Taking the Blame Read online

  “As usual,” agreed Mannering heavily.

  “Good—give her my love! Sorry I can’t stay any longer now,” continued Chittering, “but I have the old crust to earn. If I can help at all, say the word—and if you get a story for me, just lift the receiver. ’Bye!”

  He raised a hand, grinned crookedly, and went out of the shop, leaving Mannering standing and reading the Daily Cry. On the front page there was a photograph of Patricia, which almost did her justice, and the story that she had been missing from her home since the previous morning. Mannering read the article closely, then dropped the paper in a chair which had been made when parchment, and not paper, was used for letters, Chittering had at once warned him of the dangers of investigating on his own, and quickened his thoughts about the mystery of Patricia and George.

  Was Patricia now with Clara Harris?

  The telephone rang.

  Mannering let it ring, and stood looking into the office. Brrr-brrr, brrr-brrr. On and on it went, while he wanted to think of the Swanmores, of Bud who had killed again, and of the fact that Lanky Sam was in a police-cell. Lanky had seen him in his disguise; Lanky might have seen through the disguise.

  Brrr-brrr, brrr-brrr!

  The ringing stopped, but started again after a brief pause. This time Mannering went in and answered the call.

  “Mannering?” a man asked abruptly.

  “Yes, speaking,” said Mannering.

  “This is George Swanmore,” said George. “I must see you at once. Come round to my flat, will you?”

  Before Mannering could answer, George rang off.

  Mannering was followed from Quinns.

  The plump Lawson was no longer on duty, but a fair-haired young man who had been among those to search the shop the previous morning, kept on his heels. Mannering didn’t try to lose him.

  After that peremptory ‘request,’ he would have preferred to sit back and wait for George to come and see him, but there was nothing normal about this affair. He was fighting vague dangers which seemed to draw closer, threats which were never uttered but continually implied; and he was fighting his own and Lorna’s moods.

  He took a taxi to Willis Street.

  The detective took another and followed him.

  The taxi turned into the drab thoroughfare and pulled up outside number 11. Farther along the street a man sat at the wheel of a small car, and Mannering thought he recognised him as a C.I.D. man; it was not surprising that George was being watched, particularly after Lawson’s antics at Piccadilly the previous night. How much did Bristow know about George? That he had acted as Bud’s messenger, for instance? Or that he had given Clara the emeralds – which had afterwards been included in those jewels which Lark had ‘bought?’

  He paid off his cab; the C.I.D. man who had followed him stopped in the main road, just out of sight. Mannering took no notice of the other car, but opened the unlocked front door of number 11, and walked up to George’s flat. The door opened as he reached the landing, and George appeared.

  “Good thing you didn’t lose any time.”

  Mannering said: “Was it, George?”

  “Yes,” said George, “and you won’t try any of your funny tricks this time.” He was still sore about being bounced on the couch; as obviously, he felt that he had a strong hand.

  Had he seen through the disguise?

  The door closed.

  Another man appeared on the threshold of the drawing-room – a rather short, rotund man with plump cheeks and bright blue eyes, chubby hands, curly, fair hair and, just then, an expression of acute anxiety.

  This was Tubs Maudsley.

  “You know each other, don’t you?” growled George. “In here, Mannering.”

  Tubs nodded; Mannering preceded George into the room.

  “Now what’s all this about?” demanded Mannering.

  George said harshly: “You know damn well what it’s all about, Mannering. Where’s Tricia? And don’t pretend you don’t know, or I’ll ram your teeth down your throat.”

  This was a new George, fiery and sulphurous, very determined – but now Mannering could see that he was buoying himself up to this; it wouldn’t take much to deflate him. This was not the time for deflation; Mannering made no answer and George raised a clenched, right fist.

  “Come on—out with it!”

  “Look here, Mannering.” This was the first time Tubs had spoken. His voice was rather high-pitched, not unattractive but almost feminine. “I’ve been telling George that it’s all a lot of tommy-rot, you wouldn’t kidnap Patricia or do anything crazy like that, but he seems absolutely certain that he’s right.”

  “I’m sure all right,” growled George.

  “I keep telling him that if you have spirited Tricia away, it’s to hide her somewhere safe,” said Tubs. “But he won’t listen to me, he seems to think that you’re a—”

  “Damned scoundrel!” cried George. “I know you are, Mannering. And you’ll suffer for it before I’ve finished.”

  This from the man who had given Clara Harris jewels from the Swanmore Collection, and who had brought Bud’s message the previous night! Mannering held his peace; silence would goad George to further fury and an angry man would talk more freely than a calm one,

  “Say something, damn you!” roared George.

  “Do you know where Tricia is?” pleaded Tubs.

  Mannering contemplated George’s scowling countenance, the full lips opened for another outburst, he said: “I do not.”

  “That’s a lie!” cried George.

  “The last time I saw Patricia, she was on her way to keep an appointment with you,” said Mannering.

  “She didn’t keep it! I told you she didn’t keep it. The last time she was seen with anyone, it was with you. I’ve heard all about it. She was coming to the shop, and met you in the street. You made off in a taxi and she hasn’t been seen since. That’s the truth—and you know where she is, you damned rogue. If anything happens to Tricia, I’ll—” he broke off, as if he knew that threats were foolish, but his alarm about Patricia seemed real.

  “I’ve no idea where she went,” Mannering said.

  “I tell you—”

  “Now dry up, George,” protested Tubs. “I always said you were crazy to think that Mannering had anything to do with this. We want Mannering’s help, not to put his back up. Mannering, Tricia is missing. Just vanished off the face of the earth. It isn’t some silly prank, either, because—”

  “What’s the use of telling him what he already knows?” demanded George.

  “But I don’t think he does know,” said Tubs valiantly. “Do you, Mannering?”

  In spite of himself, Mannering laughed.

  “I don’t think so, either,” he said. “If you two are playing this pretty game to mystify me, drop it. I don’t know where Patricia is, I don’t know whether she’s disappeared on a silly prank or not, because I don’t know anything about her going. Supposing George stops behaving like a knight-errant, and you both tell me what’s got into you this morning.”

  Tubs said: “Well, it—”

  “You’re lying!” snapped George.

  Tubs rounded on him. “Oh, for the love of Mike put a sock in it,” he said shrilly. “You’re behaving like a damned fool. I think Mannering can help us, but he won’t if you go on like this. Sit down and keep quiet for a minute.”

  George was so astonished that he dropped on to the arm of a chair.

  Tubs turned to Mannering with the air of a man well satisfied with a minor triumph.

  “Let’s start from the beginning again, shall we?” he asked. “George is right in one way, the last person who saw Tricia was you, as far as we can find out. She didn’t turn up at Cherry’s, and she hasn’t been seen since. We were a bit worried about it, because there’s been some family bother, you know, but we didn’t take it too seriously until last night—just after midnight. I was in time to squeeze a story into the late editions of the Cry. Lord Swanmore had a telephone call from a m
an who said that he knew where Tricia was, that she wasn’t hurt, but that her father wouldn’t see her alive again unless he did exactly what he was told. You’ll admit that was shaking, Mannering.”

  “It certainly was,” agreed Mannering softly.

  “Of course it’s nonsense,” said Tubs. “The thing is, this merchant who telephoned didn’t give Lord Swanmore any instructions except these—he was to do nothing about the loss of the Swanmore Collection. Wasn’t to report it to the police or let a word reach the newspapers. Nothing else at all. Can you see any sense in it?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Common Sense

  “No,” said Mannering, after a pause. “I don’t see any sense in it. For that matter, I don’t see any in the whole business. But there must be a vein of common sense somewhere, even if George has lost all he ever had.”

  His mind was working at furious speed, to try to see this new factor in its right perspective.

  Swanmore had feared publicity, now someone was blackmailing him to keep quiet about the jewels; and Patricia was being used as a means of persuasion.

  “I don’t trust you,” said George.

  Mannering looked at him dispassionately.

  “I’ll deal with that in a moment. Tubs, are you sure that Lord Swanmore had this message?”

  “My dear chap! Man’s not a liar. Told me so himself. In fact he rang me up the very moment he’d finished speaking to this merchant,” Tubs went on confidingly. “We’re by way of being friends, George’s father knows that I’m always anxious to help. Er—take the fact that the threat was delivered as read, will you? Danger for Tricia, unless Swanmore refused to say anything to the police or the Press about the loss of the jewels.”

  “That was a bit late in the day,” said Mannering. “George, dwelling on common sense for a moment, do you think I would have done that, since I’d already told the police of the loss? I was present when your father confirmed it, too.”

  “What?” gasped George, jumping up. “The police know!”

  It was hard to be patient.

  “They had to be told the moment we knew about the loss.” Mannering looked at George with growing exasperation; George was behaving like a child, not a man in the middle twenties. “Going to tell me what’s on your mind?”

  George stammered: “I—but—well, it just doesn’t add up! I was told that you—you hadn’t told the police about the loss. That’s what made me feel sure you were up to some funny business.”

  “Who told you I’d been so reticent?” demanded Mannering, and then added sharply: “Clara Harris?”

  George had been shaken before; now he looked as if his world had gone to pieces. He backed towards a chair, stumbled against it, sat down heavily and, without removing his gaze from Mannering, wiped his forehead. A new expression appeared in his eyes; fear. Fear had lain behind his bouncing aggression.

  Tubs looked startled.

  “How did you—?” he began.

  Mannering said: “Be quiet a minute, Tubs.” He went to George and rested a hand on his shoulder. “George, however bad it is, it isn’t as bad as you think. I’ve been probing here and there, and after I left you yesterday, I saw Clara leave.”

  “How—how did you know who she was?” asked George huskily.

  “I’d been checking on Dale’s friends—Dale was one of the murdered thieves—and I got to know of her through other friends of his. When you came to the shop yesterday, you were eager for help. When I came here, you’d changed your tune, and I guessed that someone was in the flat. I hung about to see who it was, because that someone had probably made you change your attitude. Did Clara tell you that I was playing the fool with the collection?”

  “Ye—yes,” said George; his voice was barely audible.

  “And did Clara tell you about the robbery?” asked Mannering. He spoke almost casually, as if to minimise the importance of the question and the answer.

  “Yes,” whispered George.

  “When did you see her?”

  George drew a deep breath. “She telephoned me yesterday morning, and told me there’d been a robbery at Quinns. I knew that Father had taken the collection to you. I was against it, but I couldn’t make him change his mind, he was bent on selling. Was—wasn’t he, Tubs?”

  Tubs said: “Yes. Proud chap, Lord Swanmore,” he added for Mannering’s benefit. “I—er—I suggested that if he were having a rough spell I’d gladly see him through. Got more money than I know what to do with, when all’s said and done.” Tubs appeared to be acutely embarrassed. “I didn’t want any security—not from a man like Swanmore. But he turned me down flat. Er—nearly had words about it, as a matter of fact, he said that he could manage his own affairs. That’s all by the way, I suppose, but—well, there you are. I first heard of the loss from one of my reporters, and rang Swanmore up, to confirm.” Tubs wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief, and sat down. “What a morning!”

  “I’ve known ’em quieter,” said Mannering. There was no mystery, now, about how Swanmore and Patricia had heard the news. “Let’s get this straight. What time did Clara tell you about the robbery yesterday morning?”

  “About—about nine o’clock.”

  “Did she give you any details?”

  “No, she just said that she’d heard that there’d been a robbery at Quinns. I rushed round to see my father and Tubs phoned while I was there. Patricia happened to be there at the same time, that’s how we all came to know. Father hurried round to see you. I thought—well, I’d heard so much about you and I thought you were a hundred per cent all right, so I came a bit later in the day, partly because of Tricia, partly to see if you could help to get the collection back. The police were there and I couldn’t say much, but I took your hint—that you’d come and see me here. When I got here, Clara was waiting for me.”

  “How did she get in?”

  “She had a key,” mumbled George.

  “Did she tell you anything else on the telephone?”

  “No, not a thing. But as soon as I got here, she told me I was a fool to trust you. She said you were keeping the fact that the collection was stolen from the police, and that Quinns was really a cover for stolen goods—I mean, a kind of clearing-house. Made it darned convincing, too.”

  “Obviously,” said Mannering dryly.

  “Well, it seemed reasonable,” said George, with a flash of spirit.

  “Did she say where she got her information?”

  “Well, no, not exactly,” said George. “She just—well, I believed her. I suppose I was a fool, but you don’t know Clara. I swallowed it hook, line and sinker. She was sure that you hadn’t said a word to the police, and—well, if you have, then I can’t believe anything that she said.”

  “Not the nicest little love-word she ever used, either,” said Mannering. “It wasn’t Clara who telephoned your father about Tricia, was it?”

  “Oh, no. It was a man.”

  “He gave no hint where she might be?”

  “Not the foggiest. Just said that she wouldn’t turn up again if he talked about the collection. Oh, lord, what a mess it is!”

  Mannering said: “You get some things right, George.”

  He stepped to the window and looked out. Both the others watched him, as if waiting for the oracle to speak. It was a remarkable transformation, and there were puzzling features about the way the interview had gone, but for the moment Mannering wasn’t interested in that.

  He was interested in the door.

  The handle was turning.

  He had caught a glimpse of it as he went to the window, and now he deliberately looked away. Outside, the detective who had followed him, and the other man in the car, were talking together. They would not be particularly interested in anyone who entered the house, unless they believed that he was coming to see George.

  Mannering glanced round.

  The handle was no longer moving; the door was ajar.

  George had closed the front door and Mannering knew
that it was a good lock, which could not be opened easily except with a key or by a man who carried cracksman’s tools.

  The door opened another inch.

  There was something uncanny about that and the silence; and the fact that neither George nor Tubs had the slightest inkling that anything was amiss. Mannering picked up a heavy, amber ash-tray and weighed it in his hands, as if he were handling it absently. The other two continued to stare at him. He looked at Tubs, who was at the other side of the window, but he could just see the door; it was opening wider.

  It stopped moving.

  Tubs said: “I can’t see any reason why anyone should try to malign you, Mannering.”

  “Nor can I,” said Mannering, “but anyone in the antique and fine arts business makes a lot of enemies. The chief problem is what to do about Tricia. Where does Clara live, George?”

  “In Middle Street, near St. James’ station.”

  “Have you seen her this morning?” Mannering had to pretend to know nothing about Clara’s recent movements.

  “No,” said George.

  The door opened wider. Mannering weighed the ash-tray in one hand, gripping it so that he could throw it when the right moment came.

  “I think we might look Clara up,” said Mannering mildly, “she obviously knows a great deal. George, did you tell her that your father was going to sell the collection through me?”

  “Er—” began George, unhappily.

  “Did you?”

  “Well, yes, I did,” mumbled George. “And I—well, I did something for her last night, I don’t know whether I was crazy or not, but she persuaded me that—”

  A gun appeared round the door.

  “That it was all right,” said George. “I’m beginning to think that she made a complete fool of me. She said that she had friends who would help to find the Collection, and I—”

  Now the hand appeared – and the edge of a blue mask which covered a man’s face. The intruder would have to step farther into the room before he could draw a line on anyone.

  Mannering began to speak crisply, compelling the attention of the others.