by John Creasey
The man’s voice came clearly above hers drowning it, and there was menace in the tone: menace Mannering could not possibly fail to understand.
“That doesn’t mean you won’t be, sweetheart. If your loving husband doesn’t think you’re worth the money, I have to get something out of it, don’t I?” Mockery sounded in his voice as he went on, obviously standing closer to the telephone: “She’ll be all right, Mannering, if you do what I tell you. And you won’t need a pencil, it’s simple to remember. Take one hundred thousand pounds in cash to Tom Forrester’s studio in Fulham. Hand it over to him. He’ll be the messenger. I’ll let him bring your wife back unmolested as she said. She will have the Fiora Collection with her. Believe it or not,” he went on with the mocking note much more noticeable in his voice. “Twelve noon, on the dot, tomorrow. Don’t be late, and don’t try any tricks, such as going to the police. If I so much as smell a policeman, I will cut your wife’s throat even if I have to cut my own as well.” There was what seemed a very long pause before he said: “Your wife is very kissable, Mannering. Listen.”
There was a moment’s pause; and then the unmistakable sound of a kiss.
A moment later the speaker said, “Good night”, and the line went dead.
Chapter Sixteen
Rendezvous
Mannering stood by the telephone, without moving. He was oblivious of Julie, of where he was, of everything but the man’s voice ringing in his ears, and of a picture of Lorna, graven on his mind. He could ‘hear’ the words: “I will cut your wife’s throat, even if I have to cut my own as well.” Except for the menace in it, it had been a pleasant voice. English. Public school.
Mannering became vaguely aware of sounds; rustling, creaking; and then he became aware of Julie standing in front of him, and staring up. And he heard her.
“John, what is it?” She caught her breath: “Oh, dear God, what is it?” She drew away from him as if his expression frightened her, and repeated beseechingly: “What is it?”
He drew in his breath and managed to keep his voice steady.
“My wife has been—kidnapped.”
“Oh, no,” she breathed. “No!”
He looked down on her as if she didn’t really exist. Her prettiness, her elfin charm, her beautiful eyes. None of these counted for anything at all. He moved forward and she backed away. He clamped his hands on her shoulders and she began to struggle. She stared into his face and her fear grew into raw terror. She muttered something but it made no sense, unless it was ‘please, please.’ He shook her and her head bobbed to and fro. In a voice so hoarse he himself hardly recognised it, he rasped: “What do you know about the kidnapping?”
She was gasping for breath.
“Nothing. Nothing. Nothing!”
He shook her again.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying,” she said hoarsely. “I don’t know anything about it. I wish—” she caught her breath and glared at him. “I wish to goodness I’d stopped him from coming to see you! If only he hadn’t! Now—now look what’s happened. He—” she began to clench her hands, to screw up her face. “He’s thrown me out. He’s actually thrown me out!” Now tears were falling and her body began to sway, she beat her breast with clenched fists. “I wish I’d never seen you. I wish I’d never heard of you! I wish—” she stopped suddenly and held her breath; then she flung herself at him, huddled against him and sobbed: “Oh, help me, please help me. I love him so!”
Mannering stood there, helplessly, holding her, not sure what to do – and the front door bell rang again.
She gave no sign that she had heard it but did not resist when he eased her away. He left her standing by the back of a winged armchair, but before he reached the front door the bell rang again. He hesitated, not sure whether to open it cautiously as he had before, or whether to pull it open sharply, catching whoever was outside by surprise.
From the landing, a man called: “John. Are you there? John!”
It was Bristow.
“All right, Bill,” Mannering called out in relief, and glanced round as he opened the door. Julie was still crying. Bristow opened his mouth to speak but Mannering put his finger to his lips; open-mouthed, Bristow stepped in, and Mannering closed the door.
“Julie,” he whispered.
“Good Lord!”
“What’s brought you?”
“What brought her?” Bristow demanded.
“She says Forrester threw her out.”
“I wouldn’t trust either of them as far as I could see them,” Bristow stated roundly. “I drove as far as the end of New King’s Road and then called the Yard,” he went on briskly. “They got your line tapped and heard that telephone conversation.” When Mannering made no comment: “I’m desperately sorry, John. But you know that. I’m pretty sure Willison is, too. I had to come and tell you.”
“What’s Willison doing at the Yard at this hour?”
“He’s a dedicated copper, remember. He’ll come here if you think it will help.”
“No,” said Mannering sharply. “The place is probably watched.”
“I was very careful,” Bristow said, “And I saw no one.”
“It could still be watched,” Mannering replied. “I’d rather not chance it. Did Willison make any comment?”
“Only that he was extremely sorry and would do anything he could to help.” Bristow gave a bleak smile. “And he also said he was now convinced that you hadn’t got the Fioras, as this chap is trying to sell them to you.” Bristow moved towards the drawing-room door. “Does the girl know what’s happened to Lorna?”
“Yes,” Mannering said. “I told her.”
Julie was back on the couch, face downwards, head in her hands. She did not seem to be crying. Both men stood and watched her, but soon Bristow took Mannering’s arm and led him to the study. He stood with his back to the fireplace, arms behind him, and looked at Mannering almost paternally; and his near-white hair and the lines on his face made him look old enough to be Mannering’s father, although there was only twelve years between them.
“What are you going to do, John?”
Mannering said: “Pay if I must.” He held his breath. “Pay, of course, rather than take the slightest risk with Lorna’s life.”
“Willison—”
“Bill,” Mannering said. “I am not going to be guided by the police. I’m going to assess the situation and make my own decision about what to do. Then I’m going to do it. If it means asking for police help, I’ll ask. Meanwhile unless the men who’ve taken Lorna tell the newspapers, I’d rather there was no publicity – at least until after midday tomorrow.”
“No reason why the Press should know,” Bristow agreed. “What about the Clarendon girl?”
“Can you take her back and put her up for the night?” asked Mannering. “I don’t want her here and I’d rather she was watched.”
“I’ll need to telephone my wife,” Bristow said.
“Of course. Help yourself.”
Bristow picked up the telephone, and Mannering went into the kitchen. This was really the first time he had been on his own since the telephone call, and the full effect of the threat hadn’t yet hit him. It did now. He leaned against the door, covering his face in his hands; and all he could see was Lorna. His legs, in fact his whole body, went weak; trembly. He heard Bristow talking, followed by the ting of the telephone, which had a sharp effect on him; physical pain stabbed through him. Bristow came nearer, and called: “That’s all fixed, John.” When Mannering didn’t answer, Bristow appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Mannering answered with an effort. “Yes, Bill. Thanks.” He straightened up, forcing a smile.
Bristow drew a little nearer, frowning; he stood a couple of feet away from Mannering, and said very quietly: “Don’t take any chances yourself, John.”
“I—won’t.”
“You look absolutely all in,” Bristow said. “Is it any use suggesting
that you take a sleeping tablet?”
“No use at all,” Mannering said. “Take Julie away, please. What I need for the next few hours is time to think.”
“John,” Bristow said. “Don’t go out tonight.”
Mannering didn’t respond one way or the other.
“You’re not up to it,” Bristow went on. “If you go out on your own you’ll be asking for trouble.”
“I won’t ask for trouble,” Mannering assured him.
Bristow hesitated, then turned away. His voice sounded very firm as he spoke to Julie. In a few seconds Mannering heard them in the hall, Bristow saying: “You can’t stay here, but you can come with me.” Julie didn’t argue; they went out and the door slammed.
Mannering leaned against the sink for what seemed a long time. Then he began to do things mechanically. Fill electric kettle, plug in, switch on; get out cups and saucers – ass, he only needed one. Oh God! Get out light cream and sugar. Make instant coffee. Drink.
He knew exactly what he was going to do; Bristow knew, too. There was no possible way of evading it. He could no more stay here all night, doing nothing, than he could fly. The sweet coffee already made him feel better. He finished it and went into the passage between the bathroom and the bedroom. Above his head, very reminiscent of the hatch at Riston Street, was the entrance to Lorna’s studio, with a wooden loft ladder leading up to it. He switched on a light on the wall down here, then went upstairs. This was a large attic, beautifully kept, with the smell of paint and turps everywhere. Dozens of portraits in various stages of completion lined the walls, from sketch-likenesses to nearly finished works. He went to an alcove where Lorna kept some of her paints, including a small, theatrical make-up set. He sat in front of a mirror ringed with naked light bulbs, and began to make-up. Although the first movements were mechanical, he gradually became absorbed as he used greasepaint, black powder, even spirit gum at the corners of his eyes, to alter his appearance completely. Next he put soft wax into his nostrils to broaden them, suction pads into his cheeks, to make them fuller.
Gradually, he became a different man to look at.
At last he finished, peered at himself, and was satisfied. He went downstairs again, took a sheet out of the linen cupboard, stripped, and wound the sheet about his waist, so making himself look quite corpulent. Next he slipped into some old clothes, normally too big for him but now too tight. The jacket had odd-shaped, sloping shoulders.
Once fully dressed, he went into the kitchen and shook some pepper on to a fold of notepaper and placed this carefully in an envelope; it was an old trick which often came in useful. Then he took a wad of ten pound notes from a hiding place in the roof, and at last went to the landing.
Instead of going down the stairs or down in the lift, he went upstairs to the roof, and climbed out through the skylight. The stars were so bright they seemed almost within hand’s reach. The air was crisp but not really cold. He walked over the roof to the next house, through that skylight, down the stairs of a building identical with the one in which he lived.
He reached the street.
He saw a man in a porch some way along, and had no doubt that his house was being watched, and that had he been seen to leave there he would have been followed. He turned towards the Embankment and passed the porch, unable to see the other’s face because of the shadows cast by low-powered street lights.
He was tempted to go up to the man.
The police detective stationed there to watch Mannering saw a heavily built man who walked with his shoulders hunched, one looking higher than the other, come out of the building next to Mannering’s. He took no notice of him at all. For a moment he had a feeling that the other had seen him, was about to turn towards him, then changed his mind. The watcher took little notice, for his quarry was John Mannering.
Mannering reached the Embankment just after twelve-thirty; a church clock struck its chimes, sonorously, and they echoed over the still and silent surface of the Thames. No traffic flowed on the river and little motor-traffic moved along the Embankment. Two taxis passed Mannering with their signs alight, but he ignored them and began to step out briskly; it no longer mattered whether he altered his gait. He needed the walk in the fresh night air, and it cleared not only his lungs but his mind. He could think more dispassionately about Lorna, without making his heart thump with sickening fear for her.
After fifteen minutes he turned into a narrow street, then into another which faced the blank wall of a warehouse, and in which there were some lock-up garages. He opened the second of these with a key on his chain. Inside, just a dark shape, was a small car: a grey Morris 1000, one of the most common cars in Britain. He had kept a car of one kind or another here for years; this, although second-hand, was new to him.
It had a specially tuned engine which started at a touch. He let it tick over for a few seconds while he checked the tyres and the lights. Then he took a small tool kit packed in a linen waist band; inside the waist band was a length of nylon rope, quite strong enough to support his weight. He wound this about his waist, took the wheel, and backed out; he closed the garage door before driving off.
As he drove, he felt a different man.
He was now the Baron; he was nothing remotely like John Mannering either to look at or in his mood.
And he was only a mile from Riston Street, and already in Fulham.
He knew exactly what he was going to do.
Ten minutes after he had left the garage he parked round the corner from Riston Street. No police were in sight; they may have decided there was no need to keep watch. There was a light at Number 20 and one upstairs at Number 17, but none downstairs. He went to the porch, taking a skeleton key out of his pocket, and slipping it into the keyhole; after only a few moments, of manipulation the lock turned.
Using a skeleton key had once been virtually second nature to him, and as he slipped back into the ‘skin’ of the Baron, all the expertise he had once acquired with such care came back.
He stepped inside and closed the door; there was a faint sound of radio music from upstairs. He walked along the passage to the door at the end of the stairs, the one where the old man so often appeared. Immediately the door opened he heard a sound of snoring. A dim light was burning in a corner of the room, and the old man lay on his back, gnarled face clear in the light, cheeks sunken because he had taken out his dentures. Mannering took the key from the lock and went out, closing the door softly, then listened intently. The snoring went on without a break. Mannering turned the key in the door, and turned to the stairs and began to mount them.
The radio music sounded louder, but not really loud.
He reached the head of the stairs.
Lights were on in all the rooms, visible because the doors were open. The sound of music came from above, and footsteps sounded; so Forrester – or someone – was in the attic. Mannering stood close to the wall, listening, wondering if the man was coming down. He, the Baron, must wait for him; to go up would be to risk being seen and so put himself at great disadvantage.
No one was coming down.
Mannering went into the front room, which was exactly as he had seen it earlier. He searched in all the possible places where the jewels might be hidden, but found nothing. There was a hair-cord carpet fitted from wall to wall, and it showed no sign of being disturbed lately, so there was little likelihood that anything was hidden under the boards. Two old coffers, covered with padded seats, were unlocked; only blankets and linen and a few ornaments were stored in them.
Mannering searched the kitchen-living room, with the same result.
He heard the man whom he presumed to be Forrester moving about, above his head, then heard the music more loudly, as if he were drawing closer to it. In fact, it was coming towards him: the man was carrying it as he started down the ladder now leaning against the hatch. Mannering stood so that he could see first the red socks, then the jeans, next the waist, finally his head and shoulders. The music now sounded very loud. Forrest
er rested a transistor radio on the water-closet cistern, and stepped to the floor.
That was when Mannering spoke in a hard, low-pitched voice, acquired years and years ago, and used only when he was acting as the Baron.
Chapter Seventeen
Struggle
“Stay where you are,” Mannering ordered. “Don’t turn round and don’t move at all.”
Forrester had one foot on the ladder, one on the floor; and his face was away from Mannering, his body in such a position that he could not easily look round. He seemed to freeze to the spot.
“I want the Fiora jewels,” Mannering said starkly. Forrester seemed to take in a deep breath before he responded: “Come again.”
“I want the Fiora jewels.”
“I haven’t got them.”
“I don’t believe you,” Mannering said.
“I can’t make you believe me,” Forrester said flatly. “I can’t give you what I haven’t got, either.”
There was a change in the tone of his voice as well as in his position. He was swivelling round with the foot on the floor, obviously getting ready to turn, perhaps to spring at the man he couldn’t see.
“You have them,” Mannering accused.
“You’re wrong. You want a man named Mannering.”
“Mannering?” echoed Mannering, as if the name shocked him.
“That’s right, the great John Mannering, antique dealer, dealer in precious stones, consultant to Scotland Yard, and prince of crooks,” Forrester growled. Then he twisted round on the ball of his foot and leapt at Mannering.
It was an act of cool, if reckless, courage. Had Mannering held a gun and fired, the other would not have stood a chance. As it was he came like a bullet, but all Mannering did was to step to one side and stick his leg out. Forrester ran into his leg and went crashing down, banged his head against the door, cried out, and flopped full length. Mannering moved swiftly and knelt astride the other, as if about to give him respiration, as for a drowning man. Instead, Mannering took his right wrist and pushed his arm up behind him, gave him a minute in which to recover his breath, and demanded: “What makes you think Mannering has them?”
