CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE LETTER THAT MANNERING HAD SENT TO THE YARD HAD achieved its object, thanks to the carelessness of Wrightson and the wide-awake
Inspector Bristow was undoubtedly worried about his failure on the job. His anxiety cancelled Mannering’s anticipated pleasure in a conversation with the policeman soon after Bristow had left Regent’s Park and Lady Kenton. It was impossible to revel in another man’s discomfort, and Mannering began to wish that he had never been approached by Bristow. He liked the Inspector, and he disliked the idea of stabbing the man in the back.
Before he left the Yard, however, he was more cheerful.
Superintendent Lynch, who was fond of saying that he had eyes at the back of his head, came into the office, nodded cheerfully to Bristow, shook hands with Mannering, and introduced himself.
“Been talking with the A.C.,” he told the Inspector. “I’m coming on the Baron job with you, Bill. I’ve told him that I think it’s a bigger problem than he fancies, and he’s in a better temper than he was yesterday.”
Bristow’s face cleared. Lynch looked placidly at Mannering.
“We have a dog’s life sometimes,” he said. “It’s all right when we’re going smoothly, but when Old Bill makes a slip or I come a cropper we get a proper shaking-up. But it all blows over. What’s your theory about the Baron, Mr Mannering?”
For a fraction of a second Mannering was afraid that he had given something away, but Lynch was reaching across the desk to help himself to one of Bristow’s cigarettes, and the moment’s respite saved Mannering from making a
“I haven’t one,” he said, coolly enough.
“That’s an advantage,” said Lynch, looking at him through a haze of smoke. “I’m glad you’re helping, anyhow.”
They chatted for five minutes, but nothing of importance was mentioned. Mannering left the Yard, smiling cheerfully to himself. He went to Park Square, chatted for ten minutes with Gerry Long, who had recovered as well as had been expected, and who was sitting up in bed. Gerry was sorry for himself, and mad with himself. Mannering told him to forget it.
“It’s so darned silly,” said Long, “that I can’t think of any way of thanking you, Mannering,”
“The chance may crop up,” smiled the other.
He went to his flat, took the Overndon pearls from their hiding-place soon afterwards, and went to Aldgate. On the way — he travelled by taxi — he altered his appearance sufficiently to make reasonably sure that no casual acquaintance would recognise him. At a small barber’s shop in a turning off the High Street he waited for a bald- headed, jolly-faced man to waddle into the back-parlour which he had entered.
“Morning, Mr Mayle,” The bald-headed man wheezed the greeting cheerfully. He was tremendously fat, a fact emphasised by a pair of slacks let out at the waist with a material different in colour and quality, an Oxford shirt without buttons, opening to reveal an expanse of soft, dimply flesh, and a pair of carpet-slippers.
“Same as usual for you, sir?”
Mannering nodded, and smiled.
The fat man grinned, revealing teeth that were surprisingly white and strong. Mannering waited for him patiently, knowing that Harry Pearce could not be hurried. The barber did many things besides cutting hair and shaving week-old stubble. Mannering had been introduced to him by Flick Leverson, that philosophical fence who was now in gaol. Harry supplied all kinds of make-up, and even helped to apply it. He asked no questions, relied on the generosity of his customers for payment, and was not averse to doing a job for nothing. In that strange world of small thieves and petty rogues a man might be penniless one day and rich the next; Harry knew that his credit would rarely be stretched to breaking-point.
He knew Mannering — a Mannering disguised well enough to deceive the casual eye, or the eye of a man who did not know him in regular life — as Mr Mayle, and he appeared to accept the name for gospel. He supplied him with the rubber cheek-pads and the teeth-covering with which Mannering helped to turn himself into the swarthy, full-faced man who visited Dicker Grayson occasionally for the sale of stolen goods. Mannering had discovered that disguise was not so difficult as he had imagined, and the main essential was to act up to the facial alterations.
It was middle afternoon when Mannering reached the wharf in which Grayson worked. That pink-and-white doll of a man was genial and friendly. He knew that he could get good stuff from the other, and when he reached a fair price he knew that there would be no unnecessary haggling. They had now handled several jobs together to their mutual advantage.
Mannering adopted his usual methods.
He grunted in response to Grayson’s “How are you?”, slipped his rubber container from his pocket, upturned it, and let the Overndon pearls stream on to the desk, all without a change of expression.
Grayson’s smile disappeared. His eyes were very hard as he stared at the prize.
“Where’d you get those ?” he demanded in his disconcertingly deep voice.
“That’s neither here nor there,” growled Mannering. “How much ?”
Grayson fingered the pearls. The dim light of the great warehouse prevented him from seeing their true lustre, but he was a keen judge, and he knew what he was handling.
“The Overndons,” he murmured, and for once his voice was very soft.
The sense that had served Mannering well so often came to the fore again. There were times when he had to show spirit and worry Grayson. This was one of them.
He leapt from his chair with an oath. His eyes were blazing, and his lips turned back over his dirty-looking teeth; he seemed at that moment a typical seaman used to rough-houses and prepared to start one now.
