The Blood Diamond (10 page)

‘All right, Bill,' he said, slowly.

‘Mind you put everything down. Give the statement to Tring, who's outside, as soon as it's ready.'

Bristow went out, and closed the door with a snap.

 

He'd asked for trouble again and it had lost no time in coming. He was the fool. The only way to work was on his own, telling Bristow of the
trivia, sops to keep him quiet. He couldn't run with the hare and chase with the hounds, and should have known it. Bristow snatched at everything he said, built it up, exaggerated it, read sinister significance when there was none.

Bristow thought he had him – right there. Mannering pressed his thumb against the desk, and laughed.

‘All right, Bill!'

He pulled a writing pad in front of him and wrote swiftly, brief, numbered notes. He omitted only two things; the first discovery of Bray's body and the fact that Marjorie had given him Paul Harding's address. There was risk in the second omission. If Paul were detained, the girl might blame it on to Mannering and tell the police everything, out of spite. But that would make her a fool and where Paul and the Adalgo were concerned, she wasn't a fool – just a mixture of fierce intensity and naivete with a mind of her own and a determination as great as Harding's.

He didn't know the truth and wasn't near it, yet; nor was Bristow.

He signed the two closely written sheets with a flourish, tucked them into an envelope and hurried out. Simon loomed out of a corner.

‘I shan't be back, Simon.'

‘Very well, sir.'

 

The crowd of sightseers had grown, before long it would be a seething mass of people, young, old, eager, blase. He heard the murmur of their talk through the muted loudspeaker. He opened the door and two schoolboys rushed forward, waving autograph books and pencils.

‘Please
will you sign, sir?'

Tring was on the other side of the road.

‘You really ought to get that chap to sign,' said Mannering. ‘The man with the bowler. He's one of the big men at Scotland Yard.' He signed two books; three others were thrust in front of him. The first lad, with a heartfelt:
‘Thanks, Mr. Mannering,'
scurried across the road to Tring.

By the time Mannering had finished, Tring was surrounded, looking puzzled and tipping his hat to the back of his head.

Mannering joined the little group.

‘Be a sport, Inspector!'

‘Please,
Inspector,' piped a treble voice.

‘Now look here—' began Tring.

‘It won't do you any harm, and look at the pleasure it will give them,' said Mannering brightly. ‘Sign away – I'll let you use my pen, if you like. Oh, I nearly forgot. Give this to Bill Bristow for me, will you?'

He thrust the statement into Tring's hand, and hurried off. From the corner, he saw Tring signing autograph books; there was a lot of good nature in Tring, who hated only one thing: the Baron. Hate? It wasn't too strong a word. He must not underestimate Tring's motivation – this deep-rooted desire to pull off a coup which he'd dreamed of for eight years.

 

When Mannering took his car from the parking place and drove off, Tring was still signing.

Mannering weaved in and out of the traffic, taking short cuts here, detours there; he did not see a police car behind him, and doubted whether one had been there; they would follow him by radio if they really meant business. Well, he meant business; Lone Wolf Mannering!

He was in the same mood when he reached Green Street. Two plainclothes men were near the house. He waved to them, left the car outside and hurried up the stairs. He let himself in.

‘Up or down, my sweet?'

Lorna did not answer. No move came from the kitchen. This was Judy's daily hour or two off, and Lorna often went for a riverside walk after an intensive day's work; she had put everything she had into Larraby's portrait.

It was surprisingly easy to forget Larraby; and that might be dangerous.

Someone moved in the drawing-room.

‘Lorna!' Mannering's voice sharpened; why hadn't she called out? He pictured a squat man with a gun.

The drawing-room door began to open.

Mannering went swiftly to the open door of his study; he was keyed up on the instant, ignoring the fact that the police were downstairs; anyone expert could have hoodwinked them, to get inside.

Then he saw Larraby.

Larraby paused in the doorway, looking round nervously. Mannering showed himself.

‘I
am
sorry, Mr. Mannering,' said Larraby, rubbing his eyes. ‘Mrs. Mannering asked me to stay here and give you a message, and I dropped off to sleep. Sitting in the same position and hardly daring to blink is a bit tiring. I
am
sorry.'

‘That's all right,' said Mannering. Why had Lorna left the man alone in the flat? Fool! He'd promised to send Simon along, and had forgotten to; he was careless even about Lorna. But there were limits to the trust which should be put in Larraby.

‘What was the message?' he asked.

‘Mrs. Mannering received a telephone call about four o'clock,' said Larraby. ‘She was a little irritated, but it was obviously important. She did not tell me the nature of the telephone call, but I think she was a little apprehensive.'

Mannering said sharply: ‘Yes?'

‘She said that if you got back before she did, she would like you to phone a Mr. Leverson, of Wine Street. Aldgate,' went on Larraby, and stifled another yawn. ‘I
am
sorry that I dropped off.'

‘Forget it.'

Had Larraby been asleep or was he foxing? Could any man who'd been in the trade and in jail, talk so calmly of Flick Leverson, showing no sign that he knew of the man who had been the biggest jewel fence in London?

Leverson was probably the only man who could prove the identity of the Baron; and certainly the only man who could be trusted not to use that proof.

A call from Leverson often meant a warning of trouble.

Mannering went to the telephone.

 

 

Mannering could hear the ringing sound, but there was no answer from Leverson's house. Larraby stood a little way off, watching with his tired, sad eyes. The
brrr-brrr-brrr
began to get on Mannering's nerves. He banged down the receiver.

‘Exactly what time did she leave?'

‘A little after four.'

‘And she was in a hurry?'

‘She was certainly anxious not to lose much time,' said Larraby. ‘She gave the impression that something of great importance had happened, Mr. Mannering. She was more excited, I think, hardly frightened, just eager. I said apprehensive, that's true, but – no, she
wasn't
frightened – except of getting wherever she was going too late. She actually said: “I mustn't be late,” several times.'

‘Thanks.' Mannering dialled Leverson's number again.

Lorna knew the old fence well, and would recognise his voice, would know if it were a phoney call. Why should it be phoney? There was no reason to think it had been, but plenty for being alarmed. Leverson was as much of the past as the Baron.

The
brrr-brrr-brrr
went on and on.

He put the receiver down again, and Larraby said: ‘No answer, Mr. Mannering?'

A fatuous question; everyone was fatuous. Could Larraby have lied?

‘Not yet. You'd better get home.'

Larraby looked at him gravely.

‘Before my big mistake I had a pleasant little home at Harrow,' he said gently, ‘and my wife and daughter used to be fond of me. I was certainly most fond of them, Mr. Mannering, and I loved my home. I threw them away.'

Lorna had rushed off to Leverson, so it was urgent business. Larraby was talking in his soft voice and somehow compelling attention.

‘My wife and daughter have a strict code of behaviour, and I shocked them. They haven't found it possible to forgive me. I like to think that one day – oh, I'm sorry. I—I was dreaming about them when you arrived, that's why they're on my mind.'

‘They'll come round,' Mannering said.

If he were caught and jailed, Lorna would live in a hell of his making; Larraby's wife had made a hell for him.

‘I hope so. Perhaps if I were to re-establish myself, with a regular job, a respectable job—' Larraby broke off. ‘What am I thinking of! Goodnight, Mr. Mannering, goodnight! I will be here at nine in the morning, as Mrs. Mannering asked.' He scurried to the front door, and his hand was on the knob when Mannering said:

‘Wait, Larraby.'

Larraby turned. ‘Yes?'

‘Where will you sleep tonight?'

‘Please don't worry.'

‘I'm not worrying. Is it a doss-house?'

‘Well—'

‘So it is. Haunt of vice, den of thieves, a proper place for an ex-convict to sleep, eh? Like it there?'

‘I hate it!'

‘Don't go back.'

‘But—'

Mannering said: ‘Don't go back. Come over here.' The little man approached him slowly, almost nervously; Mannering felt bleak and looked it. ‘Larraby, I've taken a chance on you. You know what's on, don't you?'

‘That there is trouble—'

‘A conspiracy to steal the Adalgo. Didn't you know it?'

Larraby said slowly: ‘I hope only one thing, Mr. Mannering, that you never allow Mrs. Mannering to wear that diamond. I've studied its history – there is a book in the drawing-room. Call it superstitious, call it what you like, but—'

Mannering gripped his shoulder, and knew that it hurt. Larraby neither flinched nor avoided his eye.

‘Know anything about the conspiracy?'

‘I do
not
,' said Larraby.

‘For some crazy reason, I believe you. The police don't. No one in their right senses would, but I believe you. If I'm wrong, you'll go back to jail and there won't be any rehabilitation after that.'

Larraby said: ‘I would rather kill myself than betray you.'

It was absurdly melodramatic; and it rang true.

Mannering let him go.

‘All right. Buy yourself another suit, get lodgings somewhere near here, there are plenty of places. Don't worry about your future, just about your soul.' He took ten pound notes from his pocket and stuffed them into Larraby's. ‘And throw away that tray of matches.'

Larraby didn't speak; he closed his eyes, turned abruptly and went to the door.

 

Footsteps sounded on the stairs; not Lorna's, but a man's. Mannering went to the telephone and touched it. The footsteps drew nearer; they were of a man in a hurry. Larraby opened the door.

A man said: ‘Larraby! What the hell are you doing here?'

That was Paul Harding.

Larraby drew back, startled.

Mannering picked up the telephone, dialled Whitehall 1212, and listened. The ringing sound echoed in one ear, Harding's heavy breathing in the other.

‘This is Scotland Yard, can I help you?'

‘I called to see Mr. Mannering,' Larraby said.

‘Tell Bristow Paul Harding is at Green Street.'

‘So you did,' breathed Harding.

‘Very good, sir.'

The telephone went
ting
as Mannering put down the receiver. He'd lost nothing, betrayed nothing; the men outside would report Harding's arrival, and perhaps were already on the telephone; this was a thing he could safely and usefully tell Bristow.

‘Yes, I did,' said Larraby. His voice was thin with emotion. Fear? Anger? Disappointment. ‘
Good
afternoon.'

He disappeared.

Mannering picked up the receiver and dialled Leverson's number. The
brrr-brrr
began, soft, insistent. Harding came in and banged the door. He reached the study, and drew back sharply, a brooding aggressor.

‘Who are you calling?'

‘My wife.'

‘Oh.' Harding came into the room. ‘What was that man doing here?'

‘Help yourself to a drink.'

‘I don't want a drink. What—'

‘You've never wanted a drink so much.'

‘What was that man doing here?'

‘My wife is painting his portrait.'

‘Good Lord! She must be hard up for a model! The man's a rogue – didn't you know?'

‘No.'

‘He was sent to prison for—'

‘I know that one. A single jail sentence for a single crime doesn't make a man a rogue.'

‘Nonsense! My father never trusted him.'

‘They've done business together, have they?'

‘They did, at one time. Still, if you know about his past it's none of my business.' Harding lit a cigarette. There was no answer from Leverson. Mannering put the receiver down. ‘We'll go in the next room.'

‘I had to come to see you again, Mannering.' Harding became subdued again. ‘I hope I haven't chosen a bad time, but—'

‘The time's all right. Whisky?' Mannering stood by the cocktail cabinet.

‘Thanks.'

‘What's the trouble?' Mannering asked.

‘You remember I told you about my father's quarrel with Bray?'

‘I don't forget that easily.'

‘Those damned police had the nerve to detain him for questioning! They only let him go half an hour ago. I called home, they told me about it then. He'd just telephoned to say that he would be back later in the day. And he'd left a message for me, Mannering.' Harding took a gulp of his whisky and soda. ‘It's—fantastic! He asked me to ask
you
if you'd go to see him.'

‘Oh, did he?' said Mannering, heavily.

‘Yes. Will you?'

It wasn't really as complicated or crazy as it seemed. There was a simple solution to all this, the odd pieces of the puzzle would fall into place.

‘Will you? I know I behaved like a fool, but—'

‘We can't blame your father for that. Yes, I'll go. What does he want?'

‘I just picked up the message, that's all. You'll go as soon as you can, won't you?

‘Yes.'

‘Thanks. Then I'll be off.'

‘I shouldn't go just yet,' said Mannering.

‘Why not?'

‘The police saw you come in.'

‘I'm not worried about the police!'

‘Blow hot, blow cold. Love me, love me not; “I fear the police, the police can go to hell.”'

‘They're worried about you,' said Mannering.

‘What the devil do you mean?'

‘I saw Bristow at Quinn's, remember? He told me that he wants a chat with you.'

‘And you've sent for him!' Rage flared up again. ‘That's who you telephoned. You've told him I'm here! Why, I'd like to break your neck!'

‘You were seen to come in.'

‘You've given me away! You—
now
I know what a foul swine you are,' bellowed Harding. ‘And Marjorie trusted you, she—' He choked, turned on his heel, and made for the door.

Before he reached it, the bell rang.

‘Love me, love me not.'

‘Is that your friends?' Harding managed to put a sneer into his words.

‘Probably.'

The bell rang again.

‘Aren't you going to answer the door?'

‘There's no hurry. So your father's been released.'

‘The fools should never have detained him.'

Mannering said: ‘You want help, Marjorie wants help, your father wants to see me. You don't give a damn for the police and shake as with palsy when they come for you. What's the truth?'

Harding didn't answer. The bell rang again.

Mannering shrugged, and opened the door – to Tring.

‘Hallo, Tanker! Got over the writer's cramp?'

‘Took your time letting me in, didn't you?'

‘There's always plenty of time. Do you know Mr. Paul Harding?'

‘I'll be glad if you will come along with me, to make a statement,' Tring said laboriously. ‘I am Serg—I am Inspector Tring, of New Scotland Yard.'

He took out his card, but Harding brushed it aside.

‘Are you arresting me?'

‘No, sir.' Tring was formal. ‘We would like you to make a statement, that's all.'

‘Do I have to go with him, Mannering?'

‘No,' said Mannering, ‘but I should, if I were you.'

Tring, preferring not to voice agreement with Mannering, said nothing. Harding's face was set and angry. He wanted to talk to Mannering, or else to make a fool of him.

‘Oh, all right,' he growled.

‘Thank you, sir,' said Tring. ‘Goodnight, Mr. Mannering.'

He turned, and ushered Harding out of the room.

Mannering crossed to the window. Tring appeared in the street first; his car stood outside the house, with a police constable by it. Harding got in, and Tring followed clumsily. The door slammed.

Mannering caught sight of a familiar figure on the other side of the road as he turned away.

There was a binned out house, only the shell of which was standing, nearly opposite; behind one of the walls stood Josh Larraby, invisible from the street. The little man appeared to be standing on tip-toe, so as to watch Harding.

Larraby watched the car disappear, and then stepped cautiously from his hiding place. He looked up at the window, caught sight of Mannering, smiled and hurried towards the Embankment. The policeman on duty watched him.

Why was he so interested in Paul Harding?

What did the two really know about each other?

 

Mannering took up the telephone and dialled Leverson's number.
Brrr-brrr, brrr-brrr.
The ringing sound mocked him. Lorna had been dragged by the hair across this room, probably over the very spot where he was standing, and in spite of the warning, in spite of the danger, he hadn't sent Simon here. But the police had been outside all the time, it wasn't so easy to fool them as he'd told himself, Lorna ought to have been safe.

Had Larraby told the truth?

He was caught with a sudden surge of fear, swung round, thrust open every door in the apartment, looked in the cupboards, even lifted the seat of the settle. Then he approached the attic staircase. His breathing was uneven, he was near panic. He went up, slowly. The hatch was down and locked from the outside, as Lorna usually locked it. The bolt stuck when he pushed it. He pushed harder and caught his finger on a splinter. He winced, flung the hatch back, and thrust his head and shoulders through.

If Lorna—

Larraby's portrait stood on the easel without a canvas cover; it was an uncanny likeness, and more than a likeness. The studio was empty. Mannering laughed, unsteadily, climbed in and looked in the store cupboard, with its tidy stores of paint tubes, chalks, crayons, pencils and brushes. He kicked aside several pieces of webbing, used for packing.

Of course she wasn't here.

What had got into him?

Doubt about Larraby, chiefly; he knew that.

He stood and studied the portrait. There was something Lorna hadn't caught; Larraby's expression, when Mannering had gripped his shoulder downstairs; that intense, almost desperate denial of bad faith. Larraby had persuaded Lorna that he could be trusted or she wouldn't have left him here alone; a known jewel thief, given the freedom of a place full of
objets d'art
,
some of them priceless. Larraby had a way with him – and Larraby had been watching Harding and knew just how to conceal himself.

Mannering went out, and crossed to a policeman on duty over the road.

‘Constable.'

‘Yes, sir?'

‘Did you see my wife leave?'

‘Yes, sir, I did.'

‘Remember what time it was?'

The constable hesitated, then took out his notebook, flipped over a few pages and said in a flat voice: ‘Three minutes after four o'clock, p.m.'

‘Thanks.' So Larraby had his time right.

Mannering half-turned, then said: ‘Was anyone with her?'