by John Creasey
“Could it be drugs?” asked Bristow.
“Lord knows.”
“I’ll talk to Mannering,” Bristow said again. “Where will you be?”
“Oh, I’m at home,” said Gordon.
“If I get any news I’ll call you back,” Bristow promised, and rang off. He held the receiver down only just long enough to make sure he could dial another number, and called Mannering’s flat. Lorna answered at once.
“How nice to hear you,” she said warmly. “How are you, Bill . . . ?” Nothing in her tone suggested that she knew about his problem and his meeting with Mannering. “No, he’s out I’m afraid . . . I really don’t know where, you know how unpredictable he is . . . Yes, I’ll ask him to call you. Is everything all right? . . . I’m so glad.”
Bristow was smiling faintly when he rang off. Mannering would never really know how lucky he had been with his friends and especially with his wife. Or did he know? One thing was virtually certain: Lorna knew what he was up to even though she had given nothing away.
What was Mannering up to? Bristow wondered. He would have given a lot to know.
At that moment, Mannering was standing in the gloom of the evening at a driveway leading to Number 5, Kimble Lane, a lovely, low, red brick house which overlooked Hampstead Heath. Kimble Lane was deliberately secluded, with tall trees in the street itself and in all the gardens. Mannering knew it, and other short streets in the district, very well. His car was parked a few doors along.
In the garage at the side of the house a young woman in jeans and a tight-fitting shirt was hosing down a white M.G. – a similar car to that which had been used to kill Annabel Kitt. As he watched, as the possibility that this was the killer came into his mind, Mannering felt an almost uncontrollable rage.
Then the girl became aware of him, started, and turned. He had seldom seen anyone so frightened. The hose snaked out of control, the jet hit the wall and then splashed on to the gravel outside the garage, hissing and spraying.
13
THE THIRD KIDNAPPING
She was more pretty than beautiful; looked almost more boy than girl. Mannering turned towards her, slowly, without the slightest indication of the savage anger that had torn through him. His smile was not ‘Mannering’s’ smile but it was friendly and carried no menace. The girl struggled to mask her terror; turning off the water, she picked up the hose and placed it over the back bumper of the M.G.
“Good evening,” said Mannering.
“Good evening,” the girl said stiffly. Her hair was golden, hiding her ears; her eyes were blue; her lips were too full, almost pouting.
“Have I the pleasure of speaking to Miss Devon?”
“I am Esmeralda Devon.”
“I’m very glad I caught you at home,” Mannering said. “What a powerful looking motor-car. An M.G. isn’t it?”
“Yes. Why—?” She was breathing with short gasps and there could surely be only one reason: fear that he had come to inquire about the car.
“I have a message for you from Maria Rocco,” Mannering stated.
Her face cleared, and there was an almost cat-like change in her body as she relaxed.
“What—what does she want?”
“She would very much like to see you as soon as possible.”
“But—but I don’t understand! If she wants to talk to me, why doesn’t she telephone? Why on earth should she send a stranger?”
“She is in some distress,” Mannering said glibly, “and I gather that she is in some difficulty about talking freely on the telephone.” When the girl looked at him without speaking, he shrugged his padded shoulders and half-turned. “Well, I have done what I promised, there is nothing more that I can do. You could of course drive to—”
“No!” she interrupted, her face taut. “I—there’s something wrong with the car.”
“Really?” asked Mannering, moving towards it. “Perhaps I can put it right.”
“No!” she cried again. “There’s nothing you can do, absolutely nothing. What—what else did Maria say?”
“Just what I have told you: she would like to see you urgently—desperately, I should say.”
He glanced down at the front wing of the little car. It was crumpled; not badly, as a collision of metal and metal would reveal, but as if the car had struck something heavy and soft. Again he had a picture of a girl’s body flying through the air, but his expression did not change – not even when he saw the tell-tale brown stain of dried blood on the front bumper. In fact his smile broadened, and Esmeralda could not know that he was thinking that he would take her away even if he had to knock her out and. fling her over his shoulder.
“I—I’d better go,” said Esmeralda, “but my mother’s out, and—”
“It shouldn’t take long,” Mannering said. “I will gladly take you there and bring you back.”
“Have—have you a car?” She seemed surprised.
“Oh, yes, a few yards away. If you would care to get a coat—”
“I need a handbag,” she said. “I won’t be long.”
She hurried through a side door of the garage, and he wondered whether she suspected him and was going to telephone Maria, or whether she was simply going to do what she said. At least she gave him more chance to look at the front of the car, to see the rest of the damage on the side which had struck Annabel. One of the front lamps was badly cracked and there was a spattering of brown spots of coagulated blood. He found himself clenching his teeth as he saw the crumpled number plate, memorised the number – PX 128P – and then went to the front of the house. Esmeralda Devon was shrugging herself into a thigh-length leather coat. She walked with him towards the big old Austin.
“If you will give me the pleasure of riding next to me,” Mannering said, opening the door.
It obviously did not occur to her to say no. And it did not seem to occur to her to ask him why they were going to the Mayfair heart of London when it would have been quicker to go direct to Knightsbridge, where the Roccos lived. Soon, he turned into Hart Row, and at last she realised something was wrong.
“Where on earth have you brought me?” she demanded.
“Maria is here,” he assured her.
Pulling up, he got out and sprang round to the other side of the car, taking her arm in a grip from which she could not have escaped even had she tried. But she appeared to believe him, especially when Larraby, so venerable-looking, opened the door and smiled a welcome. Not until Mannering led her to the steps of the strong-room did she make any attempt to free herself – but his grip was like a steel trap, and he forced her downwards, pressed the door control button, and thrust her in with the others.
“Esmeralda!” one of the men cried.
“Keep away from the door,” Mannering ordered, and stood so that they could see him and the gun in his hand. As Esmeralda went through, Bruce Danizon appeared at the opening, and for the second time Mannering recognised the youth’s stubborn courage.
“I want to know what you’re doing,” he said clearly. “I insist—”
“I’m just keeping you out of Bernard Yenn’s reach for a little while,” answered Mannering, softly. “I don’t want any more hit and runs like we had this afternoon. Whose car is it, Esmeralda? Yours – or a friend’s?”
Esmeralda was out of sight but her gasping voice sounded clearly.
“Oh my God! He knows!”
“You would be astonished at just how much I do know,” said Mannering; and then he pressed the control and the door slid to. He turned, and went slowly up the steps and into his office. Surprised at how tired he suddenly felt, he dropped into the armchair which usually stood over the entrance to the strong-room.
The next moment, Larraby appeared at the door.
“Hallo, Josh,” said Mannering with forced lightness. “I thought you�
��d got lost.”
“No, sir,” Larraby said. “And I really do congratulate you, sir – it is a remarkable feat. I—ah—I am a little troubled, however. I have some reason to believe that we are being observed from the flat above Pandit’s, and if that is true then I should imagine that even in your present guise you will hardly be safe when you leave.”
After a long pause, Mannering said grimly: “No. And I’m slipping, Josh, or I would have thought of that. The question is, how do I get out of here without being seen?”
Larraby had no suggestion to make.
Mannering got up, took a bottle of brandy from the corner cupboard, poured a little into two glasses, and handed one to Larraby. As he did so, the telephone bell rang, sounding loud and aggressive.
“All right, Josh.” Mannering crossed to the telephone and lifted the receiver. “Who is that?” he asked, in a carefully assumed voice.
“Never mind who it is – I want to talk to Mannering.”
He sounds angry, Mannering thought with satisfaction, and an angry man is a frightened man. He could hear the other breathing, quickly, harshly, as if he was labouring under a great strain.
“If you’ll give me your name and number I’ll ask him to call you,” he said blandly. “Mr. Mannering will be telephoning within the next half-hour.”
“You mean he’s not in?”
“He’s not in at the moment, no, sir. But if you’ll leave your name and number...”
“Brown,” the man interrupted. “And my number is Bond Street 87109. Have you got that?”
“87109 Bond Street – is that right, Mr. Brown?”
“Yes,” rapped the caller, and slammed down his receiver.
Mannering smiled, lighter-hearted than he had been since the afternoon’s tragedy. He sniffed his brandy, and moved to the curtained window.
“Well, Josh, I’m pretty certain that that was Yenn. And either he’s fooling me very cleverly or he’s very worried indeed. And he gave me a Bond Street number, which suggests that he’s on the other side of Hart Row in person. He’s seen the police grab two of his young men, he’s seen me bring Esmeralda here, and he may have seen me bringing the others as well. He’s anxious to get them back, and he’s at his wit’s end to know what pressure to bring to bear on me.” Mannering was standing with his back to the window, frowning in concentration. “If I were in his position, what would I do?” He paused, and then went on softly: “There is only one thing he can do. Josh. Try to turn the tables by kidnapping Lorna.” Now Mannering was at the telephone again, dialling Whitehall 1212. Almost at once an aloof voice came: “Scotland Yard – can I help you?”
“Mr. Bristow, Mr. Gordon, or whoever is on duty in their place.”
“Mr. Gordon’s just come in, sir, I’ll put you through.” No “What name?” No formality of any kind, just brisk efficiency, a click, then Gordon’s voice on the line.
“Gordon here.”
“This is John Mannering,” Mannering said briskly.
“Good evening, Mr. Mannering.” Obviously someone else was in the office – unless Gordon had regretted his mood of that afternoon. “Were you aware that two men were arrested this evening for an attempted break-in at Quinns?”
“Arrested?” Mannering echoed.
“Yes,” Gordon said. “Did you know they had attempted to break in?”
“I’m not surprised,” Mannering said briskly. “Someone is working very hard to scare me, and I’ve just had a caller who threatened to kidnap my wife if I didn’t stop inquiring into some recent jewel robberies.” He paused just long enough to make sure that Gordon knew that he meant the ‘secret’ robberies which were so affecting Bristow, then went on: “Can you make sure she has special protection?”
Gordon was as brisk and prompt as Bristow would have been.
“Certainly, sir. Is she at your Chelsea flat?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you, sir?”
“I’m moving about a great deal, there is a lot to do,” Mannering said. Suddenly he recalled Esmeralda washing down the damaged M.G., and was appalled that he hadn’t yet told the police of that. He must mention it straight away. “Gordon,” he went on, “there’s an M.G. in a garage at 5, Kimble Lane, Hampstead, which I think you ought to see.”
“An M.G. – the killer car?” Gordon’s voice rose in excitement.
“You should see it,” Mannering repeated. “You will look after my wife, won’t you?”
“Without the slightest loss of time,” Gordon promised. “Goodnight.”
While Mannering had been putting through his call to Scotland Yard, another man had also been speaking on the telephone: the man known as Bernard Yenn. His voice was harsh, as if he were having great difficulty in keeping his temper.
“There isn’t any time – go and get her.” There was a pause, and when he spoke again his voice sounded even harsher. “It isn’t any use burning the place, I don’t want her dead, I want her alive. Go and get her.”
He was sweating when he put down the receiver. Wiping his forehead, he stepped to the window and looked through a narrow gap in the curtains at Quinns. He could see the street lamp reflected on the gilt lettering, on the tall, narrow, empty window, but he could not see the back of Quinns. He moved to another room, also overlooking Hart Row. Belle Danizon glanced round from a chair in the window.
“Has anyone moved?” he demanded.
“No – there hasn’t been a soul in sight.”
He leaned over her and looked out. From here he could see the corner beyond Quinns and the street lamp fastened to a wall-bracket at the entrance to the passage. Undoubtedly anyone who left Quinns from the back would be seen crossing Hart Row to that footway. Yenn drew back, and looked down at Belle Danizon’s golden hair; he had a near-suspicious look in his brown eyes.
“Are you sure you watch the whole time?”
“Quite sure,” she said, wearily. “But I can’t stay here all night, Bernard. When are the others coming?”
“They’ll be here soon,” he said, and moved away.
Lorna found it impossible to sit and read, or look at television. Restlessly she had something to eat, tidied the kitchen – the Mannerings had only a daily maid – and went up to the attic. She did not like painting by artificial light, even though she had some strip lighting which simulated daylight extremely well, but there was one portrait at a stage at which she could put in a certain amount of work. A blind was pulled down at the big window overlooking the street, but through the roof-light in the ceiling she could see the stars.
She stood back from the painting and had actually picked up her palette, when there was a screech of brakes in Green Street. She sprang to the window and stared down. Three or four youths were racing towards King’s Road, while men tumbled out of a car marked Police.
Her heart thumped and she began to breathe very fast.
Obviously, an attack on her had been almost ready for launching, and the police had arrived only just in time. But her relief soon gave way to acute anxiety. Could John get through the night safely? He was out there in the sprawling mass of London, alone.
She went back to the canvas, and picked up the palette again, but before she touched a brush the telephone bell rang. Only when she was in the apartment alone did she have it switched through to the attic.
“This is Mrs. Mannering.”
“Superintendent Gordon, Mrs. Mannering,” the caller said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, perfectly. I heard something going on in the street, but a lot of your men were there.”
“Your husband asked us to make sure they were,” Gordon said. “You’ll be watched closely all the evening – in fact until the emergency is over.”
“You’re very good,” Lorna said with obvious gratitude, and Gordon murmured a half embarrassed goodnight a
nd rang off.
“There must be a way of getting to her,” Bernard Yenn said furiously. “There must be. I’ve got to find it.”
Belle, still in the chair, was looking at him speculatively, while he gazed out of the window at the corner which led to the back entrance of Quinns.
14
ROOFTOPS
There was sudden tension in Larraby’s flat when the telephone bell rang. It was only twenty minutes since Mannering had called the police, and the half-hour he had decided on before calling Yenn was nearly up. Would this be Yenn again? Although so much was going well the tension was great; Mannering broke it quickly by lifting the receiver.
“Is Mr. Mannering there?” It was Gordon of the Yard.
“Hallo, Superintendent.” Mannering’s heart thumped. “No trouble, is there?”
“Well, sir, some youths did show an interest in your flat, but everything’s under control now and there’s no need to worry.”
“I’m very grateful to you,” Mannering said, his heart still thumping. “Did you catch—?”
“All four got away,” answered Gordon, and rang off without saying goodnight.
Mannering put down the receiver slowly, drew his hand across his forehead, and told Larraby what had happened.
“It’s a good thing I asked them to go to Green Street,” he finished. “My God, if anything had happened to Lorna—Four of them, Josh!”
“Four what, sir?”
“Four youths tried to break into the flat. Two were caught here. We know there are others. How many others, Josh? That’s the problem. Oh, well—” he shrugged—”I’d better telephone our friend and see what he has to tell me.” Lifting the receiver, he began to dial. Hearing the dialling tone go on for a long time, he grew anxious in case he had the wrong number or the man he believed to be Yenn had left. Then the man answered: “Bond Street 87109.”
