The Arrogant Artist Page 9

  What they could not see was into his mind: to the fact that his heart was beginning to pound with a new kind of excitement, fed by the growing conviction that the cracksman known as the Baron had been John Mannering, whom some called the Baron to this day.

  But that original Baron had never been caught, never been punished for his crimes.

  Chapter Ten

  Dedicated Detective

  Willison was a dedicated detective.

  He was not simply a policeman; not simply a dedicated policeman. In fact, the rights and wrongs of a situation did not greatly affect him. He knew the law and applied it dispassionately but he felt no particular sense of triumph or pleasure because a man or woman had been caught and found guilty. His concern was with the problem; the untangling of the threads and the final solution. That was why he had been so anxious to search the Mannerings’ apartment. It had not seriously occurred to him that John Mannering might be involved in the buying and selling of stolen jewels, only that he might have become involved as a third party – a kind of referee.

  Now, Willison saw two different possibilities: that Mannering, once a thief as the cuttings seemed to show, might still be one; and that if in fact Mannering had never been caught then he, Willison, might have a chance to unravel mysteries buried deep in the past: mysteries with clues lost in the old files of Scotland Yard, or here in Mannering’s flat, or in his and in his wife’s mind.

  Willison felt as if he were on the threshold of great new adventures in detection: a whole new world of possibilities.

  He closed the book, held it on his lap for a few moments, heard someone cough, looked up and saw Detective Sergeant Joslin, from Fulham, in the doorway.

  “We’re all set now, sir, if you are,” he said with a brightness which his over-tired eyes belied.

  Willison looked at him blankly and for what seemed a long time; then he seemed to snap out of whatever was preoccupying him. He put the heavy book back on the pile, nodded, took a quick but exhaustive tour of the flat to satisfy himself that everything had been left in apple-pie order, then gave instructions for the men to go, except for two, on night duty, who would guard the flat. For if the dead man had believed that the stolen Fiora Collection was at Mannering’s flat, others might know or suspect this.

  He reached his own small, bachelor flat in Victoria, a stone’s throw from the Yard, at half-past three, set his alarm for half-past eight, and made himself a milk drink before getting into bed. He felt as nearly contented as he could be, and was asleep within a very few minutes.

  Everyone involved was asleep, too.

  Lorna was stirring when Mannering came out of the bathroom at nine o’clock that morning, and an electric kettle in the kitchen was already steaming. He made tea, took it across to her, was satisfied that she looked rested, and displayed the minor scars of his own battles: bruises on both knees and about his neck, where the noose had tugged, several grazes, including one on his left cheek-bone and several on his fingers, and a slightly puffy right ankle.

  “But I feel as good as new,” Mannering insisted, and drank tea, and surveyed Lorna. “How is your feminine commonsense this morning?” he asked.

  “What about, in particular,” Lorna asked suspiciously.

  “Staying here and recuperating,” Mannering suggested.

  “Are you going to recuperate?”

  “I’m going to take it easy,” Mannering assured her. “Supposing you stay in bed until lunch, and I join you here.”

  Lorna pursed her lips, hesitated, and then leaned back on thick down-filled pillows.

  “It sounds a lovely idea,” she declared. “But I shall want a copy of every morning newspaper. Then I shall find out what the public know about my husband that I don’t know.”

  “I’ll see you get them all, uncensored,” promised Mannering.

  He sent for the newspapers, made coffee and toast when he was dressed and ready to go, saw banner headlines and photographs of Forrester, Julie and himself. It was in the Daily Mail that there was a full page picture of Julie rushing towards him, with her arms outstretched; it was as nearly perfect as a newspaper photograph could be. Taken broadside-on to them both, it showed the expression on Julie’s face: longing, eagerness, hope. He, Mannering, saw it before Lorna, and when she had scanned the paper she was reading, he handed the Mail to her opened at the photograph.

  Lorna studied it closely, and then looked at him, smiling, affectionate.

  “She’s very pretty, darling.”

  “That I know,” said Mannering. “I also thought she was good.”

  “Do you have any reason to doubt it?”

  “If she’s trying to imply that we are old friends – yes, I have very much doubt.”

  “How can you find out?” Lorna asked.

  “By seeing more of her,” Mannering answered, leaning forward and stroking her cheek. “In spite of the misinterpretation some people may put on that, too.”

  “I won’t, darling,” Lorna almost cooed.

  He looked at her for what seemed a long time, and then replied: “I’m quite sure you won’t, my darling. But Willison might, and one or more of the newspapers may. I am probably going to be presented to the eager world as a gay Lothario.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that for a moment,” Lorna said.

  She was still smiling.

  The smile began to fade as his expression changed and his eyes gleamed wickedly; there was obviously something on his mind which she didn’t understand. They were like that for some time, Lorna against the pillows, Mannering sitting on the side of her bed. At last, she stirred.

  “What’s going on in that Machiavellian mind of yours?” she demanded.

  “I was thinking you were a beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “And a very clever artist.”

  “Such compliments,” she said, half mockingly; and then her eyes widened. “John!”

  “So your mind is as Machiavellian as mine,” observed Mannering.

  “You mean, I should find out what I can about Forrester.”

  “It would be a compassionate act from a famous professional to a zestful amateur,” Mannering remarked, and then he covered her hand with his. “Darling, I don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s too dangerous.”

  Thoughtfully, Lorna replied: “Well, it’s dangerous whether I know him or not. I could look at his paintings.”

  “Will you?”

  “And isn’t he a very attractive man?”

  “So far as hippies can be.”

  “Are you sure he’s a hippy?” demanded Lorna.

  “No,” Mannering answered. “I’m not really sure about anything that young man does or says, but I think you might help to find out whether he is an artist at heart or whether he’s putting on an act.”

  “To fool you?”

  “Among others, probably,” Mannering replied. He sat silent for a long time, before going on: “I can’t really see any urgent danger in it, but if you went along with Bristow—”

  “Now how could I hope to find out what is in a passionate young man’s mind if I take along a man old enough to be my father?” Lorna asked, her eyes laughing at him.

  After a long pause, Mannering said: “I’m not at all sure I should have suggested this. Promise me one thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “If you won’t take Bristow, at least tell him or me or someone at the shop you’re going to Fulham,” pleaded Mannering.

  “Oh, I’ll promise that,” Lorna said. She lay back on the pillows, looking rather like a woman painted by Botticelli, and smiled at him as she peered at him through her dark, sweeping lashes. “There’s one other thing.”

  “Tell me,” Mannering urged.

  “I might have thought of this by myself, you know.” Keeping a straight face, Mannering retorted: “I simply don’t believe you’re as devious as all that.”

  Lorna drew in a deep breath, changed from laughter to a glare, and actually shook
a fist at him.

  “You devil! You expected me to come round to the idea, and got in first so that I couldn’t go alone without letting someone know. You devil! I have a good mind to go without saying a word to a soul!”

  He took the clenched fist between his two hands, squeezed, and asked in a pleading voice: “Don’t, my darling. Whatever you do, don’t do that.”

  When he left the room he felt quite sure that she would go to Fulham during the day, but not without letting someone at Quinns know. He himself was open-minded about what he would do: whether he should first go to see Julie or wait for her to come to him again. He drove to a car park just behind Hart Row and was actually opening the door of Quinns when he remembered promising to go and see Julie at eleven o’clock the previous night. Immediately, he was angry with himself, but that eased when he realised how much had happened after the promise.

  Rupert Smith was talking to an extravagantly-dressed American woman about some early Roman vases in a cabinet near the window. Armitage was sitting with a Japanese at a desk with an illustrated folio open, the beautiful pictures being examined under a strong light. Bristow appeared from behind the partition, as spruce as always in light grey.

  “Good morning, Bill!”

  “Good morning,” Bristow said. “I thought you would be sleeping it off.”

  “Lorna is,” Mannering replied.

  “So half the family has some sense,” Bristow retorted, examining Mannering closely. “Are you as all right as you look?”

  “I think so,” Mannering answered cautiously, and unlocked the door of his office; only on rare occasions, emergencies, did anyone go into the office when he was not on the premises. “Come in.” As he sat down, beneath a portrait of a cavalier who looked so like him it was uncanny, he went on: “Did you have any luck?”

  “Not a great deal,” Bristow answered. “I know more about Julie Clarendon now. She is the daughter of a Church of England clergyman, a vicar of a church in Devonshire, and apparently her parents were very upset when she decided to come to London on her own. They know she is living with Forrester but it’s not discussed between them. She goes home for an occasional weekend, but things are always pretty tense.”

  “How on earth did you learn all this?” demanded Mannering.

  “I telephoned the Exeter police and they told me of a cousin who lives in Hampshire. At one time Julie was reported missing and they made some inquiries and found it was wilful missing. I went to see her last night, and she talked freely.”

  “Once a policeman always a policeman,” Mannering said appreciatively. “And Forrester?”

  “I haven’t got so much about him,” Bristow had to confess. “Julie’s cousin says she thinks he’s from a Midlands family and went to one of the minor public schools, then an art school in the Midlands, later to one at Chelsea. I don’t yet know anything about his family but I’ve a few inquiries in process.”

  “I’ll bet you have!” exclaimed Mannering. He pushed his chair back and looked up, head on one side, remembering how long he had known this man and how much they had come to like each other and work together since Bristow had left the Force and come to work here. “Bill—what do you know about the Fioras?”

  “As much as the police tell me they know,” answered Bristow. “There was a burglary at Sir Gordon Sangster’s home last Thursday, and some jewellery was stolen. The police discovered the fence, who had the lot – including some Fiora pieces. When they went to see Sangster they discovered him literally at death’s door; he’d had a severe heart attack – last Wednesday. Nothing’s been said in the newspapers about the burglary, and the Yard is glad to help keep it quiet, so that they can investigate without being chased all the time by the Press.”

  Bristow paused long enough for Mannering to say: “And there’s no trace of the rest of the collection? How much has been recovered?”

  “Three pieces out of fifty-one,” answered Bristow. “There are two theories, John. First, that the whole collection was taken and broken up, the thief learning how hot they were when the fence was questioned – so, he dumped them somewhere. Or else that a few pieces had been brought from some secret strong room at Sangster’s house and stolen with family jewels. Sangster’s only son, who lives at the London house with his wife, hasn’t been questioned about any secret hiding place yet. His concern appears to be only for his father.”

  Bristow stopped, shifted his position, and put a cigarette to his lips; it was very white against the dark nicotine of his clipped moustache. Abruptly, he asked: “Have they been offered to you?”

  “No,” replied Mannering, and went on in a deceptively casual voice: “But someone has told the police as well as the man who was killed at my flat that I have them.”

  “Who the hell would say that?” exclaimed Bristow.

  “That’s one of the urgent things to find out,” Mannering replied, drily. They fell quiet for a while, studying each other. There were no sounds except that of distant voices and, suddenly, the opening and closing of the shop door. At last Mannering went on: “Have you heard how Forrester and the girl are this morning?”

  “The girl’s typing over at Number 20 Riston Street,” answered Bristow. “Forrester is up and about, with a very stiff neck, but he’s painting.” Bristow smiled fleetingly: “I still have my friends at the Yard.”

  “We’ll never need them more,” Mannering said warmly. “Well! Let’s look at the post.”

  Bristow went to fetch the morning’s letters from his place at the bench behind the partition. There was very little beyond routine inquiries, and nothing that needed urgent attention. Mannering told Bristow that Lorna was likely to get in touch with Tom Forrester, but before Bristow could register either approval or disapproval, the telephone bell rang. Mannering picked up the receiver, and announced: “John Mannering.” After a pause, he went on: “Yes, he’s with me,” and handed the receiver to Bristow, who took it as he sat on a corner of the desk.

  “Yes … Yes … Oh, hallo, Joe.” ‘Joe’ might be anyone as far as Mannering was concerned, and he went on making notes on the letters, giving instructions as to what was to be done. He heard what Bristow said, even sensed a sharpening in his inflection, but it wasn’t until the other had put down the receiver and was looking down at him that he sensed anything was wrong.

  “What is it?” he demanded sharply.

  “That was Joe Pascall,” Bristow stated, naming one of the senior members of the Criminal Investigation Department. “And he feels like sticking his neck out for both you and me.” Bristow looked at once angry and bleak, and his hand was tight on the telephone, which he hadn’t let go. “Apparently Willison has spent two hours this morning going over my old files, or rather the files of the cases I investigated back in the days when you and I weren’t exactly friends. He’s trying to dig up the past, John. Have you the faintest idea why he should?”

  “No,” said Mannering, very slowly. “No, I hoped he—” he broke off, and understanding dawned. “Unless he examined my press cuttings book last night. I showed him how the settle safe works, and it did cross my mind that he might wonder what was in the books, but there was nothing I could do about it: the vital thing was to make sure he was convinced the Fioras were not at the flat.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Past and Present

  The years rolled back for these two men.

  In this same room they had stood as bitter adversaries, Bristow as hostile as ever Willison could be, positive that Mannering was the Baron but having no proof at all. Now they were on the same side but in virtually the same situation, and for a few moments both were very tense. It was Mannering who relaxed first, leaning back in his chair and beginning to smile.

  “After all, the cuttings prove nothing, Bill.”

  “They prove you’ve been so interested in the Baron that you have prepared press cuttings books which are works of art in themselves, and you keep them in the safest place you know,” retorted Bristow. “John, it’s no use
blinking at facts. The past has come up and hit you in the face when you least want it. Willison hasn’t proof about your association with past crimes, any more than I ever had, but this could influence any way he behaves. And it could make him feel sure you have the Fioras.”

  “That the leopard hasn’t changed his spots,” murmured Mannering, a glint in his eyes.

  “This isn’t remotely funny,” Bristow rebuked.

  Mannering chuckled.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Bill. It has its humours. Even the Fioras have come right out of the past and slapped me. I was wondering last night what Willison would have thought had he known that twenty years ago I had them in that settle!”

  “He would probably have clapped the handcuffs on you.” Bristow still sounded sharp, but his tension was easing. “Don’t make any mistake, though; this gives us new problems, John. I’m not going to try to probe into the past, but I’m very interested in the present. If you haven’t got the Fiora Collection, have you the faintest idea where they are?”

  “No one trusts me, not my closest friend nor even my wife,” Mannering remarked sadly. He looked very straightly into Bristow’s eyes. “No, Bill. I know only what you and the police have told me, and that a man now dead thought I had them.”

  Bristow’s gaze was equally direct.

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “I believe you.”

  “Do you, Bill?” asked Mannering, and there was a steely tone in the lightness of his voice. “What would you do if I said I had them?”

  Bristow did not answer at first; nor did he shift his gaze. At last, he said: “You haven’t got them, so what does it matter?”

  “I think it matters a great deal,” Mannering insisted.

  Suddenly he was in conflict with Bristow, and the conflict had arisen out of the situation which spanned the years. It took him back to the days when Bristow had challenged him in much the way he had just now, but this was very different. He reminded himself how different. Then it had been war between them; now Bristow was no longer a policeman, and was in Mannering’s employ. In the few months since this transition had begun they had worked together without conflict of any kind. Now, they were watching each other warily; more like adversaries than partners.