The Blood Diamond Read online

  ‘I’ve never met one. There isn’t one of importance, or I’d know him.’

  ‘He collects in a small way,’ Bristow admitted. ‘He saw Bray at Bray’s office last night, about nine o’clock – a little after nine.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s your game, Bill? Bray must have been killed between that time and midnight, not between six o’clock and midnight.’

  Bristow didn’t seem to hear that. ‘Harding and Bray had a fierce quarrel. People in the next office to Bray’s heard them. Harding, who lives at Guildford, was recognised. A man who read about the murder told us about Harding’s visit.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mannering. ‘Praise the press!’

  ‘You followed Marjorie Addel to Guildford. You know she went to Harding’s place, don’t you. You knew that she’s in love with Harding’s son. You knew she stayed there all night, and that was why she was late at the shop this morning.’

  Mannering said: ‘Did I, Bill?’

  Bristow growled: ‘You think you’re clever but you’re a fool.’ He stood up. ‘Harding is being questioned now. We’ve got him, and we’re looking for his son. The son’s an officious young upstart, by repute, and may think that you can help him better than the police. If he comes to you, you’ll tell me at once.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Mannering. ‘You couldn’t have known much sooner.’

  There were limits to reticence; Paul Harding’s visit had to be mentioned now.

  ‘Meaning what?’ Bristow demanded.

  ‘He was here just now.’

  ‘The man I saw going out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bristow, slowly, ominously. ‘You allowed him to go without telling me who he was. You had him here before I could get at him – a man who’s urgently wanted. Ten minutes ago, you told me you’d never heard of a jewel collector named Harding. Now you have the impudence to admit that his son was sitting under my very nose when I came in the shop.’ Bristow’s voice was low-pitched, angry. ‘I’ve told you time and time again that one day you’ll go too far, and this time you’ve done just that. For years – for eight years – you’ve gone your own sweet way, you’ve made a monkey of me a dozen times, laughed in my face because you’ve always had an answer and an alibi, but this time you’ve gone over the line. You may have stopped lifting jewels, but you haven’t stopped trying to teach the police their job. Now you’re going to have a chance of watching them at close quarters. You’re coming with me to the Yard for questioning. You’ll have to think up something very smart before you get away. You’ve deliberately withheld a wanted man, but you won’t have a chance to do it again. Come on.’

  Mannering put his head on one side, and stood up slowly. He took out his cigarette case, and lit a cigarette. Bristow turned to the door. He touched the handle as Mannering lit the cigarette.

  Then Mannering gave a sudden, deep, hearty laugh.

  It made Bristow snatch his hand away from the door and swing round.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘My dear chap! Not you, you were wonderful. I shall remember that to my dying day. I’m funny!’

  Bristow snapped: ‘Perhaps your wife will think so.’

  ‘Come, Bill!’

  ‘Stop stalling. We’re going places.’

  ‘Whenever you’ve a warrant, William.’ What was this? Super bluff or sober action? Had Bristow come to take him to the Yard, and played a cat and mouse game until now?

  ‘It’s still funny,’ Mannering said. ‘In this job, I’ve tried to keep things warm for you. Never again – I was a damned fool not to work on my own, working with you blunts what mind I’ve got. How the blazes did I know you wanted young Harding? I needn’t have told you about the bloodstains, not about Marjorie Addel. You might not have known that Bray was dead for days, for weeks. Isn’t it funny?’

  ‘Maybe it was, until you let Harding walk out on me.’

  ‘How was I to know that you wanted him?’

  ‘You could guess.’

  ‘So you’re that good. Forsythe and other bright newspapermen would have fun out of that – a man arrested because he didn’t guess the next police notice. Have the papers mentioned that Harding was wanted?’

  Bristow didn’t answer.

  Mannering rubbed his hands together briskly.

  ‘Come on, Bill. Let’s go. You won’t feel proud of it later.’

  ‘I’m not paid to feel proud.’

  ‘You’re paid to do your job. Why don’t you do it? You ought to know what young Harding looks like – you ought to have recognised him. Not so good, Bill, is it? A wanted man walks past you without any attempt at disguise, and you let him go.’

  ‘Why did you lie to me about knowing his father?’

  ‘I don’t know a collector named Harding. I know an impetuous young man who says his father collects precious stones, but that’s the best I can do for you. Bill, you make one crazy mistake with me. Always at your elbow and at the back of your mind is the nonsense notion that I was once the Baron. If you could get that out of your head, you’d be a wiser man – and you’d know when to ask me for help. Do you know what’s at the bottom of this job? Of course you do – the Adalgo diamond. Do you know who has, or did have, copies or similar stones? You don’t? I do. I’m probably the only man in the country who can help you in this particular case. And will I help? Just ask me! Come on, let’s go. I’ll call my attorney from the Yard.’

  Bristow didn’t move.

  ‘Aren’t you anxious to let Inspector Tring have his great triumph?’ asked Mannering. ‘Or are you worried in case I find a way to give Forsythe the story? It won’t look too good, but you’re not paid to look after your reputation, you’re paid to get results. Remember?’

  After a long pause, Bristow said: ‘I’ll give you an hour to put on paper all you know about the Adalgo, the fakes and the similar stones, all that Harding told you and all you know about the girl and that dress shop. If I catch you out in a single lie, I’ll charge you with complicity and hold you until the inquiry’s over. Is that clear?’

  Mannering sat on the corner of the desk; he felt warm.

  ‘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, youn
g, 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.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE BEGGAR AND THE BOY

  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.’