“Gut that!” he snarled. “Stick to yer business, Grayson, and don’t try the funny stuff, see, or . . .”
His large, gloved hands clenched, and the pink-and-white man flinched away, but with words and a smile equally conciliatory. He knew that he had broken an unwritten law.
“That’s all right, that’s all right,” he said suavely. “I shouldn’t have asked, I know, but these things have had rather a lot of — er — publicity, haven’t they?”
“That’s as may be,” growled Mannering. “All I want from you’s a price. Name it,”
He was enjoying himself. There was a spice of danger in his meetings with Grayson that he liked; and there was need for him to be on his guard all the time. It enabled him to get used to the acting necessary for his part as the Baron, and he realised the more practice he had the better.
Grayson muttered something under his breath. Then: “They’re dangerous things to handle, very dangerous, my friend,”
“You can smother ‘em till the fuss is over.”
Grayson’s eyes were expressionless.
“So can you,” he said.
Mannering grunted again, and stretched his hand across the table. He knew how to handle Dicker Grayson, and he knew too that he must never let the other man best him.
“Sure,” he said. “So can I. And find another smasher, mister. Let me take ‘em,”
Grayson covered the pearls with his plump pink hands.
“There’s no need to act like that,” he said placatingly. “Don’t forget I take all the risks, son. Five hundred,”
Mannering knew this game by heart.
“Three thousand,” he grunted.
“I’m not a millionaire,” Grayson snapped; then he smiled suddenly, as though he realised that this fencing was useless. “We know each other too well to play, son. I’ll give you twelve hundred,”
Mannering nodded. He seemed disinterested now he had a reasonable offer. One of the things Grayson liked about him was his clean-cut acceptance or refusal of a figure.
“Small notes,” Mannering stipulated.
“I’ll get ‘em,” promised Grayson.
It took the receiver twenty minutes to get the notes. Mannering was used to waiting, and he occupied his time by looking out of the window across the stretch of muddy water that carries the shipping of the world. The Thames and its banks were alive. Through the closed windows came the raucous sound of men’s voices, the blaring of sirens, the clanking of chains, the chug-chug of a giant crane, the continual thump of bales of merchandise being dropped into hatches or barges. There was something fascinating about it, and Mannering forgot that he was acting a part
Something entirely unexpected brought him back to the realisation of it.
He was gradually accustoming himself to the need for constant wariness. It was the unexpected, the emergency which was created in a flash, that was more likely to cause him trouble than anything else. And an emergency came now.
He saw Grayson hurrying into the warehouse yard, and half-turned towards the centre of the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man who followed Grayson . . . .
Mannering’s eyes narrowed, and his heart beat fast.
It was Tanker — Sergeant Jacob Tring — Bristow’s right-hand man!
There was no doubt about it, Mannering knew. Tanker was dressed in civilian clothes, and he carried them well for a policeman, but his stolid features and rather gloomy expression were unmistakable.
Did Grayson know ? There had been nothing on the face of the fence as he had hurried towards the warehouse to suggest that he had known that he was being followed, but Grayson was a wary bird. He would probably realise the danger, and act accordingly.
Mannering realised it very bitterly; this would happen now.
It looked as if the police were going to question Grayson. The life of a fence was a precarious one, he knew, and if the slightest rumour against him reached the ears of the police he would be raided without delay.
Was Tanker starting a raid? Or was he merely on an errand of inquiry?
It was one of the worst three minutes that Mannering had ever had. He kept looking out of the window, keeping well back in order to make as sure as possible that he was not seen. But what he saw himself made his blood race and his eyes feel hot.
The police-sergeant was not alone!
Three other men, well dressed when compared with the other inhabitants of the wharves, moved slowly towards the warehouse in which Mannering was waiting. The big man saw Grayson disappear, and then watched the plain-clothes men converge on the door. He was thinking all the time of the Overndon pearls; their discovery by the police would finish him.
Mannering turned from the window quickly, but he had hardly reached the table when Grayson burst in. The fence knew all right, even though his expression was cool. He was breathing fast, and he slammed the door behind him.
“Move away!” he snapped, and Mannering obeyed.
Grayson, moving with astonishing speed, pressed a small protuberance in the surface of his desk. It looked no
