Chapter Fourteen

Help

“Are you there, sir?” Rupert asked.

“Yes,” Mannering answered, “and thinking hard. If the operator comes on, take the charges, will you?”

“Of course, sir.”

The sun was warm in the kiosk, and there was a tracery of leaf shadow over one window and over Mannering’s face. A similar shadow fell over the car.

Of all things, a police car passed, and Mannering’s heart missed a beat.

The operator came on: time was up. Mannering listened to the formalities of switching the cost of the call to Quinns as if it were something in a different world. All this for lack of a few pence! At last, Rupert spoke again.

“Everything’s all right now, sir.”

“Yes. Rupert.”

“Sir.”

“Don’t you and Brian Wilberforce share a flat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In Hampstead?”

“Yes, sir. Filbert Street, which is off Heath Road.”

“Could you look after a guest for a day or two?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

“It could be dangerous,” Mannering said.

“Indeed, sir,” remarked Rupert, as if completely indifferent.

“Seriously.”

“Then perhaps one of us should stay home and help to look after our guest,” said Rupert.

“Will Brian agree?” asked Mannering.

“I’m in the fullest agreement, sir.” A deeper voice came on the line, telling Mannering what he should have suspected from the beginning, his second assistant was listening in to the conversation on an extension.

“You’re both very good,” Mannering said appreciatively. “He is on Hampstead Heath, now. How soon can one of you be home to let him in?”

“No need for that,” declared Rupert, who was talking as if this were an everyday occurrence. “The flat is one of several in a large house, and the landlord is on the ground floor. I will telephone him at once and authorise him to allow the guest in. Will you be with him, sir?”

“He may have a companion,” Mannering said. “But not for long. I shall get back to the shop as soon as I can but I’ve one or two things to do first.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there room for parking near your flat?” asked Mannering.

“If there isn’t, then there is a parking lot only a few doors away, on the site of a house which has recently been demolished. Before I forget, the number of the house is seventeen – one-seven – Filbert Street, and the landlord’s name is Bunaventi. Your—ah—guest won’t have any colour prejudice, will he?”

Mannering was surprised into a chuckle.

“Quite the reverse,” he said. “Rupert—”

“Sir?”

“He may have a visit from a girl friend.”

“Mr. Mannering,” Rupert assured him earnestly, “I do assure you that none of the tenants at 17 Filbert Street interest themselves in the comings and goings of the other tenants or their guests. There is likely to be a little unconventional music from time to time and the common room on the ground floor is open house. In fact it is a fascinating experiment in a form of communal living, sir. Would it be better if Brian and I didn’t go home until—”

“No!”

“Very well,” said Rupert.

“Shouldn’t you have the telephone number of the flat, sir?” asked Brian Wilberforce. “It’s Hampstead 21315.”

The house in Filbert Street was much larger than Mannering had expected, standing back from the road and sheltered by tall oaks and beeches. Mannering was pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness of the porch and the large hallway; attracted by the bright eyes and nearly black skin of Mr. Bunaventi, who had a mop of hair more Fijian than negroid. Yet he had a negro’s deep, resonant voice.

“Yes, Mr. Rupert called. I will take you up, sir.

They followed him, Mannering just behind Prince Hamid, to the second floor. Bunaventi unlocked a door, and with a murmured request that should they wish for anything they would let him know, left them.

Prince Hamid stood in the middle of the main room of the flat, large and spacious and comfortably furnished. Two large windows overlooked the street and the front garden. Leading off this room were three others – two bedrooms, and a bathroom which could be approached from either. The third room was small, its space fully taken up by a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, and a hanging wardrobe.

The kitchen was a curtained-off section of the big room.

“You will be comfortable and safe here,” Mannering said reassuringly.

“Comfortable, yes. Safe?” Hamid shrugged. “Safer than I was, certainly. I am very grateful.”

“Do you want anyone to know where you are?” asked Mannering.

“You mean – Rachel?”

“Yes.”

“If she does not know surely it will be safer for her,” said Hamid. “And also for me, because I am sure she would want to come and see me, and it is possible she would be followed.” His gaze changed, and he looked at Mannering’s shoulder. “Please – I would like to attend to your wound.”

The shoulder was aching …

Mannering stood in the bathroom, his back to Hamid, stripped to the waist; he saw the wound in a complex of small mirrors, the main one in the bathroom cabinet. The knife had gone in perhaps an inch and the wound had bled fairly freely; Mannering’s shirt was damp with blood. Hamid found an antiseptic, cotton wool and sticking plaster in the cabinet, held a towel to catch the water as he sponged and cleansed, then applied a dry dressing. Soon, Mannering felt more comfortable.

“You should have a clean shirt,” Hamid said.

“Neither of the men who live here is as big as I am,” Mannering said. “How is it you know so much about first aid?”

“My father caused me to study it,” Hamid answered, as he helped Mannering on with his shirt and then his jacket.

At last, they were face to face, and Hamid put out both his hands, palms upwards and fingers crooked; but he was not pleading now; there must be some religious significance in the pose, so like the Indian custom of placing the palms together and bowing over them. Hamid did not incline his head; his eyes burned into Mannering.

“Why have you taken such risks for me?” he demanded.

“To help a friend.”

“Mr. Mannering?”

“Yes – Mr. Mannering,” Mannering agreed.

“I do not know why he should take such risks,” said Hamid.

Mannering shrugged – and pain stabbed through his injured shoulder, a warning that he must be careful how he used it.

“If you see him, give him my thanks,” said Hamid. “And tell him also that I have made a discovery of great importance – to me.”

“Can’t I tell him what you’ve discovered?” asked Mannering, matter-of-factly.

Hamid hesitated, and it was easy to guess the doubts which were running through his mind. In spite of what had happened, should he—dare he?—trust this unknown man with information which was vital to him. Mannering did not try to pressure him, but simply waited, seeing the struggle going on in the young Prince’s eyes.

At last, Hamid said: “I asked Mr. Mannering to help me find certain valuable things. I now know where some of them are.”

“I’ll tell him,” Mannering said, and nodded, as if he were not at all interested. But his mind was humming as he turned and went to the door. He stopped by it, and looked over his shoulder, saying: “Use the old car if you have to – all I need to know is where you leave it.” He nodded again, and went out, closing the door.

Someone downstairs was strumming a guitar. As he reached the first landing he saw that the group he had passed in the street on the way here had taken over a corner of the hall and was playing gently. The music had a haunting sound.

He went out. It was hot in the afternoon sunshine, and he had been walking for five minutes when a taxi came along with its hire sign alight. He hailed it, then, dropping on to a seat, attempted to come to grips with the ugly fact of Bristow’s arrest.

He went to Green Street, and was not surprised to see two plainclothes men there from the Yard. He turned into the house next to his, and they showed no interest in him. He went up to the top floor in a lift, climbed through a rooflight, then stepped across from the roof to that of his own house, careful to keep his head below chimney stacks and parapets.

Soon, he prised up the rooflight which led into Lorna’s studio, and dropped down lightly. Here were the pictures half-finished, one of an old woman on an easel. He stripped down to pants and singlet, then rolled the clothes he had been wearing into a bundle; he must get rid of that soon. The loft ladder leading into the flat proper was in position and he went down backwards; every movement he made was hindered by the shoulder. He went quickly to his own dressing-room, put on a clean shirt, a loose jacket and lightweight trousers. Then, slipping a pistol into his jacket pocket, he went to the study and dialled the shop.

Rupert answered.

“Any change in the situation?” asked Mannering.

“Only that the lady who called this morning has telephoned twice,” said Rupert. “She says she has to speak to you urgently.”

“Did she leave a number?”

“No, sir.”

“If she calls again tell her I should be at Quinns half-an-hour from now,” urged Mannering. He rang off.

How could he get Bristow out of the position in which he was in? What was the obvious thing to do? He telephoned the office of his friend, Toby Prendergast, one of the most astute lawyers in London, and was put through immediately.

“John,” the other said without preamble, “the moment I was told what had happened I went along to see Bill Bristow. He’s lodged at Cannon Row – there’s irony for you. He told me he did strike Gordon, who apparently had accused him of taking bribes from you to forget certain evidence.”

Mannering winced.

“However, the police officer who stated that he saw the incident is lying, according to Bristow. He may have seen Gordon reeling, but couldn’t have seen the actual blow, because of his position vis-a-vis the door. He was too scared to say he didn’t see it, apparently. I asked your young man Rupert – he seems very bright.”

“I can’t afford to employ anyone who isn’t,” Mannering said drily.

“Bright enough to say he was able to see into the office as the door opened and although he did see Gordon falling he did not see the blow land. If he didn’t, the policeman couldn’t have done so either.”

“Thank God for that,” Mannering said. “Bristow—”

“Hasn’t said a word, officially.”

“What would you do?”

“I can go along to the Yard again and tell them I’ve a witness who can, and will if necessary, refute their evidence. Gordon might have calmed down enough to release Bristow and withdraw the charges.”

“What’s the alternative?” asked Mannering.

“I wait until morning and produce Rupert as a witness then. But Bill Bristow will have to spend a night in a cell.”

“That might just possibly be the safest place for him,” Mannering said.

“Will you be home all the evening, John?”

“Yes.”

“May I call you later? Don’t leave me a moment longer than you must,” Prendergast pleaded. “I can’t wait to hear what’s going on.”

“Believe it or not,” Mannering replied, “I can’t wait to find out!”

When he rang off it was nearly five o’clock, and Lorna might be back at any moment. He left a note saying enough to warn her of problems and promising to call soon, and then opened the front door and stepped out.

There in the hallway were two plainclothes detectives, who looked as flabbergasted as he. He recovered first, however, looked from one to the other and asked: “Can I help you gentlemen?”

“You can tell us how you got in there,” answered a thickset, youngish man – who, he discovered later, was the man who had borne false witness against Bill Bristow. “You weren’t in when we arrived, and you certainly haven’t come in since we’ve been here.”