“You and I,” he said, “aren’t going to get on very well unless you mend your ways, my friend. You’ve got a nice new suit — try to live up to it.”
The man glanced down automatically towards his newly creased trousers. Mannering laughed, but there was a note in his voice that seemed to strike cold. It was no longer gentle.
“Now — spill it!” he snapped.
The man’s eyes met his, wavered, and finally turned away; he looked at the carpet, his feet shuffling.
“I ain’t saying nuthin’,” he grunted.
“No?” asked Mannering softly.
“No!” snarled the bruiser; “and if I git ‘arf a chance . . .” He stopped suddenly as Mannering moved, his lips twisted in a smile; the others eyes glinted with a sudden fear. “Where are you goin’, mister?”
To call the police,” said Mannering affably. “Perhaps you’ll know whether I should get in direct touch with Scotland Yard or . . .”
“You’re kiddin’!”
Mannering paused, with his hand on the telephone.
“Now, why,” he demanded, “should I be kidding? Try and remember the “g”, George.”
The man eyed him and the telephone with a fast-increasing fear. His hands were moving nervously, and his tongue slid along his thick lips. He was on tenterhooks, and Mannering was enjoying the situation.
“I — the boss said . . .” The bruiser started to speak, and then broke off uncertainly.
“Ah!” murmured Mannering. In his ear the telephone was burring; he replaced the receiver softly. His hand moved from the telephone, and the other’s eyes showed relief. “So someone sent you ? And I was thinking that you’d thought it all out in your own noodle. I’m disappointed, my friend.”
The man glared, goaded almost to a point of desperation.
“Never mind the funny stuff,” the bruiser snarled, momentarily forgetful of his fear.
“You honour me,” said Mannering politely.
“If I ever git my ‘ands rarnd . . .”
Mannering lifted the receiver off the hook again, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the man swallow hard, saw his tongue slide along his lip. The cracksman grinned as he dialled “O” and a moment later heard the voice of the Inquiries operator. She was likely to be irritated before he had finished, he realised, but she would merely put down yet another subscriber as unreasonable.
“Give me . . .” began Mannering for the other man’s benefit.
“For Gawd’s sake!” cried the bruiser. He seemed to realise for the first time that Mannering was serious, and his face was livid, his hands trembling.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mannering to the operator, “my friend doesn’t want the call alter all.” He replaced the receiver, and sauntered towards the other, who was standing by the fire-place. He grinned at him for a moment. Then: “Well, George, who sent you?”
“You know right enough,” grunted the bruiser.
Mannering laughed, and shook his head in well-feigned bewilderment.
“Is this a game?” he inquired. “You praise my humour, and now you tell me I can read your thoughts. I think . . .”
He broke off deliberately, for there was doubt in the other’s eyes.
“Straight, mister, don’t you know?”
“As man to man, no,” said Mannering. “All I know is that I sometimes keep a little packet of stones here, and I guess that your amiable boss thought he would try to rid me of one of them. Luck sent me when you were here.”
“And you ain’t got ‘em?”
“Got what?”
“The Rosas.”
“The Ros . . . By all the Jews in Jerusalem! I’ll wring that little sweep’s neck!” Mannering looked genuinely angry, and the pug’s eyes no longer held uncertainty; he believed what Mannering wanted him to believe. “So Lee sent you,” Mannering went on, “did he, because those ruddy stones were collared the other night? Where is Lee?”
“At — at Streatham.”
“What part, you idiot? The cricket pitch or the common?”
“Mister!” The crook’s eyes held appeal now, and his voice was thick with fear, instead of anger. “Don’t tell ‘im I told yer — don’t tell ‘im about the Rosas, don’t, mister . . .”
Mannering hesitated, and it seemed to his victim that he was cooling down. Actually he was enjoying himself.
“And why,” he demanded coldly, “should I do anything to save you from a nasty ten minutes with Septimus Lee ?”
The crook said nothing. Mannering eyed him for a moment in silence. Then he tossed his cigarette-case, which the other caught easily enough, despite his surprise.
