in touch with the Milne Hotel, Knightsbridge as soon as possible.”
Mannering went outside. There were few people about, but a straggle of late buses was rumbling along Kensington High Street. He got into the car, and drove through the dimly lit streets, parking eventually at the corner of Buckley Street.
Three quarters of an hour later, Paul Smith and Celia arrived in a taxi.
14: Friendly Visit
Mannering waited until the taxi had gone, then walked to Number 13. A light in the hall, visible through a small fanlight, went out. He lifted the knocker and let it fall with a hollow reverberation. Smith opened the door, the girl hovering in the dimly lit background.
“Good evening,” Mannering said, and stepped inside.
Smith barred his path.
“It’s rather late for casual visitors,” he said shortly. “Who are you?”
“We met at Lulu’s tonight.”
Smith stood in shadow, allowing the light to fall on to Mannering’s face. He stood utterly still, as if willing Mannering to withdraw.
Mannering said pleasantly, “Delightful though circumlocutory preambles may be, I cannot help thinking that the time, the place, are a little ill chosen when the police are at one’s heels.”
Smith said dryly, “Your heels or mine?” But he stood aside, nevertheless, and allowed Mannering to close the door.
“Suppose we talk upstairs,” he said. “My name is Mannering.”
“This is the second time tonight you’ve interfered with my private affairs.”
Mannering moved towards the stairs, the girl going before him. Smith followed. When they reached the first landing, Smith turned down a switch; for a moment they stood in utter darkness. Mannering’s muscles tensed; he was prepared for anything. Another switch went down and a light shone out above them.
Smith laughed softly, with insolent understanding.
The girl reached the top landing, and turned right, towards the second flat. Mannering turned to follow her.
“Not that door,” Smith said.
“You’re both in this,” said Mannering.
“We’ll discuss it between us, first.”
“Oh, no,” said Mannering. “It must be a threesome.”
Smith was now on a level with him.
“I could throw you out,” he said speculatively.
“Into the arms of the police, waiting for an excuse to interrogate you, yes,” said Mannering.
Smith said: “You’d better come with us, Celia, but leave when I tell you to.”
Automatically the girl turned, and came back, leading the way into the opposite flat. The electric fire was glowing, and the room struck warm. Smith closed the door and stood with his back against it and his hands in his pockets; too much the picture of nonchalance for it to be entirely real.
“Well, what’s it all about?”
Mannering said deliberately: “You had a difference of opinion with Miss Fleming’s father this evening. I took him back to his hotel. In the room was a dead girl. She’d been strangled.”
Smith’s smile faded and his lips set in a straight line. The girl moved forward with a shocked exclamation.
“Murdered,” Mannering said.
“Who – who was it?”
Smith said sharply: “There’d be more point in asking what this has to do with us.”
Mannering said: “Fleming quarrelled with you in front of a couple of hundred people. The police will want to know what that quarrel was about, bearing in mind that it might be linked with the murder.”
“Why?”
Mannering shrugged his shoulders.
“It does not need very much imagination to foresee that Superintendent Bristow will be interested to learn that Fleming quarrelled with a man whose flat was mysteriously burgled recently.”
“Why did you trouble to come and warn me?”
“I thought you’d like to know.”
“What do you expect to get, in return?”
Mannering said: “Personally, nothing. My interest is in Fleming. I don’t believe he killed that girl, but I think he might find himself accused of it.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“Does that stand for
Mannering went outside. There were few people about, but a straggle of late buses was rumbling along Kensington High Street. He got into the car, and drove through the dimly lit streets, parking eventually at the corner of Buckley Street.
Three quarters of an hour later, Paul Smith and Celia arrived in a taxi.
14: Friendly Visit
Mannering waited until the taxi had gone, then walked to Number 13. A light in the hall, visible through a small fanlight, went out. He lifted the knocker and let it fall with a hollow reverberation. Smith opened the door, the girl hovering in the dimly lit background.
“Good evening,” Mannering said, and stepped inside.
Smith barred his path.
“It’s rather late for casual visitors,” he said shortly. “Who are you?”
“We met at Lulu’s tonight.”
Smith stood in shadow, allowing the light to fall on to Mannering’s face. He stood utterly still, as if willing Mannering to withdraw.
Mannering said pleasantly, “Delightful though circumlocutory preambles may be, I cannot help thinking that the time, the place, are a little ill chosen when the police are at one’s heels.”
Smith said dryly, “Your heels or mine?” But he stood aside, nevertheless, and allowed Mannering to close the door.
“Suppose we talk upstairs,” he said. “My name is Mannering.”
“This is the second time tonight you’ve interfered with my private affairs.”
Mannering moved towards the stairs, the girl going before him. Smith followed. When they reached the first landing, Smith turned down a switch; for a moment they stood in utter darkness. Mannering’s muscles tensed; he was prepared for anything. Another switch went down and a light shone out above them.
Smith laughed softly, with insolent understanding.
The girl reached the top landing, and turned right, towards the second flat. Mannering turned to follow her.
“Not that door,” Smith said.
“You’re both in this,” said Mannering.
“We’ll discuss it between us, first.”
“Oh, no,” said Mannering. “It must be a threesome.”
Smith was now on a level with him.
“I could throw you out,” he said speculatively.
“Into the arms of the police, waiting for an excuse to interrogate you, yes,” said Mannering.
Smith said: “You’d better come with us, Celia, but leave when I tell you to.”
Automatically the girl turned, and came back, leading the way into the opposite flat. The electric fire was glowing, and the room struck warm. Smith closed the door and stood with his back against it and his hands in his pockets; too much the picture of nonchalance for it to be entirely real.
“Well, what’s it all about?”
Mannering said deliberately: “You had a difference of opinion with Miss Fleming’s father this evening. I took him back to his hotel. In the room was a dead girl. She’d been strangled.”
Smith’s smile faded and his lips set in a straight line. The girl moved forward with a shocked exclamation.
“Murdered,” Mannering said.
“Who – who was it?”
Smith said sharply: “There’d be more point in asking what this has to do with us.”
Mannering said: “Fleming quarrelled with you in front of a couple of hundred people. The police will want to know what that quarrel was about, bearing in mind that it might be linked with the murder.”
“Why?”
Mannering shrugged his shoulders.
“It does not need very much imagination to foresee that Superintendent Bristow will be interested to learn that Fleming quarrelled with a man whose flat was mysteriously burgled recently.”
“Why did you trouble to come and warn me?”
“I thought you’d like to know.”
“What do you expect to get, in return?”
Mannering said: “Personally, nothing. My interest is in Fleming. I don’t believe he killed that girl, but I think he might find himself accused of it.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“Does that stand for
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