“Keep wondering,” Mannering said.
“I shan’t, for long. I want Celia sent to Paris and the papers delivered to the garage by midnight tonight. If I haven’t heard that both are safe – “he stretched out his hand and put his thumb towards the floor.
Mannering said mildly: “I’ll come for you when I want you, Shadow.”
Smith shrugged and turned away. Mannering watched him until the door closed. It made hardly a sound, but an uproar of voices followed. Mannering heard a stifled cry and the thud of a falling body. He reached the door and pulled it open. Major Fleming stood at the top of the stairs, and Smith, on his knees, sprawled on the landing below.
Fleming turned.
“Hallo, Mannering. I’m sorry I’ve used your landing as a summary court of justice. Can you spare me a few minutes?”
“You’re a pretty useful man with your fists,” Mannering said, as he led the way into the study. “Smith can give you ten years or more. How did you manage to throw him downstairs?”
Fleming shrugged.
“I keep pretty fit and know a trick or two. I didn’t spend three years in the Burmese jungle for nothing. If I could deal with Smith with these – “he stretched out his hands with the ringers spread wide – “I’d be a happy man. What was he doing here?”
“Breathing fire.”
“I think he’s beginning to get a healthy respect for you,” said Fleming.
“I wish you’d share it.”
Fleming frowned. “Believe me, I do. Any man who can put the best barrister in England on to me, as you did, is worthy of anyone’s respect”
“Why didn’t you tell me about George Lee?”
“That’s what I’ve come to see you about.” Fleming was bland. “I might also ask what you were doing at Maylands last night, but I’ll assume that you had a good reason. I don’t give a damn what you do, as long as I see Smith confounded and Celia free. I’ll work with any man who’ll help. George will do his best for Celia, there’s no doubt about that. He and Muriel together might have succeeded. If you’re going to ask me why I didn’t tell you about Muriel’s plot – “he shrugged his shoulders.”It was obvious that it wouldn’t come off, after her death. George couldn’t do anything by himself. So I didn’t tell you. In any case, I didn’t expect him back until next week.”
“Did you leave two thousand pounds in a garage in the safe for him?”
“I certainly did.”
“Risky hiding place, wasn’t it?”
“I’ve never known a better. I meant to slip home this morning and remove the money, as there was no further point in going on with George’s bright idea, but – –” he shrugged again. “George is half demented. He’s begged me to let him take Celia away, saying it’s the only hope for her, even now. I’m inclined to agree. Is it true that you know where she is?”
Mannering nodded.
“I did better than I knew when I came to you,” said Fleming warmly. “How is she?”
“Right enough, and I think Smith’s too busy to go after her. She’s watched and in good hands. How’s your wife?”
“Very poorly.” Fleming’s shoulders drooped, as he slumped into a chair next to the Rubens. “The nurse has gone; I’ve engaged a private one in her place. We shall stay at the hotel until my wife’s fit enough to travel. That’ll be the better part of a week, I suppose. Mannering –”
“Yes.”
“You know the police pretty well. Have they any idea of my wife’s past record?”
“If they have, they’ve not informed me.”
“I’m still worried, in case they find it out and start thinking that she killed Muriel.”
“Did she know that Muriel was working with George to help Celia?”
“No. It would only have raised her hopes. With a woman whose mind is as finely balanced as my wife’s, you have to be extremely careful. Why?”
“If she’d known, she wouldn’t have had any motive to kill, would she?”
Fleming looked restlessly round the room, and his gaze fell on the Rubens. He appeared to study it. Without raising his head, he said: “So you think she may have done it?”
“I’m trying to put myself into Bristow’s position. It’s one of the factors to be taken into consideration.”
“Smith killed her. Or else he arranged for one of his men to do it. He surrounds himself with a bodyguard of criminals, and I think they’d do anything he ordered. Once the truth is known, my wife won’t be in any danger. Until then, she’ll be in a great deal. There’s nothing I can do myself, but I’m relying on you, Mannering.”
“There may be a lot you can do yourself.”
“Such as?”
“Find out, at the hotel, whether any strangers were about on the night of the murder. Find out who arrived that day, and stayed only the one night. Try to check on the staff, see if they had anyone in temporarily that night.”
“Surely Bristow will see to all that?”
“But he won’t tell me the results.”
“I see,” said Fleming. He turned away from the Rubens, without comment. “I’ll be glad to do what I can, and I’ll tell you if there’s any news. Is that all?”
“For the time being,” said Mannering. “What’s the relationship between George Lee and Celia?”
“I wouldn’t say that there is one.”
“He thinks there is.”
“He’s in love with her. It isn’t the hardest thing for a man to fall in love with Celia.” Fleming’s voice grew gentle. “I think he’s a good chap. He’s a bit weak, and fell under Smith’s domination for a time, but he’s all right at heart. It’s no use asking me whether Celia is interested in him – I just don’t know. They didn’t meet until after she’d gone to Smith.”
“How long have you known Lee?”
“About a year.”
“How long has this kidnapping plot been going on?”
“About four months. Until then, I’d only met Lee casually. Then he came to me, and we had a long talk. I jumped at the chance that he might do something to help Celia. You know the rest.”
“Is this the first time you’ve given him money?”
Fleming looked up sharply.
“What are you getting at?”
“Is it the first time?”
“Well, no. I’ve let him have a few hundred pounds, at intervals. He threw up his job with Smith, and hadn’t anything much left. He couldn’t get another job and do what he could for Celia, so I staked him. I thought it was a good investment. Have you any reason to think that he’s not trustworthy?”
“It’s one of the things we have to find out,” said Mannering.
After Fleming had gone, Mannering went up to the studio, to see Lorna. She was standing by the easel, looking critically at a wet landscape. Half finished canvasses were stacked in twos and threes, most of them facing the walls. Lorna’s hair was untidy, and there was a dab of burnt Sienna on the side of her chin.
Mannering studied the picture.
“No opinion at this stage, please,” said Lorna. “What have you done to Hetty? She was almost in tears when she brought me a cup of tea.”
“She doesn’t like Smith.”
“I haven’t seen him,” Lorna said, “but already he makes me want to scream. John, must you go on with this?”
“Must you go on with that?” Mannering glanced at the landscape.
Lorna said dryly: “The point is taken.”
“It can’t go on much longer.” There was a note of appeal in Mannering’s voice. “Smith is feeling pretty vicious. It’ll be a quick finish and a nasty one. Do you feel like enlisting the aid of the police?”
Lorna didn’t speak.
“I’m serious. And I think Bristow would pay more attention just now to you than he would to me. Tell him that a new character has appeared, a George Lee, who worked for some time with Smith’s mail order business, as a buyer. Ask him if he can find out anything about this Smith who’s supposed to have been on the Continent a lot lately.”
“And why am I supposed to find that of burning interest?” inquired Lorna.
“Because you are worried that I am mixed up in it, and that he may not be trustworthy. Description – “Mannering took the photograph from inside his coat, and handed it to her.
“He looks a bit feckless,” Lorna said critically. “What has he done, that you should hand him over to the police?”
Mannering said with the careful manner of one divulging a rather natty plot: “It may give Bristow a good chance to be heavy handed. You know the record: ‘I’ve told John a hundred times that he’ll burn his fingers one of these days. This man is . . .’ “Mannering broke off.”If Lee’s got a record, it’ll give the job a new slant. He’s so ingenuous that it’s almost suspicious, and Bristow won’t give me any help on a direct approach.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Lorna said at last.
“And also see if there’s any news about Muriel Lee’s murder. Bristow might drop you a hint.”
“What do you expect to hear?”
“That he’s very suspicious of one of the Flemings.”
“And you aren’t?”
Mannering kissed her lightly on the forehead, and went downstairs, without answering. He took the makeup case with him, and left the flat. His car was standing outside;
Lee had arranged for it to be driven back. He drove straight to Trafalgar Square, without being followed. Why had Bristow taken his watchdog away?
It was still broad daylight, a risky time for disguise. He went to the Post Office, and asked for letter to Mr. John Brown. There was one. Slipping it into his pocket he went outside and watched, to make sure that no one had observed him. Satisfied, he went back through the Post Office and out of the entrance opposite St. Martins-in-the-Fields. He could see no loitering figure. He went to his car and drove towards Piccadilly, stopping in Leicester Square to read the letter. The address was typewritten; so was the note inside and there was no signature. But it was from Smith, who had written:
“I want to see you tonight. I’ve a job for you. No risks and it’s worth two hundred pounds.”
Mannering flicked his lighter, lit the corner of the note and let it burn. He was smiling. But it was a strained smile.
If Smith had no idea of the connection between “Brown” and Mannering, all might go well. If Smith guessed, or half-guessed, he would be walking into a trap. He didn’t think that Smith would let him go again, unless . . .
There were so many possibilities, one of them highly dangerous. If Smith half-guessed the truth, he could have the grease paint off in five minutes – sufficient to recognise Mannering. Once he knew that Brown was Mannering, he would hold all the high cards. But “Brown” might find out the truth about the murder, about the Shadow and about Smith, in a matter of hours. Lorna would say it was a crazy risk that wasn’t justified.
“But if Smith was a public menace....”
If Mannering went, he would have to go alone.
Larraby could have helped; but Larraby’s job was important. Certainly Celia couldn’t be left unguarded at the cottage.
It was a little after four o’clock.
He drove towards Fleet Street, reached the Record Office and found the big newsroom almost deserted. The fierce rush of work hadn’t yet started, this was a recession period. Chittering wasn’t there. He went across to the Red
Lion and found the reporter in the tea room. Chittering sauntered across to him, leisurely.
“Got a story for me?”
“Maybe. Busy tonight?”
“I’m always busy.”
“Could you go and amuse Chloe for a while? I’ve a job for Larraby.”
“Won’t I do?” Chittering was hopeful.
“Sorry, no.”
“Oh, well,” said Chittering. “I can tell the Old Man that I’m on a hot job; I suppose it will be all right. Any objection to me interviewing the lovely Celia?”
“A very strong one, you’re just the brother of your sister Jane.”
“The things I do for you,” said Chittering. “I suppose it’s a rush job.”
“If Larraby can be at Aldgate Station at seven o’clock tonight, I’ll be happy,” Mannering said.
“It’ll mean breaking every speed limit invented by man. All right, John. I’ll do what I can.”
Mannering telephoned the Palling Garage and left a message for Caton; that he could not arrive before seven thirty and might be later. The voice which answered was that of the little man who had burst into the room ahead of Smith earlier that morning. Mannering drove off, parked his car, and then went by bus to the Edgware Road. He needed special makeup for tonight, and only Old Sol could do it.
At a little after six o’clock, Mannering looked at himself in a mirror, and marvelled. It was by far the best job that Old Sol had done on him. He went by bus to the house in Paddington, reaching there a little before seven o’clock.
The motherly woman told him that two men had called to see him; from the descriptions, they were Mick and the big man.
No one was in the street. Mannering walked back and at the nearest garage, hired a car, giving Old Sol as a reference. It was a roomy Austin, with a good turn of speed. He drove through the brightly lit streets to Aldgate, arriving soon after seven fifteen.
Larraby was standing in the entrance to the underground
station, reading an Evening News. He glanced up as Mannering approached.
“How are tricks, Josh?”
Larraby lowered the paper. He looked intently at Mannering, but made no comment on his appearance.
“All well at the cottage?”
“I understand that Miss Fleming is quite content to stay there,” Larraby said.
“Good. Now listen. Josh. I’m going to the Palling Garage. I don’t know whether Smith is pulling a fast one or not. He may suspect that Brown is Mannering. I want you to be at hand. I’ll raise an alarm if there’s trouble. If it gets through to you, telephone the police. And do the same if I’m not out within the hour. All clear?”
“Perfectly,” said Larraby. “Shall we make separate ways to Southwark?”
“I’ll give you a start. Go by taxi.”
“Very good,” said Larraby.
He drifted into the flow of pedestrians with intuitive skill. With time on his hands, Mannering turned to the telephone kiosks, and dialled his Chelsea number.
“Hallo, sweetheart.” Mannering’s voice had laughter in it. “How did you get on with the great detective?”
Lorna didn’t answer.
“You there?” Mannering was anxious.
“Yes, I’m here,” said Lorna slowly. “John, be very careful.”
“So George Lee’s a bad ‘un,” Mannering said.