by John Creasey
The light in the house opposite went out.
He blessed the darkness, and hope flared again. The beam of a torch shone out below, but did not point upwards. He eased his position and turned precariously on the narrow ledge, so that he crouched, facing the window. The window itself was built so high in the wall that he would be able to stand up and grip the guttering.
A single false move would send him crashing down.
Slowly, he straightened up.
He tore a finger of his glove on something which projected from the wall, and scratched his finger.
It made him wince. He missed his footing with his right foot, and swayed backwards. Gradually he eased himself forward again, but he couldn’t shut the danger out of his mind.
He touched the guttering with the tips of his fingers, and got a firm hold.
He didn’t put all his weight on it, but pulled gently. It supported him, and seemed solid and unyielding. He increased his hold, gradually easing his weight off the window ledge. Soon he stood on tiptoe.
The guttering did not give.
He hauled himself still farther, and his feet left the ledge. Only the guttering held him now. Up – up – up! He put one arm over the edge of the roof. The guttering seemed to be standing up to it. He cocked a leg up and over – over!
He was on the roof!
He lay at full length, parallel with the guttering. His right arm and right leg rested on the guttering, his body on the slates. They sloped downwards, but not sharply. After a moment’s rest, he would be able to crawl forward towards a chimney-stack which stood out clearly against the starlit sky. He couldn’t be seen from the ground now, he had nothing to worry about, except getting from this roof to the next, then climbing over the roof. If necessary, he could wait there until morning, or until the police had gone. He felt exultant, and began to crawl forward. He was sure of himself, he would not slide down, it was all over.
He felt something move under him; a slate.
He could not stop it from sliding down towards the guttering. He turned his head, slipped, and had to grab the guttering to save himself from falling.
The slate fell over the edge.
It seemed an age before it crashed – and after a moment of tense silence, a policeman cried: “What’s that?”
Chapter Twelve
The Roof
“On the roof!” a man shouted.
Torches shone upwards streaks of white light. Mannering caught sight of a diffused glow of one beam which nearly reached the guttering. He was within a foot of the chimney stack, touched it, then pulled himself towards it. It gave sufficient cover, hiding from anyone on the ground or even in one of the windows of the houses opposite – a good, solid, square stack. He got to his feet and, although still crouching, felt the physical relief.
He did not move at once.
Confused shouts came from below, until one voice carried clearly, putting order into the ranks of the policemen; Gordon’s voice, with its clipped Scottish accent. The police were talking fairly loudly, although Mannering could not hear what they said.
He could guess what orders Gordon gave.
He touched the jewels in his pocket, lumpy packages which might prevent him from climbing through a narrow space. If only he could get rid of the jewels, the odds would be much lighter.
He studied the roof, calmly. There was a stack like this every twenty or thirty feet, and two rows of chimneys stuck out from each – the stacks served two houses. The police would probably climb up to the roof from each end of the terrace, and close in. He had one advantage – there was no need to worry about being seen. He straightened up, and found it fairly easy to walk across the roof to the next stack.
There was a lull in the activity below; the police were probably getting ladders; they might send for a fire-escape.
Four stacks, five, six –
Then he came upon a gaping hole, where there had once been a house – or several houses. Part of the street had been damaged by bombs, years ago. A chimney stack remained, high and dry – beyond was just a space. On the empty site below several policemen stood about waiting – no one appeared to be trying to climb up.
Mannering stood against the stack.
It was no use going back; he could not get down here without being seen.
His foot went through the roof, with a rending sound.
The noise he made was loud, and a man cried: “Look out, he’s up there!” Mannering hardly heard that as he strove to keep his balance. He had stepped right through a piece of rotten canvas or tarpaulin, covering a hole in the roof. New possibilities opened out; the house below might be unrepaired and empty. If it were being lived in, the roof would have been made weather-proof.
He bent down and shifted some of the slates.
Jumpy Dale must have worked very much like this.
Could he get into the house below and elude the police that way? They would concentrate on the roof; it wouldn’t occur to them that he might be able to get into one of the houses without using a window.
He worked almost feverishly.
The starlight enabled him to see fairly clearly. There was room for him to stand in the hole now – and he could see that the rafters and plaster of the ceiling below had been damaged by fire; through a large hole, he could make out the darkness of the room.
He lowered himself.
There might be no floor; that was the worst immediate danger. The damage might have been so extensive that the house wasn’t worth repairing. But the attic rooms in these houses were not very high; by hanging at arm’s length he should be able to touch the floor with his feet. He had gripped a rafter, which seemed firm enough.
His feet touched the floor.
The house smelt fusty; floorboards and stairs creaked, dust stirred up in clouds, there were strange, little noises everywhere as he went downstairs. The windows were covered with weather-boarding or roofing felt, and it was pitch dark except when he shone his penciltorch.
He reached the ground floor, and his heart began to thump again.
He kicked against some rubble and made more noise than he liked. He stood quite still, listening to men talking in the street. A fire-bell rang in the distance – so they had sent for a fire-escape. The bell rang again, much nearer.
A man said: “Now we won’t be long,” as he walked past the room where Mannering was standing.
Mannering shone his torch downwards, and saw a pile of rubble in a corner.
He went forward, lifted a few pieces of brick and mortar to one side, made a hole about a foot deep, and dropped the chamois bags in it. Then he covered the hole, shone his torch again to make sure that the bags did not show, picked up a handful of small, dusty rubble and let it fall over the spot he had disturbed. Then he crept out of the room into the passage, towards the front door, which was still in position.
A fire-engine turned into the street, its bell clanging noisily.
Already a crowd would have gathered out there.
In a crowd, he could lose himself.
He opened the door an inch, almost sick with relief because it opened easily. He saw people walking towards the bombed site, heard policemen calling to them to stand back, caught a glimpse of the fire-engine as it backed on to the site. He waited for two or three minutes – pulsating minutes, for if a policeman glanced this way it would be all up.
He slipped out of the house.
He went towards the site.
He heard a policeman say: “Now we won’t be long.”
It was not quite midnight when Mannering came out of the toilets at Paddington, himself again, his old clothes over his arm. He paused to make sure that all was safe, and he saw the plump Lawson not far away. He darted back into the entrance and glanced out again a minute later. Lawson was still there. It was possible, even probable, that if he saw Mannering, he would ask to examine the clothes.
Mannering went back to a toilet, and left them behind the door.
Lawson showed no sign of h
aving seen him.
It was half-past twelve when he reached River Walk, Chelsea, and saw a light burning in the front room of his flat. Lorna would be waiting on pins now, knowing that if all had gone well, he should have been back some time ago.
A detective moved out of the shadows as he approached the front door, and stared at him.
“Goodnight!” said Mannering heartily.
“Goodnight, sir,” returned the man.
Lorna opened the door and flung herself into his arms.
Mannering sang in his bath, for he had slept well.
Lorna had been too relieved to want to talk much; the morning papers had all reported that after a raid on a house in Aldgate ‘believed to be in connection with the robbery at Quinns’, a man had been questioned and then released; and undoubtedly that man was Lark. It was not the first time that Lark had been questioned, and the little crook would not lose his head. It was unlikely that the police would find the jewels in the rubble; even if they were found, there was not much need to worry, for they could not prove Lark had handled them. They might suspect that Lark or the man who had escaped from his house had put them there; proving it to the satisfaction of a judge and jury would be a very different matter; Bristow would not try to make such a charge stick without more evidence. Lark had used gloves when handling the jewels, so there was no danger of finger-prints being found.
Larraby’s condition was now ‘comfortable.’ Mannering had telephoned the hospital just before coming into the bathroom.
Neither of the papers which were delivered to the flat had mentioned Lord Swanmore, and while he escaped publicity, it would help.
Problems unsolved: George’s part in the affair, for instance; and Patricia’s; and the goods stolen from Quinns had still to be found; but it could have been a great deal worse, and so he sang in his bath. As he sang and splashed he did not notice the door open, and was unaware of Lorna’s presence until he lost the soap and started to grope for it. Then he saw her standing just inside the door, smiling a little sombrely.
“Happy as that, precious?”
“But of course,” said Mannering, retrieving the soap. “All is more than well, my sweet, although I haven’t yet got over the scare last night. You must have given special instructions to the angels. I’ve been thinking,” he added, “that—”
“I’ve been thinking that you’ve risked quite enough.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“John.” She came forward and leaned against the side of the bath. “I don’t blame you for what happened yesterday, it all built itself up and there wasn’t much else you could do, but—you’re much too joyous this morning.”
“That’s hard,” said Mannering.
“I’m serious,” said Lorna. “Once upon a time when you were as cheerful as you are now, you were planning some new devilment and asking for more trouble. Don’t, John. You must leave it to Bristow. He’ll suspect that you were at work last night, even if he can prove nothing—”
“He most certainly can’t!”
“I hope not,” said Lorna fervently. “But even if he can’t, he’ll watch you more closely. You’ve recovered the collection. You can easily get someone to retrieve the jewels, or just let the police know where to find them, and after that—”
“The end,” murmured Mannering. “Yes, my sweet, I think you’re right. Believe it or not, I was only anticipating a hearty breakfast.”
“You were working yourself up into the right mood for another clash with Bristow,” said Lorna. “John, I’m scared.”
“My sweet!”
“Will you promise—” began Lorna.
She stooped abruptly. One of her sombre moods was upon her, and she couldn’t be blamed for that. But he couldn’t understand why she stopped so suddenly. She stood up abruptly.
“I promise,” said Mannering.
“Liar,” she said. “I’d believe you on every subject, but this. I ought to know better than to try to stop you. You’ll do what you think you ought to, and I’ll help and hate helping, and—don’t! You’ll soak my clothes!” She backed to the door, as water ran off Mannering into the bath.
She went out.
Lorna was gay during breakfast; too gay, for her high spirits were forced. Mannering knew that she was looking into a future without him, that all the fears he had known when he had gone up to the roof were in her mind now. She knew how ruthless the police would be if he were caught in anything which looked like crime; and she was right to be worried, for Bristow would feel sure that he had been on the roof, and the police would go all out to catch him.
There was nothing they could prove.
Yet he began to wonder.
He wondered more when he telephoned Patricia’s flat, but got no answer. Hadn’t she been back?
It had been two o’clock before Bristow had gone to bed the night before, but just after eight-thirty he was in his office, clear-eyed, fresh, in a stubborn mood. Although the man had escaped from the roof, and there was no evidence to offer against Lark, there was a credit side. Lanky Sam Hennessy was in Cannon Row, and although he had not yet made a statement, he would probably be more amenable this morning. So there was something to be glad about; and there was a new factor which affected Bristow and every man at Scotland Yard.
That was the murder of a policeman.
There was no useful description of the bearded man who had shot his way clear in Aldgate High Street, but every London Division had been on the alert during the night, and there was a chance of results before the day was out. The Yard would step up the pressure, it was now a personal issue.
Bristow gave little thought to Mannering that morning, although when he had reported to the Assistant Commissioner, he had given his opinion that Mannering had been on the roof. Anderson-Kerr had made little comment.
There was a mass of reports on Bristow’s desk. He sat down, lit a cigarette, pulled his large ash-tray nearer, and began to go through the reports. Everything that had happened at Aldgate was now fully described, depositions from several witnesses were there. The policeman who was sitting by Larraby’s bedside, ready to question him the moment he was able to talk, had telephoned at eight o’clock. Larraby was likely to come round after a good night’s sleep, but the house-surgeon refused to allow him to be questioned on first waking; Bristow couldn’t argue about that. Reports of the shadowing of George Swanmore and his brief talk with Lanky Sam, were recorded in great detail. Bristow put them aside; he wanted to give more attention to young Swanmore.
He picked up another report, to which were attached several photographs. The report was headed: ‘Found at Paddington, Number 1 Platform Toilets,’ and there followed a brief description of some old clothes covered with mortar and brick dust, a pair of gloves with a tear in one finger, a make-up case, and several other oddments.
He looked at photographs of the clothes and the make-up case and one of a right-hand cotton glove, with the forefinger torn. So the glove was considered significant. Behind this photograph was a finger-print form, on which was one photographed print in the space provided for the right index finger – there was a space for each thumb and finger. Another form was attached to that – and before Bristow studied the loops and whorls of the prints themselves, he glanced at the details at the top of the form.
“Hal-lo!” he exclaimed softly.
These were Mannering’s prints. A set had been held at the Yard for years.
Bristow felt a new and fierce excitement as he compared Mannering’s right forefinger print with the single photographed reproduction.
They were identical. The forefinger print, slightly bloodstained in places, had been found on the make-up box.
Gordon came into the room, showing something which, for him, was remarkable: excitement. His glance fell on the prints and his eyes glistened; he smoothed down his crinkly fair hair and then fingered his chin, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.
“All your own work?” asked Bristow.
> “Aye,” said Gordon. “I’ve thought for some time you suspected Mannering wasn’t all he made out. Else why should there be a set of his prints?”
“Mannering’s a queer customer in his way,” said Bristow. “This is a very smart piece of work, whatever comes of it. Any suggestions?”
Gordon hastened to say: “I wouldn’t go too fast, if I were you. If Mannering’s mixed up in this, the make-up case and the clothes will help to get him, but they’re not enough.”
“I think you’re right,” said Bristow. “But we’ll watch Mannering and his wife very closely.”
“That we will,” said Gordon with relish. “Oh, another thing: Lawson saw Mannering at Paddington last night. That might come in useful later, too.”
“Well, what do you think we can do about it?” asked Anderson-Kerr, looking up from the prints. “It’s the first time you’ve ever had anything to call evidence against Mannering, isn’t it?”
Bristow said slowly: “Yes, it’s never happened before. He tore the glove while wearing it, and didn’t realise what it would mean.” Bristow did not smile.
“Will you tackle him right away?”
“I’ve been talking to Gordon about that,” said Bristow. “We’d better keep this by us and use it when the moment’s ripe. On its own, it isn’t conclusive, but it could be damning with other evidence. If Mannering’s up to his old tricks, he’ll have to pay for them. I can’t believe he’s concerned with the murders, but—”
After a moment, Anderson-Kerr said: “Sorry this has happened, aren’t you, Bill?”
Even the ‘Bill’ did not lure Bristow into making any such admission. He gave a quick smile, and said briskly: “I should be sorry to bring a charge against Mannering if we couldn’t make it stick. I’ll go over his movements again, and also the movements of his wife, from the time of the robbery at Quinns. You know—”
He broke off.
“Yes?” said Anderson-Kerr, hopefully.
“There is a reason for my being worried about Mannering. Just after I’d arrived at Quinns, one of my men told me that a fence named Prideau had been to the shop the day before, and seen Carmichael. Normally Mannering wouldn’t have any truck with Prideau—nor would Carmichael. That’s why I was pretty sharp, with Mannering.”
