by John Creasey
“I’m sick of myself,” Mannering said. “That’s what’s up.”
“Why, what have you done, Tom?”
“I kicked Julie out. Isn’t that enough?” Mannering was on edge to get away not only from the cross-examination but from the pale grey eyes. They had a shrewdness which troubled him, a directness which might well pierce the disguise. Nonsense! thought Mannering, and pushed his way past the old man; it was darker in here, but he need not worry too much, for his back was to the daylight; no one could possibly scrutinise him in such a light.
“You don’t have to worry about Julie,” the old man scoffed. “She’ll come running back at a crook of your finger.”
“I’m not so sure,” Mannering said. He was now between the other and the stairs. What was that name? Ed, Ted, Fred, – Ed, he was sure. “Are you going to be out for long?”
“Only going to get some baccy,” the other said eagerly. “Like me to open the door when Mr. Bruce comes?”
Again, Mannering was caught in two minds, not being sure which was the usual thing to happen. The old man probably smelled a smile, which meant money, hence his friendliness. There was no point in making him hostile, and even if he didn’t open the door he would peek from his own room to see who it was.
“Not until I call down to say it’s all right,” he said.
“Of course, Tom, of course! Don’t worry at all. You just give a shout and I’ll open the door.”
Mannering went upstairs as the street door closed. Now he had the flat to himself, but could not be sure for how long – nor how much longer he must wait. Had he done anything wrong? Would he have been wiser to allow the police to watch here, or at least to watch Sangster’s house? Nonsense! The risk to Lorna would have been too great. When he had her back he could take any risks; but not yet.
It was quarter past eleven; he probably had half an hour to kill.
Kill.
He moved about the living room, studying the portraits, even more impressed by their skill. It might be simply virtuosity, there might not be a real streak of genius, but most were good. Among the best were some of Julie, two of them little gems.
Never mind Julie! She was safe.
He heard someone come in, went to the stairs to make sure who it was, and saw the small grey head with its bald spot. Now it was simply a matter of waiting and there was only one place to wait: in the front room. He pulled a chair close to the side of one window from which he could see the Wandsworth Bridge Road end of the street; he took it for granted that Bruce Sangster would come from that end. Suddenly, a small motor-cycle turned into Riston Street, and slowed down. A man in a black jacket and a crash helmet painted white with a red emblem on it, began to peer about him, at the numbers.
He stopped, parked the machine, and walked towards Number 17, taking his helmet off as he moved. For the first time, Mannering was sure beyond doubt that this was Bruce Sangster, who looked younger than his years in this outfit.
Sangster disappeared from sight, beneath the window. After a moment, there was a loud bang on the iron knocker. Mannering heard a shuffle of feet downstairs, and the old man appeared at the door.
Fred: that was his name. Fred.
“Let him in,” Mannering called.
“Right, right,” the old man called up.
Mannering stood in the bathroom doorway. He heard the street door open, then the old man speak in his querulous voice.
“Yes. Who is it?”
“My name is Sangster,” the caller replied, “and I’ve come to see Mr. Forrester.”
“Old Tom boy? He’s upstairs, unless I’m much mistaken. Tom! Tom, boy!” Fred raised his head as he peered upstairs, but Mannering hardly noticed him, he was so intent on Sangster. “Tom! It’s a Mr. Sangster for you.”
Mannering made himself call: “Ask him to come up.” He opened the front room door wide, and then went to the head of the stairs. Sangster came up quickly, and the angle at which Mannering saw his face was exactly that from which he had seen it in Green Street.
It was, gloomy on the landing, but Sangster’s eyes seemed very bright.
“Hi,” he said briefly. “Did you do what I told you?”
“Yes,” Mannering answered.
“I didn’t think you’d make any mistake.” There was a sneer in the other’s voice, a sneer on his heart-shaped face. The worst thing about him was that he was so evil yet had the face of an angel. There was a fringe of curly golden hair and an angelic expression until one saw the tautness and the thinness of his lips. “Mannering will show up in twenty minutes.”
“You seem very sure.”
“I am sure,” Sangster said, icily.
“I don’t see how—” Mannering began.
“You never could see further than the end of the nose on your face,” Sangster sneered. “The jewels would be enough in themselves, but I made doubly sure.” He actually laughed. “I kidnapped his wife! And he’ll come along for her sake. When he does, he’ll get a hell of a shock.”
Sangster laughed again, and Mannering felt icy stillness in his veins for he did not know what this man meant, knew only that he was most certainly in the presence of evil. And it was evil. Everything he had heard about this young man had pointed towards that, and here he was, the personification of it.
Mannering made himself speak in a fair imitation of Forrester’s voice.
“What kind of shock, Bruce?”
“A hell of a shock,” repeated Sangster, and for a moment it seemed as if he were not going to explain. But at last some sense of vanity, of boastfulness, perhaps of pride in himself, rose to the surface, and he went on: “From now on, he and I are partners. I’ve a tape recorder here.” He took a small transistor-type recorder from his coat and placed it on a bedside table. “Our deal for the Fiora Collection will be recorded. My voice won’t be on it. Yours will. Yours and Mannering’s, doing a crooked deal. Once I’ve got that on record you’ll both do whatever I tell you. You’ll work for Mannering. When I tell you to paint a copy of an old master, you’ll paint it and he’ll sell it as the genuine article. And when I want to pull off a deal in objets d’art or jewellery or antiques, he’ll co-operate. If he doesn’t or if you don’t—”
Sangster broke off; smiling. It was like a leer; satyrish. But it was much more than that: he was not dealing with an ordinary man but with a psychopath.
“You—you swine,” Mannering made himself say.
“So I’m a swine. So you’re a fool. You let me get a hold on you when we were at Letts together, and you’ll never be free. That will teach you not to steal from lockers. You’ll live your life the way I want you to from now on. From today on. So will Mannering. And he’ll stand to lose more than his reputation, too. That wife of his is quite a woman. If Mannering makes trouble, his Lorna will pay. Only remember one thing, Tom.” He gave his biggest smile yet. “Don’t call me a liar. I don’t like it.”
Without the slightest warning, without any change in his smile, he struck Mannering savagely across the face. Mannering staggered back. Sangster, as if completely sure that he was in no danger, moved towards the window.
“He should be here soon,” he remarked. “I’d better be ready to show him I mean business.”
Mannering, teeth clenched, anger raging through him, saw Sangster slip his hand inside his jacket and then draw off his waist a leather belt or waist band, about six inches wide. He placed this on the bed and unrolled it, much as Mannering might have unrolled his tool kit. It stretched three feet up the bed, at least. He unfolded it, doubling its depth, and on that instant the morning light touched the jewels there.
Mannering caught his breath.
All his life he had worshipped precious stones; even today they exerted a near fatal fascination for him. He longed to touch, to stare at, to possess. And here was one of the most beautiful and varied collections of rubies and emeralds in. the world. One ruby was the size of a pigeon’s egg. Two rubies were nearly as large. They seemed to glow and to sparkle; to absorb light an
d yet to scintillate. They were set in rings, ear-rings, brooches, pendants, bracelets – there was a comb set in gold and fit for any queen. Mannering felt the magic, near magnetic attraction of them; they even affected his breathing.
“Look out of the window and see if he’s coming,” Sangster ordered. “He’s late already. He’ll have to learn that I don’t like being kept waiting.”
Mannering did not move towards the window, but instead stood between Sangster and the landing door. Sangster, surprised, took a step forward.
“Mannering isn’t coming,” Mannering stated. He had never felt less like himself, or more like another personality altogether, so absorbed was he in the part he was playing. “You aren’t going to get your evidence, Bruce. Roll those jewels up again and give them to me.”
As he spoke, as the stupefaction crept over Sangster’s face, he took an automatic pistol out of his pocket, waved it towards the other, and went on sharply.
“Do what I tell you. I don’t like being kept waiting, either.”
Sangster stood absolutely still. His expression seemed to say: ‘You must be mad!’ Actually he said: “Mannering will be here at any moment, and—”
“No he won’t,” Mannering retorted. “I’m here in his place. And the police will be here before you’ve had time to get over the shock. They’ll be at your father’s, too—everywhere you might try to run to earth. You’ve been run to earth already, Bruce. Here. By me. You tried to push me around too much, and you had to be stopped. Mannering showed me how to stop you.”
“Why, you—” began Sangster, and leapt forward, his mouth wide open and his eyes rounded and glaring.
Mannering fired at him.
The bullet actually went through the padded shoulder of the coat, but Mannering did not think it touched the flesh. The sharp report and the flash made Sangster back away, danger and fear of death overcoming his fury.
Mannering thought: It’s nearly over, thank God. It’s nearly over.
And that was the moment when the old man spoke from the open doorway. His voice was firmer and his manner more authoritative than it had ever been as he said: “Drop your gun, Tom. Drop it on the bed and don’t turn round.”
Sangster said in a throbbing voice: “Nice work, Fred.” ‘Fred’. “Very nice work. Now the first job is to find out whether he’s telling the truth about the police.”
Mannering dropped the gun.
This was the first time since the affair had started that Mannering had felt really afraid for himself. And sick at his own blindness. Grey-haired old Fred was the wheel on which these crimes had turned.
Chapter Twenty
Double
He could not be sure that the old man had a gun, but he could not take the risk of guessing wrong. He was acutely and vividly aware of Bruce Sangster’s expression, and the naked evil in it. He did not doubt that Sangster would be viciously violent in order to find out what he wanted to know, but that in itself was unimportant. When he was convinced, he would get away as fast as he could.
And he would kill without compunction; once caught he would get a life sentence for Jacob Walker’s murder, and one more killing would make no difference.
He moved close to Mannering, and without blinking his eyes, struck him across the cheek with his right hand, sending him reeling, then striking him with his other hand, just as viciously. Mannering’s head rang, and he began to sway. He gritted his teeth and struggled to keep his balance. Sangster’s face was going round and round, nothing about him seemed to stand still.
“Are the police really on their way?” he demanded, harshly.
Mannering said: “They’re on the way.”
Sangster raised his hand to strike again but old Fred moved past Mannering, making the blow impossible. He held a small automatic in his right hand, with a kind of nonchalance which suggested that he was not unaccustomed to it.
“It’s no use knocking his block off,” Fred reasoned. “You can’t make him speak the truth if he can’t speak at all, can he, Tom? Now, let’s have the truth – every bit of it, Tom boy!”
In this room the light from the window was good. Both men, who knew Tom Forrester well, stood only a foot or two away, scrutinising him closely, searching his face for signs of the truth. They would not be fooled by the disguise for long, and once they realised that he wasn’t Forrester but Mannering, they might well tear him to bits. There was one hope and only one, and he drew a deep breath and used that hope.
“I am not Tom Forrester,” he said. “Tom is on his way with—”
They realised that truth on the same instant. Both of them flinched, physically, and for a split-second they were off their guard. Fred’s gun actually pointed towards the floor.
Mannering sprang backwards.
Going forward would give them a chance to recover. Going backwards might save him. And Fred had left the door wide open. As he rocked on his heels Mannering caught at the door with his right hand. As he staggered on to the landing, it slammed. Simultaneously, two shots rang out, one sharp, one a roar; the two men had recovered at the same moment. The door closed tight but there was no time to lock it. Mannering darted into the bathroom and slammed that door; his fingers, icy cold, kept steady enough for him to shoot the bolt.
Two more shots followed. One bullet splintered a door panel, one made a bulge above the lock, but neither penetrated fully. Mannering put one foot on the decorated pedestal, both hands on the edge of the hatch, and hauled himself up, remembering the low rafters and keeping his head low. He heard the bathroom door groan and creak as he backed away, pulling at the hinged hatch cover. He caught a glimpse of Sangster darting into the bathroom as the hatch slammed down.
Then he stood on the hatch cover, to prevent it from being pushed open.
It began to heave beneath him as Sangster pushed, but Sangster had no chance while all Mannering’s weight was on it. Again Mannering gripped a rafter, for support. Now that this part was virtually over, reaction had set in. He kept his mouth open and let his teeth chatter and his body shake.
Sangster was screaming at him but there was no sound of Fred.
“Come down you flicking liar! Get down from there. I’ll cut your throat, I’ll break every bone in your body!” After a pause there came a sharp click, as if he had pulled the trigger. Mannering stepped off the hatch for the first time as a bullet did strike and splinter it, had he still been standing on it, the bullet could have bruised if not broken his foot.
Then, came other sounds, particularly of car engines, roaring.
The hatch cover lifted an inch, then dropped into place.
Car doors slammed and more engines raced.
Crammed in a corner of the attic was an old leather trunk, and Mannering stretched out and gripped it, finding it almost impossible to move. He dragged with both hands, until it was over the hatch, and as he dragged he saw the white lettering, faded and scratched but still quite readable. It said:
THOMAS FORRESTER
LETTS COLLEGE.
HERTS.
Down below Mannering there were thudding footsteps, but up here everything was still. In the far distance a man was shouting and raving: could that be Sangster? Mannering moved towards the roof window, and opened it. Gentle breezes blew. He hauled himself out but kept down low, creeping forward until he could see into the street. A big car had just pulled up, and a uniformed policeman opened the door.
Chief Inspector Willison climbed out, with Bristow behind him. It was as if Bristow had joined forces, again with Scotland Yard.
Mannering edged further forward, lying flat on his stomach, concealed from the people in the street. It would not be long before some of the police began to push at the bathroom hatch but Mannering was held here by a compulsion he could not resist. He had to know what the men below were saying. He heard a man walk forward and say: “Good morning, sir.” That was alert Detective Sergeant Joslin.
“What’s the latest?” Willison demanded.
“We’ve caught
Bruce Sangster, and he’s behaving like a lunatic. If he goes on like this we’ll need a strait-jacket, sir.”
“Not Mannering?”
“He’s not been here, sir. The only other man seen was Forrester.”
“Did you get him?”
Joslin said clearly: “No, sir. We caught the old man who lives downstairs, trying to get out the back way. His pockets were stuffed with rubies and emeralds—”
“The Fioras?” barked Willison.
“I should think so, sir, but I’m no judge of jewellery.”
“Mr. Bristow here can look them over,” Willison said, with great satisfaction. “What have you got on Sangster?”
“You’ve got enough on Sangster to know he’s probably holding Lorna Mannering,” Bristow rasped. “The Sangster place must be raided now.” He was glaring at Willison, and Mannering could tell the depth of his emotions, the acuteness of his fear for Lorna.
Willison drew a deep breath, and then leaned into the car and gave instructions for a raid on Sir Gordon Sangster’s house. When he had finished, he turned back to Joslin, and asked coldly: “Well—what exactly have we got on Sangster?”
“He shot and wounded one of our men, sir. And he carried a waist-belt obviously used for keeping the jewels in – two or three are still in it, sir, attached to a kind of self-adhesive felt. That’s why he tried to get away, I should say. So there’s little doubt they’re our men.”
“But no Mannering?” Willison asked, as if he couldn’t believe that this was true. “Only Forrester, who—”
“Here is Forrester,” Joslin exclaimed, and Mannering’s heart seemed to jump a mile.
For Forrester was standing at the open door of a taxi which came from the Wandsworth Bridge Road direction. Mannering took a chance and peered over.
No one looked up. Instead, Bristow, Willison and Joslin lined up on the kerb, their backs to the houses. In the distance there was sound of Sangster’s voice still ranting. Nearer, was a ring of policemen and old Fred, who was handcuffed to a young detective in plainclothes, and taken to a police car.
He stopped short, and stared at the real Forrester, and his voice came husky but clear.
