The Long Arm of Mannister/Chapter 5

ANNISTER brought his brief stay amongst the North Westshire's to a close within the next few days. Harrison and Rundermere had disappeared as though from the face of the earth, but Dunster, although he was still civil and tried to show his gratitude, was obviously not at his ease with the man who had exposed the character of his guests, and May's white face and pathetic eyes seemed to haunt him wherever he went. He became conscious very soon that she was taking every opportunity to throw herself in his way, and with a little shrug of the shoulders one night he ordered his man to pack his dressing-case, and was driven away to catch the last train to London, leaving his horses to be sold, and the remainder of his effects brought up to him later on. He saw little of his old associates during his first few days in town, but he met Jacobs one afternoon, and talked to him idly for a few minutes. The conversation, which was somewhat one-sided, amused Mannister. Jacobs was unable to stand still or look him in the face. He was overcome with the nervousness which is akin to fear.

"By-the-bye," the latter said, "I heard yesterday that Sophy De la Mere was about to be married."

Mannister was quietly interested.

"To whom?" he asked.

"I have forgotten the name," Jacobs said, "but it's some boy or other, about half her age. They are down at Brighton together now."

Mannister smiled, and that night he dined at the Metropole at Brighton. After a glance through the visitors' register he removed his portmanteau to a more select and smaller place, further down the sea-front. The first person he saw after he had engaged his room was the lady whose name had been mentioned to him that morning. She was crossing the hall alone, and he watched her for a few moments critically. She was still a handsome woman, with a figure which seemed well enough, however much it may have owed to the corsetière. Her features had always been good, and her long eyes, almond shaped, and of a peculiar shade of brown, were as attractive as ever. Yes, she was a dangerous woman still, especially to a boy. She did not pretend to show any pleasure at seeing him there. She stopped short for a moment with a little start of surprise. Then she came slowly on towards him.

"My dear Mrs. De la Mere," he said, bowing over her hand, "I fear that for once in my life, at any rate, you are not glad to see me. Tell me what I have done that you should look at me as though I were an unwelcome ghost,"

She laughed naturally enough. She had the pluck of a regiment of men, and it was not often that her nerve failed her.

"There are times, you know," she said, "when one does not want to see even one's best friends, and I am not sure," she added, more slowly, "whether I should ever dare to reckon you amongst my best friends."

"Dear lady," he said, looking at her with a peculiar light in his eyes, "exactly how much of friendship have you deserved of me?"

"Men do not pay women according to their deserts," she answered. "It is your province to forgive, to make the least of injuries, to remember that we scarcely meet as equal foes."

He smiled.

"Your tongue," he remarked, "is as subtle as ever. If you were an advocate, you would steal justice from the jury as you steal the hearts of men to-day. Tell me, by-the-bye, why you are not pleased to see me at Brighton."

"A few months ago," she murmured, "it became necessary, in our joint interests, that you should confide in me a very little. It was that little affair of Traske and the bracelet, you remember. I gathered then that there were several others beside Traske upon your black list."

"You yourself, my dear lady, I am sorry to say," he said, smiling.

"Ah, well!" she declared, "I like this better. It is open war, then. Let it be so. I prefer it. Remember, then, that I do not know you, that if you speak to me again I shall treat you as any other impertinent person who is guilty of presumption."

She left him with her head in the air, and a little flutter of laces and perfume, her own peculiar perfume, familiar to him for many years. He shrugged his shoulders and turned into the smoking-room, not altogether too pleased. Open war made the game more difficult.

The smoke-room he discovered was in its way somewhat unique. It was Oriental in design and architecture, and a number of small partitions ran round the room, in which were lounges and small three-legged tables. Mannister entered one, and calling a waiter, ordered a whiskey and soda and the evening paper. He had scarcely begun to read, however, when he was interrupted by a distinct snore from the next partition. He leaned round the corner and looked to see from whom the sound came. Then he picked up his paper and whiskey and soda, and quietly changed his place into the next recess. On the lounge immediately in front of him, a man was stretched. He was half asleep and half drunk. His collar had given way, his tie and waistcoat were stained with wine. In front of him was an empty champagne bottle and a partially smoked cigar. Mannister studied him for several moments and then called for a waiter.

"Do you allow people in this condition to lie about the smoke-room of the hotel?" he asked.

The waiter was apologetic.

"The gentleman is very well known here, sir," he said, "or we should have had him turned out. I thought as there was no one else in the room we might let him stay and sleep it off. I have not often seen him as bad as this, sir, but he is never quarrelsome. He will be all right when he wakes up!"

"You say that he is well known down here," Mannister remarked. "Do you mean that he lives in Brighton?"

"He lives at this hotel most of his time," the waiter answered, "although he goes up to London most days."

"I think," Mannister said, regarding the sleeping man, "that I know him by sight. Is his name John Dykes?"

"That is it, sir," the waiter assented, "Mr. John Dykes. I have heard that he is a partner in a book-making firm."

Mannister nodded.

"All right," he said, "don't disturb him. If he wakes up while I am here, I will see that he does not make himself objectionable."

The waiter hurried away to serve some newcomers, and Mannister divided his attention between the paper which he held and the features of the man who lay on the couch before him. Certainly there was nothing in the appearance of Mr. John Dykes to appeal to the lover of the beautiful. He was short and thick-set. His round face was innocent of beard or moustache, but his complexion was of a grey, unhealthy colour, and his teeth were far from perfect. His clothes were expensive, but they hung about him badly. In sleep, at any rate, his appearance was almost repulsive.

"Mr. John Dykes," Mannister said slowly to himself, "I wonder what you are doing in Brighton. You have not improved, Johnnie," he added, looking him over with quiet disgust. "You were never much to look at, but you've gone backwards if anything a little. I think I'd like to have a chat with you."

He leaned over and struck the sleeping man upon the shoulder. Dykes sat up suddenly and stared at Mannister, his mouth open in bewildered surprise.

"Eh! Eh what?" he exclaimed. "By Heavens it's Mannister! Where have I got to?"

He looked round the place, and apparently remembered.

"I must have been asleep," he muttered, looking at the empty bottle. "What a throat I've got! Do you mind touching the bell?"

Then he apparently seemed to suddenly remember who his neighbour was, and he looked at him with astonishment mingled with fear.

"Mannister!" he muttered. "Why, man, I thought—we thought—"

"You thought I was never likely to return to England again," Mannister continued calmly. "It was just a little miscalculation, that's all. I am here, as you see. I have seen something of most of the others, but I was wondering what had become of you. I think it was Polsover who told me that you'd been doing pretty well, or was it Hambledon? No, it must have been Hambledon."

The man was sitting up now. He called for a waiter and ordered a brandy and soda.

"So you're back again," he said, "and in with the old crowd, eh? "

"Precisely," Mannister assented. "I am in with the old crowd. My welcome back, I must confess, was not exactly boisterous, still I think that I am making my presence felt."

Dykes nodded heavily.

"I suppose," he said, "that you've come down instead of that young blackguard Jacobs."

Mannister did not hesitate for a moment.

"Exactly," he replied. "They thought it was better that I should come. Jacobs is rather well known in Brighton."

"If you'd come punctually," John Dykes grumbled, "you'd have saved my making a bit of a fool of myself. I began to think that I must have made a mistake, and that it was to-morrow, not to-day."

"I am sorry," Mannister said. "The appointment was for to-day, but I went in error to the wrong hotel. Suppose you go in and have a wash, and then drink that brandy and soda. We might get on with our business then."

John Dykes rose, and lumbered heavily across the room. Mannister called him back.

"Look here," he said, "go and put a clean collar on, and brush yourself up. You're not fit to be about the place like that."

"All right," Dykes grumbled, and stumbled toward the door. Mannister returned to his seat with a smile. He still had some of his old power over these men, the power which seems to belong to some as a natural gift. He sat down, and lighting a cigarette, looked thoughtfully up toward the ceiling. Dykes was down here on business of some sort, and was waiting for Jacobs. His sudden idea of taking Jacobs' place had been accepted. Was it possible that remaining in absolute ignorance of whatever this particular piece of business might be, he could play Jacobs' part until he had learnt whether it was of sufficient importance to make his interference worth while? At any rate he was running no risk, and as regards his first mission to Brighton, he had already arrived at a cul-de-sac. It was scarcely likely that he would be able to bluff Dykes into telling him anything, if the matter was one of importance. On the other hand, the man was still in a stupid state, and the experiment would at any rate cost nothing.

Dykes returned, heavy-eyed and leaden cheeked, but looking a little tidier, and inclined to be as amiable as he knew how. He drank the second brandy and soda which Mannister considerately ordered for him, at a gulp.

"I say," he remarked, "there is no need to mention this." He pointed to the empty bottle. "Eh?"

Mannister assented with a little nod of the head.

"All right," he said, "I don't want to make mischief. By-the-bye, Hambledon thought you'd better just go over this matter again to me. There was not time for him to explain much, and as you know I've only just come back."

Dykes looked for a moment a trifle surprised.

"I supposed you knew all about it," he said, looking at Mannister thoughtfully.

"Of course I do," Mannister answered, "but I didn't find Hambledon very clear upon some of the points. I should like to hear it from you in your own words. You have a knack of putting these things clearly."

Dykes called the waiter.

"I can't talk unless I drink," he said. "I've got a throat like a brick kiln. Thank Heavens you aren't Hambledon! He'd shut me off liquor for a week, and at the end of that time I should not have the nerve of a kitten."

"Moderation," Mannister said, "is best for you, I am sure. We will say one more brandy and soda."

"It's in this way," Dykes said, leaning across the table after a careful glance around. "You know very well that although all of us run a bit close to the edge now and then, we're not a gang of thieves, and we do not care about getting on the wrong side of the law. This little affair comes perilously near it, which is why Hambledon and the others have kept me waiting here before they decided whether to go on or not. I take it from your wanting to hear the whole thing from me, that they've left it with you to decide. Well, here goes. It was Rundermere," John Dykes continued, leaning over the table, and speaking in a hoarse, indistinct whisper, "who first tumbled to the thing. He was hunting up in Westshire, and got to know the girl and her father. Her father was the master of a small pack of hounds there, and Phil got on visiting terms with them. What his game was I don't know, and it don't particularly concern us, but the girl and he were evidently pretty thick. What's wrong, eh?" he broke off a little abruptly. "You look as though you were seeing things."

"Nothing is wrong," Mannister said calmly, "I can assure you I was listening intently. Of course you are speaking now of the Honourable Jack Dunster and his daughter."

John Dykes nodded.

"I see," he remarked, "that you have a good memory for names. Phil and the young woman must have got pretty thick, for she told him all about her going to Court this first drawing-room, and her coming to Brighton first to stay with her aunt. Every one in the neighbourhood knew about her jewels, but again it was she who told him that she was going to bring them up with her to have them reset, so that she could wear some of them when she went to Court. I saw Rundermere in town a day or so ago, looking pretty sick he was too, and he told me, half in joke, that if I could find a man to do a little polite burgling, there were fifty thousand pounds worth of diamonds coming down to Brighton which would be worth looking after. Well, I couldn't help remembering the name, although I thought no more about it, so you can guess how I felt when the Johnnie who looks after my clothes here told me that every other room in this corridor on my side, had been taken by a Lady Mary Dunster and her niece and servants."

"They are here now?" Mannister asked calmly.

"They are in the hotel at this identical moment," Dykes answered. "There is the girl, and she's a peach. There is the old aunt, a bit of a tough 'un, but blazing with diamonds herself. Then there is a companion of the aunt, another bony old young lady, who don't seem to count for much, and two maids. The rummest part of the whole thing is that the young woman's room is next to mine, and the jewels are in an ordinary black despatch box with an eighteen-penny padlock, underneath her bed."

"How do you know this?" Mannister asked.

"Why, she had visitors the other day, and I heard her fetch one out of her aunt's room to come and see her jewels. I slipped into the room opposite, which was empty, and I heard her drag the box out from under the bed. They left the door open and I passed along the corridor a moment or two later, and there they all were upon the bed. Never in my whole life have I ever known such a soft thing. I heard one of the young women scold her for having the jewels up in her bed-room, and she only laughed, and said something about it being much safer to take no particular pains about them, because then no one would think they were valuable. I tell you it's just the easiest job I've ever known."

"What do you propose, then? "Mannister asked calmly,

"Well, I've got a key to the padlock," Dykes answered. "I could have walked off with the box the afternoon that I looked in to see the lock, but I hadn't any plans for getting rid of it. I can get the jewels any night after she's gone to sleep, without fear of waking her. The only trouble will be to pass them on to some one who can leave the hotel without suspicion. That's where you come in."

Mannister nodded thoughtfully.

"Exactly," he remarked. "I quite see that."

"Where are you staying?" Dykes asked.

"At the Metropole," Mannister declared.

"That's all right," Dykes went on. "All we've got to do is to fix upon a time. Then you pay the bill at your hotel, you bring your luggage, you stop your cab outside this place, you come up to my room to say good-bye to me. You tell them in the hall you will be down in a second, and you come down in five minutes or so with the diamonds in your pocket. You light a cigarette in the hall, give a small tip to the commissionaire who opens your cab door, and off you go to London. Hambledon is going to make some inquiries in the city, and if he thinks it best for you to go straight to Antwerp, he will meet you, but I should doubt whether it would be necessary. You see the joke of the whole thing is that I've been practically living in this hotel for five years, and there is not a soul would suspect me or any visitor of mine. I've always paid my way and tipped the servants well, and they think I am a bit of a millionaire,"

"The whole thing," Mannister remarked, "seems absurdly easy, but why choose the night at all? Why not slip in when the girl's out during the afternoon?"

"Well," Dykes answered, sipping a fresh brandy and soda, "the girl has just enough sense to lock up her room when she goes out, and being on the first floor, there are servants passing the whole of the time. I could get a key to her room easy enough, but there'd always be a big chance of being seen going in or coming out. You see there's a service room almost opposite. She goes to bed absurdly early every night, supposed to be delicate or something of the sort, and everything's quiet in her room long before eleven. I thought if I slipped in there about twenty minutes to twelve, and you came into my room at exactly that time, you would just catch the twelve o'clock to London."

"Supposing you wake her?" Mannister asked. "She might not even be asleep."

"I shall be prepared for that," Dykes answered, a little grimly, "not that I mean to do the child any mischief, of course, but she'll be easy enough to keep quiet for a few minutes. The servants go down from my floor at eleven o'clock, and the night porter does not come on duty till midnight, so naturally the quietest time is between eleven and twelve. Now that's my idea. Do you think it good enough?"

"What do you say is the value of the diamonds?" Mannister asked, thoughtfully.

"The girl told Rundermere," he answered, "that they were worth at least fifty thousand pounds."

"We both of us," Mannister remarked, "run a fair amount of risk. How many of us are there to stand in?"

"Five," Dykes answered. "Besides ourselves there are Rundermere, Jacobs and Hambledon. The idea was to divide two-thirds between us two, and a third between the other three,"

Mannister nodded.

"Very well," he said, "I should like to go up into your room, and I should like you to show me the door of the young lady's room. If everything is really as you say, I think it seems good enough, but there is one thing which I have to tell you."

"What's that?" Dykes asked.

"Rundermere sent word round this morning that some one from Streeter's was going down to-morrow for the jewels, so if you really mean business it would have to be to-night. I am afraid you are not exactly in condition for this sort of work."

Dykes straightened himself and frowned.

"I can pull myself together," he said quickly. "I'd rather have had a day or so to get straight in, but it can't be helped. I was afraid somehow that some meddling relative or other would suggest having the jeweller come down here, instead of waiting until they were in London. To tell you the truth, Mannister," he continued, leaning confidentially across the little table, "things have gone a bit queer with me lately, and I am relying upon this to pull me round. Safe though it seems, I would not touch it if I was not d—d hard up. It's a drop lower than anything we've touched before, but it's a big business, and it's safe. I am glad you don't mind going for it. Come up and see the rooms now. It's easy enough to take you up. I often have some pals there."

Mannister rose and paid for the brandies and sodas. He glanced at the clock. It was already twenty minutes past seven.

Mannister met Mrs. De la Mere in the hall as he came down to dinner. She would have passed him by, but he stopped her quietly.

"My dear Sophy," he said, "go in peace for the present. Good luck to your little matrimonial schemes. A little later on I may have something to say to you."

She raised her eyebrows, but her assumed indifference was ill-done for so clever an actress.

"I am immensely relieved," she assured him. "We are once more friends, then."

Mannister bowed, and went on to the manager's office. The manager, who had seen Mannister's luggage, and noted the excellent hang of his dinner-coat, was exceedingly civil.

"I am afraid," Mannister said, "that I am going to waste your time, but if you have two minutes to spare—"

The manager sprang up, and wheeled an armchair to the fire.

"Anything we can do for you, Mr. Mannister," he said politely. "Can I quote you reduced terms for a lengthened stay, or do you wish your room changed?"

"Neither, thank you," Mannister answered. "The fact is I am afraid you will think that I have come on a fool's errand, but in the smoke-room this afternoon I was accosted by a man who was evidently in a half drunken state, and he insisted upon taking me for some one whom he knew, and telling me the details of a robbery which he declared that he was about to attempt in your hotel this evening."

The manager was serious enough now, but a little dubious.

"Has the man gone, sir?" he asked.

"On the contrary," Mannister answered, "I believe that he is staying here. That is why I preferred to see you privately, rather than run the risk of our all making idiots of ourselves. His name is Mr. John Dykes, and I believe he is a book-maker, or something of the sort."

"Mr. John Dykes! "the manager repeated, incredulously. "Why, he has lived in this hotel for years."

"He is none the less, I should think," Mannister remarked, "something of an adventurer. From what I could understand, there is a young lady in the room next to him, who has about fifty thousand pounds worth of diamonds lying about loose. It sounds like a drunken man's story, but you know for yourself whether that part of it is true or not."

"There is a young lady in the room next to him," the manager admitted slowly, "and she certainly has some valuable jewellery, which she will not permit me, by-the-bye, to take care of."

"Then if so much of the man's story is true," Mannister said, "let me suggest that you set a watch on the corridor outside her room to-night. He told me that he meant to make the attempt between half-past eleven or twelve, and to get away, or to send the jewels away by a confederate, by the twelve o'clock train to London. My own room is on that corridor, and I shall be awake and ready to join in if necessary."

"I am very much obliged to you, sir," the manager said. "This is a very serious matter, and I shall certainly have the corridor protected. In fact I shall watch myself. At the same time, Mr. Dykes has been a very good customer here, although he is not quite the class of visitor whom we desire to encourage. Still, he has always paid his way, and he is here in season and out of season."

"I know nothing about the fellow," Mannister remarked, rising to take his leave, "except that he was three-quarters drunk this afternoon, and evidently took me for one of his friends. Of course, what I have told you I have told you in confidence. I do not care about being drawn into the matter beyond the fact that I shall certainly appear if my aid is necessary."

The manager bowed out his visitor. Mannister crossed the hall and entered the dining-room. His first intention had been to dine and then walk back to the Metropole, stay there until eleven o'clock, then return to his room here. About half way through the meal, however, he was conscious that Dykes was watching him covertly through the glass partition at the other end of the room. Something in the man's face and attitude inspired Mannister with a new suggestion.

Dykes, as he knew very well, was no fool. It seemed very probable that as his drunken fit wore off, and his usual cunning reasserted itself, he would regard Mannister's presence and co-operation in his scheme with a certain amount of suspicion. His present demeanour was almost a confirmation of this. He desired evidently to remain himself unseen, but he was watching Mannister covertly, and obviously intended to see whether or no he left the hotel. Mannister, affecting not to notice him, paid his bill for dinner, regardless of the fact that he was staying in the hotel, and leaving the room in a leisurely manner to allow Dykes time to watch him, put on his hat and coat and started round for the Metropole. He stayed there only long enough to buy a handful of cigarettes, and leaving the hotel by the back way, returned to the Bedford, and reached his own room without seeing anything of Dykes. He turned out the electric light, and leaving his door ajar, sat on the bed and prepared to listen. In less than five minutes he heard exactly what he had expected. Dykes' door was softly opened, and Dykes himself came out into the corridor. For a moment or two he stood there, looking rapidly up and down. Then he fitted a key into the door exactly opposite Mannister's, opened it, and disappeared. Mannister opened his door a little wider, and stood there waiting to accost him when he might come out. The events of the next few seconds happened so quickly that Mannister, although he always blamed himself for allowing the girl to run such a risk, knew upon reflection that he could not possibly have prevented it. The door of Miss Dunster's aunt's room was suddenly opened. May Dunster herself came softly out, pushed open her own door, which was ajar, and closing it after her, disappeared. The shriek which almost immediately broke from her lips was half stifled by the simultaneous slamming of the door. Mannister heard enough to terrify him. He sprang across the corridor, and found to his joy the key still in the lock. He was inside in a second. The girl was in Dykes' arms, and his right hand was drawn back as though he meant to strike her and throw her away from him at the same time. The empty box was upon the bed, and his pockets were bulging. He half turned his head as Mannister entered, and relaxed his hold of the girl. For the moment he seemed uncertain as to whether Mannister had come as friend or foe. Then something in the newcomer's face told him, and with a savage cry he rushed at him, butting upwards with his left arm, and holding his right in reserve. Mannister, however, was prepared, and Dykes went down like a log, felled by one lightning-like blow. Mannister stood quite still, breathing hard. The fallen man's fist had just touched his jaw—there were not many tricks in the prize-fighting ring which Dykes did not know. For a moment the room seemed to spin round. Then he regained his self-control to find the girl standing before him, her eyes like stars, and her hands uplifted.

"You!" she exclaimed. "It is you always who come when I need help."

She was almost in his arms. He was conscious of a sudden wild beating of the pulses, a sense of excitement such as he had not known for many years. He held her hands, but he kept her from coming nearer. He might do that, but he could not help the things which flashed from her eyes into his and found, perhaps, some answer.

"Don't you hear them all coming?" he said. "I heard you call out just in time. My room was opposite."

The room was full of people, an excited waiter, a valet, some one from the office below. Dykes, whom they had forgotten, staggered suddenly to his feet, and for a moment was master of the situation. He stood with his back to the wall, and something small and shining flashed in his hand.

"Which shall it be, Mannister, you or the girl?" he cried out. "You hound!"

Mannister swung the girl behind him, and a valet whose wages were a pound a week, earned for himself a public house near London, and a good deal of prospective prosperity. With a presence of mind rather remarkable, he leaned over and snapped down the electric light switch. The room was plunged into sudden darkness. Mannister stole toward the door with his arms round the girl. They could hear nothing but Dykes' hoarse breathing. Then suddenly the sound for which they waited with nerves strung almost to breaking point, came. In the small room the sound of the revolver shot, echoing backwards and forwards, sounded almost like a cannonade. Mannister, who had found the door, swung the girl out into the corridor. The other three men were already there. They turned on the lights and peered into the room. Dykes lay there a crumpled up mass, the revolver still locked in his hand.

"The man has shot himself," Mannister said calmly. "Quite the best thing he could do. This is your aunt here, is it not, Miss Dunster? You had better go to her."

"You must come too," she begged. "I want her to know."

"To-morrow," he interrupted, a little sadly. "You must let me go now. I must talk to all these people."

For the next hour or so Mannister was busy answering innumerable questions, and receiving congratulations on his escape. It was one o'clock before he was able to go to his room. Before he undressed he took once more that sheet of writing paper from his pocket-book, and ruled a line through the name of John Dykes!