The Warning

by John Creasey

  He moved away from the chair, arms stretched out in front of him. Suddenly his outstretched hand touched something cold. He groped, and the cold thing was shiny. A hand-basin? Water!

  Yes, it was a tap.

  He turned it swiftly. Water splashed over him. He slackened the flow, cupped his hands and drank greedily.

  At last he stopped, gasping for breath.

  He reached a door, groped for the handle, and slowly turned it.

  A glaring light struck at his eyes, and he saw the dark figure of a man.

  Dickson stood there grinning at him, and Dickson had a gun in his hand.

  ‘Where’s Dawson?’

  Dickson said: ‘Seems kind of reciprocal, Dawson wants you too. Now ain’t that remarkable?’

  He waited for Mannering to pass and followed him along a narrow passage to a flight of steps.

  There was a door at the top.

  Dickson knocked.

  There was a pause before the door was opened by Reed. Beyond him was a large room, furnished as an office.

  Mannering stepped in – and stopped abruptly, hands clenching, a band that seemed to be of steel tightening round his chest.

  Dawson wasn’t here.

  Lorna was. And Garielle and Robby. Chittering was here, too. They were sitting on upright chairs lined against the wall, arms tied behind their backs.

  Dickson prodded Mannering with the gun, indicating, swiftly, another door. Through this Mannering was ushered.

  He found himself in a small, well-furnished lounge. Dawson was sitting at a writing desk, his whole demeanour expressionless, and – to Mannering – quite insane.

  Far back in an easy chair – as if she could retreat no further – was Daphne.

  Dawson began to smile.

  The door slammed behind Mannering, but Reed stayed in the room.

  There was something more than unpleasant in Dawson’s smile. He glanced at Daphne out of the corners of his eyes, then back at Mannering, his lips stretched tightly.

  Mannering’s weakness and pain eased; he was conscious only of Dawson and the great danger to everyone here. All other thoughts and emotions had been stripped from him. This was the last opportunity to fight the man in front of him, and – he had to fight. The odds were cruelly heavy, but they would soon be heavier still.

  Dawson leaned back.

  ‘So you’re the great John Mannering.’

  Mannering didn’t speak.

  ‘The man whom everyone thought was so clever that he could catch me. Now every policeman in the country is looking for you, Mannering, and I’ve got you framed for murder. How do you like that?’

  Mannering said: ‘The police will catch up with you.’

  Dawson stood up and rounded the desk. He stood in front of Mannering, while Reed pressed the gun tightly into Mannering’s back.

  ‘How can they catch up when you’re not there to help them, Mannering? What will poor Bristow do now?’ Dawson threw back his head and laughed. ‘Let me tell you something. Bristow won’t last another month at the Yard. When I put my finger on anyone, he’s out. Understand? Just snuffed out.’

  Mannering said: ‘Like Powell and his sister and the blind man in Johannesburg.’

  ‘That’s right. And like you and your wife and all the others in there will be,’ said Dawson. ‘I’ve checked in every way, and there’s nothing you know that you can leave behind. And – I’ve found that letter!’

  There was excitement in his voice.

  Mannering said: ‘What letter?’

  Dawson’s right hand moved upward slowly. He slapped Mannering across the face, savouring every moment of it.

  ‘The letter you were after, the letter Powell’s sister sent to you. Didn’t he tell you about it? He learned there was death in that letter, death to anyone who read it.’

  Dawson held the letter out.

  ‘I’m going to destroy you,’ he snarled. ‘Just as I’m destroying this.’

  Snatching up a box of matches, Dawson struck one and set the paper alight.

  Chapter 26

  Fire

  Dawson turned slowly towards the girl, and the glitter in his eyes was of hatred.

  ‘She could have married me, she could have been one of the richest women in the world – but she chose to strike me.’ His voice, now hushed and vibrating, shook with menace.

  Reed said: ‘We’d better get moving, sir.’

  Unheeding, Dawson turned to Mannering.

  ‘Before you die, Mannering, tell me something. Do you know, have you even guessed, what I’m doing?’

  Would a lie serve?

  Mannering kept silent.

  Dawson’s hand swept round again.

  ‘Answer me!’

  ‘No,’ said Mannering wearily. ‘I haven’t guessed.’

  ‘That’s just what I wanted to hear,’ said Dawson softly. ‘And now for the plan of operation. You and Daphne will stay in here and a fire will start in the other room. With a locked door between you, Mannering. A beautiful piece of mechanism, that lock, specially fitted to withstand all burglars. You fancy yourself with locks, don’t you? You think you’re good. You broke into Kennard’s place; you’ve broken into plenty of others. This time you can try and break into that room while your wife and friends are dying.’

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  Dawson had gone.

  Mannering sat on an upright chair, bound to it by the wrists and the ankles. Daphne was fastened to another. In the room beyond were Lorna, Garielle and the men – as helpless as Mannering. The communicating door was open. Dickson and Reed were also there, tossing small bundles into a corner furthest away from the victims.

  Dickson struck a match and thrust it into the open end of the small packets and held it there. The contents began to burn slowly. Smoke coiled up. He stood back and rubbed his hands, then lit another match and started another packet.

  The door opened and Dawson came in.

  ‘Ready, sir,’ Reed announced.

  ‘About time,’ Dawson said gruffly. ‘Now, the tools.’

  Reed pointed towards the desk. On it was a roll of tools – Mannering’s own set.

  Dawson said: ‘Mannering, if you can break those cords round your wrists and unlock that door, you’ll prove how good you are at cracking a crib.’ He laughed again. ‘Okay, Reed,’ he went on abruptly. ‘Clear out, Dickson.’

  With one last look of triumph, he slammed the door; it was self-locking.

  The smell of burning grew stronger.

  Mannering heard nothing, did nothing, for what seemed an age and was actually a few seconds. Then he began to move his wrists. The cord which bound them was slack, but it wouldn’t be easy to free them. Dawson hadn’t really given him a chance, only a mockery of one.

  Then he heard Robby say: ‘Not so good. Garry, my sweet, if John performs a miracle, will you marry me?’

  Lorna said: ‘John’s performed miracles before.’

  Patiently, laboriously, Mannering worked at the cords, the odds against him. There was the locked door, his set of tools, and he couldn’t get at either. Microphones and amplifiers worked between the two rooms; he could hear everything that was said. When that fire blazed properly, when they began to burn, he would hear.

  He said quietly: ‘Daphne, I’m going to edge my chair over, until it backs on yours. Do what you can—’ He broke off.

  ‘No, wait!’ He began to edge the chair towards her and the desk. Daphne watched tensely. Silence followed, the only sound the rubbing of the chair legs on the carpet. Mannering was now halfway between the wall and the desk. He tried to move faster and the chair nearly toppled over.

  He gritted his teeth and slowed down.

  He could hear Daphne taking short, gasping breaths. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Gradually he drew nearer to the desk, until he was actually touching it, but his hands were lower than the surface, and the bag of tools was too high.

  He began to stand up, the chair tied to him, str
aining at the cords at his wrist. They wouldn’t part. He rose to his toes, his hands resting on the surface of the desk, but he couldn’t stretch them out. He leaned heavily against the edge and lowered his head, and touched the kit with his chin. With agonising slowness he eased it forward, until it was right on the edge. He moved away laboriously – and the kit stayed where it was.

  He couldn’t get at it.

  Daphne couldn’t twist her chair round and get at the cords. Mannering edged the chair round again and studied her. Seconds seemed like minutes. ‘Lean forward as far as you can,’ he said. She obeyed.

  She was sideways to him, and there was a gap between the back of the chair and her corded wrists. Mannering bent forward, then lowered his head. His teeth touched her hands. He manoeuvred slowly, until he felt cord between his teeth. Sweat dropped from his forehead as he chewed. Gradually, at first not daring to believe, he felt the cord severing.

  Daphne said in a taut voice: ‘I’m free.’

  He could hardly hear the words.

  After a few seconds, he heard her moving. She was edging the chair towards the tool kit. She reached it. It dropped into her lap. She began to open it.

  ‘Chisel,’ said Mannering. ‘My wrists.’

  She cut the cords at her ankles, stood up unsteadily and then cut through his.

  He judged that it was a quarter of an hour since Dawson had gone.

  He stood up.

  ‘How are things in there?’ He forced his voice to sound steady.

  ‘Slow combustion,’ Robby said.

  ‘But certain.’ That was Chittering.

  Mannering said quietly: ‘Listen, all of you. I am free. I have a tool kit. If that lock can be forced, I’ll force it.’

  ‘If you get us out of this,’ said Chittering, ‘I’ll believe in miracles to the end of my days.’

  Mannering laid the tools out, one after the other, picked up a small hammer, and tapped the door. It was of steel, or steel-lined. That didn’t surprise him, but it meant that there was no chance to cut through it.

  Daphne stood waiting.

  ‘Hand me up the tools as I ask for them,’ Mannering said. ‘That piece of wire first.’

  She gave him a piece of stiff wire, bent at one end. He pushed it inside the narrow keyhole, and twisted and turned, not hoping to force it with this tool but trying to discover the quality of the lock.

  ‘Now the skeleton key.’ He pointed.

  She gave it to him.

  He inserted it, felt it catch, and was suddenly filled with fierce excitement. It had looked complicated but could hardly be simpler.

  Seconds passed.

  He thought, sweat dripping into his eyes, it’s coming! He gritted his teeth, his body alert with tension. Then he heard a sharp, explosive sound. Garielle cried out, and Chittering said clearly: ‘Hell!’

  ‘What is it?’ Mannering called.

  ‘Minor explosion,’ said Robby, as calmly as if he were sitting at ease in an armchair. ‘One of the bags has burst and thrown its fiery particles over the carpet.’

  Mannering worked on with stoic calm; too much pressure and he would have to start all over again. Gently, gently – and then the lock gave, he heard it click.

  He turned the handle slowly, and pulled. It didn’t move. He pushed; nothing happened.

  He stared at the door.

  ‘Won’t it open?’ Daphne’s voice was brittle.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Mannering.

  It might be that the outer was a false or first lock; that there was another, which he hadn’t found. Or it might be that the lock was electrically controlled. It was even possible that the door was bolted on the other side.

  He called: ‘Robby.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Any bolts on your side?’

  ‘Just a plain door and a handle.’

  ‘Right.’

  Mannering started to probe again, but found nothing to indicate another lock. So it was almost certainly electrical control. He straightened up – and as he did so there was another sharp explosion.

  ‘John,’ called Chittering.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s getting hot.’

  Neither of the women spoke, but the roaring seemed louder, and Mannering could picture the small fires springing up on the carpet.

  Mannering scanned the wall and the door, looking for electric cables. The wall was painted but a slight roughness ran straight from floor to ceiling.

  He picked up a hammer and chisel and began to chip the plaster.

  Working swiftly and fiercely, he laid bare the cable. He stood back for a split second, to wipe the sweat out of his eyes – and a third explosion, louder than the first, came from the other room.

  Robby said slowly: ‘Garry, my darling.’ There was an outburst of coughing from next door.

  ‘John,’ called Lorna. ‘There won’t be time. Goodbye darling.’

  The coughing started again.

  Chapter 27

  The Letter

  Mannering knew that seconds would make the difference between life and death. He held the chisel against the cable and struck with the hammer. The chisel cut into the cable and he felt a shock. He picked up a pair of rubber gloves, held them over the handles and put the chisel back in position. He struck half a dozen heavy, savage blows, and the cable snapped.

  He pulled the door; it didn’t budge.

  He pushed.

  The door swung open, and he staggered into a cloud of smoke and a glowing, fiery furnace which filled one corner. He thrust his way towards the wall where the prisoners were, reached and cut Lorna from the chair to which she was tied, and staggered with her towards the other room. He left her and went back.

  Daphne was on her knees, cutting the cords at Robby’s ankles. Mannering seized Garielle in his arms, and when he returned without her, Robby and Chittering were groping through the smoke towards the door.

  The flames were shooting up to the ceiling and creeping towards the other room. He turned towards it, and as he reached the communicating door, saw Robby at the door through which Dawson and the others had gone.

  There was another lock.

  Mannering snatched up a cold chisel and the hammer and smashed at the wall until he found the cable. He cut through it, then started to pick the lock. It seemed like hours, but it was in fact less than a minute before the lock clicked back.

  He pulled the door open, then turned back into the room.

  Picking up a cigarette box from the desk, he emptied it and carefully lowered in the charred letter from the ashtray.

  That done he joined the others who were soberly and in single file making their way down a passage. Presently they found themselves in a large hallway. With unsteady hands Chittering pulled back the Yale lock of the main door. Street lights greeted them and a taxi stopped.

  Mannering said: ‘Fire brigade and Scotland Yard, quicker than you’ve ever moved, cabby.’

  He saw a figure dart to an alley nearby. There was something furtive in the movement, which caught his attention. He thrust the box into Lorna’s hands and rushed forward; it might be Reed, Dawson, any of them coming out another way. He reached the man and grabbed him – and recognised Harrison.

  ‘Mannering!’ gasped Harrison. ‘Where’s Daphne?’

  ‘Safe,’ said Mannering.

  ‘Thank God for that! I got away from the devils; I’ve looked everywhere. I knew Dawson sometimes worked here at night; as a last resort I tried to get in. I was just going to call the police.’

  The policeman on duty at the gates of Scotland Yard peered inside the taxi – and gaped. He raced across the courtyard, while a sergeant and constable on duty at the top of the steps, recognising Mannering, looked as if the devil himself had descended upon them. They stood together, arms linked, as if to bar his entry.

  Mannering, carrying the cigarette box with exquisite care, stopped with it almost beneath the sergeant’s nose.

  ‘Ask Mr Bristow if he would care to see a man who on
ce hit him over the head.’

  There was a moment of silence; then the constables ranged themselves on either side of Mannering, while the sergeant went to the telephone.

  The sergeant came hurrying back.

  ‘This way,’ he said heavily, and signed to the others to follow.

  A procession set out briskly through the passages and up the stairs of Scotland Yard, Mannering still holding the box as if it held the Crown Jewels.

  Bristow’s door was open.

  What in the name of—’

  ‘Bill, guard this with your life,’ interrupted Mannering, and handed Bristow the box. ‘The charred remains of a certain letter, and if you know your job at the Yard you’ll be able to read it before it breaks up into fragments. Dawson burned it.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  ‘Thank you. And here and now I want to apologise for that crack over the head.’ The sergeant and his entourage would hear that, and duly spread the word. ‘I thought it necessary, and you’ll learn to be grateful for it.’

  Two men came from the office next to Bristow’s. One was Colonel Anderson-Kerr, the Assistant Commissioner of Police. The other was an exceedingly harassed-looking Home Secretary.

  Bristow looked at Anderson-Kerr.

  ‘Mr Mannering has just surrendered—’ he began.

  ‘Let us hear all about it from Mannering.’ Anderson-Kerr had a bark like a whippet’s.

  ‘Certainly.’ said Mannering. ‘To put it briefly, Dawson left my wife and me and four others to burn in a building in Leadenhall Street. He is in a racket I know nothing about, but part of the secret should be in this letter.’ He touched the box. ‘While your experts are going over it, could there be something to drink? My wife is, not unnaturally, suffering from exhaustion.’

  Anderson-Kerr barked an order to the sergeant who walked smartly from the room, returning with two cups of strong, mahogany-coloured tea.

  The Mannerings were left alone in the office for nearly half-an-hour. When at last the door opened, it was to admit Bristow, Anderson-Kerr and the Home Secretary. The Home Secretary looked pale and worried, but his eyes brightened when he saw Mannering. He stepped across the office and shook hands.

  His well-modulated voice had a friendly ring.