“Levy it is,” said Mannering, leaving the pearls on the table while he brewed himself tea at the service-flat which he used as a place of retreat. John Mannering, man-about-town, lived at the Elan Hotel, for the sake of his reputation.
“Levy it shall be,” he said, as he drank the tea. “Levy to-night,” he murmured tunefully, for he was still very pleased with the success of his raid on the previous night.
And then he became very thoughtful.
At eight o’clock that night a man in a tweed cap waited near Levy Schmidt’s pawnshop in the Mile End Road until the pawnbroker, grey and bent and weary-looking, left his shop, locked it, and began to walk slowly towards the nearest tram-stop. The man in the tweed cap followed him, even on to a tram travelling towards Aldgate. At Aldgate Levy clambered off it awkwardly, and the man with the tweed cap jumped off in time to see Levy disappear into that most unlikely of places — the Oriem Turkish Baths.
The man in the tweed cap waited on a corner opposite the baths, from where he could see both entrances to the building. Twice a policeman viewed him suspiciously, and once he looked frankly into the constable’s face, to avoid suspicion.
“Fixture, ain’t I ?” he said. “She works over there. Oughter be out soon.”
The bobby smiled to himself sentimentally and walked on.
Ten minutes later a Daimler car drew up outside the Oriem Turkish Baths, chauffeured by a burly man in a peaked cap and a blue uniform. Five minutes later still Mr Septimus Lee left the Oriem Turkish Baths and hurried to the Daimler. The Daimler moved off into the stream of traffic going towards the City.
“Now that,” muttered the man in the tweed cap, pulling its peak farther over his face and slouching towards a bus, apparently forgetful of “she”, “is a beautiful piece of luck. If you don’t do well at this game, J.M., it’ll be your own darned fault.”
For Septimus Lee and Levy Schmidt were one and the same!
Mannering had made a list of receivers of stolen goods — known in the vernacular as “fences” and by Flick Leverson’s more up-to-date colloquialism as “smashers” — supplied by that philosophical fence, for Flick had realised that it was possible he would be nobbled, and his fears had been justified. Mannering had little desire to try these men with the stuff — or, to use Flick’s term again, the “sparks” — that was being watched for by the police. Others besides Levy
Schmidt might be informers on big stuff or small; and, n any case, he could not expect such co-operation from them as he had received from Levy.
His discovery of the Jew’s dual personality intrigued him. The man’s cunning was astonishing — and too thorough, the Baron decided, to be matched — yet.
As pawnbroker and fence Lee would be waiting warily for the Rosa pearls; as the financial head of the Severell Trust he would probably be watching Mannering carefully. Mannering was not, in those first months, sure enough of the effectiveness of his tweed-cap disguise, even with variations, to try it out again with Lee as Levy. So it had to be someone else.
Mannering decided to try a warehouse-owner by the name of Grayson, a pink-and-white doll of a man with a devastating bass voice. Grayson controlled two or three coastal steamers which disgorged goods at his East End warehouse and carried other cargoes to the North of England and occasionally to Holland. He was able to smuggle stolen goods from one country to the other, and Flick Leverson had said: “He’ll swindle you. Levy’s a tight swine, but Grayson will do you down worse than Levy. But he’s straight.”
A tribute, Mannering had thought, to the honour among thieves that he would put to the test.
Three days later the robbery at Septimus Lee’s house a swarthy, big muscled man visited the warehouse offices of Grayson — Dicker Grayson — and asked for the boss. In view of the many sides to his business Grayson made a point of interviewing all callers, and the big-muscled man was admitted to his private office.
“Well?” boomed Grayson. “What d’you want? A job?”
The other shook his head. His brown eyes — hazel eyes — looked sullen, and he spoke gruffly and awkwardly, as though suffering from a slight impediment. He looked a man who was frightened of a coming trick, and certainly no one — not even Randall — would have recognised him as John Mannering.
“No,” he muttered; “I’ve come from Flick. Know Flick?”
Grayson’s little eyes narrowed. His pump hands tightened on the arms of his chair, for he knew a man from Flick Leverson could mean only one thing.
Mannering was conscious of a keen scrutiny; Grayson was at once trying to remember whether he had ever seen him before and making sure that he would always recognise him in the future. Beneath that pink-and-white face and those small puffy eyes was a mind at once shrewd and alert.
“Never seen him in my life,” thought Grayson. “A North Countryman, by his voice. Fat face, full lips — don’t fit in with his eyes, somehow, although perhaps they do.” He was quiet for a moment, deliberately trying the other’s nerve, but the big man seemed prepared to stare him out for ever.
“What do you want from Flick?” he demanded at last.
“He’s gone away for a year or two,” The big-muscled man grinned suddenly, and then that furtive, half-fearful expression returned to his face. “Listen, Mr Grayson — Flick said you’d buy some stuff from me. I’m stuck. Got me?”
Grayson nodded, and his grin widened. He did not doubt the man’s genuineness, for Flick Leverson was a straight dealer; arrested or not, he would never have turned copper’s nark. Moreover, something seemed to tell Grayson that this man would take very little for his goods.
“What is it ?” he demanded.
“You’re on the level?” The swarthy man’s eyes narrowed; his fear was very evident now.
“You know I am or you wouldn’t have come to me,” said Grayson.
The other seemed satisfied by the bluntness of the assurance, and pulled an oilskin bag from his fob-pocket. He dropped it on the desk in front of the fence, and Grayson opened it, expecting to find the proceeds of a smash-and-grab raid or a “snatch”. When he saw the first thing — a pearl ear-ring which had adorned the ear of Lady Dane Fullarth a few weeks before — the fat man’s eyes widened. When he saw the second, a scintillating diamond pendant strung on platinum links, his eyes bulged. When he saw the third, a sapphire ring with a centre stone as large as Grayson’s little finger-nail, he gasped, startled out of his calm.
“Where’d you get these ?” His voice, for once, was low.
The dark-faced man looked ugly.
“That’s my pigeon, mister. Are you buying or aren’t you? That’s all I wanter know.”
Grayson swallowed hard. He ran through the remainder of the stuff, and reckoned quickly that he would sell them for two thousand, perhaps five hundred more. The seller was frightened and in need of money. He calculated swiftly, his one concern not to offer too much.
“I’ll give you two-fifty,” he said.
The man didn’t speak, and the silence dragged.
“Well ?” snapped the fence.
“Why, sure,” said the big-muscled man, standing up and stretching his hand out for the bag. “I’ll find someone who’ll like ‘em as a present, mister. Deal’s off.”
In that moment Grayson saw two things. One, the man wore gloves, to make sure that no one saw his bare hands. Two, that the best haul of genuine stones which he’d seen in years was disappearing. He cleared his throat, and waved his podgy fingers.
“Now wait a minute,” he protested. “There’s a big risk handling that stuff, and you know it. Four hundred. Not a penny more.”