“He doesn’t seem to mind much how he collects them,” said Bristow grimly. “We sent to New York for a report as soon as we heard of the trouble last night. They radioed back at once. Long has twice been mixed up in a scandal of this nature, and twice he’s been able to buy his way out of trouble.”
“It can be done,” said Bristow. “Over here they’d plead that he suffered from kleptomania and . . . Well, being in his position, he might get off with a warning. Over there they’ve another way out. Anyhow, Long’s committed similar crimes on two separate occasions, and it’s pretty obvious what’s happened this time.”
“Yes,” murmured Mannering. He felt very hot and very uncertain. The complications were beginning to worry him. Whatever else happened, Long must not be victimised for this robbery.
“He slipped the genuine pearls away,” said Bristow, “but didn’t have a chance to put the dummies in their place. He had ample time, afterwards, to dispose of the genuine pearls and . . .”
Mannering shook his head, and Bristow stopped, very vividly aware of the other s aggressive tone.
“No,” said Mannering. “I’m sorry, Bristow, but I just don’t believe that Long took those pearls. If any man’s innocent Long is.”
“Then why is he worried?” snapped Bristow. “And what of the previous affairs in America?”
Mannering shrugged his shoulders.
“They fit in together,” he said. “Long feels that he is under suspicion. Remembering these other jobs, he’s worried, because he realises they’ll be connected. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”
“It’s possible,” admitted Bristow. His eyes narrowed, and he was silent for several minutes. “You seem very friendly with Long,” he added at last, but the tone of his voice robbed the words of any offence.
Mannering smiled, and nodded his agreement.
“H’m,” said Bristow, a little heavily. “Well — I don’t need to ask you not to mention this American message to him.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Mannering evasively.
“See Long again.”
“When?”
“At once,” said Bristow, eyeing his companion uncertainly, and searching for the reasons for the questions.
Mannering’s smile was enigmatical.
“Let me tackle him,” he said. “You — or your men — can be listening in the next room. You’ll get the genuine story — if Long’s had anything to do with it.”
Bristow looked doubtful still.
“You think I’ll warn him?” Mannering laughed.
Bristow coloured a little at the thrust.
“I wouldn’t put it beyond you,” he admitted. “I’ll do that, though, if you like. But why?”
“It’ll be rough on him if he bangs right into you,” said Mannering. “He’s worried already. I’d like to let him down as easily as possible.”
Bristow laughed, but without much humour.
“Have it your own way,” he said. “Where are you thinking of talking with him?”
“My flat?” suggested Mannering.
“I’ll get there just after six,” said the detective, looking at his watch. “It’s just turned sour now. That should give you plenty of time.”
Mannering nodded, well satisfied with the concession, and shook hands with his companion.
But although his smile when he left the Yard was as wide as it had been when he had entered, he was inwardly feeling the strain. He had known that something serious had been at the back of Gerry Long’s mind that morning. Now he knew just what it was. The old scandals in which the other had been involved were bound to be revealed, and the young American had realised it.
But Mannering was not concerned with that. Long didn’t know it, but Mannering was the one man in the world who would not care about his crimes. Mannering’s concern was to make quite sure that no suspicion of guilt in this case rested on Long. If it came to the point he would return the pearls.
“But that,” he muttered to himself as he entered his flat, “wouldn’t clear Gerry. It would be assumed that he’d been scared by the police and that he was trying to squeeze out of it. It would do more harm than good. And that means . . .”
He broke off, whistling to himself. He could see only one way to clear Gerry Long. It was dangerous, perhaps, but there would be a zest about it. . . .
Mannering stopped whistling, and smiled to himself. The lights dancing in his eyes would have mystified anyone who knew him. There was devilment, amusement, challenge. He knew, very suddenly, what he would do, and how he would do it.
For the next half-hour there was no sound in the flat but the scraping of a pen across paper and an occasional chuckle from Mannering as he wrote. Twice he screwed up and burned his efforts. The third pleased him more. He sealed it and addressed it. Then he hurried from the flat to a garage where he parked his car, drove from Piccadilly towards Victoria, and posted the letter at an ordinary pillar-box.
The glint in his eyes was a little harder, perhaps, than it had been; but the challenge was still there.
