Mannering sat in his chair, bewildered, more than a little afraid. He knew that if the slightest thing happened to suggest that he was John Mannering the game would be up, and he dreaded discovery every moment.
All the same he watched the search, fascinated. The policemen inspected every corner, every possible hiding- place. They searched files that were thick with dust, old boxes, the drawers of the desk, and they even prised up two loose floor-boards. Their reward was nothing.
Tanker’s good-humour prevailed; probably he had expected to draw a blank.
“That leaves just the safe,” he said. “Got the key, Grayson ?”
“It’s not locked,” said Grayson. “I used it just before you came in.”
“Now I wonder why?” asked the policeman thoughtfully.
He slipped off the edge of the desk and went to the safe. The door opened easily, and the bundles of pound- notes — three of them — amounting to twelve hundred pounds, were revealed.
The policeman took them out and tossed them into the air as he walked back to the desk. He sat on it again. . . .
Mannering’s heart seemed to turn over. Tanker was sitting within an inch of the button which would reveal the slot-opening in the desk — and the pearls.
The Baron sat watching, on tenterhooks every minute. Each time Tanker moved a fraction of an inch he was afraid that the slot would be opened by the pressure. A little ring of sweat formed on his forehead and at the back of his neck. He was more afraid than he had ever been in his life.
But he contrived to keep his face straight and his hands still. He looked at the bundles of notes, and his expression suggested such covetousness that Tanker, who looked at him for a moment, laughed.
“Never want what isn’t yours,” he advised jocularly. Then he looked at Grayson, and his expression hardened. “That’s a lot of money to have all at once,” he said.
Grayson’s acting was superb. Not by a flicker of an eye did he reveal the anxiety that he must be feeling about the slot in the desk. There was a smile on his lips as he answered: “I could draw you a cheque for ten times that amount,” he said, “and still have a good balance. That’s wage-money, Tring.”
“You pay big wages,” said Tring doubtfully.
Grayson’s temper sparked at that.
“That’s my business,” he snapped. “Those notes are for wages, I tell you. I brought them from the bank less than twenty minutes ago. You can go and inquire if you want to.”
Tring shook his head, perfectly unperturbed by the outburst.
“No need,” he said. “I saw you go in the bank, and I saw you come out. Why not save trouble, Grayson, and tell me why you wanted this money?”
For a moment it looked as if Grayson would lose his temper completely, but he made a big effort, and controlled it.
“I’ve told you once what it’s for,” he said. “I pay my wages every month . . .”
“Dock-labourers don’t get paid every month,” said Tring.
“Dock-labourers don’t run my ships,” snapped Grayson.
The policeman looked crestfallen, and Mannering realised that the other had overlooked that possibility.
“H’m,” he muttered, “you’ve got ships in, have you?”
“Three,” said Grayson, and his expression said: “And if you don’t believe me go and find out for yourself.”
Tring nodded, sighed, and tossed the bundles of notes to one of his assistants.
Tut “cm back,” he said.
As he threw them he moved a little, and this time he actually covered the button. Mannering could hardly keep his eyes off the danger-spot, and when Tanker shitted an inch away relief went through him. But it was not long- lived, and in the next moment his fears returned tenfold.
That’s that,” snapped Tring, and there was a glint in his eyes. “Now I’m going to search you, Grayson —
Mannering’s eyes narrowed with the shock, but he kept cool. He shifted his chair back, half-rising from it more to hide his own anxiety than anything else.
“Cut that!” he grunted. “You ain’t got no warrant to search me, mister, and I ain’t being searched, see?”
Tring eyed him levelly.
“I’ve a warrant to search this office,” he said, quietly enough, “and you’re in it. You’re a big fellow — but don’t try any tricks, or you’ll spend the night in the lock-up, cooling your heels.”
Mannering glowered, keeping his eyes as narrow as he could, hoping hard that Tring wouldn’t look at them too closely. It was a tense moment. Mannering’s spine was cold, for there was something very threatening about the sergeant.
“Well?” snapped Tring.
“Better let ‘em,” advised Grayson quickly.
Mannering shrugged his shoulders and grunted. For the first time in his life he was searched. He was hard put to it to keep steady, and the seconds dragged like minutes, but there was one thing that cheered him. He knew that he was carrying nothing that might connect him with Mannering, and the only thing in his pockets of interest to Tring was the rubber container in which he had carried the pearls.
