The Warning Read online

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You know damned well you did. He gave you—’ Liggett broke off. ‘Forget it,’ he muttered.

  ‘I don’t forget so easily,’ Mannering said. He picked up the knife and moved back. ‘I used to practise throwing these things. They can make a much nastier wound than the one in the back of your hand. Now, tell me all about Powell, who killed him, and why?’

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ Liggett said swiftly. ‘They never tell me what they’re going to do.’

  ‘Just go on doing what I told you.’ Mannering tossed the knife into the air, and caught it with great dexterity. Liggett flinched.

  ‘I’m telling you all I can. They told me to come here and—and get the paper.’

  ‘What paper?’

  ‘A letter. I’ve seen it, but I don’t know what it’s about. I don’t understand the lingo.’

  ‘What language is it in?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ cried Liggett. ‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know, can I? It’s written in purple ink; I’d recognise it quick enough. Powell brought it over from—’

  Liggett’s voice failed. Terror flooded his face, but before Mannering realised what was causing it, the door was flung open, trapping Mannering against the wall. He heard the roar of a shot, then Liggett gave a choking cry and slumped forward against the desk.

  Footsteps sounded in the shop. Mannering lost a second making up his mind; as he reached the doorway he heard the shop door opening. A bullet hummed towards him. He fired, but too late.

  The front door slammed.

  By the time he reached the street, a car was turning the corner; all he saw was its tail.

  Mannering ran quickly back into the shop, locking the door behind him. He stood contemplating the wealth and beauty on each side, and thought of the ugliness that was lying against his desk, slumped in his chair. He steeled himself to go on, reached the office, and saw everything as he had pictured it.

  Mannering touched the telephone, but no more. Bristow would have to know soon, but not too soon.

  Mannering gathered up the contents of the wallet. The dead man’s address was given as 15 Lamont Street, Fulham. There was nothing more of interest except a sheet of paper folded into three. He unfolded it and read:

  Powell – 19 Dane Street, W.l.

  He slipped it into his pocket.

  Mannering faced the fact that he couldn’t fool Bristow by pretending to know nothing; a full statement was called for, but – when? The police couldn’t tell within half-an-hour or so the time Liggett had died. There was time to go to Dane Street and come back and report.

  Asking for trouble?

  Lorna would think so, and Bristow would say so. Neither would alter the fact that he had a big personal stake in this. If the police went to the Dane Street address before him he would probably never know the truth.

  Dane Street wasn’t far away; ten minutes walk, three minutes in the car, by the time he had got it out of the parking space. He went to the empty site at the end of Hart Row and climbed into his green Rolls Bentley.

  Dane Street was part of old London. Tall stone buildings rose on each side but here was a street of little shops and houses, with tiled roofs, starred with lichen. Lights were springing up, but it was still daylight, and would be for another half-hour. Mannering left the car at one end and walked past Number 19.

  He stepped to the door, drew on a pair of gloves, and audaciously began to pick the lock.

  No one passed.

  Soon the lock turned. He didn’t open the door immediately, but stood waiting and listening for any sound from inside. There was none.

  Chapter 4

  The Envelope

  Mannering stepped into darkness, and closed the door. He stood still until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, hearing nothing.

  He took a pencil torch from his pocket, flashed it on and glanced quickly through the downstairs rooms. The furniture was worn and humble. A saucepan on a draining-board, filled with vegetables, stood ready for cooking.

  In the main bedroom he stood aghast, staring at the aftermath of a quick and violent search. A slashed mattress lay half on, half off, the bed. Drawers, pulled out, tilted drunkenly, their contents flung to the floor.

  Mannering turned a suitcase over, and drew back from it, as if he had been struck. There were two labels, one marked SOUTHAMPTON, the other Union Castle Line. It gave the passenger’s name and cabin number on the Athlone Castle, and the date. Powell had, then, left Cape Town three weeks before. That meant he had been in England for a week.

  It was coincidence; it must be coincidence.

  Mannering had told Lorna that he would go to her home for the weekend, as soon as he heard from Robby. At any time now, Robby – a close friend – was due home from South Africa by air. Robby had scrawled a hasty airmail letter a week or two ago. One phrase stood out in Mannering’s mind now:

  ‘Something I particularly want to talk to you about, John. It will amuse and interest you, I think. Your line!’

  That was all.

  Mannering stood in the middle of the room, almost willing a discovery that would prove this was coincidental. A piece of paper, screwed up into a ball, caught his eye. There was purple ink on it, and Liggett had talked of a letter written in purple ink. Mannering picked it up.

  It was an envelope, addressed to Powell, in an unmistakable hand – Robby’s.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mannering, in a tense voice. Mechanically he looked at his watch; it was half-past seven. He had been away from Quinns for twenty-five minutes.

  Back in his office, nothing had changed; a fly hovered about the dead man’s face.

  Mannering lifted the telephone and dialled Scotland Yard.

  ‘And that’s all?’ Bristow glowered.

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘You went haring after the killer instead of calling us at once?’

  ‘That’s right, Bill.’

  ‘I’d like to know where you did go,’ Bristow growled. ‘You say you chased after this car, can’t tell me the number, can’t be sure whether it was a Hillman or a Standard, can’t—’ He broke off. ‘Still say you’d never heard of the man who died in the cab?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ amended Mannering gently.

  Despite his throbbing head, he felt the familiar feeling of excitement at crossing swords with the police. Robby must not be involved, at least until Mannering knew more. He had not told Bristow that Liggett had named Powell.

  ‘Well, if you stick to that story I suppose there’s nothing I can do about it – yet,’ Bristow added ominously.

  Mannering touched the back of his head gingerly.

  ‘This is giving me a lot of trouble. Mind if I go home?’

  ‘I’ll want to see you first thing in the morning,’ said Bristow, almost threateningly. ‘I advise you to be within call.’

  His Club would mean talk, sympathy and a thicker head, Mannering knew; he could be quiet at his flat. He had a snack at a small café nearby, then drove to Green Street. The house was one of a terrace, part of which had been demolished. His flat was in the end house of those remaining, and on the top floor; above it, Lorna had her attic studio.

  He let himself in with a key and walked slowly upstairs.

  Opening his front door, he stopped abruptly.

  The flat had been shut up, the maid sent on holiday, yet every door inside was standing wide open. Dazed, he went from room to room. Each had been ransacked as Powell’s had been.

  His study was the greatest mess of them all.

  What had they been looking for? That letter? It seemed so. Powell had received a letter from Robby; Liggett’s employers wanted that letter, would go to any lengths to get it, and thought it might be here.

  Mannering poured himself out a stiff whisky, and lit a cigarette. He cleared an armchair and sat down. He ought to look at Robby’s letter again. It was in his desk – unless the thieves had recognised the writing and taken it. Before he had summoned the energy to m
ove again, the front-door bell rang.

  This was probably Bristow. Odd that Bristow should be suspicious.

  Mannering rose with a sigh, and moved to the door.

  It wasn’t Bristow, but Chittering, a young man with thick fair hair and round, innocent-looking blue eyes; the most deceptive innocence in the world, as Mannering knew, belonging to one of the best known crime reporters on Fleet Street.

  He opened the door wider, with a smile of welcome.

  ‘Good God! What the—’

  The bell rang again. ‘Bristow, for sure,’ said Mannering with a resigned shrug. But it wasn’t Bristow; for there, standing on the landing, was Garielle Lee.

  Chapter 5

  Word from the Dead

  ‘I felt sure it would be you,’ said Garielle Lee, smiling delightedly. ‘I’ve tried three J. Mannerings who live in Chelsea. You are the John Mannering, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Chittering’s voice was plaintive. ‘He’s John Mannering all right, dabbler in detection, bane of the lives of all good newspapermen, such as I.’

  Garielle looked at Mannering, her glance too intent to take in the dishevelment of the flat. He drew her into the study and cleared another chair.

  ‘Chitty is quite reliable if we tell him it is off the record,’ he said, ‘so you can talk freely. Will you have a drink?’

  ‘I’d love a pink gin.’

  Chittering went off, smiling, to fetch it as the girl clasped her hands impulsively.

  ‘Mr Mannering, the oddest thing happened! You remember I left my handbag in the taxi? Well, I found this in it.’ She opened the handbag. Her long fingers were quite steady, but she could not hide the tension of excitement. ‘I didn’t see it until I got home, or I would have come round to the shop. It must be from that poor man, mustn’t it?’

  Mannering took a torn envelope. Pencilled lettering was scrawled across it, in uneven block capitals. He held it to the light, so that the wording showed up clearly:

  Tell M danger from Paul K …

  That was all.

  Mannering turned to the girl. ‘Have you taken this to the police?’

  ‘Of course not!’ She looked surprised.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t find it until after I had signed the statement at Scotland Yard. As it was meant for you, I thought you would be the best person to bring it to.’ She gazed at Mannering anxiously as Chittering came back with the drinks.

  To the clatter of glasses he said cheerfully: ‘Now all you have to do is to find a Paul K. Kay, King, Kingham, Keller, Kell – I’ll bet there are thousands in the telephone directory. Any clues?’

  ‘I wondered—’ began the girl, and stopped. Then she looked round the room, and for the first time noticed the untidiness. ‘Burglars?’

  Mannering nodded.

  ‘In a way.’

  He told them briefly a little of what he had found out. He did not mention that he had discovered Powell’s name and address or made a visit to Dane Street; nor did he tell them that he had proved that Robby was concerned.

  When the story was told there was a long silence.

  Chittering broke it abruptly.

  ‘Paul K. has a lot to answer for. Are you going to tell Bristow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  Mannering smiled without answering, and Chittering raised his hands heavenwards.

  ‘Miss Lee, gaze upon a man who thinks he can out-police the police. Here he is, with two murders on his hands and nasty threats from this Paul K., and instead of rushing to the Yard for protection, what does he do? Sit on dynamite. Some of it, at least, is your fault.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘If you’d taken that note to Scotland Yard, John Mannering wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Why didn’t you?’

  She frowned, rather worriedly.

  ‘Well, Mr Anderson, my boss, told me he has a reputation for – well, detection.’

  ‘As for that, he times his escapades to coincide with those moments when Fleet Street is wringing its hands for news. Anything, even a two-headed goat is then leapt on with avidity. Mind you, he’s not bad as private eyes go. He’s just not so good as most people think he is.’

  Mannering laughed.

  ‘Do you know if they’ve found out who the dead man was yet?’

  ‘I do, and they have. He was a South African, named Powell. Something to do with gold mining I gather. He was over here on leave, staying in a poky little house where a woman takes in boarders. I gathered that the police found the place turned inside out, like this.’

  ‘Powell,’ mused Mannering.

  ‘Something rings a bell when I think of you and South Africa,’ said Chittering, looking at him keenly. ‘You wouldn’t happen to remember what, would you?’

  ‘Robby White is there. Or he has been; he’s on his way back,’ added Mannering, and was acutely aware of the other envelope in his pocket. ‘Robby White,’ he added for Garielle’s benefit, ‘is an old friend of mine who went to settle in South Africa a few years ago and is coming home for the first time.’

  ‘Wasn’t he in gold?’ murmured Chittering.

  ‘No. Diamonds.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember. Didn’t he make a strike, or a find, or whatever you call it in the Union?’

  ‘Yes, indeed he did,’ said Mannering easily. ‘Now that the police know who Powell is, it seems rather pointless for Garielle to show them this message.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Chittering, ‘but it would be far more sensible to let her take it to the police, even at this late stage. If they discover that she held out on them they could turn nasty. Bill Bristow is not in the sweetest of moods, and anyone who gets in his bad books is going to suffer for it.’

  ‘He needn’t discover that Garielle held out on him,’ said Mannering.

  Chittering shrugged.

  ‘Well, it’s her risk. I ought to be going, John. I work for my living. And you ought to report that your flat’s been turned inside out.’

  ‘You’ll never get another story from me if you write it up.’

  ‘Well, there’s no harm in trying,’ said Chittering amiably. ‘Everything is off the record, then.’

  ‘Thanks, Chitty. There is a job you can do for me, by the way.’ Mannering took the two folded papers out of his pocket and wrapped them carefully in a clean handkerchief, then added Garielle’s envelope. ‘Get these checked for prints, will you? If there’s anything, I’ll hand them over to the Yard. If there isn’t—’

  ‘Will do,’ Chittering said. ‘Goodnight, Miss Lee. Refreshing to have met you, and don’t let John get away with too much.’

  Mannering let him out, returning thoughtfully.

  Had Garielle Lee told the truth? If so, would she have come here instead of going to the police? That depended on her character, and he liked what he had seen of that.

  He moved towards the study.

  There was a flurry of movement as the girl rose from her chair, excitement in her face, even eagerness.

  ‘Mr Mannering! I’ve just thought of a Paul K., and one who is interested in business with South Africa. I wonder if that could be the man.’

  Chapter 6

  Paul K.

  Her unaffected eagerness was almost too good to be true. Supposing she was involved – supposing she knew about Paul K. and was anxious to tell him, without letting him know that she was certain it was the right man? He couldn’t yet see what advantage she would get, but had to keep the possibility in mind.

  ‘Paul Kennard. Sir Paul Kennard. You know,’ she went on breathlessly. ‘The shipping man. I know, because at the office we correspond with Kennard Lines occasionally. Could I be right?’

  ‘You certainly could,’ admitted Mannering. ‘Ever met Sir Paul Kennard?’

  ‘Heavens, no! He’s way above my head. I think Mr Anderson has.’

  ‘Garielle, you could be right, but you’re much more likely to be wrong. The point is, would you like me to tell the police abou
t the message in your bag? Or would you rather tell them yourself? Chittering won’t keep the envelope long. You could say you discovered it in the morning and tell the police then.’

  ‘What do you advise?’

  ‘Better tell them, I think,’ Mannering said. ‘Give me your address, and I’ll have the envelope sent back by the morning.’

  Garielle Lee became unexpectedly serious.

  ‘I can’t get that poor man out of my head. I feel in some way responsible – certainly involved. I’d like to help find out what it’s all about.’

  ‘I’ll keep you posted,’ promised Mannering. ‘Now – how are you going to get home?’

  ‘My car’s outside,’ she said.

  She gave him her address – 17 Mirral Street, Clapham Common – as he followed her downstairs. Her car was a twoseater, the dickey-seat cover open. He stood and watched as she drove away. As the car swung left round the corner, it passed beneath a street lamp.

  He saw the dickey-seat move, saw a man’s head appear.

  He shouted, and the echoes of his voice and the hum of the car engine came back to him. He ran to his own car, jumped in, pressed the self-starter, and knew at once that there was trouble. The whole four of his tyres were flat.

  It would be an hour or more before he could put them right; while the girl was driving home, with a man hiding in the back of her car.

  ‘Scotland Yard. Can I help you?’ asked the male night operator.

  ‘This is Mannering – John Mannering: A car numbered KLJ 726 has been stolen from Green Street, Chelsea. It is a Singer twoseater, blue, and the man in it is armed.’

  ‘One moment, please.’ There was a pause; the news would be flashed to patrol cars in the district at once.

  Mannering rang off.

  It wasn’t enough; it might be all that he could do, but it wasn’t enough. He hurried to the all-night garage which serviced his car regularly. Within ten minutes of the time that he had seen the girl disappear, he had ordered his car to be collected and repaired, and was driving towards Clapham in a hired Austin Cambridge.

  The Singer wasn’t in sight.