The Stolen Legacy Read online

  Pleydell said: “I wish I could be so sure, but I’ll tell Lorna.”

  “Toby.”

  “Yes?”

  “Only Lorna. Not the police.”

  “Only Lorna and Chittering,” Pleydell promised.

  “Thanks,” said Mannering. “Thanks.” After a moment or two, he went on: “Now – what else is there?” He began to walk about the room, trying to get this last crisis out of his mind, trying to remember everything else that Pleydell had told him. “Entrance to Samuel Blest’s flat by key … no trace of the coloured man who picked up the messages for Klein at the Overseas Club … no trace of that picture. Why steal that picture? Why break the glass?” He paused again, but only for a moment. “That’s about it, and no one could say it was very much. Nothing else at all?”

  Pleydell said: “One thing, John, which could help a lot.”

  “Now come on,” urged Mannering. “Why hold out on me?” He felt his heart hammering. “Good news of a kind, then?”

  “Rebecca Blest isn’t sure that the jewels the police showed her are the ones which she brought to you,” Pleydell announced.

  Mannering stared. “Rebecca says that?” He sat down again, feeling too numbed for excitement. “So, she isn’t sure. She doesn’t hate. She’ll say that in court although it might help me to get off?”

  “She’ll say it.”

  “Toby,” Mannering said, “for the first time I think things might work out. I really think they might. Go and see Lorna right away, won’t you?”

  “Straight from here,” promised Pleydell.

  Mannering watched him go.

  He noticed every movement and everything about Pleydell. They were of a height too. Pleydell stood by the door, and called out: “I’m ready.” It was a voice which Mannering could imitate without difficulty. He stood to one side. When the door opened, the warder would appear and look straight up at him – that was the moment of danger for the warder, and for Mannering if he tried to escape. It would be easy, up to a point. He could overpower Toby and could change into his clothes. He could wait for that warder, deal with the man, and get outside. And then? It might be difficult, but it could be done. Everyone would be expecting Pleydell, remember – a tall, lean man.

  Was it madness?

  “John,” Pleydell said, before the door opened. “I’ve never known the police so watchful. They’ve got special men posted, at all the gates of the prison.”

  It was almost as if he could read Mannering’s thoughts; and, in a way, he could almost certainly guess at them. He had known Mannering for so many years, there were inevitable and specific trains of thought in such circumstances.

  “Is that so?” Mannering made himself say.

  “It’s so.”

  “Thanks,” said Mannering.

  “Ready, sir?” asked the warder.

  “Yes,” said Pleydell. He smiled and waved, then went out quickly. As the door closed, Mannering said softly: “You cunning old fox!” He gave a high-pitched laugh, and that in itself told him how worked up he was; how little things affected him – and now there was much more than a little thing: there was good reason for hope. If Rebecca Blest testified that she wasn’t sure of the identity of the jewels, it could be the beginning of the end of the prosecution’s case. Long live—

  “My God!” breathed Mannering, and his voice rose. He ran to the door and banged on it. “Warder!” The man wasn’t in earshot; he was letting Pleydell out of the door along the end of the passage. “Warder!” he shouted again, and there came a brief pause, followed by footsteps. He stood back as the warder opened the door; another man was with him, as if to corroborate Pleydell’s warning of the powerful watch. “Sorry,” choked Mannering, “but see if you can get Mr. Pleydell back for me, will you?”

  “I think we’ll be able to catch him,” the warder said. “Just to make sure, I’ll phone a message through to the gates.”

  “Toby,” Mannering said urgently, “look after Rebecca Blest. She’s a vital witness. See that she comes to no harm. If the other side knows what she’s prepared to say in court, then they might think she’s better dead.”

  Rebecca got up a little after nine o’clock that morning, her eyes rather heavy, her heart heavy as it always was on the first moment of waking, and of realisation. The little bedroom was chilly, and she shivered as she crossed to the bathroom. Ruth Ashton had been sleeping up here with her, and must have been gone for half an hour or more. She normally left the house at twenty past eight, to get to her typing job in the West End by nine o’clock. It was very cold. Rebecca switched on the electric fire, and made some tea. She went back to her bedroom with it, switched on the fire there, sat on the bed with her feet dangling before it, and said: “It’s time I went back to work!”

  She wouldn’t be going back until the day after tomorrow, for tomorrow was the day of the funeral. She wished that it was over. She hated the prospect, and until it was over she would feel dreadful. Yet, quite honest with herself, she admitted that there were already moments when she forgot. Once or twice last night, for instance, when she had been with Terry. Her heart was lighter even now, at thought of him. He could make her laugh, he could make her smile, above all he could make her feel that she was wanted, that she was not really alone in the world. The feeling of loneliness since her father’s death had in some ways been worse than anything else.

  When it was all over, she and Terry—

  She allowed herself to day-dream, although at the back of her mind there was the realisation that there might be no justification for such dreams. They had known each other only a few days, and although he was kindliness itself, Terry might just be feeling great pity for her, and only be anxious to help. Yet there were moments when she felt that he already thought much more of her than that.

  It was nearly ten o’clock.

  “My goodness!” she exclaimed. She jumped up, hurried into the kitchen with the tray, then went and washed, dressed and made up. By the time she had finished it was half-past ten, and she was very hungry.

  The ordinary sounds of the street floated in, including children shouting, but she hardly noticed them. She made some toast; it was years since she had cooked a full breakfast, except on Sundays. She sat in the kitchen overlooking the back yard, and the backs of the houses in another street like this. Three lines of washing were hanging so motionless that this would obviously be a bad drying day. She had a few smalls to wash herself, but they could dry in the kitchen. Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes; there would be no more washing for her father.

  Why had this terrible thing happened?

  She was standing there, with her eyes filled with tears, when she heard a sound. She didn’t think much about it at first, for sounds travelled clearly in this house, and noises across the landing often seemed as if they were in the flat itself. She kept seeing an image of her father’s face, and fighting back emotion.

  She heard another sound; a rustling.

  For the first time, she was startled and a little scared. She looked towards the door, but nothing moved. She didn’t hear the sound again, but it was almost as if someone was moving along the passage. She made herself get up. Her heart was beating faster than usual, and she was breathing more quickly, too.

  It must be nonsense!

  The front door was closed. The other doors were ajar, except that of her father’s bedroom. It had been imagination, of course; she hadn’t heard a sound of any kind except from the street. Trying to reassure herself, she went across to her bedroom and pushed the door open cautiously. It didn’t go right back against the wall, but she didn’t realise that was significant. She went into the room – and heard a sound again, just behind her, close behind her. She swung round. She saw a man leaping forward, his hand raised, a hammer in it. His face was hidden by a mask, his head covered with a cloth cap, and he wore a big, shapeless overcoat. She screamed: “No!”

  She struck out blindly, and pulled at the door; and it was the door which got in his way, so th
at he smashed the hammer against the wood. She heard him swear.

  She rushed out into the passage, gasping for breath, trying to scream but unable to make much noise. She reached the front door and snatched at the latch, but she missed it, and tore a fingernail. She was gabbling to herself: “Oh God, dear God, help me, help me!” She heard a door bang, and at the same time she heard a shout from outside. She screamed again – and this time it was a piercing shriek which seemed to deafen her. She tried the door again as footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a man cried out: “All right, I’m coming! I’m coming!”

  She turned round. The man with the scarf over his face was standing only a few feet away from her, the hammer still in his hand; and she knew that if he struck her with it, she would die. She felt sure that this was the man who had killed her father.

  “No, no, no!” she screamed.

  “Open the door!” cried the man outside. “Open it!”

  The man struck at her with the hammer, and in wild fear she kicked at him. His blow missed, and she heard him gasp with pain. Then he swung round and ran away, limping, towards the kitchen. As he disappeared, slamming the door, she began to sob.

  She was still sobbing when she opened the door to Tom Wainwright, from Quinns. It was too late to give chase, then.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Deadly Risk

  Mannering heard footsteps outside the door, and stood up. It was nearly one o’clock. Two people were coming, besides the warder, and he tried to recognise the footsteps. Pleydell’s? As the door opened, the keys clanking, he recalled them: Pleydell’s and Bristow’s. Pleydell came in first, with a “Hallo, John”. Bristow followed. Bristow had a freshly-shaved, freshly-dressed look, and his gardenia was glowing white. The door closed behind them.

  “Good morning, Superintendent,” Mannering said.

  “’Morning, John,” returned Bristow.

  “All friends together again, are we?”

  “I’m a policeman and you’re a man accused of murder,” Bristow said. “So don’t expect me to apologise because I fully agreed with the charge.”

  “And don’t you now?”

  Pleydell said: “You’re an uncanny devil, John. You were right about the danger to Rebecca Blest.”

  Mannering felt a flare of alarm.

  “Is she all right?”

  “Thanks to you, she is,” said Pleydell. “And thanks to the fact that the moment I told young Tom, he went haring off to Notting Hill, and got there in time to …” Pleydell told Tom’s story, and Bristow nodded agreement from time to time.

  Mannering sat back on the upright chair, leaning on the two back legs, understanding a great deal, believing that he understood the reason for Bristow’s friendlier manner. But there was an undercurrent of anxiety in Bristow’s manner, and in Pleydell’s. Both these men had come to try to bring some pressure to bear. There was deep irony in that, and he wondered anxiously what they were after.

  “… so what it amounts to is that Tom did what you would have done had you been free,” went on Pleydell. “He probably got there five minutes later than you would have. Incidentally, I also telephoned the Yard, and they arrived five minutes after Tom.”

  “Five minutes too late,” Mannering murmured.

  “That’s true enough,” admitted Bristow. “The girl would have been murdered if your man hadn’t got there so soon. Why were you so sure that she was in danger?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I’ve had a talk with her,” said Bristow, thoughtfully. “She seems to know what she’s about. She’s told me that although she formally identified the jewels in my office yesterday, she had doubts afterwards.”

  “Then you know why I knew she was in danger.”

  “Was that the only reason?”

  “Listen, Bill,” Mannering said tautly. “This girl could have broken the police case. My counsel had only to prove one error to make a big crack in the prosecution, and you know it. These people don’t want any cracks unless they make them themselves.”

  Bristow put his head on one side. “I still don’t know what you’re getting at, and I don’t believe I’ve been told the whole story. I know that Lloyd and you quarrelled, presumably because he wouldn’t do something you wanted, and I know that you’ve been talking to him and to Pleydell very freely. I can well believe that you’ve been conducting the investigation from here, and I’ve no objection if your agents keep within the law, but – if I don’t know the full facts, I can’t help you.”

  “Bill, so far all you’ve done is help to get me convicted of murder,” Mannering said softly. “I don’t think I’ve any reason to trust any policeman over this, and particularly not you or Ingleby.”

  “That’s reasonable enough,” Bristow admitted. “But the fact remains that if there’s urgently needed evidence, we are the only people likely to find it quickly enough to help you. If we have any grounds for withdrawing the charges next Wednesday, we’ll withdraw them. But if you take risks with other people – if you try directing dangerous operations by remote control, you’ll run bang into more trouble.”

  Mannering looked at Pleydell.

  “Toby?”

  “He’s at least half right,” Pleydell conceded.

  “How much have you told him?”

  “Nothing more than the fact that you saw danger to the girl the moment you heard about her doubts of the jewellery.”

  “But I know there’s something else,” Bristow insisted. “I’ve talked to Lorna. I’ve talked to Chittering. I’ve even tried to make your maid talk. And all I get are evasions and half-truths. If you really want to help yourself, do it through us.”

  Mannering thrust both hands deep into his pockets, and leaned precariously back on the legs of the chair. He studied Bristow’s eyes, the clear, light grey eyes of a man he knew to be of great integrity, but in his mind he also saw Ingleby and the other policemen who had watched when he had left the Yard for the court. He realised that he was bitter; very bitter indeed. He also realised that bitterness would not help him; only a calm assessment of the circumstances could. Within the limits of his ability and Scotland Yard regulations, Bristow would save him, but – would Ingleby really work all out on it? Would any of the others? Hadn’t the Yard already prejudged him?

  And if they hadn’t – what would happen if the police were to go tonight to see this man who had talked to Chattering? If he were a practised criminal, and so far he seemed to be outstandingly able, he would soon realise that the police were watching. From the moment he believed that the police were after him, the whole situation would change. Lorna would be in acute danger, while rather than allow himself to be caught, the man might allow him, Mannering, to be tried and convicted.

  So, would it be wise, would it even be safe, to confide in the police?

  He said: “Toby, just confirm one thing for me, will you? Everything I’ve told you is in absolute confidence.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’d like it to stay that way,” Mannering decided.

  “Now—” Bristow began.

  “Quite sure?” asked Pleydell, where Lloyd would have raised his voice and told him that he was taking grave risks with his own future.

  “Yes.”

  Bristow said, slowly: “John, you’re making a big mistake. I can imagine how bitter you’re feeling, and I don’t blame you. I believed from the beginning that you were trying to help this girl Blest, and up to one of your Sir Galahading tricks, and I wasn’t prepared to stand by while you were dealing with the jewels which Rett Laker stole. Remember that these particular jewels in our possession aren’t more than a tenth of the whole. We want them all, and we want to catch Laker’s accomplices as well as the murderer. But now that serious doubt has been thrown on the identity of the jewels brought to you, I’m prepared to rethink the situation. There are puzzling features about Larraby’s condition and the medical opinion is that he had been drugged with amytal. In short, your contention that the real jewels were
planted at Quinns so as to involve you seems to have supporting evidence. If that’s established, we shall have a completely new situation. And this very morning, murder was attempted. There isn’t a lot of time to lose. I want to know everything you can tell me, and you’ll be making a grave mistake if you don’t come across at once.”

  Mannering considered for a few moments, then said deliberately: “No, Bill. Not this time.”

  Bristow looked at Pleydell. “Try to make him change his mind,” he said, and turned to the door. He glanced back but didn’t speak again, and Mannering studied his set face as he went out. The door closed behind him, and his footsteps sounded clearly in the passage.

  Mannering felt very warm, and his forehead was clammy. There really was the possibility that he had made a grave mistake, and he had to remind himself that he was not taking a personal risk – this time, it was Lorna’s.

  How great was it?

  “I’ve a message from Lorna,” Pleydell said, as Bristow’s footsteps faded. “She wants to make the attempt tonight. Chittering will be all ready for trouble.”

  “Aren’t you convinced that I’m crazy?” demanded Mannering.

  Pleydell smiled faintly as he looked hard at his friend, and it was a long time before he answered. While waiting, Mannering felt a fresh disquiet of doubt creep into his mind. Again he felt the almost desperate longing to be outside, to handle the situation for himself; but it was an unattainable yearning.

  “Well?” he asked sharply.

  “John,” Pleydell said, “you’ve been at this kind of game for a long time. No one knows that more than Lorna and me. You’ve got a kind of sixth sense about the right thing to do. Bristow knows that, and thinks it might pay off, or he wouldn’t have given up so easily. He’s done his duty, and that’s as far as he will go. I think that you’re almost certainly right to try to handle this without the police, and Lorna and Chittering agree. There may come a time when they’ll have to go to the Yard, but that’s for an emergency.” Pleydell paused, before he added: “I’ve only one real worry.”