by John Creasey
Why hadn’t Bristow acted?
If he’d made an arrest, Mannering would have been finished, especially if the police had found the Swanmore Collection. He felt at once hot and cold. The chamois bags might still be hidden in the rubble. Would there be any hope of finding them if he returned to the bombed house? The risk after dark would not be so great, even if the street were being watched. He toyed with the idea as he watched the rippling water.
Was that the only chance?
He turned and looked at the great, new building of Scotland Yard, towering white-grey above the wall, approached by a small doorway with only just room for a car to enter. The reflection of the water and the moving branches of the plane trees shone on the numerous windows. He could pick out Bristow’s room, because he had looked from that window and studied the Embankment – thoughtlessly at the time, without any idea that it might one day come in useful. With a quickening of excitement, he looked along the Embankment and saw the tree with the huge piece of bark stripped off it. He strolled to the tree and looked across to the second floor of the building. There was Bristow’s window – the sixth from the Westminster Bridge end of the Embankment. He couldn’t be wrong – no, he wasn’t wrong. Bristow was standing against the window, looking out, almost as if he were able to read his thoughts.
Nonsense!
Nonsense to think that Bristow guessed what he was thinking, because the thoughts themselves were so nonsensical; how could he hope to break into Scotland Yard? He let the idea lie fallow, making himself look across the river, watching the swooping gulls. A gull riding on the crest of a wave, became Bristow.
The window was easy enough of access, it would be child’s play to climb up there, but in spite of the solitary constable guarding the entrance and the courtyard, a dozen pairs of eyes would be on the look-out. This entrance faced the Embankment, detectives were always coming and going, there were always people and traffic passing to and fro.
In Bristow’s room there was evidence enough to send Mannering to prison for years, even if not to hang him. His only hope was that the Swanmore jewels were still hidden.
He turned away, walked towards Westminster Tube station, opposite the Houses of Parliament. The crowds were thicker now, for the offices were beginning to empty. Shoals of civil servants emerged from the big ministries and scurried to bus, Underground or tram; road traffic increased, buses were crowded, queues sprang up.
Mannering thought only about the jewels; he would have to try to get them tonight. That would mean adopting another disguise, which wouldn’t be easy, and evading his shadower. It had to be done, he daren’t allow the jewels to stay in the rubble. It was even possible that there was a bloodstained print on a chamois bag; he had hidden it after he had cut his ringer.
That bags might not be there.
He heard a newsboy call out, but didn’t catch the words. People made him stand aside, near the wall of a public house and near the newsboy, and he glanced down at a paper. He saw the name Swanmore.
He snatched a paper …
SWANMORE JEWELS FOUND
POLICE TRIUMPH
Evening Cry Special
Scotland Yard detectives have recovered the famous …
Swanmore’s house was in one of the few London squares which still retained the almost sacrosanct quiet of an older London. A wooden fence surrounded the grass patch in the middle, where leaves of plane, beech and oak trees rustled softly in the evening wind under the gently falling shadow of night. Footsteps sounded loud on the pavement. Here and there a luxurious car was drawn up, but few were parked, as in many of the squares. This one was too far from the busy thoroughfares, and none of the houses had been taken over by commercial firms or divided into flats. The houses looked drab, although a few were freshly painted. Brasses shone on the doors even in that dimming light, and men in dark clothes or maids in cap and apron moved to the windows and drew the curtains or lowered the blinds, shutting out the friendly light. All was quiet.
Mannering entered the square just after half-past six, later than he had intended. His shadower was still on his heels. He went to number 21; it was drab, not recently painted. A dim light shone on the ground floor, and there was a light in the hall, where a fanshaped glass showed up in several colours. Mannering went up the four shallow steps leading to the front door, and put his hand on the bell, but did not press at once. He looked about him, down at the detective who was half-hidden.
With sudden decision, he rang the bell.
It was opened quickly. A middle-aged woman said: “Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening,” said Mannering. “I have an appointment with Lord Swanmore.”
“Yes, sir, what name, please?”
“Mr. John Mannering.”
“If you will please come this way, sir.”
The hall was narrow yet spacious. The lighting was dim. The deep pile of the carpet softened the sound of their footsteps. The woman gathered up her long skirts, and led the way upstairs to a lighted landing. Mannering followed, looking about him carefully, yet thinking sickeningly of the story in the newspaper and the case in Bristow’s office. He had a curious sense of flatness; it was no use fighting any longer; there was nothing he could do. At the back of his mind he knew that he must make some attempt to stave off disaster; and kept reminding himself that Bristow had delayed so long, and might be giving him a chance.
That might be illusion; Bristow’s one object was to make sure that he had all the evidence before he struck. He had been waiting for the jewels; the report of finger-prints on the chamois bags might not yet have reached him. If one were found—
The woman tapped on a door, opened it and announced: “Mr. Mannering, my lord.”
Swanmore didn’t speak, but the woman stood aside.
Mannering went into a high and narrow book-lined room, where a single reading-lamp burned near an empty chair and spread its radiance over a book lying open on a small table. By the book, lying on its side with ash spilling out of it, was a large-bowled pipe. A tall screen was in one corner; Swanmore might be behind it, perhaps looking for another book.
The door closed.
The room was silent, and there was no sign of Swanmore behind the screen. Odd. Mannering looked towards a far corner and saw another door, ajar; probably Swanmore had gone through there, and would soon be back. It gave Mannering more time to think; but thinking didn’t help. The evidence, all the evidence, was available; Bristow had only to charge him with complicity, and – finis. There was no way out, except by getting the finger-prints and the case from Bristow’s office. In fact, there was no way out.
If he could find Patricia …
He was losing his grip; had allowed the shock to numb his mind; there might not be any way of avoiding arrest and publicity, but there was one of avoiding trial: finding out the whole truth. His part had been innocent enough, and if he could find Bud, it outweighed any evidence against him. His pulse quickened; forget despair, think if he could find Patricia, he would probably find Clara Harris; and she would talk.
Swanmore probably knew more than he had pretended. There might be something in that theory of a vendetta against the family. If he had to wring the truth out of the peer, he’d get it before he left.
Why didn’t Swanmore come back?
Mannering walked across to the table and felt the pipe. It was still warm, just warm; when he put his finger inside the bowl, the hot ash stung him. He moved away, and called: “Are you about, Swanmore?” but there was no answer. He went to the open door in the corner and pushed it a little wider, and the door swung gently back in his face with a little sighing noise. That was strange – but then, he didn’t know what the door was like, perhaps it always swung back. He groped for, and found an electric switch; it brought a bright light into the small room adjacent to the library – and showed Swanmore’s body stretched out, the head and shoulders visible, the legs behind the door.
Chapter Eighteen
No Panic
&nbs
p; The light shone on the wound in Swanmore’s temple; he had been shot at close quarters. The ugly mess spread over the carpet which had already absorbed some of the blood. His greying hair was red on one side of his head, and looked white on the other. His face was not disfigured, except near the right eye, and his expression was unexpectedly peaceful.
Death must have been instantaneous.
Mannering took a step forward.
A shot rang out, somewhere in the house.
Mannering stood rigid again, listening for another; none came. Had he been right, had that really been a shot or had he imagined it? No; a bullet had been fired. Thoughts rushed through his mind; had Swanmore’s killer committed suicide; it might be – who? George? Anyone! Or else the murderer, sneaking out of the house, had been seen by the woman, and shot at her. He musn’t stay here, he must—
He musn’t panic.
That was the first rule – no panic. He couldn’t be positive that a shot had been fired, it would be better to assume that one hadn’t.
He heard footsteps; someone was running downstairs.
Swanmore had been killed within the last ten minutes, and the police knew Mannering was here; the woman-servant also knew. If he stayed and reported finding the body, what would the detective think? Or do? He would ask Mannering to stay at the house until a Yard squad came.
The police would probably think that he had killed Swanmore. He hadn’t got a gun, but that could be hidden anywhere about the house; the murderer might have hidden it; so might he. The greatest danger was still ahead.
Who had fired the shot?
It was folly to pretend that he might have been mistaken. The shot had been fired while he was in the house; who could blame the police for assuming that it was the shot which had killed Swanmore?
Footsteps, scurrying, flurrying – and then a sharp tap on the door and a man’s voice: “My lord!”
There was a tense pause.
“My lord!”
“What is it?” asked Mannering. In a flash he had changed his voice, trying to imitate Swanmore’s; apparently he succeeded, for the man said: “Did you hear that, sir?”
“I heard nothing,” Mannering said.
Was he being crazy? Shouldn’t he open the door and tell the man the truth, send for the detective outside? Of course he should, but – the footsteps receded. He heard a whisper of conversation not far away, followed by a heavy knocking downstairs – probably at the front door. The shot might have been heard outside, his shadow might be trying to find out what it was. He waited, and heard footsteps again. He thought that both the man and woman were going downstairs, opened the door a few inches, and peered out. Yes, they were – the woman was a little behind the man, who was tall and grey-haired. Mannering kept the door open and waited for them to go towards the porch. The caller knocked again, imperiously – it was almost certainly the detective.
“Mr. Maudsley!” the man-servant exclaimed.
“Oh, sir!” cried the woman.
“Now what’s all this about?” demanded Tubs in his high-pitched voice. “You’re looking terrified. Where’s Lord Swanmore?”
“We—we don’t know,” said the woman.
“Nonsense, Mary, he just talked to me—he’s in the library, sir.” That was the man-servant. “We—we heard a shot, we thought it came from his room. A gentleman just called to see him.”
“Who?” Tubs was crisp.
“A Mr. Mannering,” said the woman.
“Mannering!” exclaimed Tubs, and hurried towards the stairs.
Mannering slipped out of the room and stepped into the shadows made by a huge oak settle on the landing.
He had taken the final decision – to escape from this house and from the police. If he were caught now, he would be arrested on a charge of murder, a prima facie charge which Bristow would have to make. Once he was under arrest, the other affair would be brought up; at best he would be remanded in custody for eight days, and he would have no chance to ferret out the truth. This had been arranged with devilish cunning; he might well be hanged for it. Someone had known he was coming here, and had staged the murder.
Unless the murderer had committed suicide.
Tubs came hurrying up the stairs, his face pale in the dim light. He thrust open the door and stepped inside, followed at a distance by the two servants. He strode across the room, and Mannering could hear him moving about. Any moment he would look into the small room.
Mannering stepped to the landing, and went downstairs. He did not know whether any other servants were in the house. He did know that he mustn’t go out the front way, or he would be followed, and would have little chance to escape. He mustn’t let himself be arrested yet.
Tubs had answered when he had telephoned Swanmore.
Tubs had been almost on the doorstep when that shot had been fired in the house.
Mannering reached the hall, and walked along the passage leading to the kitchen quarters. As he touched a door, he heard a woman scream. They were ear-splitting screams, one after the other in wild terror.
So the body had been found.
There was a light on in the kitchen – no, in the butler’s pantry. He saw a silver teapot upside down on the draining-board. No one was in that room, and no one was in the kitchen, although the light was blazing. He stepped across the white-tiled room into the dark scullery; there was enough light for him to see the outline of the door which led to the back garden. He picked up a cloth and opened the door, which was neither locked nor bolted. He stepped quietly into the garden, closed the door and looked about him. He had only been followed by one detective, and unless Swanmore’s house had been watched by Yard men, there was little chance that he would be seen by the police. He could make out no shape of a watching man, and kept close to the side of the house until he reached the wall which ran to the end of the garden. He kept near to this, as far as the door which was set in the brick wall; it was bolted on the inside. He drew the bolts, careful not to leave prints, and stepped into a narrow alleyway. This took him into one of the streets which fed the square.
He turned left, towards Oxford Street, and became one of several pedestrians.
The night air stung his damp forehead. Within an hour, every police-station in the country would be on the look-out for him, probably every newspaper would publish his photograph. Bristow would unleash everything he had.
A policeman walked towards him.
Mannering felt the prickly sensation of alarm which seemed to come from the past, and reminded him vividly of the heyday of the Baron. The man did not look at him, but Mannering did not breathe freely until he had gone by. Soon, there would be danger from every policeman in London.
He must disguise himself.
He went to a telephone kiosk and dialled the Chelsea flat. There would be no chance to break this news gently to Lorna. He’d tried not to think of Lorna, but thoughts welled up now, bitter, remorseful. She’d never been called on to face anything quite so bad as this. The bell kept on ringing; Lorna’s voice came.
“Hallo?”
“Darling, listen carefully,” said Mannering.
After a pause, and a sound which was probably a catch in her breath, Lorna said: “Yes, John?”
“Get a make-up case and some of my old clothes—everything I might need—and bring them to Victoria station. I’ll be there. Leave them at a cloak-room and let me have the ticket.”
As he spoke, he was making danger for her. She was being watched, and would almost certainly be followed; when Bristow learned that she had left the flat with a suit-case, he would bring all possible pressure to bear.
He made himself go on: “If you can think of a way of getting the stuff to Victoria without bringing it yourself, do so. Chittering might help. There isn’t much time. Don’t use Tubs Maudsley or anyone else who’s mixed up in this business.”
“I’ll bring it myself,” said Lorna levelly. “What’s happened?”
“Swanmore’s been murdered. I was at the hou
se just after it happened. A very neat trick, my darling, but it was a trick, and we’ll trump it. Be as quick as you can.”
“I will,” promised Lorna, still levelly. “I’ll be there.”
Mannering left the kiosk, hurried across the road and caught a bus to Victoria. At the station, he turned up the collar of his raincoat, pulled down the brim of his hat, and held a handkerchief against his mouth, as if he were suffering from toothache. He walked about near the booking-hall, knowing that he had come much too early; but it was better to be on the spot, so that he could get into his disguise as soon as Lorna arrived. Ten minutes – twenty – twenty-five, passed slowly. By now, the police were almost certainly looking for him. There were several constables on the station. He saw a plain-clothes man whom he knew hurry across and speak to three constables in succession. A sergeant approached, and the detective went into a huddle with him. Two of the policemen covered the entrances to the station, watching those instead of the platforms. Although it was by no means certain, Mannering thought the call for him was out.
The detective and the sergeant approached, and he thought they were going to speak to him.
He didn’t move away, but kept dabbing at his mouth. Police were used to all the tricks, of course, they would probably guess that he was hiding his face, they were going to stop him; unless he turned and ran he would have had it. He hardly knew how to stand still.
They walked past.
“We’ll spot him, if he comes here,” the sergeant said.
“All right,” said the detective. “If you have any luck, watch him pretty closely. He’s dangerous.”
The sergeant laughed as they parted.
Mannering walked away from them towards the bookstall. He dared to take the handkerchief from his face while he inspected the books. A brisk young man asked whether he could help. Mannering bought two paper-backed books and a new thriller, suggesting that he was going on a longish journey. He paid for them, and began his walking, books under his arm, handkerchief to and from his face. The seconds dragged now; the people were all staring at him. Porters, passengers, tea-trolley, fruit stall attendants; everyone. He caught sight of Lorna. She looked calm – and adorable.
