3

MISSING

 

“What a lovely young woman,” Lorna murmured.

“You mean the girl in blue?” Mannering asked.

“She isn’t quite a girl,” Lorna said, but there was no malice or hint of spitefulness. She was one of the most renowned portrait painters in England and when she saw a face she saw it transferred to canvas rather than as a person. “And—what a handsome man.”

“Was he?” asked Mannering, in surprise.

They looked at each other and laughed – but that was the moment when Mannering wondered whether Aristide Smith was back.

Twice during the evening they saw the girl dancing, once with her middle-aged escort, and once with a younger man. Mannering, carefully disguising his interest,

“Could you do a sketch of all three?”

Lorna did not need to ask ‘which three’.

“Yes,” she said. “But why?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Mannering said.

Then an old friend of Lorna came and carried her off to the buffet, and Mannering slipped outside and telephoned Josh, although it was after one o’clock. Larraby answered the call so quickly that he must have been wide awake.

“Any news, Josh?” asked Mannering.

“Not a word of any kind,” Larraby answered. “At midnight I telephoned Smith’s flat, but there was no reply.

“I really am getting worried, sir.”

“Yes,” said Mannering. “Have you tried any of the hospitals?”

“I’ve wondered whether I should,” Larraby said. “I will, immediately.”

“I’ll call you again before I leave here,” promised Mannering.

He turned away from the telephone booth – and then, going back into the ballroom, saw a tall man on whom tails and white tie sat well. He had a broad face with deep-set brown eyes and a lot of freckles. He smiled faintly at Mannering, who paused.

“Good evening, Mr. Mannering.”

“Hallo, Inspector,” Mannering said quietly. “Making sure we all behave?”

“Trying to,” said Chief Inspector Gordon of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police.

“How is Mr. Bristow?” inquired Mannering.

Gordon hesitated, for a split second only but long enough to make Mannering wonder.

“He’s very well, sir.”

“He hasn’t many weeks left, has he?”

“Three, sir,” said Gordon. “Then he retires.”

Mannering raised his eyebrows.

“As soon as that—I hadn’t realised.”

Thinking of Bristow put him in a strangely nostalgic mood; in fact, Aristide’s disappearance, the two strange incidents at Quinns and the trio here at the ball, all contributed to a kind of disquiet which was very much with him when Lorna came back on the arm of her escort. They were with a crowd for a few minutes, then alone on the dance floor.

“What is it, John?” Lorna asked.

“Do I look as preoccupied as all that?” he asked, startled.

“I know that faraway look in your eyes only too well,” Lorna rejoined.

“We had a visit from the not-so-young woman at Quinns this afternoon and . . .” Mannering broke off, his eyes twinkling at her. “But this is no time for a tale of mystery. If I slip off without you, would you get Tommy to take you home and telephone Josh to say I’ll see him in the morning?”

“Josh? At this time of night?” For the first time, Lorna looked worried. “What is it, John? And who—?”

She stopped in turn, for Mannering, staring past her towards the box where the trio had been sitting, saw them gathering up their things. He guided Lorna to the side of the floor.

“Tell you later,” he said, and disappeared.

 

Lorna had often known Mannering behave like this throughout the years of their marriage. It never failed to worry her, never failed to make her wonder whether, one day, he would simply walk off and never come back. But she showed no sign of anxiety as Tommy Garth came up.

“Deserted?” he asked.

“For the rest of the evening,” Lorna admitted, feeling rather forlorn.

“Oh, good! But how any man could be such an ass as to walk out on the most beautiful woman in London, I don’t know.” Tommy smiled at her admiringly “Care to dance?”

“I’d love to.”

As she danced she looked everywhere about the ballroom, but saw no sign of Mannering or of the girl in blue and her two companions.

 

Mannering stepped out into the welcome coolness of the night. Wherever he looked, the tall street lights shone on the shining roofs of cars. Three or four policemen stood about, and a police car drove slowly by.

Mannering went across to his own car, and at once the driver materialised out of the shadows.

“Ready to leave, sir?”

“Yes. Can you pull out of the line straight away?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll get in,” Mannering said, “and I want you to follow another car when I tell you.”

“Right, sir!” The chauffeur was obviously both eager and intrigued.

Mannering sat back in a corner and watched the main exit. There were others, of course, the trio might have decided to go out by one of them, but – no! There they were!

They were together, the girl in the middle, her arms linked with a man on either side. They passed under a street lamp and stepped into the road, and Mannering was caught for a moment by the beauty of the girl and the attractiveness of the picture. The young man was speaking and there was a touch of gaiety in his manner. The girl looked up at him.

And then the other man laughed; a deep, echoing laugh, sounding strangely sinister. Mannering shivered, remembering Larraby’s story and how Larraby had been affected. And he remembered that Aristide Smith had been sent out to watch and to follow two men who might be those involved.

They disappeared out of his line of vision but he saw them getting into another car, twenty yards or so behind his own.

“That’s the car to follow,” Mannering said to his chauffeur. “Do you know any of them?”

“I know Miss Danizon and her cousin, Bruce Danizon,” the man answered. “I’ve never seen the older man before.”

 

Other couples and small parties were leaving the hall, so there was nothing surprising in two cars going off at the same moment and taking the same route. Mannering, still sitting back, saw the tail lights of the leading car as it went along Kensington Road to Knightsbridge, past Harrods, then towards the underpass to Piccadilly.

“If they take the underpass you take the Hyde Park Corner Road and pick them up again.”

“We could lose them, sir,” warned the chauffeur.

“Take the chance,” Mannering insisted.

The chauffeur put on speed. The car ahead took the underpass and Mannering’s sped past Hyde Park and the tall gates, then without hindrance to Piccadilly; there was hardly any traffic. Mannering watched the road, and as they drew level with the exit of the underpass, the other car appeared and he caught a glimpse of the younger man’s head, turned in his direction. There was a possibility that the others had deliberately slowed down in order to allow Mannering’s car to take the lead.

“Keep going,” Mannering ordered. “Let it pass when it wants to.”

“Right, sir.”

But the other car did not pass but turned into Brook Street, heading for the heart of Mayfair. Mannering’s driver took another left turn just ahead, and they caught up with it a few moments later; soon they reached Shepherd Market, under the shadow of the Washington Hotel and the building which housed the Christian Science Reading Room. The first car made another turn, to the right.

“That’s a dead end, sir,” said Mannering’s driver. “Sir Richard Danizon’s place.”

The brake lights of the first car went on, and the car pulled up. Mannering’s car slowed down as it passed the end of the street, and Mannering opened the door and jumped out, going forward a few paces before recovering his balance. He doubled back.

The trio were entering a house on the right hand side of the street, a larger house than most, standing in its own grounds. The chauffeur was pulling into a gateway at one side, which appeared to lead to the garage. No one looked back. The door of the big house opened, light was shining out brightly; then it closed, and brought near darkness, broken only by the yellow beams of the old-fashioned gas lamps – this street must be at least two hundred years old, thought Mannering. The small name plate on the wall of a corner house said: Lamb Street.

Slowly, he went back to his car.

He could stay and watch, but there seemed little point in doing this. Everything the trio had done had been so normal, there was not the slightest reason to think that any one of them would come out again. Mannering debated with himself as to what he should do now.

“They seem to have gone in for the night. The older man may be staying there,” the chauffeur said, hopefully.

Mannering said: “How well do you know Lamb Street?”

“Very well, sir—I used to be chauffeur-valet to a gentleman who lived in this very street itself. That’s how I came to know the Danizon family.”

“I see. Is there a back way out?”

“No, sir. There used to be, but Sir Richard Danizon had it blocked up. It’s a very unusual house for the heart of London, sir, with a wall all round it except at the front, where there are iron railings. The garage is right at the back, but everyone has to come out of the main gate or the gate where the car went.”

“Will you wait and watch for an hour, in case anyone comes in or out?”

“Glad to, sir, but . . .” The man hesitated.

“Yes?” asked Mannering.

“There can’t be any funny business with the Danizon family, surely. Unless—unless you’re worried about their guest. Is that it, sir?”

“That’s it,” Mannering assured him. “The Danizons are above reproach, then?”

“I would think so, sir. A family with all that money. As a matter of fact, sir, I often have a drink with the butler. I can tell you that Sir Richard and his wife are on holiday at the moment. His daughter’s still there, sir – and has a lot of guests. I—er—I’m not talking out of place, am I?”

“No,” Mannering assured him. “The more you can tell me the better.” As he listened, he sensed the note almost of awe in the chauffeur’s voice, and was puzzled because he had not known of the Danizons until that day. The chauffeur seemed to regard the family as part of the history of London.

“. . . very wealthy indeed, sir—why, they say that Lady Danizon wears half-a-million pounds’ worth of jewellery when she goes to special functions, and always has a special police guard – if you care to pay for it you can always arrange that. Did you know, sir?”

“I seem to have heard something to that effect,” Mannering said drily. “You keep watch, then.”

“How will you get back, sir?”

“I’ll find a cab,” Mannering said. “Call me at my home number, will you?”

“In exactly an hour, sir?”

“In exactly an hour,” confirmed Mannering, and as he spoke a taxi with its for hire sign illuminated turned the corner.

After a ten minute drive along the now deserted streets, Mannering was dropped at his own front door. There was no light at the top windows, but he didn’t really expect Lorna to be back yet. He went up in the lift, stepped out and took his keys from his pocket. He could not make up his mind what to do, but there was a possibility running through his mind which at once excited and appalled him. He was past the age of taking dangerous chances, yet if Aristide had followed those two men, if they had gone to Lamb Street, if they had taken him inside, there was only one way to find out.

That was to go and see for himself.

He took a long step towards the front door of his flat – and stubbed a foot against something heavy on the floor. He tripped, pitched forward, saving himself only by pushing out a hand against the door. He became aware that he had stumbled over a man but all he could see were arms, hands, legs and feet and the back of a head.

A head of long, dark, wavy hair – like Aristide Smith’s.

He straightened up, gasping for breath, and then slowly, almost fearfully, bent down and turned the man round so that he could see the face.

It was Aristide.

And his face had a pallor which made Mannering think of death.