The Warning Read online

  Copyright & Information

  The Warning

  First published in 1952

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1952-2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755136802 9780755136803 Print

  0755140133 9780755140138 Kindle

  0755138481 9780755138487 Epub

  0755155483 9780755155484 Epdf

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Chapter 1

  The Man Who Wanted Mannering

  ‘Mr Mannering!’ the man called hoarsely. ‘Mr Mannering!’

  A dozen people in Bond Street looked at him, but no one answered, no one turned – not even the tall man walking some way ahead.

  ‘Mr—Mannering!’ The caller’s voice was wavering, as if with exhaustion. His voice had been loud when he had first called out, but was now little above a whisper. ‘Mr—Mannering!’

  The tall man, walking with long, easy strides, drew further away.

  The caller missed a step, stumbled, and would have fallen but for a girl who grasped his arm.

  The girl saw the beads of sweat on his forehead, and the shadows of fear in his eyes as he leaned against her. Others passed, ignoring them, as the girl – who had never seen the man before – supported him gently.

  ‘Must—see Mannering,’ he gasped. He pointed unsteadily towards the backs of twenty men and as many women. ‘Must—see him.’

  The girl peered forward. She wasn’t sure what to do, or if, indeed, she could do anything, but the desperation in the brown eyes held her.

  The tallest man in the crowd turned a corner and disappeared. The other gave a hoarse cry, and started to run again. Desperation gave him strength, and he moved quickly for a few yards, then all but fell.

  The girl, tall and fair, looked round agitatedly. A taxi was crawling towards them. She raised her hand, and the driver pulled up. ‘Get in,’ she said. ‘We’ll find him.’

  She helped the man into the taxi, alarmed at his weakness, watching him anxiously.

  The cab turned the corner. This was a one-way street, with narrow pavements, where some of London’s most exclusive shops were to be found.

  Two women were coming out of a gown salon, where a single dress cost an average man’s monthly income. No one else was in sight.

  The cabby slowed down.

  ‘Whereabouts, Miss?’

  ‘Just—just wait here.’ The girl climbed out hastily, leaving her handbag on the seat. She looked distractedly at the shops, then chose one that was small and very narrow. On the fascia board above her head was one word: Quinns. In the window, against a deep red-velvet background, lay an enormous diamond.

  The girl opened the door and stepped into shadow and coolness. An old man with silver hair moved forward. ‘Good afternoon, madam. Can I help you?’

  ‘Is—is there a Mr Mannering here?’

  ‘Why, yes, there is.’

  ‘Ask him to come to the taxi outside,’ said the girl breathlessly. ‘Please ask him to hurry.’

  She turned back to the door, without noticing the tall man who had appeared from the far end of the shop and was walking towards her.

  He said easily: ‘I am John Mannering. In what way can I help you?’

  ‘There’s a man outside—’ she began, then half-ran towards the taxi. Mannering was just behind her.

  ‘Here he is,’ she said. ‘You—’

  Her voice trailed off. Mannering peered over her head and saw a man slumped down in the corner. ‘Let me come,’ Mannering said.

  The girl moved aside, mechanically. Minutes passed and brought with them a tension which the girl could not properly understand. Mannering backed out of the taxi.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s too late,’ he said gravely, ‘the man’s dead.’

  John Mannering, owner of Quinns, owner of a reputation that was in its way unique, took the girl’s arm and led her back to the shop. The old man with the silver hair was coming forward.

  ‘Your name?’ Mannering asked the girl, almost casually.

  ‘Lee – Garielle Lee. I don’t—’

  ‘Josh, take Miss Lee upstairs, and make some tea, will you? Don’t worry, Miss Lee, I’ll look after this.’ He went into a small office on the right, and reached for a telephone.

  ‘Scotland Yard; can I help you?’ asked a girl operator.

  ‘Is Superintendent Bristow in?’ asked Mannering. ‘Hold on, please, I’ll see.’

  Mannering waited for perhaps a minute, then a well-known voice came across the wire. ‘Bristow here.’

  ‘Still wallowing deep in crime?’ asked Mannering.

  Bristow’s voice took on a new note. ‘So it’s you, John. Yes, I’m busy.’

  ‘So that’s how it is,’ said Mannering. ‘All right, Bill, I’ll look after the corpse myself, and—’

  ‘Corpse?’

  ‘Body.’

  ‘Now what have you been doing?’

  ‘It arrived in a taxi, with an agitated young woman. I haven’t seen the man before, and I’m not sure how he died, but I think you’ll find he was poisoned.’

  ‘Where is this?’ demanded Bristow.

  ‘In a taxi outside Quinns.’

  ‘Just leave everything alone,’ said Bristow. ‘Don’t touch the body, don’t touch anything.’

  Mannering had a word with the taxi-driver, repeated Bristow’s message to a tall, solid-looking constable, and returned to the shop.

  Josh Larraby, his sil
ver-haired manager, was coming down the stairs. On either side of the older man were showcases containing jewels and objets d’art, their beauty cloaked by the soft light. There were antiques, too, and exquisite miniatures.

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘Nothing of significance, sir.’

  ‘I’ll go up,’ said Mannering.

  The girl was sitting back in an easy chair, sipping tea. Mannering sat down and poured himself out a cup, unobtrusively studying the girl as he did so. There was style there, he decided, both in the cut of her plain linen frock, and in herself. He noted with pleasure her long and slender hands.

  ‘This must have been a shock, Miss Lee.’

  ‘It’s—it’s quite fantastic,’ she answered in a strained voice, ‘I can hardly believe it happened.’ After a pause she went on: ‘I’d just slipped out of my office for a few minutes when I saw this man staggering along, calling your name. He nearly fell, and I saved him. He could hardly speak, but kept saying he must see you and—’ She caught her breath. ‘Then you turned the corner. He nearly collapsed, so I called the taxi, and helped him in. He was alive when I came into the shop, and – you know what happened when I got back.’

  ‘Yes, I do indeed. And he was a complete stranger?’

  She nodded.

  ‘He was so desperate! He said—’ The girl hesitated, then burst out: ‘He said that he must warn you. He said it two or three times. Warn. He talked as if he knew you, and was frightened for you.’

  Chapter 2

  The Doubting Policeman

  ‘Well?’ Superintendent William Bristow of New Scotland Yard was brusque. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘No,’ said Mannering.

  ‘Hmph.’ Bristow looked at the girl. ‘And he was a complete stranger to you, Miss Lee?’

  ‘I’ve said so a dozen times.’

  ‘So you did,’ said Bristow blandly. ‘Peculiar. A stranger to both of you. Very good of you to have helped the man, Miss Lee. I’m afraid there will be some formalities which can’t be avoided, such as the inquest.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘Afraid so. Sorry.’ Bristow’s sorrow did not alter the keenness of his gaze. ‘I’ll have to worry you to sign a statement, too. Care to come along to the Yard, or—’

  ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘I must get back to the office. I work for Mr Anderson at Crane Buildings. It’s nearly five o’clock and his letters will be ready.’

  ‘Your home address?’

  She took a card out of her handbag.

  ‘It’s here,’ she said. ‘I’ll be free by six o’clock and I could see you then.’

  Mannering went with the girl to the door of the shop. Bristow followed, and Mannering saw him making signs to a detective officer, saw the man turn in the wake of Miss Lee.

  Mannering and Bristow strolled back along the shop to the office.

  ‘John, who was that man?’

  ‘I don’t know him from Adam.’

  ‘He knew what you looked like and where he could find you.’

  Mannering said pleasantly: ‘Why don’t you call me a liar and be done with it?’

  Bristow frowned. He said slowly: ‘You’re holding out on me, John, and I don’t like it.’

  ‘Bill, I called you within three minutes of seeing the body, and went straight up to the girl. I was with the body for perhaps a minute, making sure that he was dead. If there’d been a spark of life I would have sent for the nearest doctor.’

  ‘What made you think it was poison?’

  ‘The pallor of his face and the pin-point pupils,’ said Mannering. ‘I’d say that he took the stuff some time before Miss Lee found him, and that he knew he was dying.’

  ‘I hope you’re telling the truth,’ said Bristow. ‘You’ll be wanted at the inquest, too. By the way, how well do you know the girl?’

  Mannering chuckled. ‘I don’t know her.’

  By now an ambulance had taken the body away, and the police had released the taxi-driver but impounded his cab. The street was deserted. Mannering went back to the office and looked through his list of appointments for the next day – two auctions in the London area; it wouldn’t be all the world if he missed both of them.

  It was getting on for six o’clock.

  He sat back and closed his eyes – and pictured the face of the dead man. He had not told Bristow that he knew that the man’s pockets had been empty, for he’d felt in them all.

  The girl had been emphatic about the warning. Bristow would check; Bristow would soon know how much of her story of the chance encounter was true. Bristow, in the right mood, would tell him.

  Had the man taken poison himself? Would a suicide come to warn him of anything? It was more likely murder. Grant that it was, then it meant grave danger.

  The telephone bell rang.

  He lifted the receiver.

  ‘Mannering here.’

  “Hold on, please,’ an operator said. ‘I’ve a call for you. Long distance.’

  This would be his wife, Lorna, who was in the country with her mother.

  ‘John!’

  ‘Hallo, my sweet. You wouldn’t know when you’re coming home, would you?’

  ‘I must stay for a few more days,’ Lorna said. ‘Over the weekend, anyhow. Can’t you come down here?’

  ‘It depends when Robby gets in. I haven’t had the final date yet. How’s everyone?’

  ‘Fine. Mother sends her love. What are you doing this evening?’

  ‘Dining at the Club, where, incidentally, I am staying, the loneliness of the flat being too much for me. I’m leaving the office in a moment or two. Josh has already gone home, rich in virtue having stopped me from buying a Ming vase made in the Potteries.’

  They talked for ten minutes or so before Lorna rang off.

  The dead man’s face swam persistently before Mannering’s eyes, as he rang up the Yard. No, the body had not yet been identified.

  Mannering shrugged his shoulders. He may as well lock up.

  He went round the windows, locking them all, then turned to look at the room where Garielle Lee had been resting: She had left a handkerchief by the side of the chair. He picked it up. She used a good perfume, and certainly wasn’t poor. Who was her Mr Anderson? What job did she have? He could take the handkerchief back to her tomorrow, and find out.

  He went out of the room, humming under his breath, and heard nothing, until it was too late to defend himself. The blow, when it fell, seemed to split his skull, and he dropped into unconsciousness.

  It was dark when he came round. His head ached and there were shooting pains across his eyes. He tried to think, and gradually, memory came back. The girl, the dead man and a warning.

  He moved his right hand to his head cautiously. There was a bump there all right. Then he began to think. He had told Larraby that he would lock up, and had left the shop door unlocked. His assailant had come in, waited, pounced and struck.

  Carefully, Mannering stood up. Movement brought a wave of pain, but he set his teeth and fought it back.

  He was in the room where Garielle Lee had waited.

  He moved unsteadily towards the door, taking each step with great care to avoid hurting his head. At last he grasped the handle, and turned it. The door was locked.

  Slowly, with infinite patience, he groped in his pocket for his knife. It had a special blade – a skeleton key. He inserted it and twisted. Normally it would have been easy but now the effort flooded his head, his whole being, with pain. He didn’t give up, and at last the lock clicked back.

  For a moment he hesitated, not knowing whether his assailant was still on the premises, or what he might be running into.

  He might open the door on to more trouble.

  He opened the door.

  Chapter 3

  Threat

  No one was outside.

  Mannering stepped cautiously into the narrow passage, looking right and left. No one was in sight. Holding on to the banisters he went down the stairs. On the wall near
by were two Indian throwing-knives. He took them down, slipped one into his pocket and held the other in his right hand.

  Armed, after a fashion, he stepped towards the open office door. There was a faint sound, as of paper being turned over.

  He peered inside.

  A man sat at his desk, looking through his papers. The man turned them over quickly and tidily, finishing with one folder, then taking up another. He had a good, sharp profile – nose a trifle prominent, chin square, thin lips set. By his side was a short stick, the end rounded and vicious-looking. He finished with the second file and picked up a third.

  Mannering stood in the doorway, knife in hand.

  ‘Looking for something?’ he inquired.

  The man glanced up swiftly, feeling for a gun. Mannering flung the knife. The pointed blade stabbed into the back of the man’s hand. Mannering leapt forward and struck at the other’s chin. As the man fell sideways, Mannering snatched at his gun.

  He backed away.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Mannering said grimly, ‘the knife might have been in your throat. What are you looking for?’

  ‘You—you know damned well.’

  ‘Oh, do I?’ Mannering moved forward. ‘Turn round and take off your coat.’

  Slowly, painfully, the man stripped off his coat and flung it on the desk.

  Mannering picked it up with his left hand and shook it. A wallet fell out; a silver watch hit the desk with a thump; a cigarette-case and a lighter slithered to the floor. Mannering opened the wallet; within were two letters.

  He glanced at these.

  ‘So, your name is Liggett. Perhaps you will tell me what paper you are looking for?’

  The man named Liggett said sullenly: ‘The one that Powell gave you.’

  ‘And who is Powell?’

  ‘You know Powell, all right. You know—’ He broke off.

  Mannering said pleasantly: ‘How very hard you are to convince. Was Powell the chap who died in the taxi?’

  Liggett’s expression was one of sheer incredulity. ‘Of course it was. But he came here, you saw him!’