by John Creasey
‘I’d rather be working.’
‘Right. Come back here tonight, though, unless the police have caught Courtney.’
She said: ‘You’re both so good,’ and, as she left the room, the front door bell rang. A moment later Mannering heard Chittering’s voice, saying: ‘Lorna, my sweet, you’re looking lovelier than ever, which means that John didn’t break his neck last night.’
‘He’s waiting until another night,’ said Lorna. ‘You’re just in time for lunch.’
Chittering smiled gratefully, and stuck his head through the study door.
‘’lo John. I suppose you’ve heard all about my sad story of last night?’ He grinned shamefacedly, ‘The first thing I knew about it was a clout over the head.’
He touched his head gingerly.
‘Do you know who hit you?’
‘Don’t tell me you do.’
Mannering launched into a fairly detailed description of what had happened.
Chittering groaned. ‘Why do stories like this always have to be off the record?’ He sipped his drink. ‘You had quite a night out, didn’t you? Did you release the Courtney story?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hum. That accounts for Bristow’s amiability. All to the good, I suppose, although I used to enjoy the sparks that flew when you two met. Er—is it all right for Anne to stay here until they’ve picked Courtney up?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thanks. I’m more relieved than I can say. There was something in the way that devil talked to Anne—that reminds me—do you think Bristow was wise to let the Press know he’s after Courtney?’
Mannering shrugged.
‘Meaning you don’t. It wouldn’t surprise me if Courtney gives trouble before they catch him, that’s why I’m anxious Anne shouldn’t be wandering about on her own. A clear case of murder, I take it?’
Mannering said evasively, ‘I think there’s a lot Bristow hasn’t told us.’
They lunched; happily and gaily as far as Anne and Chittering were concerned. Afterwards he took her to the shop.
Mannering drove to Scotland Yard.
He was greeted almost expansively by Bristow.
‘Come in, John. Sit down. Cigarette?’
Mannering lit up.
‘This feels just like home.’
‘Let’s keep it that way,’ said Bristow. ‘I’ve had a word with the Assistant Commissioner off the record. He’s always been half-way in your favour, and he’s quite agreeable to a kind of unofficial link. Keep within reasonable bounds, and we’ll be able to work together a lot.’
‘So the impossible happens! What about Courtney?’
‘We haven’t picked him up yet.’ Bristow frowned. ‘We’ve searched his fiat, and know he has a gun. I’m not at all happy about him. I’ve had the girl watched—she was followed with Chittering to Quinns. I’m having Quinns watched, too, just in case Courtney makes trouble.’
‘What about Bryce and Morris?’
‘I haven’t touched Bryce yet, but I’m having him followed. Also Morris. Larmont is suffering from shock, and will be flat out for two or three days, perhaps longer. We found some records at Grayling Square, listing all the stuff he had there. Several stolen collections were in that strong-room, and we’ve identified them from the stuff you presented to us. Larmont worked with Bryce, we’ve plenty of evidence about that, and of course Bryce worked with Morris.’
‘Why not pick them up?’ asked Mannering.
Bristow said: ‘They were going to raid your place, I think, and switched off on to Larmont’s when the chance offered. They wouldn’t have raided Quinns if they hadn’t been sure they could dispose of the stuff. I want to tab Bryce and Morris and find out if they lead to anyone else—there may be someone behind it we know nothing about yet. I’d like to make a clean sweep. And that reminds me—’ His voice assumed an almost unnatural innocence – ‘you know more of the undercover buyers of jewels than anyone else in the country. Will you try to find out who Bryce sold to, as well as Larmont?’
Mannering chuckled. ‘If you think I can help—’
‘I know you can. ‘
‘Let’s get Courtney first,’ said Mannering.
Courtney left the bus within a few hundred yards of the Windmill on Wimbledon Common. It was twenty-five minutes to four, and already the light was fading. The drizzle left a beading of moisture on his coat, but the hand holding the gun in his empty pocket was warm and sticky.
He took up a position near the deserted tea rooms, but at five to four, there was still no sign of Bryce. Peering from the cover of a thicket of bushes he watched a motorcycle wobbling across the Common.
The rider stopped a few yards away, and looked around him. He propped up the machine on its stand, and then stepped nearer the Windmill.
The man took something from his pocket.
Courtney craned his neck.
It was a gun.
Courtney felt a shiver run up and down his spine. He took out his own gun, and stepped forward.
The man spun round.
‘Keep your hands in sight,’ Courtney ordered.
The motor-cyclist was a little man, with a red face on which the moisture clung lingeringly. His small eyes were frightened, and he backed a pace.
‘Looking for me?’ asked Courtney.
The man licked his lips.
‘Yes—yes, Bryce sent a message, he—’
‘There’s no need to prevaricate, I saw the gun. What’s the message?’
‘He—he said—’
‘He told you to bump me off. Is that it?’
The motor-cyclist swallowed, then said hoarsely: ‘Listen, I only work for Bryce! Surely we can—’
Courtney shot him. It needed only one bullet, and the man fell. Courtney stood quite still, with the smoking gun in his hand, staring at the Windmill; was anyone there? Silence settled round him, the only sound the echo of the shot.
The motor-cyclist had eleven pounds in his wallet. Courtney pocketed this, and also the gun. Then he dragged the body beneath the bushes.
There was blood on his hands when he had finished.
He wiped it off on the grass, and went to the motorcycle. It was a modern one, fast and powerful. He started the engine, heading for the road. He was filled with a seething fury, against Bryce and against Morris. He didn’t care what he did, provided he killed.
They would get him for murder, he felt sure of that – and they might as well get him for something he had done thoroughly.
He drove fast but skilfully, with a gun in each pocket of his overcoat, laughing as he went.
He was lucky.
Bryce left his office just after five o’clock. It was in a narrow turning in Lincoln’s Inn. The misty night made it difficult to see anyone clearly, but Courtney recognized Bryce in the light of a lamp outside the building.
He shot him, twice.
He saw another man, standing nearby, rush forward; he didn’t know it was a Yard man. He fired and hit the man in the chest. The sound of the shots was still echoing when he started off on the motor-bicycle. There could be no immediate pursuit, he would have several minutes grace before the cry of ‘murder’ was raised.
He wondered vaguely who the second man had been.
He drove along Oxford Street in the thick of the rush-hour, negotiating the traffic mechanically. They would know who had shot Bryce, of course – or they would guess. They would probably expect him to go for Morris and Anne. He couldn’t go to Anne’s house, because he knew they were on the watch there, but they might not be watching at Quinns.
There was a risk in keeping the motor-cycle, but he had taken pretty well every risk a man could take, one more or less would make no matter.
He wanted to kill Anne.
He couldn’t think beyond that.
But he was cunning.
If she’d told the police about the suit-case, she had almost certainly told them where he had waited for her so often; so they would be on the look-out at that s
pot. To go there would be to ask for trouble. But – could he follow her?
Would she be followed by the police?
He realized the danger was acute, but Hart Row drew him like a magnet. He parked the motor-cycle, and walked a little way along Bond Street. From there he could see Hart Row.
He looked at his watch repeatedly; no one would be surprised if a man was kept waiting by his girl friend.
He grinned.
Then he saw a Lagonda nose its way out of Hart Row. There was a man at the wheel, and a girl next to him. He knew the man – Mannering.
He recognized Anne.
The car swung right, and passed him. His hand tightened about the gun in his pocket, but he didn’t shoot, he knew that he would probably miss. Where was she going with Mannering. Home?
He hurried back to the motor-cycle, and was on the move in a matter of seconds. Sighting the Lagonda near Hyde Park Corner, he roared past it towards Victoria, then pulled in at the side of the road. It passed, and he saw that it was heading towards Sloane Square.
Was Mannering taking her home?
He drove along towards Fulham, parked the motor-cycle, and walked across to a telephone kiosk. Carefully he checked Mannering’s address – 21c, Green Street, Chelsea.
So it looked as if Anne had gone home with him.
Courtney didn’t go back to the motor-cycle. It had served its purpose, and was now only an added danger. His eye was caught by a two-seater coupe. He strolled towards it. By a stroke of tremendous luck, the door wasn’t locked.
He got into the driving seat. The key wasn’t in the ignition, and he tried several that he had on his own chain; they were all too big.
It wasn’t so easy after all, his fingers wouldn’t keep steady.
Time was all important.
Then he heard footsteps, and a man drew near. Courtney took out his gun.
The footsteps slowed down, and a hand touched the door. Courtney flung it open savagely, sending the man staggering back. He jumped out, and smashed his fists into the man’s face.
Something fell with a light rattle, on to the pavement.
Courtney groped on the ground for the keys; his luck held, and he found them. The engine started at a touch.
Coming up to the Lagonda, he saw that it was parked outside a house.
Another car was parked further along the street, and there was a man at the wheel. There wasn’t much doubt that the police were watching.
His mind was filled with the one thought of vengeance. Beyond that he hardly cared.
He walked along the next street and found that there was a waste patch of land between Mannering’s and several other houses. It was very dark, and he saw no signs of a watch being kept.
There was a fence at the back of a building. Courtney climbed over without difficulty, and found himself in a long, narrow garden.
He went nearer – and caught his breath.
There was a piece of iron jutting out near a drain pipe – when he stood close to the house he could look upwards and just see it; and others higher up. It was like a do-it-yourself fire-escape, and would make climbing easy.
He took off his coat, put the guns into his jacket pocket, and started to climb.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Baron’s Way
Mannering had been in the flat for ten minutes, and was looking through some letters which had come by the last post, when the telephone bell rang.
He lifted the receiver. ‘Hallo.’
‘John?’
‘Hallo, Bill.’
Bristow said: ‘John, listen. Courtney is on the rampage. He was waiting for Bryce outside his office this evening, and shot him through the head and chest. He’s dead. He also shot the man we had watching Bryce. We’ve doubled the watch at Morris’s place, and I’m doubling it at yours.’
‘Thanks, Bill,’ Mannering said quietly.
‘She’s there with you, isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll have everyone who calls at your place screened,’ Bristow went on. ‘Just keep the girl indoors until you get the all clear.’
Mannering put the receiver down, and glanced at the door. There wasn’t any need to tell Anne or Lorna about this yet. Chittering would probably know, but he would have the sense not to cause alarm.
The telephone bell rang again.
‘John?’ It was Chittering, alert, anxious. ‘Look after Anne as if she were gold. Courtney’s berserk. He’s killed Bryce, nearly killed one of Bristow’s men and is working up to anything. I’m assigned to the job. Tell Anne I can’t make it at seven, and for the love of Mike, keep her there until they catch Courtney.’
‘Don’t worry, old chap.’
Chittering said: ‘John, just between you and me, I’d swing for anyone who hurt that girl.’
He rang off.
Mannering put back the receiver with mixed feelings. The case which had started with violence was ending in violence – and all he could do was to sit back and wait until there was news from Bristow.
Ought he to have come to terms with Bristow?
If he had been working as in the past, he would have held that suit-case, would have tried to sell Courtney a dummy – and that would probably have come off.
There was a further mistake Bristow had made – he had released the statement that the police wanted to question Courtney.
He couldn’t blame Bristow. If the police had withheld the name and Courtney had gone wild, there would have been censure from all quarters.
Lorna looked in.
‘Busy, darling? Do you know when Chittering is coming for Anne?’
‘Sorry, I forgot to tell you—he’s out on a job. Can we manage?’
‘Of course, I’ll tell Ethel.’ Lorna went into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar. Mannering heard Ethel say: ‘I’ll lay the extra place this minute, Ma’am.’
‘I should open a window,’ Lorna said. ‘It’s so steamed up in here.’
Mannering heard a window going up – and his lips twisted wryly. That window led to the iron rungs rammed into the wall, and which he and Lorna had come to call the Baron’s Way. When he needed to get out, or in, without the police knowing, he’d used those iron rungs. Some of them had been placed there when a fire escape had been mooted, and then for some reason, not finished. He had put others in himself.
Mannering heard Lorna chatting to Anne, and then the closing of the sitting-room door after they had both gone.
Courtney was near the top of the house when he saw a woman appear at the window, her arms stretched up. She couldn’t see him unless she leaned out, but for a moment he was afraid she was going to. He slid his free hand towards his pocket.
The window was opened a few inches.
Courtney stretched up, clutching another rung.
He didn’t think of falling, had no fear.
He hauled himself up again, and could see through the kitchen to an open door. He steadied himself on the rungs, and pushed the window farther up – it ran easily, making little noise.
He squeezed himself through, with a hand at his pocket, but there was no need for alarm. He stepped over the sink and on to the floor.
There was a sound of rattling cutlery, not far off; that was all.
He took out his own gun, keeping the motor-cyclist’s in reserve, and stepped towards the door. Through it he saw the maid laying the table. Several other doors leading off the hall were closed. He stepped softly towards the nearest, which was ajar – and caught a glimpse of a man’s hand, resting on a desk.
Mannering’s.
He looked down, and saw that the key was in the lock of the door. He closed it, softly, and turned the key. That caused a click.
He glanced round.
The maid was coming out of the dining-room, and saw him. She opened her mouth wide, and flung up her hands. He fired at her. She fell screaming. He heard a shout from the room in which he had locked Mannering, and an exclamation from another room. The door opened. A woman he didn�
��t know appeared, and behind her, he glimpsed Anne.
‘Why this is fine,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’ve just come to say hallo, Anne.’
Mannering heard the click as his door closed, and then heard another sound – of the key turning in the lock. He leapt up, and as he did so, heard a scream and a shot. The shot sounded deafening through the locked door. He rushed towards it, then stopped.
The door wasn’t only locked, it was almost burglar-proof.
Mannering felt his pulse racing, forced himself to steady, to think. He picked up the telephone and dialled 999. A girl answered. ‘Tell the police to come to 21c Green Street, Chelsea—say Courtney is here.’ He didn’t wait for an answer but pulled open his desk. The guns weren’t there, they were in the wardrobe, where he always kept them. There was a small case of tools – jewellers’ tools.
He heard the man talking.
He went to the window and shouted: ‘Police!’ and then turned to the door, tools in hand. He had lost precious seconds – but if the man were going to shoot right away, he would have fired a second shot by now.
Mannering began to work on the lock.
He knew its mechanics, but that in itself was frightening.
He had to keep his hands steady.
The lock wasn’t quite burglar-proof, he’d seen its weakness when he had examined it, had always judged that it would take five or six minutes to open if one found exactly the right spot.
He kept on working.
He was cold from head to foot.
The police would be here soon, but the front door was locked, it would take them some time to break that down. And once they started the man in the other room would probably shoot.
He was still talking.
Mannering worked with desperate calmness.
Courtney went into the sitting room, swaggering, gun thrust forward. Lorna confronted him, but with his free hand, he swept her aside.
Courtney’s face was unshaven, his hair dishevelled and plastered about his forehead.
Behind Anne, he saw a table on which were bottles and glasses. He said to Lorna: ‘You there—go and pour me out a whisky-and-soda.’
He could cover her at the same time as Anne. As she moved towards the table, he watched Anne more closely. Fear had given a fresh vitality to her beauty.
