed on his shoulder, missing his head completely. Ashton turned desperately to attack the other Yard man, but as he struck, Mannering swung on to the banisters, slid down, then leapt to the passage floor. He banged bodily into Ashton, who had half turned to meet the new threat. He still held the hammer.

“John!” cried Lorna.

Mannering threw himself at the man, carrying him back several feet. The head of the hammer caught between two banister rails, and jerked Ashton’s arm back. Ashton cried out in pain, and let go the hammer. As he stood there, swaying, Mannering pushed him back into the waiting arms of Ingleby and the other policeman.

The other jewels were found under the floorboards in the flat below the Blests’.

By that time, Mrs. Ashton had admitted everything that was necessary, although Ashton – known now to be alias Smith – refused to say a word. He had been Laker’s accomplice in the old days, and had waited until Laker had come out of prison. He and Laker had planned to dispose of the jewels between them, but had not been able to find a buyer except at a very low price. Laker had worked out the scheme to involve Quinns, hoping to pass the jewels off as being legitimately owned by African families. After Laker’s death, his associates started to work through Rebecca, on the legacy pretext.

Samuel Blest, who had been prepared to help the associates himself, had not been willing to let them use his daughter, and had threatened to inform the police.

“That was an invitation to murder,” Bristow said, later that evening. “According to Mrs. Ashton, Laker and Ashton had sets of imitation jewellery made years ago. Blest had always known about these. He substituted the fake gems for the real, so that Rebecca did not handle stolen jewels at all. He was a shrewd old man all right.”

Lorna, sitting in a chair which had been brought into Mannering’s cell, leaned forward and asked: “What about Laker – how did he die?”

“Natural causes, beyond any doubt,” said Bristow. “The official death certificate called it cerebral haemorrhage. Ashton took over. Laker had made all the preparations, Ashton simply had to carry the job out. He used a young brute who hired himself out as a strong-arm man, and forced the coloured man to act as messenger. The drug given to Larraby was stolen from a chemist, when they first thought up the scheme. They wanted to wait for the moment to act, but Farmer precipitated the crisis. They forced him up to your flat at the point of a gun, and attacked him there. No doubt they stifled any cries he made – and the actual blows would make little sound. They left him for dead, but he was tougher than they realised. He actually managed to get to his feet. Incidentally, they kept Larraby alive, because they might want to use him again. They could always use a man at Quinns.”

“What did happen to Larraby?” asked Pleydell.

“As far as we can make out, he was forced to open the strong-room under threat of death,” Bristow answered. “When he was first attacked, in his flat, the picture by Wimperis was broken, and Ashton took it away and swept up the broken glass, rather than leave it there as evidence that Larraby had been subject to violence. Immediately after the strong-room job was finished, Larraby was given the drug. I’m told he will probably never remember what happened.”

“That’s good,” approved Mannering. “The situation couldn’t be much better.”

“It could, a lot,” said Lorna. “You could be coming home tonight.”

“Can’t be done, I’m afraid,” Bristow said regretfully. “But there will be a special hearing in the morning, and we shall submit no evidence, so there’ll be no case to answer. The Press will have told the world about it before then, too.”

“Bill,” said Lorna, looking at him steadily.

“Yes?”

“Why did you go all out against John?”

“I’ve told him. I’ll tell you,” Bristow said. “I thought he was playing the fool with those jewels. I thought he meant to sell them for Rebecca Blest. And I thought that he did kill Farmer in your flat – that’s what all the evidence said.”

“Go on like that,” said Pleydell, “and you’ll have us saying that we should never believe the evidence.” He stood up. “Lorna, we ought to go, and let John spend his last night in jail in peace.”

After a three-minute hearing, Mannering heard the magistrate, McKenzie-James, dismiss the case. He saw the magistrate’s clerk frown in annoyance at the people crowded in the public gallery, who were applauding; even the men in the Press Box joined in.

Mannering went down into the well of the court; and joined Lorna. They went out together. Young McKay was waving to him enthusiastically with his right arm; his left was tight about Rebecca’s waist. Chittering joined them at the door which led to the street, where at least a thousand people had gathered. There was a loudvoiced cheer when Mannering appeared.

Bristow and Ingleby were at the doorway.

“No Black Maria?” Mannering inquired.

“Mr. Mannering,” said Ingleby.

“Yes?”

“I had to do what I conceived to be my duty.”

“My dear chap,” said Mannering. “I wouldn’t expect less.” He put out his hand, and Ingleby seemed both surprised and genuinely pleased.

“Au revoir, Bill,” Mannering said. “When Lorna’s really forgiven you, you must come and have a meal.”

Pleydell came hurrying from the court, saying: “John, I’m told there’s a plane leaving London Airport for New York in an hour’s time with a seat vacant. I’ll just about catch it, and I’ll be away for two or three months. Try to keep out of trouble until I’m back.”

“I’ll keep him out of trouble,” Lorna said.