Chapter Four

Watching Man

The man in the entrance showed no obvious interest in Mannering, but that did not mean that he felt no interest. He was small, dressed in a pale brown suit of impeccable cut. Mannering was past him in a moment, his body tense; but there was no point in going back. He pulled into a convenient parking space and turned towards the house where he had his flat. He remembered Bristow’s suggestion that the flat should be watched, and the way he had rejected it. The man in the doorway did not show himself again, so Mannering turned into the house where he lived on the top floor. There was also an attic, which Lorna had turned into a working studio. At one time they had been compelled to use the stairs, but a small lift, just large enough for two people, had been installed.

Mannering pressed the button and it moved up slowly – and as slowly came to a stop. The doors opened almost instantly – and on that same instant he felt a flash of fear – for Lorna.

Was she all right?

Was the man watching outside a look-out for others inside?

The very possibility made his heart beat fast and he felt as if he were suffocating. The lift doors closed automatically, with only a click of sound. He made none as he strode towards his flat, listening with fixed intensity.

He heard nothing.

He took out his keys, selected the right one and inserted it cautiously, still listening and hearing nothing.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps: Lorna’s.

He felt a great flash of relief as he opened the door, pushing it back, finding her only a few feet away from him.

She looked beautiful!

Her hands came out to take his, and he gripped her fingers, leaning forward as he kissed her cheek. “No spoilt lipstick,” he explained. They laughed.

“Darling,” he said. “I’m sorry I had to wish a meal and Bill Bristow on to you but there just wasn’t any good way of avoiding it.”

“When will he be here?”

“In less than half-an-hour, I’d say.”

“I’ve soup warming, there’s plenty of roast beef left, and I’ll make a salad,” Lorna told him. “If that isn’t enough we’ve cheese, and some fresh bread. Do you want a shower? Or are you gasping for a drink?”

“A quick drink, a quicker shower, and by then Bill should be here,” Mannering replied, moving towards a room variously described as a study, a library, and an office; it was a little of all three. The walls were panelled, every piece of furniture was a period gem, from the Jacobean corner cupboard to the Elizabethan settle against one wall. He flopped into an armchair and took a whisky and soda which Lorna poured out. “I’ll fill in the details later,” he said. “It all began like this …”

He told her the story in the most lucid of phrases, and from time to time she nodded understandingly.

“… there were moments when I didn’t know whether to take him seriously or not and I suppose there is an outside chance that he was putting on an act to fool me, but”—he drained his glass and stood up—“I’ve never seen anyone act scared so convincingly. The way he shinned up to that balcony! It was almost as if he had a tiger snapping at his heels.”

Lorna said: “Did he tell you much about this Rachel?”

“Practically nothing. What did she sound like?” Mannering was already moving towards the bathroom.

Lorna said: “It’s hard to say.”

“English?”

“Very English,” Lorna said.

“High faluting?” Mannering asked lightly.

“Anything but, John,” Lorna answered.

He frowned a little. “You mean—”

“She was very English, I think she had an overtone of Cockney,” said Lorna. “I suppose she could have been—”

“Australian?” interjected Mannering.

“Yes.”

“Fascinating,” Mannering remarked. “I caught just a glimpse of someone at the window beyond the balcony. I hadn’t given it a thought until now, but she was white.” He hesitated, and then said: “I must get some of the printers’ ink off me, I won’t be ten minutes.” As he disappeared, he added: “I can’t wait to meet her!”

Fifteen minutes later, showered, changed into a pair of flannels and a velvet smoking jacket of bottle green, he went into the kitchen. Lorna was busily slicing tomatoes for the salad. She turned to face him.

Tall for a woman, with dark hair swept back from a broad forehead, she had a striking kind of beauty; beauty from a distant age. And in that moment she recaptured the youth which Mannering had known and loved.

“Beautiful,” he declared.

“Will it do, darling?”

“You will do. It is a crime against the sanctity of marriage that a third party should be present tonight.”

She laughed; obviously pleased.

“Thank you, kind sir. Our guest won’t be staying all night, will he?”

“Not if I can help it,” Mannering said, moving across to her and putting a hand lightly against her warm cheek. “I’m surprised he’s not here.”

Five minutes later, he said worriedly: “I can’t understand what’s keeping him.”

Five minutes later still he said with undisguised anxiety: “I hope Bill hasn’t run into trouble, darling. If he’s much longer I think I ought to check with the police.”

Yet as he spoke he wondered whether there was any reason to believe that the police would be able to help.

William Bristow was one of the most conscientious of men.

When he returned to Quinns, letting himself in by the back door, he stood for a moment contemplating the pile of crumpled newspapers, and the array of silver on the dresser. Even without the light above it the silver gave off a nearly incandescent glow; tall candlesticks, candelabra, dishes, knives and forks and spoons, dressing-table sets – this was a fabulous collection, and he had been almost as excited as Mannering when he had heard of it, through an announcement in The Times. All goods found, and believed to be treasure trove, were so advertised, to give claimants a chance to identify them.

“The lot has been found in the sealed-off basement of an old house,” an official had told Mannering. “A man went looking for his five-year-old son, who’d disappeared, and found an old ventilation shaft no one knew anything about.”

Bristow, when a policeman, would have been touched by the strangeness and romance of the story. Bristow, manager of Quinns, had been deeply moved. And in a way it was ‘his’ silver, for Mannering had been at one of London’s famous auction rooms when Bristow had travelled to Hertfordshire to make the first examination of the silver. The fact that it was almost certainly genuine treasure trove, for no one knew who owned the silver nor how long it had been there, added to the romance.

“Undoubtedly silver,” he had telephoned Mannering. “It looks early Georgian but could be even earlier.”

Now, half of it was lying on the dark oak dresser.

It should really be packed in the vaults, or be under special guard. The precautions Mannering had told him to take were all right as far as they went, but did they go far enough? Bristow pondered as he telephoned Scotland Yard and asked for a special watch to be kept. He spoke to a stranger; the longer the time his retirement the fewer his acquaintances at Police Headquarters. The man had been brisk and assured enough, but Quinns – did Quinns mean any tiling to him?

It was a thousand pities that this job had not been finished before they had been interrupted by Prince Hamid.

Bristow, whose whole life had been a training ground for suspicion, had some doubts about the young Tarian, despite all the evidence that he was what he claimed to be. The timing of the call had been remarkable. Had it really been coincidental? Or could it have been timed so as to get Bristow and Mannering away from Quinns while the silver was spread out and easier to steal.

Who could have known of this?

Anyone who had any intelligence and a working idea of how Quinns was run; and who would know the hypnotic attraction of treasure trove. There had been articles about the silver in most newspapers, photographs of the father carrying his runaway child on his shoulder, even a photograph of Mannering, who was to assess the value and help the police identify the silver. And two papers, including The Times, had devoted a paragraph to Quinns. Yes, anyone attracted by the story could have watched Hart Row, could have been Mannering and Bristow had stayed late, they were examining it.

True, the watchers might not be aware that Quinns shared two nightwatchmen with a big office building nearby and that no place could be more ‘burglar-proof – but in Bristow’s experience no place in the world was really proof against determined professional thieves.

If Prince Hamid was a rogue—

“Nonsense!” ejaculated Bristow, recalling the fear on the face and in the manner of the youth.

Nonsense? The ‘fear’ could have been nervousness: fear that they would realise that he was acting as a decoy.

Nonsense! He and Mannering must have been away from Quinns for at least an hour. Had anyone planned to try to break in, this would be the time. No alarm had been raised. He was worrying unnecessarily. It would take him at least an hour and probably two, to put the silver under lock and key in any of the safes; only Mannering could get into the strongroom.

He covered the silver with a length of baize, then checked the safety devices at the front door, resetting the electronically controlled burglar alarm. This could also be released and re-set at the back door – anyone who knew the device could trip the control.

He began to whistle to himself.

At last he went to the back door, tripped the alarm, opened the door and stepped outside, on the half-turn as he closed the door.

In fact, he did not close it completely.

He was aware of moving figures, of a hissing sound, of pain biting his eyes, his nose and his mouth, even his tongue. Next moment he felt men set upon him, men he could see through tears of pain, who pulled open the door and pushed him back inside. Then someone struck him savagely over the head and he was lost in an agonising sea of unconsciousness.

A small van was drawn up close to the back door, and men began to move to and fro with great speed. As they carried out the silver, the telephone bell began to ring.

“Yes,” a man at Scotland Yard said to Mannering on the telephone. “Mr. Bristow did telephone and ask for a special watch to be kept. That was at about nine o’clock.”

“Did you keep the special watch?”

“Orders were sent to Division,” the Yard man replied. “We have no reason to believe they did not carry them out. Two burglaries were reported from the Bond Street area tonight, which may have caused some delay. Mr. Mannering, have you any reason to believe there is or will be trouble at your premises?”

“Bristow is overdue, and there’s no answer to the telephone,” Mannering said. “I’m going straight over.”

“I will ask Division to meet you there,” the brisk-speaking officer promised.

Mannering put down the receiver and turned, to find Lorna in a light wrap, tying a scarf over her hair; it was useless to tell her she should not come.

He cast a glance at the table set in the study, then led the way to the lift, without saying a word.

As they stepped into the street, Lorna said: “Do you really think the Prince could have acted as a decoy?”

“I can’t rule it out as a possibility,” Mannering answered. His fingers tightened over her arm and his voice dropped to a whisper. “The flat is being watched. There’s a man in the doorway of Number 40 – he was there when I came.”

Lorna, without appearing to look, asked: “Do you mean the small, dark man?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure you shouldn’t have asked the police to keep special watch on the flat,” Lorna said, a quiver in her voice. “Would you like me to go back and telephone them?” When he didn’t answer she added: “I shouldn’t really have come. Oh, what a trying evening it’s been for you. I—”

She broke off, as a police car turned the corner.

It was travelling fast, but not in chase, and the man next to the driver looked very alert. Suddenly, espying them, he put an arm out of the window and waved, and above the sound of the car and other street noises his voice came faintly: “Mr. Mannering! Mr. Mannering! You’re wanted, urgently!”