Chapter Ten

Decoy?

“If the prince was a decoy,” Mannering said, “I have just been fooled by the prettiest pair of blue eyes that ever came out of Australia.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Bristow admitted. “But I didn’t see the colour of her eyes. You mustn’t go.”

Mannering didn’t answer.

“They want you for some obscure reason I can’t even begin to guess,” declared Bristow. “You’d be crazy to go.”

“Lorna would agree,” murmured Mannering.

“Was Rachel really on her knees?” asked Bristow.

“Yes.”

“How corny can one get!”

“I didn’t think she was corny,” Mannering demurred.

“Ever the great romantic—” Bristow began, only to break off. “Sorry. Gordon had another interesting piece of information.”

“What was it?”

“A Malay was watching your flat in Green Street last night.”

“Ah,” said Mannering. “My bright-eyed copper made a report.”

“Including the fact that you knew you were being watched.”

“Hm,” murmured Mannering. “So now Gordon wonders why small, sallow-skinned men are so interested in me.”

“And why they stole the silver. Was it of oriental origin, John?”

“No,” Mannering replied decisively. “It could have been German or Italian or English, but it certainly wasn’t oriental work.”

“Then Gordon will want to know why Malays stole it,” said Bristow. “And he’ll want to know soon.”

“What does that mean?” asked Mannering, sharply.

“He’s on his way,” Bristow replied.

“You mean he might be here any moment?”

“John,” Bristow said, “if you evade him, you’ll only strengthen his suspicions. That would be folly.”

“Oh,” said Mannering heavily. “I was robbed last night, Bill. You know I hadn’t the faintest idea that it was going to happen. You know just what did happen, and you can’t think Gordon is justified in suspecting me.”

“Justification has nothing to do with it,” argued Bristow. “He thinks you’re involved in some underhand business, and he’s going to crowd you and make sure you can’t possibly work on it without his knowing. I know Gordon of old, and what a sticker he is.”

“Leech,” Mannering remarked.

“That’s right – a leech. John – you must tell him everything that happened from the moment Prince Hamid came here. Once he knows the whole story and I’ve confirmed it, he’ll have to stop suspecting you.”

“You mean he should, but there’s no way of being sure he will,” said Mannering wryly. “And what happens if I tell him the whole story?”

“The thing will be out of your hands. You can let him listen to the tape,” Bristow went on almost pleadingly. “He’s bound to be convinced by that.”

“And what do you think he’ll do?”

“He’ll make urgent inquiries at the Tarian Consulate,” Bristow said.

“And be told that the whole story is a tissue of lies, invented to get me involved in looking for the Tarian wealth,” said Mannering. “The police have no rights inside a consulate, anyhow.”

“Kohari would never defy—”

“Kohari will do whatever his master tells him,” Mannering rasped. “No, Bill. I shall not tell the police what has happened.”

“John, I beg you—” began Bristow, in a tone of desperation.

“Nor will you.”

“John,” said Bristow, “don’t you see that it is the only way to save the boy if he’s what he says he is? Kohari won’t dare to do anything to him if he knows the police are watching.”

“Kohari would stick a knife in his back, and blame the rebels.” Mannering’s voice was now hard and stubborn.

“Damn it, that girl must have bewitched you!”

“Perhaps she did,” Mannering conceded. “Perhaps the whole affair has.”

As he spoke the buzzer sounded on his desk, and he switched on. The voice of one of the young assistants came through, the tone one of subdued urgency: “Chief Inspector Gordon is here, sir, with two other policemen: the car has just driven up. I thought you would wish to know.”

“Thank you,” replied Mannering, “I certainly wanted to know. Tell Mr. Gordon I am not in, will you?”

“Very good, sir.”

“John,” Bristow said as Mannering switched off the loud-speaker, “this is utter folly. Gordon can make all kinds of trouble for you, and you’ll turn him into an enemy for life if you run away now. This is not a case in which to come in conflict with the police.”

Mannering murmured: “You could be right. Nevertheless, don’t tell him anything until you hear from me. I hate to say it,” he added in a steely voice, “but that is an order.”

He went quickly out of the office, slipped into the little back hallway and out by the back door. Instead of turning right into Hart Row, he turned left, to the approach to a vast new office building of concrete and glass. The main entrance to this building was from Piccadilly, but there was a footpath to Hart Row. He walked towards the main entrance, glancing back from time to time. No one was watching, the police not having suspected that he would run away from them.

Run away?

What other phrase could be used? What else was he doing? And running away from what? A policeman who, without the slightest justification, seemed to think he knew what had happened to the missing silver. Who was so prejudiced that he could see nothing objectively.

He reached Piccadilly by a narrow lane. The traffic was massed and there was a subdued roar of engines and a stink of car exhaust fumes. He turned left, the way of the traffic, keeping an eye open for an empty taxi. He had not been walking for more than two minutes when one pulled out of the Royal Academy which was flag-bedecked for its summer exhibition.

He said: “Drop me at the corner of Lots Road, Fulham – near the power station, please.”

“Right, sir,” the driver said, and began to put on speed.

Bristow knew from the expression on Gordon’s face that the man was really angry; what Gordon could not be expected to understand was that he, Bristow, was also angry. There were two reasons. In the first place, he did not like being put under pressure by Mannering: it was one of the very few penalties for working as the manager of Quinns. In the second, he did not like having to be glowered at by a man who, not so long ago, had been his subordinate at the Yard. They were behind the dresser, and Bristow had just closed the office door.

“I want to see him,” Gordon growled.

“I tell you he’s gone out.”

“Mr. Bristow,” Gordon said, obviously fighting to keep his self control, “I don’t want to get a search warrant but if I must I shall. Take me to Mr. Mannering’s office.”

Without a word, Bristow took out his keys, pressed an electronic control switch which protected the office so well that with it on, no key would turn, and opened the door. He went ahead, and Gordon followed close on his heels. The office, of course, was empty; but on the desk opposite Mannering’s chair was a lady’s glove.

“Whose is that?” demanded Gordon.

“Mr. Mannering’s last caller.”

“Who was she?”

“She didn’t give her name.”

“If you expect me to believe—” Gordon began.

“Chief Inspector,” Bristow interrupted in an icy voice. “I expect you to believe everything I tell you. If I can’t answer a question or am under instructions not to, I will tell you. Otherwise, I shall answer with absolute truth. I do not know where Mr. Mannering has gone. He did not confide in me. I do know who his visitor was but I don’t know her full name, only her Christian name.”

“What is it?”

“I am not at liberty to disclose it,” Bristow said.

“Did you warn Mannering to get away before I came?”

“I urged him to stay.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“No doubt because he did not expect any understanding or cooperation from you,” Bristow said bluntly.

Gordon drew in a deep breath, hesitated, and then spoke in a low-pitched voice which quivered a little because of his vehemence. He kept his voice low and no one outside could hear; but Bristow pressed the starting switch of the tiny tape-recorder, so that every word was recorded there for Mannering to hear later.

“Bristow,” Gordon said, “I know how long you’ve known Mannering. I know you like him and believe in him. Well, I don’t. I have had access to all of your cases, including notes you had probably forgotten having written. Some of them go back over twenty-five years. And a lot of other people have made notes, too. They all add up to the same thing. Your precious Mannering started out as a crook. He was the jewel thief known as the Baron. All of this”—Gordon waved his arms to encompass not only the office but the whole shop—“was built on the proceeds of jewels he stole. Understand me – I know that he founded his fortune on crime.”

Bristow moved back a pace and said coldly: “Go on.”

But he did not feel calm; he was in mental turmoil. He knew – he had never been able to prove but he knew – that Mannering had once been a cracksman extraordinary; a jewel thief who had taken London, Paris and most of the European capitals by storm. He knew that Gordon was right.

What he did not know, and at this stage could not hope to find out, was whether Gordon had succeeded where he and dozens of other policemen had failed: in finding the bridge between near-certainty and absolute proof. Once that proof was found, Mannering would not have a chance of saving himself.

Gordon demanded: “It’s the truth. Admit it.”

“Truth?” said Bristow, bitingly. “I doubt whether you would allow yourself to recognise it if you saw it. But I can tell you some things that are true. There was a jewel thief nicknamed the Baron, he was the most successful safe-breaker, cat burglar and cracksman on record, he did retire, and he’s never been traced.”

“He’s been traced now – to Quinns.”

Bristow’s heart missed a beat but there was no change in his expression as he went on:

“The certain thing is that he didn’t found any business or any fortune on what he stole. He gave away—”

“You believe that crap!”

“Yes,” Bristow said, his voice sharpening. “I believe it. I’ve seen too many men and women who thought they were ruined, saved by the man they used to call the Baron. The only times the Yard ever got close on his heels was when he held back to help someone else, or took a chance for other people. Try to believe that. When you do, you’ll have made a start on understanding him.”

“He fooled you,” Gordon sneered.

“I don’t fool so easily.”

“He fooled you because you knew who he was and you wanted to believe in him.”

“I never knew who the Baron was,” Bristow said.

“That—is—a—lie,” Gordon accused, with the most considered emphasis.

“I used to think he was John Mannering.” Bristow ignored the charge of lying. “I did what you appear to be trying to do – bent over backwards to prove that he was the Baron. I couldn’t find that proof.”

“Bristow,” Gordon said, “answer me one question.”

“What question?”

“How much did Mannering pay you to destroy evidence? To ignore clues that would have taken you to him? How much does he pay you now as a pension for lying for him when—” Bristow hit him.

There was no way of telling whether Gordon was deliberately setting out to make him lose his self control; no way of being sure whether the other man thought he had Bristow so much on the defensive that he could safely make the accusation; it was even possible that Gordon was so carried away by his own emotion that he did not realise how far he had gone. Certainly he was not prepared for the blow. Bristow’s clenched fist caught him on the side of the jaw and sent him reeling. As he fell the office door was pushed open further and one of Gordon’s aides appeared with one of Quinns young men just behind him.

He gazed with horror at the prostrate body of the Chief Inspector.

“What the—” He broke off.

Gordon lay for a moment on the floor, then, very slowly he got up. He watched Bristow with a malevolence no one could have mistaken; malevolence and hatred. Slowly, he reached his feet, waving his aide away as the man went to help him. Bristow felt the blood drain from his face, felt himself going cold.

Gordon, upright again, said: “Barton, did you see Mr. Bristow strike me?”

“I—er—”

“Did you or didn’t you?” barked Gordon.

“Yes, sir.”

“William Bristow,” said Gordon in a flat voice, “I hereby charge you with assault and with attempting to obstruct a police officer carrying out his proper duty. I must warn you that anything you say will be written down and may be used in evidence. Barton!”

The other man already had his notebook and pencil out.

“Well, have you anything to say?” Gordon demanded. The question was almost a sneer.

Bristow looked at him scathingly, then beckoned the young man from the shop. He spoke as if Gordon was out of earshot, while the aide wrote down every word he said.

“Rupert, after I’ve gone, I want you to close the shop for business, but stay here with Wilberforce until Mr. Mannering returns or until he telephones. No one is to come in or out without Mr. Mannering’s express permission. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The police will leave the premises with me,” Bristow went on. “They are not to be allowed to return without a search warrant. You must be shown this through the window before you unlock any door. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know how to get into the strongroom?”

“No, sir.”

“Only three people do – Mr. Mannering, Mr. Larraby who is away, and I. If any attempt is made to force entry into the strongroom you must send at once for Mr. Pendleton, Mr. Mannering’s lawyer – do you know him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And acquaint him with the circumstances,” Bristow went on. “One other thing. If you have not heard from Mr. Mannering by five-thirty, telephone Mrs. Mannering. Tell her that I have no idea where her husband is, and tell her everything that has happened here. Do not alarm her until half-past five.”

“I fully understand, sir,” Rupert said.

Bristow nodded, pushed the book containing the tape-recorder out of his way, and turned towards the door. He did not look at Gordon or Gordon’s aide but walked with firm tread towards the street door and Hart Row. The man who had taken notes slipped his pad into his pocket, and at a nod from Gordon, went after Bristow. Gordon looked at Rupert.

“You may be called as a witness,” he stated. “What’s your name?”

“Rupert Henshaw,” the young man replied, formally. “I shall be glad to testify about anything I saw and heard.” He stepped to the door and held it open for Gordon, who hesitated only for a moment before he went out.