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Authors: John Creasey
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no!”
“Yes. Someone pushed her in the river. She’s all right except for shock - Bristow’s having her looked after.”
“But why . . .?”
“That cross her father gave her was stolen,” Mannering went on. “A stolen diamond was found on her, too. I’m to probe, which means that I’m in temporary favour at the Yard. Simon Lessing is all emotionally anxious, if he can be believed.”
“Any reason to doubt him?” Lorna was quick.
“Every artist loves a nice boy! No. But Lisle didn’t come to the party. That might possibly have been to avoid me, or it might have been to avoid one of the other guests. Or for totally different reasons. Busy today?”
“I can see I’m going to be.”
Mannering chuckled. “Blessed be those who foresee the future. Go round to Francesca’s flat, will you? Tell the maid how sorry you are, is there any way you can help, and with low cunning compile a list of the names of the people at the party. And pump the maid, looking for anything odd or unusual about Bernard Lisle, or odd and sinister or even mildly mysterious callers. You know.”
“I’m not a bit sure that I want to play detective,” Lorna said. “I suppose you’re going to visit your unsavoury friends?”
“Say that to Simon Lessing, and he’ll agree with you warmly!”
“If you really think it will help the girl I’ll see what I can do,” promised Lorna, with obvious reluctance. “Don’t go and do anything silly, we’re going to the Plenders tonight.”
“These parties . . .”
“It’s their anniversary, and we have to change for dinner. Don’t be back a minute after six,” Lorna warned.
Mannering went upstairs to a room on the third and top floor, where he kept some clothes. Larraby, the manager, often slept in a small room opposite this. Mannering whistled softly to himself, took off his perfectly cut suit of honey brown, dressed in another, of grey, which fitted where it touched. It had the look of a City man’s week-end suit, the knees were baggy, the pockets sagged, the cuffs were beginning to fray. This change alone made a startling difference to his appearance. He could change it a great deal more, but this wasn’t an occasion for showing his prowess, only for looking less conspicuous than he would if he wore his usual clothes in the East End. He transferred cigarettes, lighter, wallet, money and all other oddments to the old suit, and went downstairs. Larraby and the bald-headed, broad-shouldered man were still deep in conversation. The stranger was not English.
Trevor, a tall young man in black coat, striped trousers, dark, flat hair and pronounced widow’s peak, hastened to open the door for Mannering. “When will you be back, sir?”
“I don’t know, Trevor. Hold the fort.”
“Don’t worry about that, sir.”
“Don’t worry about that,” mused Mannering, and marvelled at the spirit of that young man, who did not look at all like a hero. Six months before, when Mannering had become involved in a case which had started off much less ominously than this one, an assistant at the shop had been murdered. Here was another case with danger obviously in the offing, and Trevor would “hold the fort”! In spite of all the railing at modern young men, there were a lot of Trevors.
And Lessings.
Mannering walked towards the parking lot, passed the Rolls-Bentley, for he no longer looked qualified to sit at the wheel of such opulence, and eventually came to Piccadilly and waited at a bus stop. It was now midday. Piccadilly was crowded, both here and at the Circus a little farther along; ten minutes in that maelstrom and a saint could become a misanthrope. Two small, brassy-haired girls wearing shoes with absurdly high heels eyed Mannering with open admiration, and a tall, classy woman carrying a French poodle pretended that she wasn’t. He went to the top deck of a Number 96, found a front seat free, sat down and lit a cigarette. London unfolded in front of him. Scurrying
“Yes. Someone pushed her in the river. She’s all right except for shock - Bristow’s having her looked after.”
“But why . . .?”
“That cross her father gave her was stolen,” Mannering went on. “A stolen diamond was found on her, too. I’m to probe, which means that I’m in temporary favour at the Yard. Simon Lessing is all emotionally anxious, if he can be believed.”
“Any reason to doubt him?” Lorna was quick.
“Every artist loves a nice boy! No. But Lisle didn’t come to the party. That might possibly have been to avoid me, or it might have been to avoid one of the other guests. Or for totally different reasons. Busy today?”
“I can see I’m going to be.”
Mannering chuckled. “Blessed be those who foresee the future. Go round to Francesca’s flat, will you? Tell the maid how sorry you are, is there any way you can help, and with low cunning compile a list of the names of the people at the party. And pump the maid, looking for anything odd or unusual about Bernard Lisle, or odd and sinister or even mildly mysterious callers. You know.”
“I’m not a bit sure that I want to play detective,” Lorna said. “I suppose you’re going to visit your unsavoury friends?”
“Say that to Simon Lessing, and he’ll agree with you warmly!”
“If you really think it will help the girl I’ll see what I can do,” promised Lorna, with obvious reluctance. “Don’t go and do anything silly, we’re going to the Plenders tonight.”
“These parties . . .”
“It’s their anniversary, and we have to change for dinner. Don’t be back a minute after six,” Lorna warned.
Mannering went upstairs to a room on the third and top floor, where he kept some clothes. Larraby, the manager, often slept in a small room opposite this. Mannering whistled softly to himself, took off his perfectly cut suit of honey brown, dressed in another, of grey, which fitted where it touched. It had the look of a City man’s week-end suit, the knees were baggy, the pockets sagged, the cuffs were beginning to fray. This change alone made a startling difference to his appearance. He could change it a great deal more, but this wasn’t an occasion for showing his prowess, only for looking less conspicuous than he would if he wore his usual clothes in the East End. He transferred cigarettes, lighter, wallet, money and all other oddments to the old suit, and went downstairs. Larraby and the bald-headed, broad-shouldered man were still deep in conversation. The stranger was not English.
Trevor, a tall young man in black coat, striped trousers, dark, flat hair and pronounced widow’s peak, hastened to open the door for Mannering. “When will you be back, sir?”
“I don’t know, Trevor. Hold the fort.”
“Don’t worry about that, sir.”
“Don’t worry about that,” mused Mannering, and marvelled at the spirit of that young man, who did not look at all like a hero. Six months before, when Mannering had become involved in a case which had started off much less ominously than this one, an assistant at the shop had been murdered. Here was another case with danger obviously in the offing, and Trevor would “hold the fort”! In spite of all the railing at modern young men, there were a lot of Trevors.
And Lessings.
Mannering walked towards the parking lot, passed the Rolls-Bentley, for he no longer looked qualified to sit at the wheel of such opulence, and eventually came to Piccadilly and waited at a bus stop. It was now midday. Piccadilly was crowded, both here and at the Circus a little farther along; ten minutes in that maelstrom and a saint could become a misanthrope. Two small, brassy-haired girls wearing shoes with absurdly high heels eyed Mannering with open admiration, and a tall, classy woman carrying a French poodle pretended that she wasn’t. He went to the top deck of a Number 96, found a front seat free, sat down and lit a cigarette. London unfolded in front of him. Scurrying
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