The letter that Mannering had sent to the Yard had achieved its object, thanks to the carelessness of Wrightson and the wide-awake Morning Star man. It had cleared Gerry Long of suspicion in the robbery, but Mannering found that it was a question of robbing Peter to pay Paul.
Inspector Bristow was undoubtedly worried about his failure on the job. His anxiety cancelled Mannering’s anticipated pleasure in a conversation with the policeman soon after Bristow had left Regent’s Park and Lady Kenton. It was impossible to revel in another man’s discomfort, and Mannering began to wish that he had never been approached by Bristow. He liked the Inspector, and he disliked the idea of stabbing the man in the back.
Before he left the Yard, however, he was more cheerful.
Superintendent Lynch, who was fond of saying that he had eyes at the back of his head, came into the office, nodded cheerfully to Bristow, shook hands with Mannering, and introduced himself
“Been talking with the A.C.,” he told the Inspector. “I’m coming on the Baron job with you, Bill. I’ve told him that I think it’s a bigger problem than he fancies and he’s in a better temper than he was yesterday.”
Bristow’s face cleared. Lynch looked placidly at Mannering.
“We have a dog’s life sometimes,” he said. “It’s all right when we’re going smoothly, but when Old bill makes a slip or I come a cropper we get a proper shaking up. But it all blows over. What’s your theory about the Baron, Mr Mannering?”
For a fraction of a second Mannering was afraid that he had given something away, but Lynch was reaching across the desk to help himself to one of Bristow’s cigarettes, and the moment’s respite saved Mannering from making a faux pas.
“I haven’t one,” he said, coolly enough.
“That’s an advantage,” said Lynch looking at him through a haze of smoke. “I’m glad you’re helping, anyhow.”
They chatted for five minutes, but nothing of importance was mentioned. Mannering left the Yard, smiling cheerfully to himself. He went to Park Square, chatted for ten minutes with Gerry Long, who had recovered as well as had been expected, and who was sitting up in bed. Gerry was sorry for himself, and mad with himself. Mannering told him to forget it.
“It’s so darned silly,” said Long, “that I can’t think of any way of thanking you Mannering.”
“The chance may crop up,” smiled the other.
He went to his flat, took the Overndon pearls from their hiding-place soon afterwards, and went to Aldgate. On the way – he travelled by taxi – he altered his appearance sufficiently enough to make reasonably sure that no casual acquaintance would recognise him. At a small barber’s shop in a turning off the High Street he waited for a bald-headed, jolly-faced man to waddle into the back parlour which he had entered.
“Morning Mr Mayle.” The bald-headed man wheezed the greeting cheerfully. He was tremendously fat. A fact emphasised by a pair of slacks let out at the waist with a material different in colour and quality, an Oxford shirt without buttons, opening to reveal an expanse of soft, dimply flesh, and a pair of carpet slippers.
“Same as usual fee for you Sir?”
Mannering nodded and smiled.
The fat man grinned, revealing teeth that were surprisingly white and strong. Mannering waited for him patiently, knowing that Harry Pearce could not be hurried. The barber did many things besides cutting hair and shaving week-old stubble. Mannering had been introduced to him by Flick Leverson, that philosophical fence who was now in gaol. Harry supplied all kinds of make-up, and even helped to apply it. He asked no questions, relied on the generosity of his customers for payment, and was not averse to doing a job for nothing. In that strange world of small thieves and petty rogues a man might be penniless one day and rich the next; Harry knew that his credit would rarely be stretched to breaking-point.
He knew Mannering – a Mannering disguised well enough to deceive the casual eye, or the eye of a man who did not know him in regular life - as Mr Mayle, and he appeared to accept the name for gospel. He supplied him with the rubber cheek-pads and the teeth covering with which Mannering helped to turn himself into the swarthy, full-faced man who visited Dicker Grayson occasionally for the sale of stolen goods. Mannering had discovered that disguise was not so difficult as he had imagined, and the main essential was to act up to the facial alterations.
It was middle afternoon when Mannering reached the wharf in which Grayson worked. That pink-and-white doll of a man was genial and friendly. He knew that he could get good stuff from the other, and when he reached a fair price he knew that there would be no unnecessary haggling. They had now handled several jobs together to their mutual advantage.
Mannering adopted his usual methods.
He grunted in response to Grayson’s ‘How are you?’ slipped his rubber container from his pocket, upturned it, and let the Overndon pearls stream on to the desk, all without a change of expression.
Grayson’s smile disappeared. His eyes were very hard as he stared at the prize.
“Where’d you get those?” he demanded in his disconcertingly deep voice.
“That’s neither here nor there,” growled Mannering. “How much?”
Grayson fingered the pearls. The dim light of the great warehouse prevented him from seeing their true lustre, but he was a keen judge, and he knew what he was handling.
“The Overndon’s,” he murmured, and for once his voice was very soft.
The sense that had served Mannering well so often came to the fore again. There were times when he had to show spirit and worry Grayson. This was one of them. He leapt from his chair with an oath. His eyes were blazing, and his lips turned back over his dirty-looking teeth; he seemed at that moment a typical seaman used to rough-houses and prepared to start one now.
“Cut that!” he snarled. “Stick to yer business, Grayson, and don’t try the funny stuff, see, or”
His large, gloved hands clenched, and the pink-and-white man flinched away, but with words and a smile equally conciliatory. He knew that he had broken an unwritten law.
“That’s all right, that’s all right,” he said suavely.
“I shouldn’t have asked, I know, but these things have had rather a lot of - er - publicity, haven’t they?”
“That’s as may be,” growled Mannering. “All I want from you’s a price. Name it.”
He was enjoying himself. There was a spice of danger in his meetings with Grayson that he liked; and there was need for him to be on his guard all the time. It enabled him to get used to the acting necessary for his part as the Baron, and he realized the more practice he had the better.
Grayson muttered something under his breath. Then: “They’re dangerous things to handle. Very dangerous, my friend.”
“You can smother ‘em till the fuss is over.”
Grayson s eyes were expressionless.
“So can you,” he said.
Mannering grunted again, and stretched his hand across the table. He knew how to handle Dicker Grayson, and he knew too that he must never let the other man best him.
“Sure,” he said. “So can I and find another smasher, mister. Let me take ‘em.”
Grayson covered the pearls with his plump pink hands.
“There’s no need to act like that,” he said placatingly
“Don’t forget I take all the risks, son. Five hundred.”
Mannering knew this game by heart.
“Three thousand,” he grunted.
“I’m not a millionaire,” Grayson snapped; then he smiled suddenly, as though he realized that this fencing was useless. “We know each other too well to play, son. I’ll give you twelve hundred.”
Mannering nodded. He’d seemed disinterested now he had a reasonable offer. One of the things Grayson liked about him was his clean-cut acceptance or refusal of a figure.
“Small notes,” Mannering stipulated.
“I’ll get em,” promised Grayson.
It took the receiver twenty minutes to get the notes. Mannering was used to waiting, and he occupied his time by looking out of the window across the stretch of muddy water that carries the shipping of the world. The Thames and its banks were alive. Through the closed windows came the raucous sound of men’s voices, the blaring of sirens, the clanking of chains, the chug-chug, of a giant crane, the continual thump of bales of merchandise being dropped into hatches or barges. There was something fascinating about it, and Mannering forgot that he was acting a part.
Something entirely unexpected brought him back to the realization of it. He was gradually accustoming himself to the need for constant wariness. It was the unexpected, the emergency which was created in a flash, that was more likely to cause him trouble than anything else. And an emergency came now.
He saw Grayson hurrying into the warehouse yard, and half turned towards the centre of the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man who followed Grayson.
Mannering’s eyes narrowed, and his heart beat fast. It was Tanker - Sergeant Jacob Tring - Bristow’s right-hand man!
There was no doubt about it, Mannering knew. Tanker was dressed in civilian clothes, and he carried them well for a policeman, but his stolid features and rather gloomy expression were unmistakable.
Did Grayson know? There had been nothing on the face of the fence as he had hurried towards the warehouse to suggest that he had known that he was being followed, but Grayson was a wary bird. He would probably realize the danger, and act accordingly.
Mannering realized it very bitterly; this would happen now. It looked as if the police were going to question Grayson. The life of a fence was a precarious one, he knew, and if the slightest rumour against him reached the ears of the police he would be raided without delay
Was Tanker starting a raid? Or was he merely on an errand of enquiry?
It was one of the worst three minutes that Mannering had ever had. He kept looking out of the window, keeping well back in order to make as sure as possible that he was not seen. But what he saw himself made his blood race and his eyes feel hot.
The police-sergeant was not alone!
Three other men, well dressed when compared with the other inhabitants of the wharves, moved slowly towards the warehouse in which Mannering was waiting The big man saw Grayson disappear, and then watched the plain-clothes men converge on the door. He was thinking all the time of the Overndon pearls; their discovery by the police would finish him.
Mannering turned from the window quickly, but he had hardly reached the table when Grayson burst in. The fence knew all right, even though his expression was cool. He was breathing fast, and he slammed the door behind him.
“Move away!” he snapped, and Mannering obeyed.
Grayson, moving with astonishing speed, pressed a small protuberance in the surface of his desk. It looked no more than a knot of wood, but as his podgy fingers pressed on it a narrow slot was revealed in the side panel. Grayson stuffed the pearls into it quickly, and released the pressure. The slot closed up, and in spite of his anxiety Mannering was intrigued by its neatness. The cunningness of that hiding-place was increased by the fact that no one could have seen that the desk was anything but solid wood unless they knew of the button-control.
He had little time for thinking, however.
The other seemed to have forgotten him, and hurried across the room, pulled open the door of a small Chubb safe, bundled the packet of notes which he had brought back into it, and slammed the door to.
“Get into that chair,” he snapped. “You’re after a job, understand? The police . . .”
Mannering nodded, and dropped into the seat that was opposite Grayson. The latter slipped into his chair, spread his hands on the desk in front of him, and smiled thinly. Mannering told himself that he had never seen a man act so swiftly and so surely. His opinion of the receiver went up by leaps and bounds.
“So you’ve been waiting for me, eh?” said Grayson, his deep voice filling the office. “Well, I don’t know if I’ve got anything in your line, mate. I - Come in.”
He broke off, looking towards the door. It opened, after the merest apology of a knock, and Sergeant Tanker Tring moved into the room, a gloomy smile on his face, his hands deep in his pockets.
“Well?” Grayson looked puzzled, and Mannering clenched his teeth.
“Don’t waste my time like that,” protested Tanker, a little forlornly. “You know me, Mr Grayson . . .
Grayson’s eyes narrowed. And then he smiled. It was beautifully done, and Mannering felt his panic leaving him.
“Tring,” he said, “the policeman. I thought I’d seen you before.”
“I’ll have to dye my hair red,” said Tanker, “and then you’ll be sure.” He seemed completely at his ease as he sat on the corner of the desk, less than a yard from Mannering. He looked down on that big-muscled man with interest.
Mannering’s nerves were stretched to breaking-point. He knew that the slightest slip might give him away and he was afraid of what would happen if Tanker looked at his eyes too closely. The eyes couldn’t be disguised: they were the danger-spot.
The policeman shrugged his shoulders, as though disappointed.
“What’s your game?” he demanded.
Mannering knew that there was only one attitude he could adopt to be in keeping with his appearance, and never in his life had he been so grateful to Mr Karl Seltzer’s voice-training.
“What the ‘ell’s that got ter do with you?” he growled.
For a moment his eyes met Tanker’s, but there was no gleam of recognition in the policeman’s. Tanker grinned, and shrugged his shoulders.
“No offence,” he said “but don’t come it, mate.”
He turned to Grayson, who was leaning back in his chair and smiling. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr Grayson” - there was a wealth of sarcasm in that opening - “but I’ve got to look round.”
“Look round?” Grayson’s eyes widened. “I don’t know - ”
“No one ever does know what I mean,” said Tanker sadly. “Don’t come it, Mr Grayson. Try and think of a reply to the beak - he might listen.”
Grayson kept his temper admirably, or at least he gave the impression that he was doing so.
“I suppose you mean magistrate?” he said. “If you think there’s any reason for talking like that, Tring - ”
Tring looked at him admiringly.
“Would you believe it,” he said, “but some one’s suggested that a gentleman like you might be a fence? Don’t ask me what that is. I know you’ve never heard it before, so I’ll tell you. It’s a receiver of stolen goods.”
For the first time Grayson seemed rattled and a little apprehensive.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” he snapped. “If you’ve anything to ask me get it over, Tring. I haven’t time to waste.”
“I’m going to have a look round,” said Tring simply.
“Not without permission,” snapped Grayson.
Tring swung his legs and grinned.
“You don’t think I’d be silly enough to come without a warrant, do you?” he asked. “Open up, Grayson - or life’s going to turn awkward for you.”
Grayson gave a helpless little laugh.
“There’s no reason why I should make it awkward if you’ve really got a search-warrant,” he said; “but it’s an infernal impudence, Tring.”
“I wouldn’t pull your leg,” said Tanker. He took the document from his pocket, and pushed it in front of Grayson’s nose. The latter glanced down it, shrugged, and waved his hands expressively.
“All right,” he said. “Go ahead. But let me tell you, you’ll hear more of this.”
Tanker clapped his hands. The door opened quickly, and two of the men whom Mannering had seen in the yard entered. The sergeant told them to get to it, and they started quickly.
Mannering sat in his chair, bewildered, more than a little afraid. He knew that if the slightest thing happened to suggest that he was John Mannering the game would be up, and he dreaded discovery every moment.
All the same he watched the search, fascinated. The policemen inspected every corner, every possible hiding-place. They searched files that were thick with dust, old boxes, the drawers of the desk, and they even prised up two loose floor-boards. Their reward was nothing.
Tanker’s good humour prevailed; probably he had expected to draw a blank.
“That leaves just the safe,” he said. “Got the key, Grayson?”
“It’s not locked,” said Grayson. “I used it just before you came in.”
“Now I wonder why?” asked the policeman thoughtfully.
He slipped off the edge of the desk and went to the safe. The door opened easily, and the bundles of pound notes - three of them - amounting to twelve hundred pounds, were revealed.
The policeman took them out and tossed them into the air as he walked back to the desk. He sat on it again.
Mannering’s heart seemed to turn over. Tanker was sitting within an inch of the button which would reveal the slot-opening in the desk - and the pearls.
The Baron sat watching, on tenterhooks every minute. Each time Tanker moved a fraction of an inch he was afraid that the slot would be opened by the pressure. A little ring of sweat formed on his forehead and at the back of his neck. He was more afraid than he had ever been in his life. But he contrived to keep his face straight and his hands still. He looked at the bundles of notes, and his expression suggested such covetousness that Tanker, who looked at him for a moment, laughed.
“Never want what isn’t yours,” he advised jocularly.
Then he looked at Grayson, and his expression hardened. “That’s a lot of money to have all at once,” he said.
Grayson’s acting was superb. Not by a flicker of an eye did he reveal the anxiety that he must be feeling about the slot in the desk. There was a smile on his lips as he answered: “I could draw you a cheque for ten times that amount,” he said, “and still have a good balance.”
“That’s wage money, Tring.”
“You pay big wages,” said Tring doubtfully.
Grayson’s temper sparked at that.
“That’s my business,” he snapped. “Those notes are for wages, I tell you. I brought them from the bank less than twenty minutes ago. You can go and enquire if you want to.”
Tring shook his head, perfectly unperturbed by the outburst.
“No need,” he said. “I saw you go in the bank, and I saw you come out. Why not save trouble, Grayson, and tell me why you wanted this money.”
For a moment it looked as if Grayson would lose his temper completely, but he made a big effort, and controlled it.
“I’ve told you once what it’s for,” he said. “I pay my wages every month – ”
“Dock-labourers don’t get paid every month,” said Tring.
“Dock-labourers don’t run my ships,” snapped Grayson.
The policeman looked crestfallen, and Mannering realized that the other had overlooked that possibility.
“Hm,” he muttered, “you’ve got ships in, have you?”
“Three,” said Grayson, and his expression said: “And if you don’t believe me go and find out for yourself”
Tring nodded, sighed, and tossed the bundles of notes to one of his assistants.
“Put ‘em back,” he said.
As he threw them he moved a little, and this time he actually covered the button. Mannering could hardly keep his eyes off the danger-spot, and when Tanker shifted an inch away relief went through him. But it was not long-lived, and in the next moment his fears returned tenfold.
“That’s that,” snapped Tring, and there was a glint in his eyes. “Now I’m going to search you, Grayson - and your pal.”
Mannering’s eyes narrowed with the shock, but he kept cool. He shifted his chair back, half rising from it more to hide his own anxiety than anything else.
“Cut that!” he grunted. “You ain’t got no warrant to search me, mister, and I ain’t being searched, see?”
Tring eyed him levelly.
“I’ve a warrant to search this office,” he said, quietly enough, “and you’re in it. You’re a big fellow - but don’t try any tricks, or you’ll spend the night in the lock-up, cooling your heels.”
Mannering glowered, keeping his eyes as narrow as he could, hoping hard that Tring wouldn’t look at them too closely. It was a tense moment. Mannering’s spine was cold, for there was something very threatening about the sergeant.
“Well?” snapped Tring.
“Better let ‘em,” advised Grayson quickly.
Mannering shrugged his shoulders and grunted. For the first time in his life he was searched. He was hard put to it to keep steady, and the seconds dragged like minutes, but thee was one thing that cheered him. He knew that he was carrying nothing that might connect him with Mannering and the only thing in his pockets of interest to Tring was the rubber container in which he had carried the pearls.
There was an ironic twist on his lips as Tring held the bag up and peered into it. An hour before he would have seen one of the things he was desperately anxious to find, and the career of the Baron would have come to an abrupt end. Now…
“What’s this?” Tring asked, looking at the big man’s blackened teeth. “A tooth-brush container?”
Mannering’s lips curled savagely.
“Clever ain’t yer,” he muttered.
Tring shrugged, and dropped the bag on to the table, where half a dozen oddments were heaped. Mannering’s pockets had been completely emptied and he had never been more thankful in his life that he had taken another man’s advice. Flick Leverson had told him never to carry Brown’s stuff in his pockets when he was pretending to be Smith. The philosophical fence’s experience was very full.
Tring grunted suddenly, easing the tension.
“Let him have it back,” he said. “Now you, Grayson.”
The reward was the same after Grayson had submitted - nothing. Tring shrugged his shoulders, but now his disappointment was obvious.
“Have you quite finished?” asked Grayson softly.
Tring nodded.
“Well,” said the pink-and-white man, “let me advise you, Tring, to behave a little differently in the future. If you ever come into this office and forget to call me ‘mister,’ if you come here pretending that you know I’m crooked, treating me and my visitors as if we were old lags, I’ll have you run out of the Force. There’s things you can do and things you can’t. You’ve overstepped the mark. Don’t do it again.”
There was a complete silence in the room for a moment, while Sergeant Tring’s face turned a deep red.
“All right,” he said at last, and beckoned to his men. “But I’ll bear that little speech in mind, Grayson.”
Grayson watched the three detectives go out of the room, and on Mannering’s face there was a grin of real triumph. But even as the door closed Grayson lifted his hand warningly. Mannering was puzzled, but knew the reason a moment later.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever been insulted like that,” boomed Grayson, “and I’m damned if I’m going to take it. Who is Tring, anyhow, the impertinent upstart? I’ll see that he wishes he hadn’t”
“I’d like to get my ‘ands rarnd ‘is throat,” muttered Mannering, playing up quickly, “the mucky . . .”
He broke off as the door opened suddenly. Sergeant Tring entered the office, looking very apologetic, but grinning a little.
“I left my notebook,” he said, picking it up from the desk. “Thanks. Good-bye.”
The door closed on him again, and Grayson swore.
Mannering went to the window and looked out. Not until the detectives were walking across the yard below did either of them speak.
“That was close,” Mannering muttered.
Grayson nodded, but he was smiling.
“They think they’re smart, those fellows, but they don’t know everything.” He tapped the slot in the desk, which was still concealed, and his smile widened. “He was sitting right on it, and didn’t think of running the desk over for a button. Policemen.”
The fence stopped, with a shrug.
“Anyway, we got away with it. But you’d better not take the cash out with you, in case they’re watching.”
“I’ll post it. Where shall I send it to?”
Mannering hesitated, half afraid that there was a catch; but he had to admit the wisdom of the manoeuvre, and he nodded.
“Mayle,” he said. “Strand G.P.O.”
Grayson nodded, and rubbed his plump hands together, well satisfied with life.