The Warning Read online

  Kennard said: ‘He knows about Liggett and Powell.’

  ‘What does he know?’

  ‘That Liggett worked for us.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Dawson. His glittering, very light grey eyes turned to Mannering. ‘What did you want?’

  ‘The man who killed Liggett. Liggett was a friend of mine.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ Dawson said to Kennard. ‘Don’t worry about him.’ He drew nearer, and his lips tightened. ‘So you’re dressed up with grease-paint. What’s underneath?’

  ‘You’ll find out,’ Mannering said.

  Dawson’s right arm shot out, and his clenched fist smacked into Mannering’s chin. Mannering’s head hit the wall with a sickening thump. He swung his left fist, blindly, and struck the man on the side of the face. Dawson sprawled against a chair. With only one hand to use, Mannering could have finished him, even as he fell – but there was Kennard.

  ‘Get out,’ Kennard said quietly, and the gun was steady in his hand.

  Dawson rose to his feet slowly, his eyes glittering with hatred.

  ‘Let’s clear the air, Luke,’ said Kennard.

  ‘Clear the air,’ muttered Dawson thickly. ‘I’ll break every bone in his body.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Kennard. ‘Go and help yourself to a drink.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Dawson went across and poured, out a strong whisky and soda.

  ‘If he knows something, and won’t talk, we’ll shoot him in the back. It’s legal to shoot burglars. You can do it.’ There was a sneer in Dawson’s voice. ‘It’s the only safe way. He did a neat job on the area door – and I want to know why he came.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have threatened to kill him,’ said Kennard quietly, and he turned to Mannering. ‘You won’t get hurt if you tell us why you came and what you want.’

  Mannering said very slowly: ‘I worked for Powell.’

  Dawson caught his breath. Kennard’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Powell knew plenty about Liggett and told me some of it,’ Mannering went on. ‘He named you, too. I was watching Powell this afternoon. I know what happened and where he went.’ He grinned, disclosing a line of discoloured teeth.

  ‘You’re a private detective, are you?’ Kennard asked almost wearily. He glanced at Dawson. ‘I knew that Powell wouldn’t let things rest.’

  Dawson growled: ‘What else do you know?’

  ‘I’ve said all I’m going to,’ Mannering replied.

  Dawson put his glass down and came forward, lowering, menacing.

  Mannering’s head screamed at the thought of another blow.

  ‘I shouldn’t try any more,’ he said. ‘If I don’t get back, the police will know all about it. I’ve got my reputation to look after and I like to keep my skin whole. So I left word with my secretary to tell the police where I’d come, and what Powell had told me. I also gave her all the lowdown on Kennard.’

  Dawson stood still.

  ‘That’s a lie.’

  There was no fright on Kennard’s face, only resignation.

  ‘It’s not going to work out, Luke. We’ll have to come to terms with this man, and then wash the rest out.’

  ‘Not now, not at any time,’ said Dawson. ‘We’ve gone too far to back out now.’ He turned to Kennard. ‘Give me that gun.’

  ‘No, Luke.’

  ‘Give it to me,’ Dawson said. ‘We had to have a showdown sooner or later; this is as good a time as any. I’m running this. You’d fall with a hell of a crash if I told the police half of what I know.’ The sneer was ugly. ‘Give me that gun.’

  Kennard held on to it, backing away.

  ‘Give it to me!’ roared Dawson.

  He snatched at Kennard’s hand, and for a moment Mannering was forgotten. He screwed himself up to the effort and leapt forward. Dawson realised the danger and swung round. Mannering hooked his legs from under him, and sent him crashing into Kennard. Both men fell. Mannering saw the gun drop from Kennard’s hand and snatched it up. Breathing hard, he backed away.

  ‘That’s better,’ Mannering said. ‘Now listen, Dawson. I know what you’ve been doing tonight. Where is the Lee girl?’

  Kennard got up slowly.

  ‘Did you kidnap a girl, Luke?’ He looked straight at Dawson, and there was keen dislike in his gaze.

  ‘Supposing I did?’

  Mannering rasped: ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Back home, for all I know,’ Dawson said carelessly. ‘I let her go. Ring up and find out.’

  Mannering said: ‘I’ll do just that. Move back.’

  They obeyed, Dawson more conscious of the threat from the gun than Kennard. Mannering flipped over the pages of the telephone directory and found the girl’s number. Dawson stood waiting, at his mercy.

  A man said: ‘Hallo:’ It was a crisp voice, as familiar to Mannering as any. Bristow’s!

  ‘Is Miss Lee there?’ Mannering demanded.

  ‘Hold on a minute and I’ll fetch her,’ said Bristow.

  Mannering let his receiver fall, and kept the two men covered – and with his head beginning to thump again, and his wrist swollen to nearly twice its size, he tried to make a decision.

  Chapter 10

  Morning

  Mannering could knock them both out, leave them helpless, and send for the police. But they would make up a story and there would be plenty to support it. He could try to make them talk, but wasn’t in shape for that. Or he could leave them. The girl was safe, that had been his chief worry. He knew both men were deep in this affair, but he didn’t know what it was all about.

  Dawson asked harshly: ‘What’s your price?’

  ‘I haven’t got a price,’ Mannering said. ‘I’m going to get you. I’m going to put Mannering on to you.’ He gave a short laugh as he backed towards the door, still keeping them covered. ‘You’ll enjoy that.’

  He opened the door.

  The two men stood like statues. Mannering went across and picked up Liggett’s gun.

  ‘And I’ll be seeing you,’ he said.

  He took the key from the inside of the door, slipped out, and locked them in. He walked rapidly down the stairs, the throb in his head going like a trip-hammer. He’d never been nearer out on his feet. Starting from the first bang over the head, he’d had a busy day.

  A clock in the hall struck half-past two.

  He opened the front door and went out. In Oxford Street he was lucky enough to find a prowling night taxi.

  Once in his flat, he slipped the pads out of his cheeks and the rubber off his teeth, poured himself a stiff whisky, and drank it off. It gave him enough strength to stagger into the bedroom and fall across the bed.

  He realised vaguely, as he fell into the coma of sleep, that he hadn’t removed the grease-paint.

  Mannering opened his eyes; then, at the brightness of the light, shut them again. His head throbbed and his mouth felt like a sponge. He heard movements in the kitchen, water running into a kettle.

  Lorna was standing beside him, a tray in her hands. She poured out a cup of tea and handed it to him.

  ‘Been reading newspapers?’ Mannering mumbled. Lorna nodded.

  She had a beauty all her own, dark hair, a pale complexion, and complete composure. She poured Mannering another cup, and took it from him when he had finished.

  He smiled up at her.

  She said: ‘Oh, John,’ and next moment she was in his arms and her face was pressed tightly against his shoulder. It was a long time before she moved. Then she kissed him passionately.

  ‘You must be mad!’

  ‘Oh, I am. The chief trouble is that I’m out of training. What brought you?’

  ‘The Record story, of course.’

  ‘I haven’t seen it,’ said Mannering.

  ‘It just—talked about the visitors.’ Lorna’s gaze roamed the room. ‘And about the death of that man Powell and the visit to the shop. Why didn’t you tell me when I telephoned?’

  ‘I hoped it would fade out.’

&nb
sp; ‘Liar,’ said Lorna. She went to the dressing-table and poked her fingers through her hair. ‘You must get cleaned up quickly. I—what’s that?’

  She started violently, for there was a faint sound as of something falling. She hurried out. A letter had been dropped in the box, and she handed it to him.

  The envelope was typewritten, marked: By hand, and he opened it curiously. Two envelopes and a sheet of paper fell out – those he had given to Chittering.

  There was a pencilled scrawl with them:

  Nothing doing. Yours and the girl’s and one other man’s on the envelope put in G’s bag. Yours on the others. All the rest are too faded to be of use.

  Lorna said quickly: ‘What is it?’

  ‘News from Chittering.’

  ‘John, I want to know all about it.’

  ‘After breakfast,’ Mannering promised.

  ‘Breakfast? It’s past eleven. I’ll get you something, though.’ She went out quickly.

  Mannering went into the bathroom, and cleaned off the grease-paint as best he could with his left hand. Then he ran a bath. By the time he had finished and was towelling himself awkwardly, Lorna called out that breakfast was ready.

  She watched the awkwardness with which he used his knife and fork, then said casually: ‘What’s the matter with your wrist?’

  He told her, and all he said seemed to be echoing the past. Time and time again he’d told her a story of mystery and violence, danger and daring.

  When he had finished she stood up and walked about the room.

  ‘Have you heard anything more from Robby?’

  ‘No. A letter might be at the Club, though.’

  ‘And you haven’t any idea what this is all about?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘This girl, John. Garielle Lee.’

  ‘I think she’s genuine enough,’ said Mannering, ‘and has fallen into the affair accidentally. She thinks it’s exciting.’

  ‘I’ll disabuse her,’ Lorna said drily. ‘What is she like?’

  ‘Nice. Young. Naive.’

  ‘You’re not safe to be left alone. You rather took to Sir Paul Kennard, didn’t you?’ Lorna asked shrewdly.

  ‘Well yes, I did rather. At a guess I would say that he started something in fairly good faith and then found he couldn’t stop. The real enemy in this case is Dawson. The quicker I see him again the better, though it might be wiser to tackle Kennard first.’

  The telephone bell rang.

  Mannering went into the study and lifted the receiver. Garielle’s voice, taut with excitement, came over the wire. ‘Mr Mannering, have you heard?’

  ‘About what happened to you?’

  ‘Oh, not that. I mean about Sir Paul Kennard. It’s too much for coincidence.’

  Mannering said sharply: ‘What is too much?’

  ‘He’s dead. He’s been murdered. It happened last night.’

  Chapter 11

  Appeal for Help

  Mannering stared, unseeing, at the wall behind the telephone.

  ‘Are you there? Did you hear me?’ Garielle demanded.

  ‘Yes, I’m here. How did you learn this?’

  ‘Mr Anderson, my boss, knows one of the superintendents at Scotland Yard. He told him.’

  Mannering thought bitterly that he had left Dawson and Kennard together, had made the way open for Dawson to do murder. It was easy to say that it would have happened anyhow, but would it, if he had chosen a different line last night?

  Then, too, the police would now be at Moynham Square. They would have found the hole in the door, and would, naturally, suspect the burglar of the killing.

  ‘You don’t sound nearly as interested as I thought you would be. Ought I to take that envelope to the police, and say I’ve just found it?’

  This girl could prove that he had withheld relevant facts from the police.

  ‘Yes, I think that would be wise. I’ll send it round to your office. And I’ll see you later.’

  Chittering’s voice sounded from the hall. In the wardrobe was the make-up case and the roll of tools. If Bristow suspected that he, Mannering, had been to Moynham Square, he would probably find an excuse to search the flat. The saw and all the tools must be cleaned and hidden quickly.

  He went into the hall.

  Chittering looked up, smiling engagingly.

  ‘I’ve some news for you. A certain Paul K. has been murdered.’ He paused, shrewd blue eyes regarding Mannering.

  ‘Sir Paul Kennard was shot. His niece found him. She’s very upset. So is Bristow. After three murders in a matter of twelve hours or so, he isn’t feeling so good. What’s happened to your hand?’

  ‘A sprain,’ said Mannering, laconically. ‘Chitty, you’ve been as helpful as ever, but I’ve a lot to do. Can I say thanks later?’

  ‘Marching orders,’ said Chittering resignedly. ‘If you’ll take a parting warning, listen carefully. I’ve never known Bristow madder than he is now. He’s absolutely all out for results – and quick.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mannering.

  ‘What about Garielle Lee?’

  ‘She is going to turn that envelope over to the police. Care to take it to her?’

  ‘Always the willing horse,’ said Chittering, pocketing the envelope.

  Mannering turned to the bedroom, where he had put the tools. He took them into the kitchen, washed the saw and oiled it. Lorna watched as the water swilled the tiny fragments of sawdust down the sink.

  ‘Where are you going to put the tools?’ she asked.

  ‘We could take them to the lock-up garage at Victoria.’

  ‘Supposing Bristow follows?’

  ‘I’ll have time to shake him off,’ Mannering said. Try as he would, he could not speak with confidence.

  ‘You won’t be able to drive,’ she declared. ‘I’ll have to come.’

  He told her about the prisoner as they drove in her Triumph Herald. A car unobtrusively followed them, and Mannering recognised a Yard man at the wheel. Mannering sat back while Lorna weaved in and out of traffic, and finally lost the Yard man near Victoria Station.

  ‘I couldn’t have done better myself,’ he said.

  ‘I hate having to do it,’ she said.

  Mannering slipped the tools into the garage and they went on to Larraby’s flat.

  Josh Larraby, small and frail-looking, led the way to a box-room where he was holding the prisoner.

  Subdued and tractable, there was very little Mannering could learn from him. Yes, he worked for Liggett; the order to go to Miss Lee’s flat had been telephoned. He added rather pathetically that his name was Mike Riley, he lived at Number 10 Pell Road, and his wife knew nothing about it.

  It might be the whole truth, but there wasn’t time to linger, for Bristow would probably be at the flat. Outside, Lorna took the wheel and drove fast towards Chelsea.

  The Yard man, back on duty in Green Street, showed no sign of resentment. The Mannerings hurried upstairs, but no one was waiting.

  A radio-telephone call to Cape Town would take about two hours, Mannering was told. He put in Robby’s number, and then relaxed. Lorna tidied up the study and the bedroom and left the rest of the flat as it was. Then she prepared a cold lunch.

  No one called.

  Mannering went out after lunch, for the midday papers. They carried the stories of the three murders, but that of Sir Paul Kennard was not connected with the others. Bristow was named in each, and Mannering was given a lot of prominence.

  The Cape Town call came through in two and a quarter hours. Robby had left the Cape by air the previous day; he should be in or near London by now.

  Bristow still didn’t come.

  Mannering was anxious to see the later newspapers, and Lorna went out to get them. They carried a more detailed story, and Dawson was mentioned for the first time.

  Mr Luke Dawson, Managing Director of the Kennard Lines, and a lifelong friend and business associate of the murdered man, narrowly escaped with his life. He was attacked and le
ft for dead, but the wound in his head was not serious.

  The two men were found, in the early hours of the morning, by Miss Daphne Kennard, a niece of Sir Paul …

  Mannering put the paper aside.

  ‘So that’s Dawson’s get-out. He’s got guts to take a wound like that to prove that he was attacked.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘See Dawson,’ Mannering said. ‘I wish we had some idea why Powell warned me.’ He began to walk restlessly about the room.

  ‘Robby ought to be here soon,’ he went on abruptly. ‘If we can stall until then, it may help. Bristow worries me.’

  ‘He’s too quiet,’ Lorna said. ‘Can’t you go to see him? Try to make him tell you what he’s thinking.’

  Mannering went to the window and looked out. Bristow’s man was still on the other side of the road, patient as Job. A car turned into the street and pulled up. It certainly wasn’t Bristow’s, for it was a sleek American model.

  It might be Robby.

  The front-door bell rang.

  He opened it, and Daphne Kennard stood there.

  She was dressed in black, and her grey eyes were shadowed.

  ‘Are you Mr John Mannering?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you spare me a few minutes, please?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He wondered, as she looked straight into his eyes, whether she could possibly recognise him.

  Chapter 12

  Daphne Kennard

  When he had first seen her she had been vivacious and gay, now the gravity of grief-stricken youth sat upon her.

  She said abruptly: ‘You have a reputation as a private detective. Will you help me?’

  ‘That depends on what help you need,’ said Mannering gravely.

  She moved away restlessly; then said in a voice stony with resentment: ‘I want to find a murderer. My name is Kennard, Daphne Kennard.’

  Mannering said: ‘Why come to me, Miss Kennard?’

  ‘I don’t think it would be good for my uncle’s memory to tell the police everything. There was something which I don’t understand, something – criminal.’ It hurt her to say that. ‘I found him last night before he died. He said to me: “See John Mannering, Quinns. He’ll help”. He said that several times before he died.’ She stared at the window, but Mannering knew that she was seeing the face of the dying man. How much had Kennard told the girl?