The Arrogant Artist Read online

  “Oh yes,” she said, touched by his obvious concern. “I’m just overtired and—well, I suddenly remembered how the man attacked me, and the fact that he was murdered here. Have you—have you caught the murderer?”

  “Not yet, ma’am,” the sergeant replied. “But we will, don’t have any doubts about that. And there’s no need at all for you to worry. There’ll be a policeman on duty downstairs and in the hall up here. You’re bound to be nervous for a little while, but you really needn’t worry. Is Mr. Mannering coming?”

  “He’ll be in this evening,” she answered. “He doesn’t know I’m back here.”

  She sensed the man’s flush of disapproval of John, but was too tired to worry about it. Soon the police officer came in with coffee on a tray with a lace mat he must have taken out of a kitchen drawer. There was coffee in a jug, cream, sugar, plain biscuits. He placed these on a table by her side, and stood back.

  “I hope that’s all right,” he said diffidently.

  “It looks wonderful! And if one of you could give me my handbag, I’ve some aspirins in it, I’ll feel beautifully spoiled.”

  They fussed a little more before leaving, and there was a depressing finality about the closing of the outside door. She leaned back, shifting a cushion behind her head, and closed her eyes. A picture not of John, not of the policemen, but of Tom Forrester filled her mind’s eye, and it did not go until she opened her eyes and poured out coffee. She put in plenty of sugar and a splash of cream, then drank slowly. It began to warm her almost at once. She had her feet up, and now unfastened the zipper at her waist; she had already kicked off her shoes.

  What on earth was the matter with her?

  She couldn’t be frightened about last night. Not now. And she couldn’t be interested in Forrester: that was ludicrous! But she had been virtually mesmerised. Or was it hypnotised? She could almost see his eyes and feel his hands. She remembered the effect of seeing the girl, too, and the way she had behaved with John. That picture in the Mirror had been quite remarkable; but then, what a picture she and Forrester would have made!

  Suddenly, she exclaimed aloud: “That photograph!”

  She had a sudden vision of the man who had run away from the house after Walker’s death; saw him turn and look up, and recalled the expression on his face and the click of the camera. She sprang up, knocked the tray, saved it from toppling and hurried into the drawing room for the camera. She saw no sign of it, although the last time she had seen it it had been on a small table, after John had put it down. She picked up the telephone in the hall and dialled Quinns; John himself answered, in the deep voice which seemed to make the wire vibrate.

  “John Mannering, of Quinns.”

  “John,” Lorna said, almost in exclamation. “The camera!”

  “What cam—” he began, and then suddenly laughed. “The camera! I brought it here and took the roll to a shop for developing. I’ve been promised it for this afternoon.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” she exclaimed. “I thought you might have left it and the police had taken it. I’m back at the flat, darling. The study’s still locked but everything else is clear, and I must say they left it immaculate.”

  “Good for Willison! Will you stay home now?” Mannering obviously wanted the answer to be ‘Yes’.

  “Oh, I think so.”

  “Then I’ll call at the club for the things,” he promised.

  “Thank you, darling.”

  “Did you go to Riston Street?” John inquired.

  “Yes,” she answered. “I simply had to.”

  “How did you get on?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say that Forrester had tried to do to her what Julie had apparently tried to do with him, but she stopped herself. In a swift succession of thoughts she told herself that once she started to explain John would want to know more and more, and that if she tried to explain Forrester’s attitude and her own feeling, John would never really understand. It was far better to say nothing: she would soon forget and he would never know.

  So she answered: “John, I really think he’s—he’s good.”

  “Near genius?” asked John lightly.

  “Very unusual anyway.”

  “So, worth helping?” he persisted.

  “Decidedly,” she answered. “But I doubt if he’ll let himself be helped now.”

  “You got that impression too?”

  “Strongly,” Lorna admitted.

  “What did you do to affront him?” asked Mannering.

  “I asked him why he pretended to have committed suicide when in fact someone tried to murder him,” said Lorna. “His attitude changed so quickly he was hardly the same man.”

  Mannering chuckled.

  “I’m not really surprised,” he said. “I never saw a man whose mood can change so fast! Did he answer?”

  “He insisted that he attempted to commit suicide.”

  “Ah,” said Mannering, softly. “Did he give you the slightest hint why?”

  “No,” Lorna replied slowly, and after a few moments she went on: “I think he meant to imply that he was doing it as a martyr on the funeral pyre of art for art’s sake, but I can’t say that he put it in those words. I may have dreamed it up.”

  “Possibly,” agreed Mannering. “But from what you saw of him did he seem likely to try to take his own life?”

  She could picture Forrester’s brilliant eyes; his handsomeness; she could feel his strength and believe in his virility. He was as vivid a personality as she had ever known, and had no doubt at all that he lived life to the full and loved to the full, and would cling to it with all his strength.

  “No,” she said, quietly. “I don’t think he would for one moment.”

  “Nor do I,” said Mannering. “So we have to find out who attempted to kill him, and why. And I’ve a feeling that you are much more likely to make him talk than I ever can.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dilemma

  Lorna had plenty of time to ponder and even to brood over that remark, for Mannering rang off, after promising to get back as soon as he could, and in an almost fatherly way, urging her to have some rest.

  To her surprise she actually dropped off to sleep for half an hour, and felt much better for it. She was able to consider the situation much more dispassionately, but still realised that his remark had thrust her into a dilemma.

  When after getting home he said much the same thing – that she was much more likely to be able to make Forrester talk – her immediate reaction was still to think: No! I don’t want another tête-a-tête with Tom Forrester. Yet John was almost certainly right; once Forrester had recovered from his annoyance, he was likely to talk more freely to her than to John. She was aware of the scrutiny of John’s hazel-brown eyes; became aware of the change from the quizzical to the puzzled in his expression. If she didn’t answer soon he would know that something was the matter.

  Was it? Or was she exaggerating?

  Should she – oh, nonsense! She hadn’t exaggerated Forrester’s attitude or the strength of her own emotions.

  Her silence had lasted too long, now, for her to avoid making some explanation, and it wouldn’t be fair to wait until John asked what was troubling her. So she rested a hand on his arm, and said: “He’s a very headstrong man.”

  Mannering was still puzzled, and frowning as if bewildered, too.

  “Yes, I know. But—” he widened his eyes in astonishment. “That kind of headstrong? He made a pass at you?”

  “He was positively passionate,” Lorna replied, her eyes suddenly brighter.

  “But not, I trust, over-persistent?”

  “No, darling,” she said. “He took ‘no’ for an answer very nicely.”

  “But you’re not sure that he always would, and don’t want to try to make him talk,” Mannering remarked. “Well, well!”

  “I’m simply not sure that I want to use my womanly wiles on him,” elaborated Lorna. “He might come to the conclusion that I was tr
ying to make a deal with him.”

  “Ah,” Mannering said, laughter sparkling in his eyes. But was there something as well as laughter? It was never really possible to be sure, and she wasn’t sure now. “He’s a strikingly handsome chap and I don’t doubt that he finds a lot of women compliant.” She was startled at his choice of word, but hoped that it didn’t show in her eyes. “Darling, this has its fascinating aspects.”

  “Hat it, sweetheart?”

  “Yes, beloved. The pretty little Julie has decided to try to weaken my manly resistance, and handsome Tom is now exerting his masculine charms to involve you. Can it be that she’s just a natural sex-kitten needing a strong pair of arms – in addition to the pair she has already! – and that he is simply knocked sideways by one of the loveliest women he’s ever met? Or—”

  Lorna bobbed a mock curtsey.

  “Thank you, kind sir!”

  “The truth will stand for ever! Or have they put their heads together and created some other, combined motive? Julie planning to seduce me; Thomas trying to seduce you. I wonder what they’re really after.” He mused for a few moments before going on in a brisker voice. “I know what we’ll do! I’ll tackle Forrester while you tackle Julie!”

  “What on earth makes you think that will get results?” asked Lorna.

  “If it doesn’t, we can think again,” Mannering replied; the idea obviously pleased him. “Shall I go to him as an angry husband?”

  “Oh, John! No!”

  “All right, all right,” Mannering riposted. “I’ll go as a would-be counsellor and guide, and you go to Julie as a kind of mother figure. Darling,” he went on, moving suddenly and taking her into his arms, “if it weren’t for the murder here and the attack on you, this would really be fun!” He hugged her tightly as they stood body against body, he sought her lips and kissed her with fierce passion before drawing back, quite breathless. “I love you,” he declared. “Since that time in Australia when I thought we had reached the end of the romance in our marriage, I have loved you more than ever.” He kissed her again, drew back and went on: “That is a simple fact. Here is another. I don’t own you, body and soul. I believe – you know I believe – that there is a limit to self-denial and—” he broke off, drew his head back yet still held her close. “I needn’t go on, need I?”

  “No,” Lorna said huskily. “No.”

  He kissed her more gently, and let her go.

  During this time, Chief Inspector Willison was putting the results of his investigation down on paper, and there were two aspects of it. First, the murder at Mannering’s flat and the attack on Lorna Mannering. Second, the mystery of the Fiora Collection. This was in an official report, which was now ready to be typed out. The key question was why the thieves were obviously convinced that Mannering had the jewels. It could be that, like the police, they had been tipped off by an anonymous telephone call: “If you want to find the Fioras, try Mannering at Quinns.” Now that he was convinced that the jewels were not at Mannering’s flat the possibility that they were at Quinns had to be considered. The last paragraph of the report read:

  There is no evidence on which to base a request for a search warrant effective at Quinns. Nevertheless, a search would be invaluable. I would be prepared to ask Mannering for permission to search. If it were withheld then I might use the cuttings books as prima facie evidence that he might have in his possession jewels and objets stolen years ago. This would be thin but might reasonably be considered justification for obtaining a search warrant.

  He would submit this to the Chief Detective Superintendent in charge of the investigation, and perhaps have it passed on to the Commander, the Chief Executive of the Criminal Investigation Department, who was responsible to the Assistant Commissioner for Crime.

  The second set of notes, not yet made as an official report, were about Mannering’s press cuttings books and his interest in crimes most of which had been investigated by Bristow, who had served the Yard for thirty years before joining Mannering at Quinns.

  Was that so remarkable?

  Reading through sensational newspaper reports of the exploits of the Baron created a vivid mind picture of the situation. Reading Bristow’s reports of his investigations in the ‘unsolved’ section of Records, showed that Bristow had often suspected Mannering but had never obtained proof. Yet after Mannering had bought Quinns, he had become a consultant at the Yard! But despite frequent consultation his own activities had often been investigated, by Bristow helped sometimes by first Detective Sergeant, next Detective Chief Inspector, now Chief Superintendent Gordon, who had recently been put in charge of one of the London divisions.

  Before Willison committed himself to an opinion, he decided, he must consult Gordon.

  Sitting at his contemporary-shaped desk in the square, bare office one wall of which was window, Willison picked up the telephone, and said: “Get me Mr. Gordon, of North West Division.”

  “I’ll call you back,” the operator said mechanically.

  Willison rang off, and opened a folder with notes and reports on Tom Forrester and Julie Clarendon. Forrester had inherited some two thousand pounds from his father five years ago. He had been an art student for years, and for some time had tried to earn a living by his painting.

  “Queer stuff,” Willison said to himself. “Damned queer.”

  Julie Clarendon’s story was – although Willison did not realise it – basically identical with what Bristow had told Mannering.

  Both of the young people appeared to be in the clear, but there were the two factors which Willison thought were of key importance: the indications that Mannering and Julie were old acquaintances, and the fact that Lorna Mannering had spent well over an hour with Forrester that morning.

  Willison’s telephone bell rang; he expected Gordon, but instead it was Detective Sergeant Joslin, of Fulham, the man in immediate charge of the reconnaissance of the flat in Riston Street.

  “Yes, Joslin?” Willison was as aloof-sounding as ever.

  “I’ve the final report on Mrs. Mannering’s visit to Forrester,” Joslin announced.

  “Let me have it,” ordered Willison.

  “They were together in the front room for at least half an hour before going to the rest of the house,” Joslin stated.

  “On whose evidence?”

  “The landlord’s – the old man downstairs.”

  “And is he quite sure?”

  “In his opinion they went to bed together,” declared Joslin. “He can’t be sure, though. He says they talked for a while and then fell silent. The next thing was floorboards and bedsprings creaking, and a few minutes later they were both on the landing.”

  “Do you think the old man is reliable?” asked Willison.

  “He’s got sex on the brain,” answered Joslin. “I would say he’s quite truthful but he might not interpret what he hears properly. He says this is what happens very often just after Julie Clarendon comes home from her office across the road. And there have been other women visitors who have followed this kind of routine.”

  “What conclusions have you reached?” Willison asked coldly.

  “No conclusion, sir, but I’m sure of one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If the old chap’s got it right, then Mrs. Mannering has probably known Forrester for some time. But she’s never been there before – at least the old man has never seen her and he doesn’t miss much.”

  “What makes you think Mrs. Mannering’s known Forrester for some time?”

  “She isn’t the kind who would jump into bed with a stranger!”

  “I imagine you’re right,” Willison conceded, almost regretfully. “Put it all in your report.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Have you anything else on the Clarendon girl?”

  “No, sir. No evidence at all that she’s ever seen Mannering in Riston Street.”

  “Right,” Willison said, and rang off.

  There was no evidence at all that Juli
e Clarendon had seen Mannering anywhere – not even that she had visited Quinns before the previous morning. According to everything the police could find out, the statement that the couple had gone to enlist Mannering’s help with Forrester’s paintings was quite true.

  After he had noted Joslin’s reports, Willison’s telephone bell rang again. This was almost sure to be Gordon.

  “Mr. Gordon, please,” he said.

  “Mr. Gordon’s on holiday in Switzerland,” a man answered apologetically. “Chief Inspector Bell is deputising for him. Can he help, sir?”

  “No, this is personal,” said Willison, hiding his disappointment. “When will Mr. Gordon be back, do you know?”

  “On Monday week,” the other answered. “Sorry we can’t help, sir.”

  “Can’t be helped. Goodbye,” Willison said mechanically, and rang off.

  He sat back for a few minutes, staring out of the window. He couldn’t wait to find out whether Gordon had ever had any grounds for suspicion; unless this case went sour on him, he would get results within a week. So he would have to use his own judgement. These old Baron robberies had for so long been on the ‘unsolved’ list that few men at the Yard would ever think of disinterring them but – could they be used to make the Mannerings talk? If not, to get that search warrant for Quinns? Was it even conceivable that after the years in which the investigation had been dead and buried, that new evidence would enable him to do what Bristow and Gordon had failed, utterly.

  If he could—

  Willison’s heart began to race.

  He had jotted down a list of the jewels whose loss had been attributed to the Baron. There were fifty-one robberies with an average loss of £10,000: over half a million in the values of twenty-odd years ago. The present-day value would be nearer two, probably three millions!

  Proving who had stolen them, perhaps even getting some back, would be one of the greatest triumphs of Scotland Yard. If he succeeded he would become one of the key figures at the Yard, and his future here would be absolutely assured.