that he need take away, but much of vital interest. Mannering relocked the box and put it back on the top of the cupboard, then hurried to the front door. Anyone who knew the ways of cracksmen would know how the flat had been entered, but he had to face that. He opened the door cautiously, and immediately heard the lift. He saw the top of the lift appear, then Juliaâs braided hair.
He closed the door but didnât bolt it, slipped quickly through to the kitchen, then stepped on to a fire escape which also served as a tradesmenâs entrance. He went down quickly, glancing at the windows of the other flats, from which he might be noticed. He tucked his chin on his chest and hunched his shoulders, reached the paved backyard and went quickly towards an open door. It led to a narrow passage, thence to a cobbled mews, which gave on to Park Lane.
No one followed him.
He took a taxi from the corner, went to Victoria, and took another taxi to his Chelsea flat.
The folly and the value of that visit to Juliaâs flat were equal. Julia would guess who had been there. She had warned him, and talked of sudden death; would she be given to idle threats? It wasnât likely. But he had discovered in an hour more than the police could have found in a week. There was no room for regrets, but â
The taxi turned the corner and he saw a small car parked outside his flat, facing him; on the windscreen was a single notice: âPress.â
Lorna was out, but Chittering was in the study, which was filled with a blue haze of tobacco smoke. He wore the same old raincoat, battered trilby and bright shining brown shoes. His broad grin was friendly.
âWelcome, hero!â
âWhat have I been doing now?â
âSomething you wouldnât want Bristow to know,â said Chittering. âWhat did you expect from that little Morris?â
âHow much did you get?â
âIâm not yet sure,â said Chittering, wrinkling his nose. âI hung about for an hour. Then a little chap came and drove it off, Italian or SpanishâI wouldnât know which. You know the type. Dark hair, sallow face, wasp waist, spiv written all over him. He left the car at Greenâs Garage, Charing Cross Road, and then walked to a café in Wine Street owned, Iâm told, by a certain Toni Fiori. Know anything about Fiori?â
âNo. Do you?â
âI gathered from a newsboy at a nearby pitch that Toni Fiori thinks no end of himself, and doesnât make his fortune from that café. Not that you can tell, thereâs a fortune in food and the food is goodâor so Iâm told. Iâve asked my research department to find out what it can about Fiori. How much will you give me for the report?â
âA tip. This job is dangerous.â
âHow dangerous?â
âI donât know how far this goes but it isnât as simple as it looksânot just murder of Bernstein for robbery.â
âEvidence?â
âYouâll have to take my word. But you can give your research department another job.â
âItâs just waiting for jobs.â
âThere is a nice young man named Kenneth. I donât know what he looks like, whether heâs dark or fair, rich or poor, and I donât know his surname. But I do know that heâs supposed to be in love.â
âI said research, not romance department.â
âHeâs in love with a young woman who will inherit Bernsteinâs fortune; and there is a large fortune. Thatâs off the record, donât go writing sensational articles about it.â
âWhere does the sweet young thing live?â
âAt Clay Court MansionsâNumber 21. She was out with Kenneth last night, and I doubt if heâd take her to Lyons Corner House or the Trocadero.â Mannering took out one of the photographs of Fay. âThere she isâwill you get some copies made and then have a talk with your Society