7

BRISTOW AND MANNERING

 

There were footsteps inside the flat almost as soon as the doorbell rang, and Bristow opened the door. Just for a moment he hesitated, as if not sure of the identity of his caller, but then he smiled wryly, and stood back.

“Still the great disguise expert,” he remarked. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you today, John.” He closed the door, and shook hands, and it was almost a surprise that his handclasp was as firm and cool as ever, because Mannering was so shocked at Bristow’s appearance. It was only a few months since they had met, and yet the detective looked ten years older.

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “I know how I look.”

“You look as if it’s time you retired,” Mannering made himself say, but the attempted joke fell flat.

He followed Bristow into a large room with windows overlooking another block of flats, but with a side view of Putney Heath, the wide expanse of grass and trees stretching far out of sight. On a table between two armchairs were sandwiches, biscuits, Stilton and Cheddar cheese, a bottle of red wine, and beer.

“Sit down,” Bristow said. “Short drink first?”

“No, thanks—beer will be fine.”

“Start in when you want to,” invited Bristow. He leaned back in his chair and studied Mannering intently, then laughed and for a moment looked much more his old self. “I hand it to you, John. If I hadn’t expected you I would have doubted whether it was you. If it weren’t for your eyes I’d doubt it this minute. What a lucky man you are!”

“Lucky?” echoed Mannering.

“You’ve had the luck of the devil,” declared Bristow. “Any other man with your—your past would have spent half his life in prison. No, no,” he added hastily, “I’m not being sour. Envious, perhaps, even—” the smile flashed again—”even a little admiring! But you have been lucky.”

“Yes,” said Mannering, mildly. “Especially in the policeman who set out to get the Baron.”

“It’s no use speculating,” Bristow said, leaning forward towards a bottle of beer. “But I wonder what would have happened if I had caught you and you’d been found guilty.”

“I’d be a forgotten episode,” Mannering said. “Probably a kind of genteel Josh Larraby.”

“Genteel—you!” Bristow laughed with great freedom, as if looking back had already done him good. “And a forgotten episode? I doubt it very much. You’d have found a way of hitting the headlines somehow, you’d probably have escaped!” He poured out beer as Mannering dug into the Stilton and spread it on a cracker. “As I said, it’s no use speculating on what might have happened if something else hadn’t, but it’s hard not to, sometimes. How is Lorna?”

“Well—and as lovely as ever,” Mannering said with a sudden burst of feeling.

Bristow nodded agreement.

“She’s a remarkable woman, John. I don’t think I know another who would have married you knowing you were a jewel thief, I really don’t. How are her parents?”

“Both are very old and not too well,” Mannering said. “She spends a lot of time with them.”

“I can imagine. I often thought that old Fauntley knew—” Bristow broke off, frowning. “What on earth’s got into me, I’m talking as if I’m in my dotage and can only look back.” He cut a wedge of Cheddar cheese and buttered a biscuit liberally.

“Not looking forward to retirement?” asked Mannering.

After a long pause, Bristow answered: “I was, until a few weeks ago—five weeks and a day, to be precise. I was looking forward to it very much. Mary and I had decided not to move into the country. We like it here and I don’t think I could leave London for very long. But now—” He broke off once again, pushed his chair back, and leapt to his feet. Striding across the room, he paused by the window, and stood staring downwards. “Now I don’t even know that I shall be able to retire,” he went on gruffly, without turning his head. “I half-expect to be thrown out on my neck, with loss of pension and all privileges.”

“What on earth are you talking about, Bill?” Mannering leaned back in his chair, looking utterly dumbfounded. “That’s absolute nonsense!”

Bristow swung round to face him.

“But it isn’t nonsense.”

Mannering was silent for a few moments. Then: “What’s gone wrong?” he asked quietly.

“There is a very real chance that I shall be accused of conniving at jewel robberies,” Bristow said flatly.

“Bill, that is nonsense.”

“Yes,” agreed Bristow, “and then in a way, it isn’t. I’ve known for a long time, we all have, that some jewel and fine art collectors buy stolen treasures and keep them hidden away. I could name a dozen of them here in London.”

“There’s a whale of a difference between knowing it and proving it. You knew that I—” Mannering broke off in turn, and tried to eat, but suddenly he wasn’t so hungry. “How can I help?” he asked.

Bristow said evenly: “Will you help?”

“In every way I can.”

“Even if—”

“Even if it means that I might run into trouble?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean,” said Bristow, gruffly. “Yes. I knew—I knew you would. I’m not sure what I can ask you to do, I’m not sure of anything except that I can’t keep the damned business to myself any longer.” He came across and sat down again, drank some beer and went on: “Five weeks ago yesterday, John, Sir Stanton Frewin’s house was burgled. Nearly a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of jewellery was stolen. Frewin called the Yard in and asked that it be kept secret. We agreed—and I was assigned to the case. It seemed to the Commissioner, the A.C. and to me that this was a nice little job to round off my forty years at the Yard.”

Mannering pretended not to notice the bitterness in Bristow’s voice.

“Why wasn’t it?” he asked.

“It looked as if Frewin’s son Eric had been involved,” said Bristow. “Certainly Frewin thought he had been, that was why he wanted it kept secret. But I haven’t been able to prove that Eric had anything to do with it. Instead of it being an easy investigation, it was very tough. And the next week – also a Friday – Carlos Rocco’s collection was stolen.”

Mannering caught his breath, for Rocco was one of the best known judges of emeralds in the world and his collection, although small, was both valuable and famous.

“And why did he want it kept quiet?” asked Mannering. Obviously Rocco, like Frewin, had asked for a confidential inquiry, or the newspapers would have had the story.

“He feared that his daughter Maria was involved,” stated Bristow.

Mannering had a vision of a small, strikingly attractive girl with raven black hair.

“And wasn’t she?”

“If she was I haven’t been able to establish it,” answered Bristow. Before Mannering could comment he went on: “There have been three others, and all hush-hush. Lady Gay Bennett, Lord Devon and Charles Clawson. In each case it looked as if the thief had inside help, in each case a member of the family was suspected, in each – each of five investigations, John – I have been able to prove nothing.”

“And who is accusing you of conniving?” asked Mannering.

Bristow looked at him very straightly.

“The Commissioner himself. He hasn’t yet put it into words but by hints and innuendo, mostly passed on by the A.C., who is obviously suspicious, too, he makes it clear that he thinks one or more of the victims has paid me to keep what I’ve found out to myself.”

“The bloody fool!” exploded Mannering.

“It’s not quite as crazy as it looks,” Bristow said with obvious effort. “Both the Commissioner and the A.C. are fairly new. I’m one of the old brigade to them. And while I won’t do badly in retirement I don’t exactly join the ranks of the millionaires. One golden handshake, as it were, could almost double my income after I’ve retired, and all five victims are very rich indeed. Oh, I could prove to have feet of clay, don’t make any bones about that.”

“What have you done?” asked Mannering, stonily.

“Beyond the usual investigation – nothing. Obviously if any of the five were asked, he or she would deny having paid me anything, so a blunt denial on their parts wouldn’t help. It’s the very devil of a situation.”

“Yes. What of the man outside?” asked Mannering.

“I don’t know him. I do know that I’m being watched, and I think it’s by one of the C.I.D., a divisional man I wouldn’t recognise.”

“I can tell you one thing,” Mannering said. “The youth in the M.G. is not a policeman.” As Bristow’s eyes lit up, he went on: “Don’t ask me who he is yet, Bill. I’d like to check one or two things first.”

In fact, he found himself suddenly and vividly aware of a great and grave dilemma.

If he told Bristow about the Danizons, it would surely do more harm than good. Bristow, knowing he was already involved, would be worried by the possibility that his superiors at the Yard would find that out. On the other hand if he did not tell Bristow now and Bristow himself discovered the truth later, it would be like a betrayal of trust. So he compromised with that ‘don’t ask me who he is yet, Bill’.

“All right,” Bristow conceded. “But John—don’t keep too much to yourself in this. If my superiors find out I’ve consulted you—”

“Bill,” interrupted Mannering, “they mustn’t know, at least until you want them to. But it’s a very interesting situation, and there isn’t any reason why I shouldn’t get in touch with all of the five victims.”

“What reason could you give?” demanded Bristow. “You mustn’t start any of your daredevil—”

“Daredevil nothing. I simply let them know that I’ve heard rumours that some of their collection is on the market,” Mannering said. “They could never prove that wrong, and if all these jewels have been stolen they probably will be on the market sooner or later. Is there any good reason why I shouldn’t approach them?”

After a long pause, Bristow said: “No. No—it might even be a good idea. Will you, John?”

“I certainly will. And I’ll start this weekend.” Mannering suddenly recovered his appetite. He opened another bottle of beer and dipped into the cheese again. As he munched he thought rapidly, and was more than ever sure that he should not yet tell Bristow what had been happening to him. But would Bristow know anything about the people involved?

“Just one other thing,” he said casually, reaching for his pocket-book. “Do you know any of these characters?”

He showed Bristow Lorna’s sketches.

“I know the girl – Sir Richard Danizon’s daughter,” said Bristow. “But the others are strangers. What’s your interest in them, John?”

“They’re all three involved in a little mystery which will probably come to nothing,” Mannering dissembled.

It was nearly four when he left Bristow’s flat. Bristow looked much happier, but Mannering doubted whether he would have looked so happy had he known what was in his, Mannering’s, mind. Reaching the main entrance, he saw Bruce Danizon still at the wheel of the M.G. He went out, saw the youth glance at him and then look away. Instead of turning towards the road and the bus stop, Mannering shambled, splay-footed, towards the car. The hood was down, no one could have been more vulnerable than Belle Danizon’s cousin.

“Excuse me,” Mannering said, in a lisping voice, “your off-door—”

Danizon turned his head quickly, exposing the back of his neck, and at that moment Mannering’s right hand descended in a powerful chop.

“Like me to drive?” he asked, as if to himself, and he pushed Danizon away from the wheel and took his place. Bruce lolled back in the passenger seat, quite unconscious; he would be like that for quite a while yet.

Mannering turned the key in the ignition and started the car; anyone watching would surely have assumed that the patient young man had been waiting for him. No one took the slightest notice as Mannering turned left, down the hill, and drove towards Putney Bridge and Fulham. He knew exactly where he wanted to be when Bruce Danizon came round.