The Blood Diamond (13 page)

‘Get in, Mannering. And watch me.'

Mannering climbed in and sat next to the driver, and the other put a gun into the dashboard pocket in front of him, well out of Mannering's reach. They went along the London Road for half a mile, then turned right. Mannering kept an eye on the driving mirror; they were not followed.

In this residential part of Guildford, Mannering had lost Marjorie Addel two nights before; he recognised some of the turnings. Was he being taken to Harding's house? Wasn't that too obvious a rendezvous?

‘Good looker, your wife,' the driver said.

‘I'm glad you think so.'

‘Nice figure, too. If you want to keep her that way, behave.'

Mannering didn't speak.

They turned into a wide avenue. Houses stood in their own grounds on either side, and the starlit sky made a benign background. The powerful engine purred softly; the car slowed down, and the driver put out his indicator.

They turned into a short drive.

The grounds were thick with bushes and trees, hiding the lower part of the house. One light shone.

The driver said: ‘Nice face
and
figure, don't forget.'

‘I won't,' promised Mannering,

He fell heavily against the driver, knocking the man's hands from the wheel, then drove his clenched left fist into his nose. The car lurched. Mannering grabbed the handbrake as tyres squealed and grated on the gravel. Then the front wheels hit a grass verge, and the nearside wheels left the ground. Mannering, flung forward, banged his head on the windscreen, then settled down in his seat. The car righted itself with a dull thud and a creaking of springs.

The driver was holding his nose and groping for the gun. Mannering pulled his hand away, then hit him on the side of the jaw. The man hit back, caught Mannering in the neck, and started a shout. Mannering gripped his throat and pressed his thumb tightly against his windpipe. They sat, twisting and turning in silent, deadly struggle.

A car horn blared in the road. Headlights flashed along the trees and on to the struggling men. The car and the light passed.

Mannering's right knee was wedged painfully between the seat and the brake.

Mannering kept his hand round the sinewy throat, feeling the gulping intake of breath; tighter, tighter. The struggles became weaker. The man's hands dropped to his side. Mannering let him go, made sure he was out, then freed his knee. It was burning; but it could have been much worse. He had damaged that knee years ago, and had put it out again.

He climbed out; his knee carried the weight all right. He went to the driver's door, opened it, pulled the man out to the gravel, then dragged him head first towards the trees. They'd dragged Lorna, like this – but by the hair. He paused to rest; the man was breathing unevenly.

Mannering took a length of cord from his coat pocket, bound the driver hand and foot, gagged him with his own handkerchief, and left him behind the bushes.

He went along and studied the drive closely. There was a circular carriageway past the front door, and he was close to it. He got into the car, fidgeted with his gloves, and pulled at the self-starter. As he did so, he watched the house.

The starter squeaked; the engine ticked over quickly.

Mannering backed towards the road, and a car came along, bathing him in its headlights. A man walking along the pavement called out:

‘What do you think you're doing, backing out blind like that?'

‘Sorry.'

‘I should damn well think you are.'

‘Sorry,' repeated Mannering. Was he to fail because of a fool who'd had a fright? The man went on, and Mannering swung the car into the road, drove towards the end of the road, stopped at the corner. The nameplate on the wall of the corner house read:
Bingham Street.
Marjorie Addel had not mentioned Bingham Street when she had given him Harding's address; just said:
The Lees.

He parked halfway between the comer and the house, pointing towards the London Road. He checked the petrol gauge; according to that the tank was half-full. He got out, leaving the door unlocked, and walked to the gate from which he had come. His knee was warm, not painful. The name of the house was painted on in white letters, just visible in the light from a street lamp a few yards away. It was
Green Ways.

So it wasn't Harding's.

He turned into the drive, and went to his victim; the man was still unconscious but his pulse was beating steadily. Mannering went through his pockets and stuffed everything he could find, except money, into his own pocket. The next door house was ablaze with lights and the sound of radio music came clearly from it; noises off were an advantage.

The single light still shone inside this house.

It came from the hall, and was dim because the door had thick frosted glass in the top panel. There were no lights in either of the downstairs rooms facing the drive; his good luck. A grass path ran right round the house, and muffled his footsteps. Used to the poor light, he could see obstacles in his way; stones, a rambler and a jutting wall.

There was no light at one side of the house, and none at the back, but when he reached the far side he saw a crack of light from a curtained window. He approached it cautiously – and stubbed his foot against a dark stone on the path. It moved and dropped noisily to the gravel. He stopped quite still.

He could hear voices.

None was raised in alarm.

He walked to the window, alert for any sound. His toe was hurting, and his right knee becoming painful; he would not be able to put much weight on it. He stood outside the window, and peered up. It was open an inch or two at the top; that explained why he could hear the men talking. There were heavy curtains and a narrow crack of light in the middle. No one could see out, any more than he could see in.

He walked softly past

At the back, there was still no light He turned the handle and pushed the door, but the thousandth chance that it was open failed him. He took out a flashlight and examined the lock.

It was a new one.

Then he heard a sound inside the house. He switched off the flashlight, on the instant. The sound was repeated, a man was walking towards him.

A light came on and blazed out from a window, two feet from where Mannering stood.

 

 

There came the sound of splashing water, and a metallic noise; a man was filling a kettle. He began to whistle a popular tune. There was a
pop
as the gas was lit, a clatter as the kettle went on.

Mannering stepped cautiously away from the window. He could see a corner of this room and an open door. Light shone so brightly that he could be seen against it from next door. The whistling continued, merging with the radio music, from the kitchen of
Green Ways.

On the grass path, Mannering walked quickly towards the unlighted side of the house. The shadows of bushes moved gently, as if men were walking there; it was the wind. There were faint night sounds, close by.

He reached the far side of the house and felt the windows with his gloved hands; the flashlight wasn't needed for this.

He felt the top of the tools round his waist; he knew each, by its handle. He drew out a glass-cutter with its tiny splinter of diamond, and there was a tube of thin glue, wrapped in a cloth. With the cloth, he smeared glue over the middle of the window, then pressed a square of thick brown paper over it, smoothing it down. He worked as swiftly as if he were in daily practice.

People came along the street – heavy steps and light. A man spoke, and his words carried clearly above the sound of music.

‘Do you know whose car this is?'

‘Sorry, no. Goodnight.'

‘Goodnight, sir.' The couple walked on, but the first speaker remained.

So a policeman was within earshot.

Mannering turned to the window and pressed the cutter against the glass, it gave off a faint squeaky note. He made two diagonal cuts, one above and one below the square of paper.

The policeman walked past and his footsteps faded.

Mannering cut the glass again, twice, then drew back. He fingered the corners of the paper, and touched a piece of tape, stuck firmly to its He pulled the tape gently, one hand touching the paper.

The glass came away with the paper.

He eased it away, then put it by the wall, out of reach of the window. He put the tools away, cleaned the touches of gum from his gloves with spirit from a tiny spray, and paused.

The music sounded like a triumphal march.

He put his arm through the hole and felt the window catch, then groped cautiously. He identified a thin strand of wire – the wire of the burglar alarm. It would raise a din if the wire were cut, but not if he moved it gently. He eased it away from the catch until it hung loose.

The catch was strong, probably had a spring which would make it shoot back and strike the window loudly. He held the finger of his left hand against the catch, and pushed with his right. The catch stung his finger as it moved.

He pushed the window up; it made a faint sound.

He climbed in and went straight across the dark room, feeling his way. There was a crack of light beneath the door, presumably from the hall. The door wasn't locked.

He peered into the hall; it was empty. He went to the front door, unfastened it, leaving it on the latch; a quick getaway might depend on trifles.

He crossed to the other side of the hall, and to the room where he had heard voices. Men were talking, but he couldn't catch the words. He went to the back of the house; there was no light on in the kitchen; the man had finished his tea-making.

The murmur of voices made the only sound now.

He looked quickly in all the other downstairs rooms, which were empty, then went upstairs. The thick carpet on stairs and landing muffled his footsteps. He glanced into four of five rooms which opened from the landing; all were empty bedrooms.

He opened the fifth door cautiously and heard someone breathing. He stood tense, ears strained. Yes, someone was in here. He felt for the key, which was on the outside, and took it out.

Bed springs creaked; and his heart jumped.

There was a sigh, as of a man or woman waking up; a woman? The springs creaked again, and then the breathing steadied.

A woman? Lorna.

He stepped inside. A faint light came from the windows of the house next door. He could see the shape of the bed, the bedclothes and the pillow.

Lorna's dark hair was not against the pillow; whoever lay there was fair.

He went nearer, hearing the woman's even breathing. He made out her features, vague yet unmistakable. This was Marjorie Addel.

He hated her because she wasn't Lorna.

He went out and locked the door, and slipped the key into his pocket. The girl had not stirred. He went up another flight of stairs, and looked into three attic bedrooms and a bathroom; all were empty.

He went downstairs.

The door of the room where the men had been talking opened. As he reached the first floor landing, on his way down, a door opened. A squat man left the room, and another called from inside:

‘That won't make him hurry. Don't waste your time.'

‘I'll be back,' said the squat man.

He was dark and good-looking – an Italian, Spaniard or Southern Frenchman. A
squat
man with powerful shoulders, a deep chest and firm tread. A
squat
man; no other word could describe him so well.

He walked to the front door as Mannering watched.

The squat man paused at the door, then opened it and went outside. He didn't stay long, but hurried in and locked the door. He started to speak before reaching the room.

‘I thought I told you to lock the front door.' His voice was easy on the ear, with a faint accent; a Latin accent, which Mannering had heard over the telephone,

‘So I did,' another said.

‘Don't lie to me.'

‘But, Lopey—'

‘I said don't lie to me. I've just seen it with my own eyes.' He went into the room, and closed the door on a phrase: ‘Mannering hadn't better be much longer.'

The door was closed;
but it wasn't locked.

Mannering reached it, touched the handle, opened it a fraction; the squat man could hardly have sat down.

‘'You didn't think he'd come, did you?'

‘You will be quiet while I talk to the lady,' said the foreigner.

Lorna!

‘Do you think he will come? Yes? He had better come. We will, perhaps, send him some what is the word? Bait, yes.'

Mannering heard a gasp; heard Lorna.

He opened the door another half inch, and took out his gun,

‘You will be sorry if he does not,' went on the squat man. ‘I am told that you paint beautiful pictures.' He laughed. ‘With your lovely hands, yes. This one? You are right-handed, yes? Now if I bend it a little more, the bone would break. You wouldn't do very much painting for some time if that happened. You would do none, if you lost all your fingers. Do you think just the little finger would bring your husband along?'

Lorna did not speak.

Mannering pushed the door wide open and went in, with the gun in his right hand.

‘Nothing will bring Mannering,' he said. His voice was hard, metallic, unfamiliar. ‘I've come in his place.'

 

 

A tableau of three rigid figures faced Mannering. Lorna, sitting forward on a wooden chair, one hand stretched out, hair dishevelled and face white with pain, eyes dazed but beginning to glow; for Lorna wasn't fooled about his identity. The squat man, one hand almost touching Lorna's, was twisted round in an odd position as he stared at the door; the third figure was a big, ungainly brute with thick wet lips, a low, receding forehead and massive chin.

The brilliant eyes of the squat man flickered. He straightened up and his hand moved slowly towards the inside of his coat,

‘So you have come instead of the gentleman,' he said softly. His hand kept moving, almost imperceptibly. ‘Welcome, my friend.'

‘Take your hand away.'

‘My friend! I—'

‘Take it away and keep both hands in sight. That goes for
you
, too,' Mannering said, and nodded.

‘Sure,' the brute gasped, ‘Sure!'

Lopey lowered his right hand – then moved it, like a dart, inside his coat and towards his shoulder. He jumped to one side, and Lorna put out a leg. He fell over it, hit the floor with a crash, and was still moving when Mannering reached him. Mannering dipped his hand inside his coat and drew a snub-nosed automatic out of a shoulder holster. He slipped it into his pocket and backed away.

The brute was licking his lips and breathing wheezily.

Mannering said: ‘Get out, Mrs. Mannering. Unlock the front door and wait for me on the porch.' No one in the world, not even Lorna, could have recognised his voice as his. She almost seemed to doubt who he was.

He snapped: ‘Hurry! Mannering's not paying me by the hour!'

She stood up, steadied herself against the back of the chair, and passed him; she didn't hurry; he thought it was because she couldn't, was too stiff from sitting on that chair. Lopey rolled over.

‘Listen, pal—' began the brute.

‘You tell your story to the fairies,' Mannering said. ‘Turn round and face the wall.'

The man gulped and obeyed, slowly. Lopey began to sit up; he'd banged his head and was dazed. Mannering turned the gun round in his hand and struck him sharply on the temple with the butt. He dropped back, with a grunt; there was no foxing about the way he fell.

‘Listen—' the big man twisted his head round to see what had happened. ‘I never—'

‘Later,' said Mannering.

The man spun round and jumped at him. Mannering smashed his left fist into the big jaw, but it was like hitting concrete. He brought his knee up into the man's stomach, and that was more like a feather pillow. The gasp of agony was shrill, the man staggered to one side. Mannering struck him on the nape of the neck with the gun; he pitched forward and hit the wall with his head,

Mannering turned – and his right knee gave under him, pain streaked through his leg. He gasped and stood upright, clenching his teeth. After a while, he moved more cautiously, and bent over Lopey. He went through the man's clothes, putting everything on the chair Lorna had been using. Watch, wallet, comb – he had black, glossy hair with a natural wave, he was like a handsome man whose head and face had been crushed into a concertina. The quality of his clothes were good and the cut was foreign; certainly not Savile Row. The padded shoulders were square but they didn't exaggerate the real size much, Lopey had the chest and shoulders of a bull.

Mannering's knee throbbed. He didn't find what he wanted – the diamonds which had been taken from his flat, or any diamonds.

He ran his hands over Lopey, prodding, probing, and found something flat and hard, not in a pocket, but sewn into the coat. He made a cut with his knife and ripped the lining open. Inside was a small paper packet. As he unfolded it, diamonds winked up at him, a glory of light and colour. He paused only long enough to examine them; they were the real diamonds which had been stolen from his flat.

He went towards a bookcase in the corner, and as he reached it, heard a movement outside. He swung round, gun at the ready.

Lorna whispered: ‘Are you there?'

Relief ran through him, like warmth on a cold day.

Lorna stood on the threshold.

‘Yes, I won't be long.' His voice was still harsh and unfamiliar, he was living the part. ‘All quiet outside?'

‘A policeman is standing near the big car. Is it yours?'

‘Yes. We'll manage without it.'

He spared a moment to look at her. Colour was back in her cheeks, she'd smoothed down her hair. She was wearing gloves, and massaging the little finger of her right hand. He shot a malevolent glance at the squat man.

‘Did you know that Marjorie Addel was here?' he asked.

‘We can't try to get her away!'

‘Why not?' asked Mannering. ‘And if it comes to that, why should we? ‘

‘She's been drugged.'

‘Sure she's not kidding?'

‘She got here just after me. I was in a room upstairs and I heard the two men talking. They were to give her a shot, to keep her quiet.'

‘She may be coming round now,' Mannering said. ‘We ought to try—'

‘We can't!'

‘All right, we'll leave her,' he decided. There were limits to folly. ‘You can tell Bristow about the drugging later, that should put her right with the police.' He moved several of the books in the bookcase and dropped the diamonds behind them. ‘Bristow ought to find that hiding place without much trouble,' he added. ‘As you're here, call the Guildford Police, just tell them there's been a burglary. They should arrive in ten minutes, we'll leave the door open and make them a present of Lopey and his friends.'

‘Friends?'

‘There's another trussed up in the garden,' said Mannering. ‘Keep your gloves on, there's no need to say you used the telephone.'

Lopey and the brute were still unconscious, and not likely to come round for some time. Mannering took cord from his pocket and tied their wrists, lifted Lopey and dumped him behind a chair in a corner of the room. If the police were delayed and the two men came round, they would have little chance of freeing each other.

Lorna was at the telephone.

Ought he to leave Marjorie?

‘I'm going upstairs,' he said.

The girl was still in the room. Mannering switched on the light, and she turned in her sleep, muttering, but did not open her eyes. She looked almost sulky. One bare arm lay over the side of the bed, and in the crook of the elbow was a small red puncture; so dope had been injected.

Her handbag was on the dressing-table. It contained the usual oddments of make-up, all expensive; there were no letters.

Mannering hurried downstairs, leaving her door unlocked. Lorna was coming from the drawing-room.

‘They're on the way,' she said.

‘Let's go.' That was Mannering's ‘own' voice, and there was a lilt in it.

‘Dare we use the car?'

‘If the luck's with us'

 

They went across the hall towards the front garden. Mannering's knee hurt badly. He was trying to persuade himself that the watchful policeman would ignore them if they walked away; the man was interested only in the owner of the big car. Mannering took Lorna's arm and squeezed, but neither spoke.

They reached the drive as a car came along the road with headlights full on.

It swung out, then turned towards this house. One moment, welcome darkness was about them; the next, they couldn't escape the light.

Mannering whispered:
‘Come on!'

He pulled at Lorna's arm and they ran out of the beam of the car lights. His knee screamed. They reached a corner of the garden as the car swung round the circular carriageway. Mannering glanced over his shoulder, and saw two men jump from the car almost before it stopped; and come towards them, knowing they were there. Police?

Lorna's breathing was short, panting. They reached the wall, and the two men were separated from them by shrubs and trees. Rough grass near the wall made them stumble, and jolted Mannering's knee again. The men plunged behind them, noisily, but no police whistles sounded; would the police work silently?

There was a thick hedge near the wall.

‘Over you go,' Mannering said. He lifted Lorna by the waist and raised her to the top of the hedge. His knee bent beneath him, and he stifled a gasp of pain. Torches were shining towards him, and strange, spiky shadows appeared.

There were still no shout or whistle of alarm; these men weren't policemen.

Lorna scrambled down to the street, and he climbed up the hedge; that wasn't easy. When on the other side, he wouldn't be able to run; he would have to use the big car, policeman or no policeman.

As he reached the top of the wall, he looked back.

The two men in the grounds both had torches, and one beam shone fully into Mannering's eyes.

‘There he is!' a man cried.

Another man slipped, the flashlight swivelled round.-

It shone on Larraby
– a different Larraby, with his hair smoothed down, and a trilby hat on, but – Larraby.

Mannering had only a swift glimpse of him as the torch wavered wildly. Then a different voice came, from the gate.

‘What's going on here?' The policeman was back.

The flashlights blacked out, as Mannering dropped to the ground in a hush. His knee gave out again, and he gasped.

‘What is it?' Lorna asked sharply. ‘What is it?'

‘My old pal, the knee,' said Mannering. ‘We'll have to make for the car.'

He forced himself to run; pain stabbed through his leg like red-hot needles. The red glow of the borrowed car's rear-light seemed a long way off. He went past the drive-gates and saw aflashlight pierce the gloom, shining on the uniformed policeman, who was on the ground; a man – Larraby? – stood over him, with an arm raised. Mannering shouted: ‘
Police!
'

He passed the gates before the men looked up. Lorna was already at the wheel, the car door was open. As he climbed in, she let in the clutch, and the car moved off. ‘Which way?' she asked.

‘Straight on. Headlights.'

She switched them on, and a white blaze carved a light in front of them.

Near the corner with the main road, two cars swung towards them. Mannering saw police uniforms, four or five of them in each. One of the cars slowed down. A man shouted, and the driver of the second car waved out of the window, Lorna swung the car towards London, Mannering watched the driving-mirror tensely. Neither police car had turned yet there were no others cars on the road.

‘Make for the High Street,' he said. ‘Straight on.' He sat nursing his knee, damning it and himself. He'd made a mistake in calling for the police, and—

Had he? What would have happened to Marjorie Addel if he hadn't?

He thought of Larraby, and forgot his knee, until they reached the top of the High Street.

‘Second right, and then left,' directed Mannering. There was some traffic about, and a policeman stood at the kerb; he looked at the car as it passed, but made no move to stop them. In the road which ran parallel to the High Street, Mannering said: ‘This will do. I've another car farther down.' Lorna pulled up, and Mannering got out but nearly fell. Lorna took his arm firmly and reassuringly, and he hobbled towards his hired car. A few passers-by looked at them curiously, because he was so obviously in pain. Another policeman drew near, and stopped: ‘You hurt, sir?' the law asked. Mannering forced a grin,

‘Old trouble, trick knee,' he said, ‘My car's farther down. I'm all right.'

‘Let me give you a hand,' offered the law.

Lorna began: ‘No, I—'

‘Thanks, thanks very much,' said Mannering. ‘Save me leaning on my wife. Supposing you go and start the car, darling?' He used the harsh voice.

Lorna hurried off, and the policeman's supporting arm was sturdy.

‘Yes – old knee joint trouble,' Mannering said. ‘Twisted me knee coming out of a show. Careless of me. I'll be all right – and you're very good.'

‘Glad to help, sir.'

The car seemed a mile off, but at last Lorna reached it. They made their way slowly, passing hundreds of people, some curious, some oblivious. Mannering's heart was thumping, but his lips quirked. What could be better than a police escort, at a time like this?

Lorna looked out of the window.

‘Here you are, sir,' said the police. ‘Back or front?'

‘Oh, front, I think. More leg room.' Mannering put his hand to his pocket and touched coin; then he drew it away; a coin might have a fingerprint on it, there was danger in that.

‘You've been very good,' he said. ‘Number XL5.I won't forget XL5.

‘Only too glad to help, sir,' said Constable XL5.

Lorna started the car; the policeman closed the door, and stood watching them as they drove off.

Mannering said little, and Lorna drove fast; she did most things well. Thoughts fought one another. Had the police caught Lopey and the brute and the man in the grounds? Had they caught Larraby – he could not think clearly about Larraby. Would the diamonds be found and Marjorie rescued? And—had he left anything at all, to show who had broken into the house? Motive wouldn't matter, if he had left any clue.

It was always like this; a frenzy of fears.

How would they explain Lorna's escape?

That was the most pressing problem, and Bristow would—

He exclaimed: ‘Fool!'

He had forgotten that he still had on the make-up.

Constable XL5 had surely
noticed.

Mannering laughed. He'd twisted his knee ‘coming out of a show.' What could have explained make-up more convincingly?

‘Let's laugh later,' Lorna said.