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Authors: John Creasey
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people risking death beneath the wheels of bustling taxis, monstrous buses, perky little private cars. Here and there the black-and-white daubs of zebra crossing held up the impatient, and people walked across these disdainfully; only at such places did they seem to be in no hurry.
Fleet Street was crammed. The crowds thinned at Ludgate Hill, massed again on the step of St. Paul’s, where a military band was playing something from Grieg, and where office workers thronged the steps and the space between the pillars, eating sandwiches, listening, smoking. At the Bank traffic and people seemed to be going in three directions at once. Looking down on the narrow confines of the City streets, it was like peering down upon a myriad of Lilliputians.
And someone, a person who had been and almost certainly still was a cypher in London’s nine millions, had pushed Francesca Lisle into the river, believing that she would drown.
It would take a hard, ruthless man to kill such beauty.
They were nearing Aldgate. Mannering could see the old pump at the end of this road, still ready to quench the thirst of parched Londoners as it had been for generations. A few hundred yards along, and the character of London would change. Here in the city there lived, by day, the black-coated barrier between West End and East. Mannering’s odd friends lived mostly in the East End. They would probably be glad to see him, although one or two, perhaps with stolen jewels on the premises, would wonder if he were actually on the look-out for those jewels, and would wish him to hell.
These would be the more outwardly overjoyed at meeting him.
Somewhere there lay hidden a clue to the attack on Francesca; to her father’s disappearance; and to the murder of a man who had been murdered for the Fiora jewels. The old, dead man had been a friend of Mannering, and he had suffered savagely.
So there were two good reasons for wanting to find a clue; justice and vengeance for an old man, and help for a young girl.
It had been four years or more since the murder, and there had been no clues to the killers until now. It might take another three years to find the next clue; or it might be found this very day.
Mannering climbed down the stairs as a clippie called: “Allgit.” He beamed at her, and she rounded her eyes and said: “Ta-ta, sir.” He swung on to the pavement, one of the East End crowd, dressed no better and not so well as some of the others, ears quickly tuning themselves to the cries of hawkers, barrow-boys and newsboys. He walked briskly. Across the road, the wholesale butchers were beginning to close their warehouses, but great, raw-looking carcases or mammoth sides of beef hung, dripping. Here kosher and Gentile butcher lived next door to each other, here the masses swarmed, here lay the main hope of finding more about the Fiora jewels.
Mannering made three calls and drew three blanks.
He entered the fourth shop, in a side street near Whitechapel Library, and knew that he had stepped into a place of fear. He was greeted by a frightened man, a little, middle-aged chap, almost a dwarf, with a face which could have qualified him for a clown at any circus. This was a hump-backed, black-eyed dealer in jewels, who had the look of a confirmed rogue.
In a way, he was.
In a way, he was as clean as a policeman’s whistle. He gave a square deal, he was a reliable friend to many; even the police liked him, in spite of the fact that they hadn’t yet caught him with stolen jewels.
When he recognised Mannering, he actually shivered.
8: A HALF-TALE OF A FRIGHTENED MAN
“Hallo, Prinny,” greeted Mannering, and smiled as if in the gloom of the overcrowded shop he hadn’t noticed that the proprietor was so frightened. But he was asking himself why, and could not stop his own heart from beating faster. Could this be the luck he needed; to find a clue at the fourth instead of the fortieth visit? “Nice to see you again. And you look as if you’re
Fleet Street was crammed. The crowds thinned at Ludgate Hill, massed again on the step of St. Paul’s, where a military band was playing something from Grieg, and where office workers thronged the steps and the space between the pillars, eating sandwiches, listening, smoking. At the Bank traffic and people seemed to be going in three directions at once. Looking down on the narrow confines of the City streets, it was like peering down upon a myriad of Lilliputians.
And someone, a person who had been and almost certainly still was a cypher in London’s nine millions, had pushed Francesca Lisle into the river, believing that she would drown.
It would take a hard, ruthless man to kill such beauty.
They were nearing Aldgate. Mannering could see the old pump at the end of this road, still ready to quench the thirst of parched Londoners as it had been for generations. A few hundred yards along, and the character of London would change. Here in the city there lived, by day, the black-coated barrier between West End and East. Mannering’s odd friends lived mostly in the East End. They would probably be glad to see him, although one or two, perhaps with stolen jewels on the premises, would wonder if he were actually on the look-out for those jewels, and would wish him to hell.
These would be the more outwardly overjoyed at meeting him.
Somewhere there lay hidden a clue to the attack on Francesca; to her father’s disappearance; and to the murder of a man who had been murdered for the Fiora jewels. The old, dead man had been a friend of Mannering, and he had suffered savagely.
So there were two good reasons for wanting to find a clue; justice and vengeance for an old man, and help for a young girl.
It had been four years or more since the murder, and there had been no clues to the killers until now. It might take another three years to find the next clue; or it might be found this very day.
Mannering climbed down the stairs as a clippie called: “Allgit.” He beamed at her, and she rounded her eyes and said: “Ta-ta, sir.” He swung on to the pavement, one of the East End crowd, dressed no better and not so well as some of the others, ears quickly tuning themselves to the cries of hawkers, barrow-boys and newsboys. He walked briskly. Across the road, the wholesale butchers were beginning to close their warehouses, but great, raw-looking carcases or mammoth sides of beef hung, dripping. Here kosher and Gentile butcher lived next door to each other, here the masses swarmed, here lay the main hope of finding more about the Fiora jewels.
Mannering made three calls and drew three blanks.
He entered the fourth shop, in a side street near Whitechapel Library, and knew that he had stepped into a place of fear. He was greeted by a frightened man, a little, middle-aged chap, almost a dwarf, with a face which could have qualified him for a clown at any circus. This was a hump-backed, black-eyed dealer in jewels, who had the look of a confirmed rogue.
In a way, he was.
In a way, he was as clean as a policeman’s whistle. He gave a square deal, he was a reliable friend to many; even the police liked him, in spite of the fact that they hadn’t yet caught him with stolen jewels.
When he recognised Mannering, he actually shivered.
8: A HALF-TALE OF A FRIGHTENED MAN
“Hallo, Prinny,” greeted Mannering, and smiled as if in the gloom of the overcrowded shop he hadn’t noticed that the proprietor was so frightened. But he was asking himself why, and could not stop his own heart from beating faster. Could this be the luck he needed; to find a clue at the fourth instead of the fortieth visit? “Nice to see you again. And you look as if you’re
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