The Blood Diamond by John Creasey Page A

the window, in front of Bristow; Tring was still outside. Zara sat in the chair, her hands clenched in her lap. The letter hidden by her dress showed in faint outline; the dress had all the cunning of design of Marjorie’s, they were beauties in their different ways. This woman’s eyes were dark, her complexion almost sallow; olive, almost. She wasn’t English and her name wasn’t English, but except for its almost pedantic form, her voice wouldn’t betray that she was a foreigner.
    The shop door opened. A young man wearing an old raincoat end a battered trilby came in, dodged past the constable on duty, and said:
    â€˜Where’s Mr. Bristow?’
    â€˜You can’t come in here, sir.’
    â€˜Not to see Mr. Bristow? Why, hallo – excitement this morning.’ He could just see Mannering. ‘The great John!’ He was Forsythe, a reporter from the Morning Cry. ‘Hallo, Mannering! Big development from your trouble last night?’
    â€˜Certainly not,’ said Mannering, ‘I’m a spectator.’
    â€˜Oh, yeah?’ Forsythe had a merry face, fair hair which was thin at the front, and a first-class reputation. He grimaced at Mannering from the door. ‘Let’s have the truth, old man – it’s about the Adalgo diamond, isn’t it?’
    â€˜You’d better ask Bristow.’
    â€˜Don’t give us any trouble, Mr. Forsythe,’ said the plainclothes man. ‘Clear out.’
    â€˜I’ll see you later,’ said Mannering.
    Forsythe beamed. ‘That’s a promise. All right, sergeant. I’ll go quietly.’ He went away from the office, but stayed in the shop. Two men from other newspapers came in, the three stood in a group, talking in whispers.
    During the interlude Zara had not spoken, but watched Mannering closely. She was still watching him, her eyes like black diamonds. Her back was to the policemen.At last she spoke, in a hoarse voice:
    â€˜Are you the John Mannering?’
    â€˜I think I’m your man.’
    Tring called out: ‘Clark!’
    The plain clothes man hurried to the window.
    â€˜Come here,’ Tring called.
    Mannering was alone with the woman, and he went to her.
    She said: ‘Will you help Marjorie?’
    â€˜If I can and if she deserves helping.’
    â€˜She does. You must believe that’
    â€˜Are you really her sister-in-law?’
    â€˜Oh, yes.’
    â€˜What about the help you need yourself?’
    â€˜I do not matter.’
    Did that mean she was protecting Marjorie?
    â€˜You know that they’ll search you at the police station, don’t you?’
    â€˜That will not matter, either.’
    â€˜I should get rid of Bray’s letter before they search you,’ advised Mannering. ‘It’s addressed to no one, and any fingerprints on it will probably have faded by now. Take it out and screw it up and drop it in the waste-paper basket.’
    â€˜You—saw me?’
    Voices sounded in the courtyard; a door slammed.
    â€˜You haven’t much time,’ Mannering said.
    She snatched the letter from her dress, crumpled it up and thrust it into Mannering’s coat pocket. Tring appeared, but hadn’t seen what she had done; no one in the shop had seen. She snatched her hand away. Before Mannering had a chance to take the letter out, Tring climbed through the window.
    â€˜Not bad,’ Mannering said.
    â€˜What’s that?’ Tring demanded.
    The woman turned away from Mannering, and stepped towards Marjorie, who came in with Bristow. She was very pale, and had nothing to say. Her eyes were lack-lustre; was that from shock or pretence?
    â€˜It’s true,’ she said. ‘It’s true.’
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    Bristow took both women away, for questioning. The police took possession of the shop.
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    Marjorie begged him to help Paul; Zara begged him to help Marjorie. In his pocket was a letter Zara had been frightened that the