by John Creasey
“You can be quite sure that Clara’s been playing you for a fool, George. Nothing to be ashamed of, that kind of thing has happened often enough. Now you’re in a spot. The police obviously suspect it, because there’s a detective outside in the street. He was here when I arrived.”
“What?” cried George.
“If you don’t believe me, look out of the window,” said Mannering.
George and Tubs moved forward to look out. The gunman would now know that their backs were towards him, and would probably take his chance. Mannering looked out of the corner of his eyes. The man stepped forward – of medium height, and sturdy; it might be Bud.
The gun was levelled at George.
Mannering hurled the ash-tray!
It crashed into the gunman’s chest, making him stagger back. His gun cocked to the ceiling, and went off. The report was deafening. Little chippings of plaster fell from the ceiling as the door swung open, pushed as the man staggered, and Mannering hurled himself across the room. George cried out, Tubs moved after Mannering.
The gunman had recovered his balance, and when Mannering reached the outer door he was backing towards the stairs, with the gun levelled.
“Careful!” called Tubs shrilly.
The gunman didn’t speak, and Mannering couldn’t be sure whether it was Bud. He saw the glittering eyes, the only part of his face that he could see clearly. The ash-tray was now on the floor at Mannering’s feet. The waiting detectives must have heard that shot; they should be on the way up.
The gunman said harshly: “Keep back. Don’t move, keep back!” He groped for the top stair, moving his right foot backwards, but the gun in his hand didn’t waver until George appeared at Mannering’s side.
The gunman squeezed the trigger. Flame stabbed out. The bullet winged past Mannering, passing between his face and George’s.
And as the shot roared, Mannering kicked the ash-tray, lifting it a few inches off the floor of the hall. It struck the gunman on the ankle and made him glance down – and Mannering hurled himself forward in a low tackle. He heard another deafening report, and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Then he caught the gunman’s ankle, and pulled heavily. He felt the man’s leg give, then lost his grip, for the gunman toppled head first down the stairs.
The man was dazed when he reached the landing below. Tubs hurried after him, picked up the gun and slipped it in his pocket, then stood over the fellow and pulled down his mask.
He was a stranger.
Mannering picked himself up and hurried downstairs. A door opened on the next landing and a nervous-looking woman peered out, while heavy footsteps sounded on the bottom flight of stairs; the Yard men, at last. George was behind Mannering, his face white, his hands trembling. He started down the stairs, clutching the balustrade as if he knew he would fall without support.
The C.I.D. men came in sight
Tubs looked up, shaken but perky.
“Better late than never,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for Mannering, one of us would have had a nasty packet. He was after George, wasn’t he, Mannering?”
George cried: “No—no! No, he couldn’t have been, why should he have tried to shoot me, I haven’t done anything! I haven’t done anything!”
His voice rose shrilly as he stood half-way down the stairs, clutching the banisters. He looked terrified, and made the two detectives stare in astonishment, and the nervous woman tremble as she peered up.
“Now, George—” began Tubs.
“I tell you he couldn’t have meant to shoot me,” gasped George, his eyes glaring, his voice hysterical. “Why should anyone want to? Why should they?” He rushed down the stairs, pushed Tubs aside, bent down and gripped the helpless gunman by his coat lapels, and shook him violently. “You didn’t come to shoot me, did you? Say you didn’t, say you didn’t!” The gunman tightened his lips.
George was in his bedroom, resting. They had given him a stiff whisky, loosened his clothes, and made him lie down. Not that he had needed much making; he had become unnaturally quiet after the outburst, trembling from head to foot but making no protest when the detectives had made him release the gunman. He had not appeared to understand any questions, did not utter another intelligible word. It was an astonishing spectacle – the complete break-up of a man; and it had not been a pretty sight.
Mannering and Tubs had each made a statement.
Mannering’s shoulder had a slight flesh wound; Tubs had bathed it and put on a patch of lint and plaster.
One C.I.D. man was in the flat, the other had taken the prisoner to the nearest police-station. A man from the Yard was likely to arrive at any moment.
Tubs and Mannering sat in the drawing-room, and Tubs regarded Mannering with comical bewilderment.
“I knew George was having a rough time, but I didn’t think I’d ever see him go to pieces like that,” he said. “Nasty show, isn’t it? Must have been playing on his nerves for a long time, don’t you think?”
“Probably,” agreed Mannering. “How long have you suspected it?”
Tubs shrugged.
“On and off for a year or two. I knew the family pretty well in the old days, but lost touch a bit. They were a fairly cheerful crowd, you know, and Mrs. Swanmore—he hadn’t received his title then—was the hub of it. You know the kind of family, revolving round a great personality. I’m serious,” insisted Tubs. “The children doted on her. Swanmore—well, there was a clash of personalities. I fancy there’d been some bother, but it didn’t seem to go very deep. It was much the same, just when I got in their circle again, except that the children had grown up. I—er—I don’t mind telling you, Mannering, I fell for Tricia. That’s why I’m so anxious about her. Not that she’s ever given me much encouragement, but nothing beats wooing but marrying, does it?”
Mannering smiled. There was spirit in this young man. “A nice bon mot.”
“Well, you know what I mean,” said Tubs with a bright smile. “Then Lady Swanmore was taken ill and died, and everyone went to pieces. They held together for a while, of course, but—well, it wasn’t the same. Proved she’d really kept ’em together. I don’t know what was really the cause of it. George and Swanmore fell out—”
“Did they quarrel openly?” asked Mannering.
“Well, it depends what you mean by openly. Not in public, but I heard them at it once or twice, and so did friends of the family. George left, and he and I shared a flat for a bit, then this one fell vacant so he moved across. Nice quiet spot, you know—the approach isn’t very important.” Tubs seemed to forget himself, and looked dreamily out of the window. “Patricia hung on for a bit, she didn’t want to leave her father on his own, but I gathered that he made life unbearable. There wasn’t an open quarrel, but Swanmore said that their interests were quite different. He didn’t want the house filled up with young people—in the old days their parties had been the last word—and so Tricia followed George. She has a nice little flat in Half Moon Street. Funny business, Mannering—almost as if Swanmore deliberately shook himself free of both his children. They didn’t see each other much for some time, but recently they’ve been visiting. Er—George kept away from home longest, of course; Patricia’s always kept in touch. Does all this interest you?”
“As it’s the start of George’s neurosis, yes.”
“Neurosis? I suppose that’s about the right diagnosis,” conceded Tubs. “Hadn’t looked at it that way—if you ask me, George is in a blue funk. Terrified. I’ve thought so for some time, and it doesn’t quite add up, because he’s not a coward. Or he wasn’t. Did some incredible bomb disposal work during the war, one of the big shots on that. Nothing showy, but—well, you knew George, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Mannering.
“But lately, something’s been undermining his nerve,” said Tubs, taking out cigarettes and offering them. He paused while they lit up. “This business with Clara, for instance—there was a time when he wouldn’t have looked at her, but of late he’s been drinking
rather heavily, and his taste has changed. She’s a ripe piece, mind you, nice enough for a bit of fooling, but to take her seriously—well, you can imagine what I think of it, and what Swanmore and Tricia thought. Oh, yes, they knew about her.” He answered the interrogative lift of Mannering’s eyebrows. “But I don’t think they interfered. George hasn’t been in a mood to take advice lately. What I do know is that he’s been losing his grip for a long time. Booze and Clara, with an occasional new dish for a change, have been his safety valves. Great pity in a chap like George, and you’ve seen where it’s brought him. Absolutely terrified because he thought that fellow had come to shoot him. I just can’t make it out.”
“Tubs, if you think of anything which might explain it, you’ll tell me, won’t you? And tell the police.”
Tubs said: “Er—I’ll tell you.”
“Why not the police?”
Tubs rubbed his flabby cheek, looked embarrassed, gazed at the glowing tip of his cigarette, said abruptly: “Well, that chap who telephoned about Tricia said that if Swanmore told the police about the message, there’d be trouble. I took a hell of a chance when I ran that story about her being missing, made myself unpopular with Swanmore as a result, too. I don’t feel like going any further. Don’t blame me, do you?” There was a challenging note in his voice.
“No,” said Mannering slowly, “I can’t say that I blame you, Tubs, but—” He heard footsteps outside, and raised his voice a little. “All the same, I wouldn’t keep anything back from the police. If Tricia is missing, they’re more likely to find her than anyone else. They’ve a good lead from the story in the Cry this morning. Take my tip, and don’t do anything independent of the police. It’s quite wrong to think that you or I or anyone else can do a better job than Scotland Yard, you know.”
Tubs said: “That doesn’t sound like you, somehow.”
“Oh, a lot of people get nonsensical ideas about me,” said Mannering, “but they soon lose ’em. If I were you, I’d tell the police everything.”
“Maybe you’re right,” conceded Tubs. He broke off, at a tap on the door. “Hallo? Come in!”
Bristow entered.
Chapter Fifteen
Danger Comes Closer
Now Bristow should have laughed, or at least shown that he was amused. Instead, his eyes were frosty as he looked into Mannering’s, and there was no curve at his lips.
“That is excellent advice, Mr. Mannering,” he said. “It’s a pity you don’t practise what you preach.” He turned to Tubs. “Are you Mr. Maudsley?”
“That’s right,” said Tubs.
“I’d like to see you on your own for a few minutes, Mr. Maudsley,” said Bristow. “Will you wait outside, Mr. Mannering?”
“Very good, Superintendent.” Mannering winked at Tubs and went out with an air of nonchalance; he didn’t feel carefree. Once in the tiny hall of the flat, he lit another cigarette and wiped his forehead.
There had been cold hostility in Bristow’s manner, as if he were convinced that Mannering was deeply implicated in the crimes. It was more than suspicion.
Mannering sat down on a low, rakish chair of chromium and leather, stretched out his legs, and drew deeply on his cigarette.
The street door was open and he could hear policemen talking downstairs and walking about inside.
Bristow and Tubs talked freely …
Gradually, Mannering felt a curious tension; an uneasy suspicion that he was not alone. He looked round the hall. The walls were painted a pale green. There was a glass-topped and chromiumlegged table, another chair like his, a wardrobe and some small water-colours; nothing else. It was just a box, no one could hide here unless they were in the wardrobe. He glanced at the wardrobe covertly. The door was tightly closed. He got up and went to it. All his movements were casual, but the suspicion that someone was there had driven his other fears away. He stood by the door, undecided. It was just possible that the gunman who was now under arrest had hidden in here; possible that someone else was waiting there, who would creep out when the police were gone and try to finish the work which his accomplice had started.
The tiny, metal key was in the lock.
Mannering turned it, and pulled the door open.
A raincoat, a mackintosh, two heavy winter coats and some hats were in the wardrobe; nothing else.
He wiped the perspiration from his forehead. This wasn’t so good, he was letting his imagination run riot, Bristow had caught him on the raw. He went back to the chair, but before he sat down he was again conscious of that feeling of being watched; it wasn’t imagination, he had known such tension in the atmosphere too often to make any mistake.
He glanced at the landing door.
A man stood just outside, looking at him through the tiny gap between the door and the wall.
Mannering stubbed out his cigarette on a glass ash-tray and strolled casually towards the landing. He heard a slight rustle of movement. When he opened the door wide, Detective-Sergeant Gordon was standing at the top of the stairs, as if he had just come up. But no one else was on the landing. So Mannering had been surreptitiously watched, his reaction after leaving Bristow had been noted.
“Hallo, Gordon,” he said casually.
“Good morning,” said Gordon curtly.
“We’re having a lot of trouble, aren’t we?” asked Mannering, as if for the sake of conversation.
“We often do, when you’re around.”
“That’s a bit hard.”
“Is it?” asked Gordon.
“You and the Superintendent aren’t in form this morning,” said Mannering brightly. “There must be something on your minds. Can I help?”
“We can manage on our own.”
Mannering shrugged.
“I hope you soon put an end to this show. I thought you were watching young Swanmore. Or did your men let the gunman through just to find out whether he had a real automatic or a toy pistol?”
As he spoke, he started to walk down the stairs.
Gordon snapped: “Where are you going?”
“For an airing.”
“Stay here, please,” said Gordon.
Mannering looked into the detective’s hostile eyes, felt with a numbing certainty that something had convinced the police that he was deeply implicated in these crimes; it was worse because he knew Gordon shared that conviction.
Mannering said: “I’ll be back.”
He went slowly downstairs.
Gordon stood watching him as he stepped into the front hall. Before he reached the door, a uniformed officer came out of a side room and blocked his path. He was big and burly and filled the doorway.
Defiance now would mean an open brush with the police.
All right – he’d have it!
“Let me pass, please,” Mannering said sharply.
“I’m sorry sir, but—”
“But what?”
“My orders are that you—that no one must pass, sir,” said the constable hastily.
“I see,” said Mannering. He contemplated the constable, who shifted his gaze but not his position, then swung on his heel and hurried up the stairs. He passed Gordon without a glance, went into the hall and flung open the door of the drawing-room. Gordon, now just behind him, grabbed his shoulder. Mannering threw off the hand and strode into the room. Tubs, with his back to the window, broke off in the middle of a sentence. Bristow turned sharply.
“I asked you to wait—” he began.
“I’ve waited long enough,” said Mannering abruptly. “If you want to keep me here, you’d better make a charge. Otherwise, I’m going.”
Bristow would have to show his hand – and probably he did not want to do so yet. Their eyes stormed at each other while Gordon stood by and Tubs gaped. Silence dragged on; Mannering began to think that he had won this round, but if Bristow chose to make a charge, his whole world would tumble about his ears. He thought of Lorna; Larraby; Carmichael; the two bodies tumbling out of the safe. Of Lorna again, forcing gaiety, fig
hting fear.
Bristow began: “Very well, Mr. Mannering. I shall have to—”
It was coming.
The door of George’s room opened, and George came into the drawing-room.
His eyes were dazed and bleary, his collar and tie were loosened, his coat and waistcoat were undone. His hands were trembling and he cut a sorry figure – but Mannering had never been more glad to see anyone.
George said hoarsely: “It’s time you got wise to Mannering, time you put him under lock and key, the swine!”
“Indeed,” said Bristow coldly. “Why, Mr. Swanmore?”
“If you don’t know, you ought to,” growled George. “You ruddy police, you make me sick. Always chasing round after your own tails—why, any crook worth his salt can cock a snook at you a dozen times a week! Mannering knows where my sister is! Make him tell you.”
“Oh,” said Bristow, and turned to Mannering. “Do you know anything about Miss Swanmore?”
“You silly fool, you don’t expect him to admit it, do you?” howled George. “Take him to the Yard, give him some third degree, that’s the only thing that will open his mouth.”
“It is not the custom of the police to use third degree methods,” said Bristow coldly. “Have you any evidence—”
“Evidence be damned!”
“I think if you have a complaint to make about Mr. Mannering, you had better make a statement of your reasons,” said Bristow, very formally. “Sergeant Gordon will take down the statement, and—”
“Look here, I’m frightfully sorry to butt in,” said Tubs apologetically; “but George isn’t quite himself, you know, and he’s talking out of the back of his neck. The truth is—”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if you knew something about it!” flared George. “You’ve always wanted to marry her and she won’t look at you, you and Mannering are probably working together. That’s what it is!” he cried, swinging round on Bristow and gripping his shoulder. “They’re working together, they know where Tricia is—”
“Perhaps you’d better tell me just what’s behind all this,” said Bristow.
