by John Creasey
Theo?
The telephone bell startled Mannering. He turned his head towards it sharply. It went on ringing. A call for Rosamund? A call, which, if answered, would betray the fact that a man had been here about this time – a little after three o’clock in the afternoon. There were moments of almost startling silence between the ringing bursts. It went on and on. He moved towards it, taking out a handkerchief, and picked up the receiver: his voice sounded gruff, no one was ever likely to identify it as his.
‘Yes, hallo.’
He heard Lorna’s voice and Lorna was fooled, he could sense the way she hesitated before she said, ‘Is Mr Mannering there?’
He found himself looking at the back of Micky Odell’s sleek head, and smiling – because this was Lorna, and she wasn’t sure that he would answer.
‘Hallo, sweet. I haven’t lost the voice trick, then.’
‘I didn’t think—’ she began sharply, and then broke off, as if someone else was speaking to her. She soon came back on the line. ‘That was Tom. He wants to know if there are any special instructions, but—John, is Theo there?’
Mannering felt his pulse quickly. ‘Why should he be?’
‘His friend Charley Simpson just rang up to say that he’d slipped out of the Panorama again, and vanished,’ Lorna said. ‘There are several long distance telephone calls coming, and Charley wants him urgently. Is he there?’
‘No.’
‘I promised to ring all the places I could, to try to find him,’ Lorna said, and there was a frustrated note in her voice. ‘I really don’t know why we go to so much trouble for him; he—but never mind that! Have you seen him in the past hour?’
‘No. Do you know when he left the Panorama?’
‘Just about an hour ago,’ Lorna said. ‘He had a telephone call, pretended that it wasn’t important, sent Charley down to settle a query with the porters over some luggage, and vanished. Charley—’ Again Lorna broke off, then sounded bewildered. ‘We talk as if we’ve known these people for years!’
‘We’re going to,’ Mannering said dryly.
He heard a car door slam, and knew that it was in this street and close to this house. Another slammed, loudly. He looked towards the door, and spoke very quietly. ‘So it was something he didn’t want Charley to know about, and he preferred not to be followed. All right, sweet. Now listen to me: Bristow might come round, and you might hear a lot of things you won’t like. But remember, you know nothing.’
‘John, what’s happened?’
There were footsteps on the stairs, of men hurrying, and if Mannering’s guess was right, these were policemen and they were coming here.
‘You still know nothing,’ he said, ‘and don’t tell anyone – not Tom, not Rosamund – anyone – that you found me here. Let them think you caught me somewhere else, but not at Rosamund’s flat.’
‘I see,’ Lorna said very quietly. ‘All right.’
‘Pray for me,’ said Mannering.
He replaced the receiver very gently, so that there should be no sharp ting! as he rang off. The footsteps had reached the top flight of stairs now, and he judged that there were three men. If they came in here and found him with the body, he would find himself in custody, and soon on a charge. He knew that it would take only a minute or two to force that door, even if the police were less expert than he. There was a hope that they hadn’t a search warrant, and they wouldn’t break in unless they had. He didn’t ask himself what had brought them so quickly, or why the timing was so remarkable.
He went into Rosamund’s bedroom, where he hadn’t been before. It was furnished with heavy Victorian furniture, and had a clean and polished appearance. He hardly noticed this as he went to the window and looked out. This overlooked a yard, but not the distant High Street; fewer people were likely to see him here.
He pushed the window up wide.
He heard a man call, ‘Open, in the name of the law.’
So they probably had a warrant.
He opened a drawer in the dressing table. There were some oddments of underclothes and, at one end, a folded silk scarf. He picked this up and twisted it round the lower half of his face. The banging at the door came afresh, and he thought he heard another sound, as if the lock was being picked.
He put a leg out of the window.
There was a sheer drop of sixty feet, one which would kill him if he fell. Immediately below were two window sills which would give a precarious foothold, but he had to reach them first. The nearest drainpipe was too far away to be useful, and no fire escape was in sight. Not far away, a baby in pink sat in a pram looking up at him, and in another yard a woman was hanging out some clothes.
The banging stopped.
They would soon be in.
Mannering swung himself over, and hung at full length, groping with his feet for the window sill below. If he’d judged the distance properly, he could just make it. He didn’t touch it. He felt panic rising, because it wouldn’t be a moment before the police came into this room, and if they saw him clinging to the window sill, that would be the end of hope of getting away, and he would have made the circumstances seem even more damning.
His right toe touched the sill below. He managed to squint downwards, and saw that he was too far to one side. He brought his left leg closer, then put his weight on his toes and let go of the sill. For a moment, he swayed backwards. There was nothing between him and the ground. There was nothing to clutch but the sill above, and that would give him away. He used every trick of balance that he knew, and made himself sway towards the wall. His body pressed closely against it, like the blonde had pressed against Micky Odell last night. Only last night! He spread his arms, which seemed to help a little. He felt at the mercy of the baby, of the woman hanging out her washing, of a hundred people who might look out of the window at any moment: but the greatest danger came from the police above, and from the hard ground below.
Slowly, painfully, he edged along until one side was against the wall; then he bent down until he was able to grip the top of the ledge above the window below him. He touched it, while standing with all his weight on the window sill. If anyone was in the room beyond, there would be a shout or a scream. There was no sound.
The room was empty, and the window so wide open that he could get in, if he could open it a few more inches. He would be much safer there than trying to get down another storey while a cry of alarm might be raised. He pushed the window down, and was about to climb in when a young woman wearing only a bra and panties came briskly into the room, a dress and some stockings hanging over her arm. She saw him on the instant, and stopped still, her eyes widening, her mouth opening wide, terror leaping in her.
One scream would bring the police.
In a moment, she would scream.
Mannering spoke in a low-pitched voice, muffled through the scarf. ‘I won’t hurt you. Don’t make a sound, and I won’t hurt you.’ She just stood there, and seemed to have stopped breathing, as if petrified: she didn’t move even when he dropped into the room. ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he breathed.
She tried to scream.
He could see the effort; for a moment it was as if the shriek was actually coming from her throat; but there was only a funny little noise, a silly little noise. She couldn’t make a sound. She turned as if to run out of the room, but Mannering moved faster, pushed her from the door, and said desperately. ‘I won’t hurt you; just keep quiet.’
He was near enough to see that terror in her eyes, to know that the moment she was released from the grip of paralysis, she would scream the walls down. He snatched the dress from her arm, flung it over her head and shoulders, grabbed the sleeves and tied them round her neck. She tried to struggle and beat the air with her arms, but he didn’t wait any longer, just went out and closed the door: the key was on his side. He turned it. The flat was almost identical with the one above, and he crossed to the window overlooking the High Street, where so many people could see him. Just outside was a drainpipe; he would have been wiser
to have come out this way. He thrust the window up. He could be down that pipe in a trice.
He climbed out, gripped it, and began to climb down. If the police in the flat above were looking out, they might see him. One blast of the police whistle would bring disaster.
Chapter Fourteen
Facts To Face
Mannering reached the ground.
He heard no shout, no whistle of alarm, nothing to indicate that he had been seen. He walked briskly towards the gate in the wall at the end of the yard, taking off the scarf as he did so, crumpling it up and holding it in front of his face, rather like a man with toothache. He went into the service alley, turned right, and soon found himself in the street, only fifty yards from the house which he had just left. He glanced round. A crowd of forty or fifty people had already gathered round two police cars which were parked outside the house where Rosamund had lived. Five women were holding prams, two of them pushing them to and fro in a kind of rock-a-bye rhythm while they gaped at the scene of sensation. An ambulance bell sounded, and that told Mannering that the police hadn’t lost any time. The police surgeon would soon be here; the Divisional Police would probably call in the Yard too.
Mannering turned towards the High Street.
He knew that his clothes were badly in need of dusting, that there was a tear in one knee, and that the toes and sides of his shoes were scratched, but there was nothing he could do about that yet; he had to brazen it out. He turned left, at the High Street, as the ambulance came swinging round from the right: and Yard cars would come from the right, too. He walked briskly, then saw a taxi crawling on the other side of the road. He waved, the cabby stopped, and four minutes from the time he had reached the yard, Mannering was in a corner of the taxi, heading for Knightsbridge. From there he could get another taxi either to Quinns or to Green Street, and so confuse any trail.
It was strange to feel hunted.
It wouldn’t last, of course. At least, it shouldn’t.
He kept a spare set of clothes at Quinns, but if he went into the shop like this, Dick and Harry would notice his dishevelment and would wonder what it was all about: and if they were questioned by the police, they might think it worthy of comment. If he went to Green Street, only Lorna, Rosamund, and presumably Tom would see him: and Tom would probably be self-consciously on guard in the street, and would only have a glimpse of Mannering as he stepped out of the taxi.
‘I’ll go to Green Street,’ he decided, when he changed cabs.
There was Tom, opposite the house, looking massive and quite striking. Tom, who had been to and from the Kensington flat at least twice with baggage, who had been bowled over by Rosamund.
Forget it.
Mannering waved to Tom as he paid the taxi off, and then went up to the studio flat in the automatic lift. He let himself into the flat quietly. No one was in the hall. As he closed die door, he heard someone singing; Lorna didn’t sing in the bath. The kitchen door was closed. He went into the drawing room, where Lorna was often writing during the afternoon. She wasn’t there. He went to the loft ladder, and heard her moving about up in the studio, her refuge in time of stress. He whistled to her softly, and she came hurrying to the loft hatch, looking down, wearing skirt and blouse but no smock.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine. I’m going to change, and I’ll be up. Claudia in?’
‘No, out shopping.’
‘How long’s Rosamund been in the bathroom?’
‘Only a few minutes,’ Lorna said. ‘John—’
He waved and disappeared, went to his bedroom and changed swiftly, putting the dusty, damaged suit and the scratched shoes in the wardrobe. He lit a cigarette, and it tasted harsh; this time he needed a cup of tea. The reflection made him smile, but there was a grimness in the smile as he went to the loft ladder. Lorna had been listening for him, and appeared at once.
‘Put the kettle on!’ Mannering called, and went to join her.
‘It’s on.’ She stood looking at him, tense, obviously worried, yet her eyes as clear as a girl’s and her complexion lovely. ‘John, nothing’s happened to Theo, has it?’
‘No,’ said Mannering. ‘Nothing has happened to Theo, yet. I want a word with Theo, though.’
‘What’s happened? You make it sound serious.’
Mannering slid an arm round her waist. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s serious. It isn’t exactly what we expected either.’
He told her.
After the first shock, Lorna made no comment and gave no exclamation, and they walked across the studio to the gas ring where she would make tea and coffee, and even boil eggs: everything needed was there. On a canvas beneath the great north light was a sketch of Rosamund, one done very quickly, obviously from memory: Mannering found himself looking at it as he finished the story.
‘The Yard might wonder if I was the man who scared the girl, but I don’t think they’ll be able to prove that I was. They may be able to prove that I went to the house, because I didn’t try to hide it. They won’t believe that I didn’t go in.’
‘John,’ Lorna said, as little spurts of steam came from the kettle, ‘you know what’s happened, don’t you?’ The spurts became a billow of steam, and water began to splutter from the spout, so she had to hurry forward: the teapot, with the tea in, was standing handy. The gas went out with a pop, and Lorna continued on as she stood up with the teapot in her hand, ‘You’ve run your head into a noose because of Theo Wray and Rosamund.’
‘The noose isn’t a very good fit, sweet.’
‘I don’t think we ought to take this lightly at all,’ Lorna said. When her face was in repose, like this, and she was worried, she could look almost sullen: as if anger stirred in her. But there was no anger, only fear. ‘From the moment Theo came into the shop he’s been able to make you and me do exactly what he wants. We’ve become hopelessly entangled. If the police find out you were at the flat this afternoon, they’re bound to look for you. Even if Bill Bristow knows you wouldn’t be involved, he’d have to come for you. John, I think I’m scared.’
‘If I were Rosamund or Theo, I’d be much more scared than you.’
‘Do you think Theo did it?’
‘I’m sure he’s capable of doing it just now,’ Mannering said. ‘I’m a long way from sure that he’d use a knife. He is a two-fist and judo man, unless—’
‘Unless you’re hopelessly wrong about him, and he’s not living on his nerves, but is really a devil. If a man like him were bad, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do.’
‘I’m holding no brief for Theo Wray at the moment,’ Mannering assured her. ‘I’m just trying to add up the facts. Theo had a telephone call. It was so important to him that he walked out on Charley, and on calls coming from all over the world. He evaded Charley, so he didn’t want to be followed, and didn’t intend that anyone should know where he went. And he hated Micky Odell. Don’t tell me that you can’t hate a man you hardly know,’ Mannering went on. ‘He hated.’
‘But why go to Rosamund’s place?’
‘We’re still only dealing with the facts; we don’t know that he did,’ Mannering said. ‘We simply know that Micky Odell did.’ He moved across to the telephone. ‘Is this thing switched through?’
‘Yes.’ Lorna watched him with the now-familiar tension, knowing how much was rushing through his mind, how one thought seemed to conflict with another.
He dialled a number: she watched, and knew that he was dialling Quinns. She poured out tea as he waited, and put a cup near him, on a small table close to the easel.
‘Hallo, Josh Never mind the Jap and the jade for a minute; I’ve an urgent job for you. Try to find out if Micky Odell told anyone where he was going this afternoon, will you? Don’t breathe a word to anyone in the shop; just put the feeler out among the people who might know. Say that Odell quarrelled with some man this morning, and I’m anxious to find out if Odell’s planning to get his own back.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Larraby without hesita
tion.
‘If you’re asked anything by the police or the Press, don’t say a word about this call,’ said Mannering. ‘And, Josh—’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Look surprised when you’re told that Odell’s been murdered,’ Mannering said, and even managed to smile as he rang off.
He picked up his tea, sipped, said, ‘Ah, that’s good,’ and smiled up at Lorna; the tea was laced with brandy, just what he needed. He sipped again, then took out cigarettes, and lit up for them both. Lorna hadn’t spoken since he had finished telephoning; he didn’t like the anxiety which showed in her eyes, but it was going to last until they knew the truth about the murder of Odell, and until it was quite certain that he could not be blamed.
Abruptly Lorna said, ‘It’s almost certain that Theo did it, isn’t it?’
‘No. Possible, that’s all.’
‘Who else would?’
Mannering drew at the cigarette, without speaking.
‘Who else would,’ repeated Lorna. ‘Oh, that poor child downstairs!’
‘Yes,’ said Mannering, and sipped the tea again. He looked at Lorna through the haze of steam rising from the cup. ‘If “poor child” is right. As far as we know, Theo and Odell hadn’t met until last night, if you can call last night a meeting. And this morning, Theo told half Kensington that he would gladly see Odell dead. He may have an ungovernable temper, and it may be roused by tiredness, jealousy, or by any sneer about Rosamund, but he’s no fool. Whatever else,’ Mannering repeated, very thoughtfully, ‘Theo is no fool, remember. He told the world and the police this morning that he was in a mood to murder Odell. Would he go and commit that murder so soon afterwards?’
‘John,’ Lorna said abruptly.
‘Yes?’
‘He might be subject to fits of madness. If he really can’t control his temper any better than he does, he might be mad. He must have an incredibly brilliant brain. If he has been overworking, or if there is a mad streak in him, would it be surprising if he had a kind of blackout, and lost all sense of reason?’
‘Oh, no,’ agreed Mannering, ‘and unless they decide to have a stab at me first, that’s exactly how the police will reason. I don’t think they’ll stab at me yet. They will at Theo, as soon as they can. I’ll be surprised if there isn’t a call out for him within the hour.’
