Taking the Blame Read online

  Mannering kept a poker face.

  He shone a torch into the strong-room, which was about twelve feet long by nine feet wide. Against the walls were heavy Monitor safes of modern design, each with several interlocking locks. One lock showed that an oxy-acetylene burner had cut steel as easily as a knife would go through butter. Two doors hung open, several were closed but would move at a pull.

  Carmichael hovered in the doorway at the foot of the steps. “Have they—” he began, then saw the locks. His voice faded chokily away.

  Bristow glanced at Mannering.

  “They seem to have made a job of it.”

  “Yes,” said Mannering quietly.

  It wasn’t easy to take this calmly; the Swanmore Collection alone was worth over a hundred thousand pounds. At least twice as much more had been in the safes; all the small and priceless pieces in Quinns stock, everything that was easily carried, was locked away each night.

  He went forward to pull open a door.

  “Don’t touch that,” said Bristow. “We want to go at them first.”

  Mannering had to wait.

  The strong-room had been stripped of everything of value except a few bulky pieces. Some precious stones had been taken out of their gold settings, and the settings were on the shelves. A small miniature, nearly two hundred years old, had been damaged and thrown aside. The Swanmore Collection, which had been in Mannering’s keeping only for a few hours, had gone.

  The largest safe, which held bulky articles, remained to be opened. Bristow finished his work on the outside of the lock, made sure that there were no finger-prints, and pulled at the handle. He couldn’t move the door by himself, and Mannering helped. Paper had been packed round the sides, as if the thieves had been anxious that the door should not be opened easily.

  It began to open under their combined efforts. The centre light in the ceiling cast Mannering’s and Bristow’s shadows on the greenpainted door. The other policemen and Carmichael stood near.

  “One more tug,” Mannering said. “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  They pulled.

  The door opened slowly and something began to topple out. The body of a man fell against Bristow. Bristow grabbed it as men exclaimed.

  Carmichael put his hands to his forehead and, very slowly crumpled up.

  Mannering looked inside the safe and spoke in a soft voice.

  “There’s another,” he said. “Two dead men.”

  Chapter Four

  Murdered Cracksmen

  The first body was of a stocky man of medium height, who wore a white muffler, not a collar and tie. The second was of a smaller man with a shiny, bald head. Both had been shot in the back, at close quarters. There was some blood inside the large safe, but most of it had been soaked up by the dead men’s clothes.

  The silence which followed Mannering’s words was broken by Bristow, who called harshly for photographers. As the habit of routine asserted itself and the police set about their tasks with methodical patience, Mannering moved from the safe to Carmichael. The old man was coming round from a faint, and was sitting against the wall outside the strong-room; none of the policemen appeared to have taken much notice of him. Mannering helped him up the short flight of steps to the office, and sat him in the chair on which Larraby had been lying when the police had arrived. Then Mannering took a brandy flask from a drawer in the desk, and gave the man a nip. Carmichael’s face had a deathly pallor and his eyes looked haunted. He had been old; now he seemed decrepit, as if life had been drained out of him.

  His hands, thick with tiny, blue veins, trembled as he pressed the tips of his fingers against his forehead.

  “It’s dreadful—dreadful, sir. Three men killed!”

  “Larraby isn’t dead yet.”

  “He won’t recover, he was too badly hurt,” Carmichael lamented. “Mr. Mannering, I—I’m sorry to be behaving like this, but I can’t help myself. I feel it so terribly. Such a blow—such a thing to happen here, to you. I can’t get over it. I never will.”

  “You’ll be all right when you’ve had a day or two’s rest,” Mannering assured him; and doubted it.

  “Who—who can have done this dreadful thing, Mr. Mannering?”

  “We’ll find out,” said Mannering softly.

  “So brutal—so callous,” sighed Carmichael. “I can’t understand such men, I really can’t understand them. But Mr. Mannering—oughtn’t you to be with the police? Watching? You should discover who did it. It’s your task as much as Mr. Bristow’s. You’ve helped so many others, this time you must help yourself.” He moistened his lips. “There are the Swanmore jewels, and everything else, everything …”

  His voice trailed off.

  “You’d better come upstairs,” said Mannering. “A rest on Larraby’s bed will do you good.”

  Carmichael protested that he was in no need of rest, but then allowed Mannering to help him up the crooked stairs. In Larraby’s room, Mannering took off the old man’s shoes while Carmichael loosened his winged collar and his tie, then lay down on the bed. He closed his eyes. Mannering drew the curtains and went out quietly.

  He stood on the landing.

  No one was about.

  He did not know whether the police had been upstairs, whether they had searched anywhere but in the office and the strong-room. Now that he had settled Carmichael, his thoughts roamed. How had the thieves entered? Who had killed those two men? Who, among his acquaintances, knew Quinns so well that he could find his way about as well as the thieves had?

  He heard footsteps on the bottom flight of stairs. A plainclothes man reached the landing and sat down on an old, oak coffer; presumably he had been sent up there to keep watch. Men were moving about and talking in the office; the bodies were being moved. A crowd of sight-seers would be outside Quinns, and before long the Press would have heard the news and reporters would flock to Hart Row. The shop would have to be shut for the time being. Carmichael would be unfit for work for several days, at least; probably for weeks.

  Mannering went up the second flight of stairs to the narrow landing with a door on either side. He had seen nothing at the front door to suggest that they had come that way. The back door? He hadn’t looked, but – because it was the most obvious means of entry – there were double-locking, steel doors in position and the windows were fitted with steel shutters. Quinns was as near burglarproof as steel and locks could make it.

  He went into one of the two small rooms on the top landing, where several cabinets ranged the walls. Many interesting pieces of brass and copper, inlay work, amethyst and jade and the lesser precious stones were here. The small window hadn’t been touched.

  He looked over the back yards of the other shops in Hart Row.

  Years seemed to roll by.

  It wasn’t so long since the Baron had plotted and carried out such raids as this, when he would read in the newspapers that such-and-such a place was burglar-proof – and when, for the sake of proving them wrong, he had forced an entry. Foolhardy days, touched with magic. He’d met Lorna, and more magic.

  He had met Bristow.

  Bristow had known him as the Baron and never proved it; Bristow had later known the humiliation of having to consult Mannering, as an expert on precious stones, not daring to say he was the Baron.

  Bristow had become a friend; fantastic but true.

  Mannering went out of the room towards the door across the landing, and opened the door of the next room. Here most of his oil paintings were kept. Plaster littered the floor and the chair standing near the gaping hole through which daylight shone.

  He forgot the past.

  There were marks on the dusty seat of the chair; Bristow might get something from those. On the floor was a large bit, for a brace; the thieves had left that behind. The floor, the furniture and the pictures were covered with a film of whitish-grey dust.

  Mannering placed another chair next to the one beneath the hole, stood on it, gripped the sides of the hole and hauled
himself up. There was a rending sound and an ominous crack in the plaster. He thought he would fall, but took a chance and hung on, until his head and shoulders were poking out above the roof. The ceiling held, and he got a grip on the rafters; soon he was on the roof. He saw the neatly piled slates, dusty footprints leading to the edge, and something which glittered in the sunlight. It was lodged against some slates. As he went forward, he saw that it was a gold automatic pencil.

  He stooped to pick it up, but hesitated before touching it.

  There would be finger-prints on that pencil. It might be the most important piece of evidence he or the police would find.

  He ought to leave it to them.

  He seemed to hear Carmichael’s voice, telling him that he should find out who had committed this crime. Carmichael had been emotional; Mannering was coldly practical. Someone who knew Quinns was involved; in view of the murders, Bristow could not be able to call on amateur help early; and Larraby had been savagely attacked, giving him a personal interest.

  He took out a clean handkerchief, shook it open, picked up the pencil without touching it with his fingers and so smearing any prints, wrapped it in the handkerchief and tucked it into his breast pocket. Then he straightened up and looked about him again. He had never been on this roof before; his mistake. He could see over most of London; the spires of churches and the square tops of modern buildings towered over roofs and countless chimneys. There was a slight haze in the distance, but close at hand everything was clear and fresh and bathed in the warming sun.

  He peered over the edge, where the thieves had gone.

  He could see the path they had taken; they had trodden in the dust of the room below too freely, the whitish trail led to the wall which surrounded the small yard next door; they’d either forced that door, or climbed the wall immediately above it.

  He turned back and dropped into the room, bringing down another shower of dust and tiny pieces of plaster. He sneezed twice.

  “Who’s there?” a man snapped.

  Before Mannering could speak, Bristow appeared in the doorway, and Detective-Sergeant Gordon was behind him.

  “Hallo, Bill,” said Mannering amiably.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Finding out which way the bad men came.”

  “Don’t meddle, and don’t be facetious,” Bristow was acid-voiced. “This is serious.”

  “Even I’d realised that,” said Mannering. “It is my shop, Bill.”

  “And I’m in possession. Don’t forget it.”

  Theirs was a strange friendship; Bristow was always quick to recall the past, to become wary and suspicious; who could blame him? He would get over it.

  “Where have you been?” Bristow demanded.

  “Up on the roof.”

  “If you’ve messed up any footprints—” Bristow pointed to the chairs.

  “No mess,” Mannering assured him. “The thieves used that one—” he pointed in turn – “and I used this, there wasn’t a mark on it. They made a neat job of the slates.”

  “Yes,” said Bristow. “I’ll be glad if you’ll wait in the shop, Mannering.”

  ‘Mannering’ – not ‘John.’ He was bristling with suspicion, of a kind.

  Mannering shrugged his shoulders and went out. He caught a glimpse of himself in a tiny gilt mirror; his hair was covered with dust. He went into the bathroom and brushed and combed his hair, then washed, lit a cigarette, and went downstairs. Three uniformed policemen were in the shop and another stood outside; a crowd had already gathered, and a young man beckoned him. Mannering shook his head; a statement to the Press before Bristow had seen them would cause an explosion. Why was he so touchy? Silly question – any policeman who had discovered two murdered men would be on edge.

  The three policemen looked at him without speaking.

  A plain-clothes man was in the office, sitting at the desk.

  Mannering went to a cabinet half-way along the shop, opened it, and took out two small gold caskets. He put them on top of the cabinet, took out a chamois bag and began to polish them; not because they needed polishing, but to avoid doing nothing, with the crowd gaping.

  His thoughts roamed; few were reassuring. Shock and anxiety for Larraby had made it easy to forget how serious the loss might be.

  Lord Swanmore needed money, and had been compelled to negotiate for the sale of his Collection. He had come to see Mannering two days ago, a handsome, rather austere man, with a great opinion of himself. He was anxious that it should not be generally known that he was selling. He knew that he could get more money for it, if his jewels were sold as a collection, but would prefer to take less for individual pieces so as to keep the sale secret. He had come to Mannering, he’d said, because he believed that Mannering was one of the few dealers who would treat the matter in strict confidence. He didn’t mind where the jewels were sold, and had no objection to them being sold as a collection provided there was no question of publicity. At the first breath of publicity he would withdraw the jewels; that was a strict condition. No one – not even any member of his family – was to know.

  A peculiar set-up.

  Mannering had accepted the Commission, but had not told Swanmore why.

  Swanmore had a daughter.

  She had come to Quinns before her father, knowing so much about Swanmore’s financial plight that Swanmore would probably be horrified. He might have become apoplectic, had he heard her prophesy that her father would lay down all manner of absurd conditions. She had known that the famous Mr. Mannering would probably not want to handle the collection, but – would he? Please!

  Swanmore’s daughter had a way with her.

  The collection had been sent by ordinary carrier, to make sure that no one realised that anything of great value was being moved from Swanmore’s Regent’s Park home to Quinns. True, Larraby had watched the parcel from the time it had left the house until it was safely in the strong-room; there had been no risk in transit. That was no excuse for carelessness about the insurance, but Mannering had been careless. Insurance companies were sensitive about collections of precious stones. There should have been a transit insurance and cover while they were out of Swanmore’s house. Swanmore might have seen to that; Mannering certainly hadn’t. Time would tell.

  And Swanmore didn’t want publicity!

  Mannering found his lips curving wryly.

  Bristow came downstairs, brushing down his clothes and smoothing his hair. The man at the desk jumped up. Bristow called: “Mr. Mannering,” emphasising formality; why? Mannering went along to the office, ignoring the still more frantic beckoning of the young man, Chittering, the Daily Record reporter, who was at the window.

  Bristow said heavily: “How soon can I have a complete list of what’s been stolen?”

  “In about ten minutes.”

  “You’ve complete records?”

  “Oh, yes—everything which goes into the strong-room is listed and checked,” said Mannering. “I’ve photographs of a lot of the stuff, too, you can send them round.”

  “That’s something,” said Bristow grudgingly.

  “Bit sour, Bill, aren’t you?”

  Bristow said: “I’m going to get this business solved without losing any time, and I’m not going to have any interference from you or anyone else—get that quite clear.”

  “All right, William, it’s clear!” Mannering was mild. “You want the list and as many photographs as possible. If you’ll let me use my desk—”

  “There’s not such a hurry as that,” said Bristow. “Sit down.” As Mannering obeyed, Bristow glanced at the plain-clothes man, who went out and closed the door. Police were still in the strong-room, and could be heard moving about, although their voices were muffled; there would be plenty of warning if they came up the steps.

  “Now, get it off your chest,” invited Mannering.

  Bristow said: “I’ve warned you clearly enough. Don’t interfere. Just because this has happened on your premises, don’t r
un away with the idea that you’ve any special privileges. You haven’t.”

  “Understood,” murmured Mannering.

  “Now—tell me what you know about it. Everything.”

  Mannering’s smile faded. Bristow lit a cigarette from the stub of another. His neat, grey moustache was stained yellow and his fingers were dark brown at the tips; he was a chain-smoker. His grey eyes were alert, wary – suspicious; that was the only word.

  “I reached here at twenty-seven minutes past nine, as near as I can tell you,” Mannering said. “I’d no idea that anything was wrong until I saw the safety light burning—Larraby usually switches it off when he comes down. It was run off a battery, of course. I didn’t find Larraby or realise there was serious trouble until Carmichael arrived. He was only a few minutes after me. That’s the lot.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Bristow was gruff.

  “That’s a pity, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “You know something else. This is one of your silly games—you’ve been playing with fire again, keeping a lot of stolen stuff in the safe, or dealing with jewels you know are hot. Sooner or later you were bound to come a cropper. Let’s have the truth this time.”

  Mannering shook his head, in the manner of a reproving parent.

  “All wrong, William. Whether you believe it or not, I don’t knowingly deal in stolen goods. But—”

  “Ah! But what?”

  Mannering leaned forward.

  “For your ears alone, I had the Swanmore Collection.”

  He told that story briefly and briskly, and during the narration thought that Bristow seemed mollified; obviously he would not have told such a story had he not been able to prove it. He emphasised Swanmore’s desire for secrecy and explained the doubt about insurance. Bristow listened without interrupting and with increasing interest. His sourness had nearly gone when he spoke again.

  “I know Swanmore slightly—he had a burglary a few years ago.” Bristow actually grinned. “He isn’t going to take this very well.”

  “That won’t surprise me.”

  “Aren’t you covered for all goods you keep here?”