16

THE FIX

 

Mannering thought, no, he’s not sane.

And he thought: If he’s got Bristow over a barrel, God help Bill Bristow.

And he thought: How am I going to find out what he means?

Slowly, the laughter died away, but the echo of it seemed to quiver about the walls of the room. The girl was looking at Yenn with a strange expression in her eyes, as if she disapproved of what he was saying; then she looked at Mannering.

“Would you help us against Mannering?” she asked levelly.

“Not if it’s a question of killing.”

“He won’t be any use to us dead,” she said coldly.

“That isn’t what the tape said,” Mannering pointed out.

There was silence – and in the silence came a wailing, a long way off; a police siren. Mannering did not give it a thought.

“The tape—the tape is a joke,” Belle declared.

Some joke, thought Mannering, but he did not respond, and Yenn shifted uneasily.

“That’s right,” he agreed. “A joke. Mannering wouldn’t be any use to us dead.”

“So, will you help us?” asked Belle.

After a long pause, Mannering answered: “I might. I told you what I’d want – a cut in any business. And—” He paused, and they waited as if breathlessly, while the wailing of a police siren grew louder and more urgent. “And I’d want some earnest money.”

“How much?” asked Yenn sharply.

Mannering hesitated. If he asked for too much they would probably lose interest, if he asked for too little it would look suspicious. While he was deliberating the siren reached a baying bark and the sound of a car moving very fast came clearly. Next, the scream of tyres, and then beyond all doubt the car swung into Hart Row and pulled up just outside. In those last few seconds all three of them seemed to forget everything except the approaching car.

Then Yenn screamed: “The police!” He sprang towards the window. “It is the police!” He spun round towards Mannering. “You’ve brought them! You—”

“Don’t be a fool,” Mannering said roughly, and his heart was hammering. “I didn’t bring them, if they catch me they could put me inside.”

There were thudding footsteps outside and a hammering on the door which he had forced not long before. He could not imagine what had happened, he only knew that if the police held him for any reason then, under close scrutiny, they would almost certainly realise that he was disguised; and if they removed the disguise they would recognise him. Out of the blue disaster loomed. The hammering on the door grew louder and a man called out but they could not hear his words. Yenn was standing in the middle of the room, breathing harshly, his lips compressed, sweat beading his forehead and upper lip. Belle Danizon was by the chair, her eyes closed as if she were in a trance.

“What are we going to do?” muttered Yenn.

The man outside now spoke so loudly that they heard every word.

“Open the door, in the name of the law.”

“My God, they’ll break the door down,” Yenn gasped. “What’s brought them, what do they want? What—what shall we do?”

“If you don’t let them in they will force the door,” Mannering said.

There was the window, but the police would be watching, and even if he climbed up to the roof his chances of escape were negligible. He simply couldn’t get away, and nor could the others, so there was only one thing for it: to face the police.

“I’ll go,” he said, and then threw up the window and bellowed: “I’m coming.”

His heart was still hammering, he felt as near disaster as he had ever been in his life. Three policemen stood by the car, all looking upwards, and there were at least two by the shop door. The headlights of the car were on, turning Hart Row into a river of light.

He turned back, and said: “You two had better pull yourselves together.”

He moved past them to the landing and went quickly down the stairs. Wild thoughts, such as thrusting past the men at the door and running for it, passed through his mind, but he put them aside. When he actually reached and opened the door, he felt much calmer.

Two uniformed men stared at him suspiciously, and then one said: “Are you James Smith?”

“No,” Mannering said.

“Who else is here?”

“There are two—two people upstairs.”

The men pushed past him and two plainclothes men approached from the street. Mannering did the only thing he could; turned, and went back upstairs. The others had disappeared into the room where Yenn and Belle were by the time he reached the landing.

“What—what on earth are you doing?” demanded Yenn, and somehow he managed to sound outraged. “You —you frightened the life out of me.”

“We are police officers, sir, and we have a search warrant. Are you James Smith?”

“Indeed I am not! I am Bernard Yenn. And this young lady is the daughter of Sir—”

“If you’ll just stay where you are, sir.” The two plainclothes men came out, saw but took no notice of Mannering, and went into the other rooms, spending only time enough in each to check whether anyone else was in there. One, tall and lean, turned to the other: “Well, he’s not here.”

“Who isn’t here?” Yenn rapped out.

“We had information that a James Smith was here,” the policeman said, and he took a photograph out of his pocket. “Do you know this man?” he asked Mannering.

Mannering looked at the likeness of a thin-lipped man in his early twenties and felt a swift flash of recognition; then, on looking more closely, he realised he had never seen this man before.

He shook his head.

“Do you, sir?” The officer turned to Yenn, who glanced quickly down at the photograph and immediately said: “Certainly not. I’ve never seen him in my life.”

“You, Miss?” The officer showed the picture to Belle. She too glanced at it quickly, and her voice when she spoke sounded over-loud.

“I don’t know the man. I’ve never seen him.”

Were they lying? Mannering wondered. He suspected that they were. Both had sounded far too definite; both had looked at the photograph far too briefly to be so certain.

“Who—who is this James Smith?” Yenn demanded.

The officer said gruffly: “He is the owner, and believed to be the driver, of a motor-car involved in a hit and run accident in Hart Row this afternoon. We understand that he was here earlier today.”

“I do assure you that I do not know him,” Yenn said. “I was not here this afternoon, but there was a meeting of young people. I am very interested in the carpet business and permit the premises to be used for lectures. This afternoon there was, I believe, a lecture on the Indian states in which the best carpets are made, but I myself was at Sir Richard Danizon’s house in Lamb Lane. You can corroborate that, can’t you, Belle? Miss Danizon is the daughter of . . .” he went on in a curious mixture of humility and arrogance, until the lean officer said: “Thank you, sir.” He turned to Mannering. “Were you here this afternoon?”

“Indeed not,” said Mannering. “I came to see Mr. Yenn on business.”

“May I ask what business, sir?”

“I hoped to take on an agency for these carpets for the Midlands,” answered Mannering earnestly.

The lean detective said: “I see,” and glanced at Yenn who nodded almost impatiently.

“Yes. Yes. But I haven’t time to go into that now. Monday. Come and see me on Monday.” He began to move about, as if very agitated. “Must I stay, officer? Can you do all you need if I leave?”

“Are there any records of the meeting up here, sir?”

“No, no, everything will be downstairs in the office. I simply allow the use of the rooms, as the tenant. If you wish to get in touch with the tenant of the shop, or the landlord—”

“We know who they are, sir, thank you.” The tall lean officer glanced about him and then went out. He was joined by other members of the police. There was an air of disappointment about them all, as if they had really expected to find the M.G. owner. The raid was over, fading out like a damp squib after a succession of lively fireworks. “Goodnight.” They all went down stairs, quiet in their dejection, and soon the door was closed.

As it closed, Yenn muttered with a greater viciousness than he had yet shown: “I’ll get Bristow for this. My God, I’ll get Bristow!”

“What’s Bristow got to do with it?” demanded Mannering.

“He should have kept them away. I warned him that if there was any trouble I’d break him as if he were made of matchwood.” Yenn held both hands in front of him, gripping an imaginary stick, and broke it across his knee.

“But how can—?” began Mannering.

“He’s been taking money to keep his mouth shut, hasn’t he? And I can prove it. Can’t I, Belle, I can prove it.” He glared at Mannering. “I’ll break Bristow and I’ll break Mannering if he doesn’t do what I want. Understand? You tell him! Tell him he’s going to represent me in selling everything I’ve got to sell, or else—”

He repeated the same brutal movements of destruction he had used when speaking of Bristow, and Mannering felt a sudden twinge almost of fear.

“I’ll tell him,” he muttered. “Where do I get in touch with you?”

“The Danizons’ place in Lamb Lane – where else?” demanded Yenn. “Monday—no later than Monday. I won’t wait later than Monday!”

Mannering said : “I’ll see what I can do.”

He turned and went out of the room, expecting to be stopped, expecting the man to ask who he was and why he had broken in, but Yenn was standing absolutely still, his eyes glazed, his hands clenched, while Belle Danizon watched him, frowning.

Mannering went out into the street. It was good to feel the fresh air on his face. As he walked along Hart Row to the New Bond Street end, he could not get Yenn’s viciousness out of his mind. Two policemen were in sight, and he suspected that other men, loitering near, were plainclothes police. He walked, not slowly yet not fast, towards Piccadilly, and soon he was quite sure that he was being followed.

So the police had not been as easily satisfied as they had seemed.

They were not actually after him, he would have no difficulty in escaping, but the fact that he was followed brought both a sense of excitement and a chill. If they had the slightest suspicion who he was—

He turned towards Piccadilly Circus, the lights blazing down on the milling crowds and massed traffic.

Hurrying towards the nearest steps to the subway, he allowed himself to be followed to the next exit, then, as a crowd of youths came past, he suddenly doubled back and went up the stairs he had come down. The plainclothes man was cut off by the youths, and had no chance to catch up. Mannering reached the Circus again, hurried along a narrow street, then into Shaftesbury Avenue, where the lights of a dozen theatres blazed.

A taxi came along, its sign lighted. Mannering got in and gave the driver his address, then took a small mirror and a bottle of white spirit from his pocket, and spent the journey removing all traces of his disguise, so that the police watching his flat would recognise him as Mannering.

It was a quarter to eleven when the taxi pulled up outside his flat. A plainclothes man appeared out of a doorway, watching him, and Mannering said quickly: “Have you been looking after my wife for me?”

“Oh, Mr. Mannering. Yes, sir. No more trouble, I’m glad to say.”

“Good,” said Mannering. “And thanks. Are you staying on duty?”

“Not me, sir, I’m just off, but there’ll be a couple of men here until tomorrow at least.”

“Very reassuring,” Mannering said. “Goodnight.”

When he reached the front door of the flat, he had a strange feeling that everything was not as trouble-free as the man in the street had said. He gave a knock and a ring and a double knock, a code to tell Lorna who it was, and then put the key in the lock, holding his breath, touched by the fear of finding trouble.

But Lorna came, eagerly.

“Oh, darling,” she exclaimed, “it’s good to see you safely back.” She hugged him with a strength which told him how anxious she had been, and held him by the hand as they went into the study, which was virtually the living-room. “Did you have enough to eat? . . . Would you like something? . . . Tea or coffee or brandy? Oh, darling!” she said again. “It’s good to see you safely home.”

He had never known her more relieved.

She made coffee and cut some sandwiches, sat on the pouffe and leaned against Mannering’s knee. He told her what had happened, and could hardly believe it himself. The contrast between the tense, artificial melodramatic atmosphere at the flat above the carpet shop and this warm, homely, affectionate companionship was almost unbelievable. Lorna spoke now and again in a gentle voice: he wondered whether she had fully understood the deepest implications of all he had said.

“John.”

“Yes?”

“Do you really think that Yenn can harm Bill Bristow?”

“Yes,” Mannering said. “Yes.” After a pause he went on: “It’s too late to do anything tonight, though. I’ll be able to think more clearly in the morning.”

“Then let’s go to bed,” she said, and stifled a yawn.

Soon, they were in bed and asleep. The night was quiet. There were few movements in the street, and those mostly of two watching policemen.

 

In the strong-room at Quinns, the prisoners slept. Above, Larraby dozed, fitfully. Next to his wife in the big double bed in the Putney flat, Bristow lay awake, wondering whether he had been wise to ask Mannering for help.

It was after four o’clock when the telephone bell rang next to his bed, and he started up and snatched off the receiver. His wife stirred.

“Bristow,” he said in an urgent whisper.

“I want to see you,” Yenn said in a venomous voice. “I want to see you now.”