He broke off as the door opened suddenly. Sergeant Tring entered the office, looking very apologetic, but grinning a little.
“I left my note-book,” he said, picking it up from the desk. “Thanks. Good-bye.”
The door closed on him again, and Grayson swore. Mannering went to the window and looked out. Not until the detectives were walking across the yard below did either of them speak.
“That was close,” Mannering muttered.
Grayson nodded, but he was smiling.
“They think they’re smart, those fellows, but they don’t know everything.” He tapped the slot in the desk, which was still concealed, and his smile widened. “He was sitting right on it, and didn’t think of running the desk over for a button. Policemen . . .”
The fence stopped, with a shrug.
“Anyway, we got away with it. But you’d better not take the cash out with you, in case they’re watching. I’ll post it. Where shall I send it to?”
Mannering hesitated, half-afraid that there was a catch; but he had to admit the wisdom of the manoeuvre, and he nodded.
“Mayle,” he said. “Strand G.P.O.”
Grayson nodded, and rubbed his plump hands together, well satisfied with life.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PROFIT AND LOSS
MANNERING KNEW, LATER IN THE DAY, THAT HE HAD MADE a mistake. He had told Grayson to send the money to the Strand post office, and he saw that it would have been wiser to have had it sent to Aldgate, where he could have collected it while in his Mayle disguise without trouble. As it was, he was faced with the need of sending a messenger or braving the journey from Aldgate, where Harry Pearce gave him his disguise, during the daytime, for there was the possibility that Grayson’s curiosity would encourage the fence to watch the post office. Mayle, not Mannering, must call there.
He did not fancy sending a messenger to collect twelve hundred pounds. The only thing was to do it himself.
“There’s one thing,” he told himself, as he regarded his face in the mirror and smiled the villainous smile which the cleverly made false teeth created — teeth which fitted over his real ones like a thin rubber cover, “no one who knows Mannering will want to know me.”
Nevertheless he was on tenterhooks the next morning
when he journeyed from Aldgate by bus and walked along the Strand towards the post office. The chance of meeting acquaintances was considerable. Toby Plender might be there, Jimmy Randall frequently visited a fine-art shop near the post office, and a dozen of his friends had business or pleasure in the neighbourhood. It was another test, another thing to make him realise his own limitations.
He was sorely tempted to keep looking about him, to keep a watch for anyone whom he knew, but he resisted the temptation. He slouched along, looking at his feet, relieved to see that he was by no means die worst-clad man in the Strand. In fact, he told himself, the standard was very low. He grew more confident, but before he entered the office he had a shock.
A big man was walking a few yards in front of him, a man who seemed vaguely familiar. Mannering tried to place him from the back-view, and was irritated because he could not. And then the big man swung round suddenly, and Mannering was face-to-face with him.
For a moment a pair of keen eyes swept him up and down.
Mannering’s heart seemed to stop as he recognised his man. It was Superintendent Lynch.
That temptation to speak, to acknowledge the other, almost gave him away. He fought it back. The Superintendent showed no signs of recognition, but was muttering to himself and going through his pockets. He had obviously forgotten some papers, and his sudden turn had been caused by the recollection of them.
Mannering had to force himself to walk past the big man. He did so, and then stopped at the first opportunity to look into a shop-window, and, glancing back, saw the Superintendent making his way majestically towards the Law Courts.
A smile that was only partly humour twisted Mannering’s lips as he entered the post-office building. He was beginning to appreciate the perils of his position more. It had seemed a good prospect at first, and the difficulties had appeared to be small. But actually they were immense. It wasn’t safe for him to walk about the streets, and every time he connected with Grayson or one of the other crooks and fences he was forced to know in order to dispose of his stolen jewels, the danger would be acute.
Yet it was worth it. Mannering’s eyes sparkled as he reached the counter and asked for a letter or parcel addressed to “Mayle”.
“Initial?” asked the clerk.
Mannering hesitated, cursing himself. Initial! Why in heaven’s name had he forgotten to quote an initial to Grayson ?
He took a chance, making his mind up quickly.
“J,” he said, “but I don’t think the other man knew it.”
The clerk wasn’t interested, it seemed. He looked into the “M” pigeon-hole, pulled out the package that Mannering’s eager eyes had already seen, and slipped it across the counter. Then he turned away, without a word, before Mannering had taken the packet.
“Surly devil,” thought Mannering.
He was interested chiefly in the parcel, however. He knew that there was a possibility that Grayson had double-crossed him, and until he had actually seen the notes he would not be satisfied that he had received full payment. His fingers trembled a little as he undid the string, and he breathed freely again when he found that Grayson was straight.
But by the time Mannering had returned to Aldgate, removed his disguise, taken leave of Harry Pearce, and then made the minor disguise which changed him from Mr Mayle to John Mannering it was approaching two o’clock. He would have to hurry if he were to reach the banks that afternoon.
He was finding the service-flat in Brook Street very useful. At one time he had viewed it as an unnecessary expense, but he was glad now that he had never tried to economise. The place was central, its service enabled him to dispense with a servant, and he could act there with less risk of interference than if he were in an hotel all the time.
He had actually given up his rooms at the Elan, but the proceeds from the Overndon pearls would enable him to take them again. It was necessary still to show a good front. He had to look rich. Whatever economies he practised must not be at the cost of appearances, unless the situation was desperate.
But he was living at the rate of five thousand a year, and he would have either to cut his expenses or increase his income considerably; so much was certain. He had done well with the smaller stuff, but the robberies that he was officially helping to investigate would have to become less frequent. He needed something bigger. But there was always the difficulty of selling.
Grayson seemed reliable enough, but Mannering doubted whether the fence would be prepared to buy anything at a higher figure than fifteen hundred pounds, while he had no desire to visit the warehouse too often. The old problem of finding an outlet for his jewels was increasingly difficult. He still had the Rosas, worth ten thousand pounds if he could find the right market.
Mannering smiled as he remembered the little duel with Septimus Lee, alias Levy Schmidt, and not for the first time wondered whether the clever Jew had forgotten him, or whether he was still suspect. He was sure that Lee was keeping a very careful watch for the Rosa pearls. If they were sold through any normal channel — normal, that was, from the point of view of the fence — Lee would learn of it.
Meanwhile Mannering was sitting pretty with the Rosas in his possession, but with a bank-balance which, until this twelve hundred pounds had come along, had been perilously low; but now he had enough to satisfy him for a while.
He separated the notes into three packets of four hundred each. Then he took his paying-in books and made the necessary entries. This finished, he glanced at his watch, to find that it was twenty minutes to three. He would have to taxi from one bank to the other if he was to get to them before they closed, and he had no desire to keep the cash in the flat all night.