The other grinned knowingly.
“I tell you I’ll give em away,” he said gruffly. “Fifteen hundred, and I’ll listen to you.”
“You’re crazy !” snapped Grayson.
“Maybe — but not as crazy as that,” said the other.
“Seven-fifty. That’s my final offer.”
“Sure it is. Jumped up pritty quick, ain’t it? I’ll wait until Flick comes out. “He’ll give me two thousand, and reckon he’s got a bargain. Let’s have ‘em.”
Grayson held on to the oilskin bag, and looked at the big man, into those piercing hazel eyes. For some reason his back went cold. He had made a big mistake in thinking the other was easy meat, but he still wanted those jewels.
“Listen,” he said, “twelve hundred, level. You’ll never find anyone else to give you more, son, and, remember, I take all the risks while smothering the stuff. Now, what about it ?”
The big man seemed to hesitate. Then he thrust his gloved hands into his pockets and nodded.
“Cash right away,” he said, “in small notes.”
“I’ll have to get ‘em,” said Grayson.
“I’ll wait,” said his caller.
Three hours later Mannering strolled into the Leadenhall Street branch of the City and Western Bank and deposited four hundred pounds. The cashier nodded respectfully, secretly admiring the lean, strong face of the famous John Mannering. From there Mannering went to the National
Bank and deposited a similar amount, finishing up with adding three hundred and fifty pounds to his account at the Piccadilly branch of the South-eastern.
“I think,” he soliloquised as he strolled towards the Ritz afterwards, “that I deserve the other fifty for pin-money. Grayson will be useful in future, but the less I see him the better I’ll like it. Furrrh!”
The pressure of the rubber pads he had placed in his cheeks that afternoon — which explained the “impediment” — and the ridge where his cunningly adapted false front-teeth had barked against his gums still seemed present in his mouth. The teeth consisted of thin rubber, stretched over the surface, and the discomfort was worth it, he knew. Eyes or no eyes, Dicker Grayson would not have recognised him if he had tried for a month.
“Anyhow,” he told himself with satisfaction, “that’s one urgent problem settled.”
It was just after four o’clock when he reached his flat, and he opened the door without the slightest premonition of trouble. There was, after all, no reason why he should expect it. He lit a cigarette, and then glanced round.
In that moment he knew that he had been visited.
He had no time for thinking before the faintest of movements in the bathroom caught his ears. His eyes narrowed a fraction, and his lips tightened, but he went round the room despite the knowledge that the intruder was still there.
A drawer of his writing-desk was partly open, and the position of the settee had been altered. On the carpet there was a small sheaf of bills, until recently resting in the drawer; other small things confirmed the object of the visitation. He was being burgled; and his thoughts flew immediately to Septimus Lee.
His reaction to this new and unsuspected danger was cool. In the past few months he seemed to have achieved a state of nerves as close to rock-like as was humanly possible. The problem of the moment was the only thing that concerned him; everything else was driven from his mind.
His flat had been raided, and the raider was still there; his luck was holding. The probability was that Septimus Lee — or Levy Schmidt — had connected the robbery at Streatham, and was investigating.
Mannering was sorely tempted to go immediately to the desk and explore the false bottom of one of its drawers — the drawer where the Rosa pearls were hidden. He overcame the temptation, and walked instead to the window, opening it an inch before lighting a cigarette. Then he stripped off his jacket and turned his shirt-sleeves up to the elbows, as if he was going to wash his hands. Not for a moment did he give the impression that he was on the alert.
His face was expressionless as he walked to the bathroom door. He knew that he was being watched, or waited for. A moment’s reflection told him that the raider was probably behind the door, waiting for his entry. He grinned suddenly, and pushed the door back — hard!
There was an ouch! of pain, an oath, the sound of a heavy body hitting against the wall. The door was flung to again, but he steadied it with his foot and rushed into the bathroom, ready for trouble, but it wasn’t likely to come. A thickset man was reeling against the wall, holding his nose, a nose that streamed rich red blood.
“Now don’t do that,” said Mannering chidingly. “Best thing for nose-bleeding is to hold your head back. Or try a door-key.”
The man swore viciously and swung a clumsy right towards Mannering’s chin. Mannering slipped it without any trouble, and clipped his man beneath the jaw twice in rapid succession. The other gasped and swayed away.
“Which should teach you,” said Mannering cheerfully, “that the reward for ingratitude is what you don’t expect. Now, my friend, duck your head into that basin for a minute.”
He grabbed the man’s arm and led him to the washing-basin, ducked his head below the level of the taps, and turned the cold-water tap full on. The man gasped and struggled, but Mannering’s grip was tight and painful. The water turned a muddy brown, but a second basinful was only slightly discoloured.
“Now,” said Mannering, still cheerfully, and surveying the other’s dripping head and shoulders contemplatively, “dry yourself. Next time I’ll hit you.”
There was a light in his eyes and a glad song in his heart as the other obeyed, quickly enough and without further resistance. “The luck,” Mannering told himself, “is running my way so much that I’m beginning to wonder whether it is luck — or destiny.”
“And now tell me all about it,” he said aloud.
The man’s lips twitched. He was an ill-favoured ruffian, old, the ex-pug type at its worst, but there was no fight left in him. His nose, where the full force of the door had caught him, was swollen, red, and angry, and there was a bruise on his chin corresponding with the break on Mannering’s knuckles.
The latter took a bottle of iodine from the medicine-chest and dabbed his grazed skin. He offered the bottle to the silent and sullen intruder, but his only reward was a snarl.
Mannering’s eyes hardened, although his voice was still gentle.
“You and I,” he said, “aren’t going to get on very well unless you mend your ways, my friend. You’ve got a nice new suit — try to live up to it.”
The man glanced down automatically towards his newly creased trousers. Mannering laughed, but there was a note in his voice that seemed to strike cold. It was no longer gentle.
“Now — spill it!” he snapped.
The man’s eyes met his, wavered, and finally turned away; he looked at the carpet, his feet shuffling.
“I ain’t saying nuthin’,” he grunted.
“No?” asked Mannering softly.
“No!” snarled the bruiser; “and if I git ‘arf a chance . . .” He stopped suddenly as Mannering moved, his lips twisted in a smile; the others eyes glinted with a sudden fear. “Where are you goin’, mister?”
To call the police,” said Mannering affably. “Perhaps you’ll know whether I should get in direct touch with Scotland Yard or . . .”
“You’re kiddin’!”
Mannering paused, with his hand on the telephone.
“Now, why,” he demanded, “should I be kidding? Try and remember the “g”, George.”
The man eyed him and the telephone with a fast-increasing fear. His hands were moving nervously, and his tongue slid along his thick lips. He was on tenterhooks, and Mannering was enjoying the situation.
“I — the boss said . . .” The bruiser started to speak, and then broke off uncertainly.