by John Creasey
“Who?” squeaked Clara.
“Now wouldn’t it be a wonderful surprise if we found Mannering?” asked George very softly. “Then we could leave him here with Tricia and Tubs, and let the police come along and find everything, including the stuff he ‘stole’ from his own shop. That would be just what the doctor ordered, wouldn’t it? And you and I could go away, Clara, you could go back to your flat and tell the police Mannering made you play the fool. And I could go home and arrange the funeral.”
Clara said: “If—if he’s Mannering, he’d tell the police what you’ve just said.”
“Oh, no, he wouldn’t,” said George. “Dead men can’t talk. Not even when they commit suicide. We’ll fix him, but we’ll have a look at his face first. You’ve got it clear, honey, haven’t you? Whatever happens, you’ll tell the police that you worked for Mannering, see? That it was Mannering who made you rent this house under the name of Smith, not me. Very useful to get a furnished house like this, wasn’t it? Don’t forget—throw Mannering at them all the time. And—now, we’ll have a look at this yob’s face.”
“George, you ought—” began Clara.
Mannering said harshly: “Swanmore, if you let this dame fool you, you’re crazy. I know Mannering, and he told me that she told him you gave her some of the collection. When she was in a spot, she ratted on you.”
A bomb couldn’t have had a greater effect.
George glanced malevolently at Clara, who opened her mouth wider in horror. Mannering stood quite still, but his heart pounded. If he could make them quarrel and get careless, he might have a chance.
Clara’s silence was broken with a screech.
“It’s a lie!”
As she finished, a door slammed in the house. It came without warning, broke across the tension in the room.
Clara started, George glanced towards the passage, and for a moment his gun pointed away from Mannering.
Mannering grabbed a heavy cushion from a chair and flung it. George saw the danger, swung round and fired, but the cushion spoiled his aim. Mannering leapt forward, reached him before he could shoot again, and knocked the gun flying. Clara fell against the door, which banged to the wall. Mannering hit George; hard. He staggered back.
Who had slammed the door? The police?
Mannering raced along the hall. The front door was open, and he saw someone standing on the steps. A woman.
Patricia?
“Hurry!” the woman called. “Hurry!”
It was Lorna.
“The police will soon be here,” Lorna said. “Hurry, John.” She held his arm as they reached the porch and ran into the drive. Behind them, Clara shouted. In the street they ran towards Mannering’s car, which still had its parking lights on. Mannering got in, Lorna slid into the seat beside him and the engine started up.
Mannering drove towards the main road, towards London, and went flat out for half a mile. Gradually he slowed down, but still travelled at over forty miles an hour, past small houses on either side of them. He was beginning to breathe freely.
“What happened there?” asked Lorna.
He laughed; and talked. She hadn’t turned a hair, and now listened intently. When he’d finished, she knew the best – and the black worst.
He said into a short silence: “How did you make it?”
“I was in the back of the car all the time. I just couldn’t let you come alone.”
The simplicity of it staggered him.
“A policeman thought there was something odd happening at the house,” Lorna went on. “I was watching from behind a tree. He looked inside the car and saw Tubs, I supposed. Then he hurried off, and I followed him as far as a telephone kiosk. I expect the police are at the house.”
“Probably. My sweet, you were crazy. But if you hadn’t been crazy—”
“It’s contagious,” Lorna said, and added in a sharper voice: “If the police are in time to catch them, what does it mean for us?”
It would be folly, and worse, to try to hide anything from her; she wouldn’t believe him, if he lied.
“They’ll lie themselves hoarse and they’ll try to get me hanged. A nice chap, George.” Mannering shot Lorna a sidelong glance. “I shouldn’t worry too much.”
“Not worry!”
“My sweet, things are beginning to work out. Thanks to you, only to you. George and Clara will probably get away, George will go to his flat, Clara to hers. Under questioning, Clara will break down and tell the truth, if they don’t get away with blaming me. Oh, they’d try that. If I can destroy that evidence then I can send word to Bristow about George and Clara—”
“How?”
“We’ll find a way. There’s a good credit balance already. Tricia will be found. That’ll help.”
“Help to damn you?”
“She’ll know I didn’t take her there. I can let Chittering have the story and tell Bristow, but none of that will keep me out of the dock. It might get me off a capital charge, but until I’ve got that evidence from Bristow’s room, I’m in up to my neck. The only real evidence is on that case and those photographs, and—”
Lorna said: “It just can’t be done.”
“It’s got to be done. I toyed with the idea when the only danger was from Bristow. Now Clara is going to swear that I’m ‘Bud,’ and when she’s made her statement, Bristow will have to act—and he’ll have to use that finger-print evidence. No use blinking facts. I may as well flee the country if I’m not prepared to have a smack at it. There isn’t any other way.”
Lorna said nothing. Mannering drove on in silence, at first through the deserted roads of outer Suburbia, then along a thronged Chiswick High Street; they were held up by a crowd coming from a super-cinema. A policeman standing on the kerb came forward, and Lorna’s hand touched Mannering’s arm, she thought that the policeman was coming to them. He was.
“Better wait a minute, sir,” he said.
“Yes—yes, of course,” said Mannering. “What about a cigarette, darling?” He took out cigarettes. Lorna was able to keep her face averted from the constable, who might have recognised her. The crowd thinned out, and the constable waved them on. “Thanks,” said Mannering, and Lorna waved thanks,
“I’m the danger now,” she said a moment later, “you’d better drop me. They may have sent my photograph out with yours.”
“Much more likely you’ll be spotted by a Yard man who knows us both. I’ll drop you in a few minutes. Go straight back to Chelsea, and tell Bristow what we agreed on before. There’s no point in holding out. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to tell him what car I’ve been using. I can run it to one of the outer suburbs and get back to Westminster by tube. Better do that, I think.”
“John—”
Mannering’s left hand closed over hers.
“There’s nothing else to do,” he said. “And I think there’s a fifty-fifty chance of getting through.”
He pulled up near a bus stop.
“John, supposing you lose?” Lorna’s voice was quite steady. “What’s the worst that will happen?”
“I’d stand trial for complicity in the burglary at the shop and the murders. They’d also be able to prove that I had something to do with the Swanmore Collection in Aldgate, and they might make the murder of Swanmore stick.”
This time, he didn’t kiss her before leaving her alone.
Mannering drove across London into the country, left the car near Croydon and caught the last train from Croydon back to Victoria. He sat in a gloomy third-class carriage, with two tired girls, a young man who breathed beer and a thin-faced, elderly, little fellow who kept yawning so widely that the brim of his bowler hat regularly touched the upholstery above his head, and was tipped backwards. The train stopped at all stations, but no one got into their carriage until they reached Clapham Junction; then it was a weary plate-layer who smoked a powerful shag.
Out of a nebulous mass of fleeting thoughts and vague possibilities, the outline of a practical plan emerged. By the time
the train reached Victoria, he was absorbed in it. The Baron had dared much, but to break into Scotland Yard—
As the train slowed down, Mannering laughed.
The weary-eyed passengers looked at him, but no one made a comment.
He went to the all-night cloakroom, retrieved his suit-case, went downstairs to the toilets, and worked more thoroughly on his disguise. Using a pair of clippers, he cut his hair close to the sides and to the back of his head. His arm ached and it wasn’t a good job, but it was worth doing; he looked prison-cropped. He rubbed greasepaint into the crevices of his front teeth, darkening them as if he were a heavy smoker who seldom had his teeth cleaned by a dentist. The taste was foul. He trimmed his nails very close, and rubbed brown grease-paint into his hands. He gave more attention to his face, rubbing paint well in so that it was less obviously make-up, but even when he had finished he knew that no detective would doubt that he was daubed with greasepaint. But his eyes, narrowed all the time now that the gum had hardened, didn’t look like his; nor did his cheeks, made plump by the cheek-pads. For another visit to George or Clara or Tubs, he would be all right, but to beard Bristow at Scotland Yard …
Bristow might have gone home, although with a hunt on like this, he was more likely to be on duty.
Mannering put the finishing touches to his face, packed the case again and left the station. The police were still keeping watch, but no one paid him any attention. He took a taxi from outside the station to Waterloo, and deposited the case there; that would be a useful false trail. In his pocket were a few of the tools, his torch and a slab of chocolate – nothing else. He didn’t need his scarf for a mask and mustn’t wear gloves when entering Scotland Yard. He put them in his pocket. He went to an all-night cafe near the station, had a light meal and walked briskly over Waterloo Bridge and down the steps to the Embankment. He was now only a few minutes’ walk from Scotland Yard. The biggest worry was the possibility that Bristow would be in his office.
He walked to Charing Cross station, entered a kiosk, and telephoned the flat.
Lorna answered.
“Has he been to see you?” Mannering said briefly.
“No, but there are detectives back and front.” Lorna didn’t waste a word. “Have you been?”
“It won’t be long now. I—”
“Just a moment!” Lorna said. Mannering heard her put down the receiver on the table, where it clattered noisily; he thought he heard footsteps. She was quickly back. “He’s coming,” she said. “His car’s just drawn up outside.”
“Keep him for half an hour at least. And—keep your fingers crossed.”
He rang off.
He dropped another two pennies into the box and dialed Whitehall 1212. A male operator answered him, and Mannering spoke in a brisk, harsh voice:
“Superintendent Bristow, please.”
“I’m sorry, he’s not in. Who is that, please?”
“Inspector Crispin,” said Mannering in the same harsh voice – and most men would have ‘recognised’ the Divisional Inspector who had been with Bristow when the jewels had been found.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is Sergeant Gordon in?”
“I don’t think so, sir, I’ll see.”
Mannering waited tensely. The tiny cubicle seemed to be hot and airless. The operator was off the line for a long time; too long. But he came back at last, and said: “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Gordon is also out.”
“Damn!” said Mannering. “Leave a message for him, will you—see that someone in his office or the Superintendent’s office gets it. I’m sending a man along to check Mannering’s finger-prints. Tell Records to expect him.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll see that the message is delivered.”
“Thanks,” said Mannering.
He rang off and stepped out on to the pavement. The wind off the river seemed very cold. He walked briskly towards Scotland Yard. It would have been easy to dawdle, and his heart was thumping; he kept telling himself that he hadn’t a chance. Once he was asked for his credentials, the game would be up. The duty-sergeant in the hall would almost certainly be careful about strangers at this hour. There would probably be only one man on duty. He toyed with the idea of trying to lure the man out of the building, and overpowering him, but dismissed it. This must be done by finesse.
He went up the steps leading to the main entrance. The Yard was poorly lighted, a pleasant surprise; he felt more secure beneath the grease-paint. A uniformed sergeant came from a gloomy recess in the hall.
“Good evening. Who do you want?”
“Is Gordon—Sergeant Gordon back yet?” asked Mannering.
“No.”
“Superintendent Bristow?”
“They haven’t been gone twenty minutes,” the sergeant said. “Who wants them?”
“Inspector Crispin sent me over,” said Mannering. “I’ve got to collect some stuff from Records, but only Gordon or Bristow knows what it is. Brr! Nasty wind. Might as well slip down to the canteen, I suppose?”
“Shouldn’t keep Bristow waiting, if he’s expecting you,” said the sergeant. “Fine old temper he’s in tonight. Know where the canteen is?”
“I think I can find it …”
The sergeant gave him instructions, and Mannering grunted his thanks and walked off. His heart was beating so fast that he could hear it thumping.
The lighting was surprisingly dim; the Yard set an example in fuel economy. Dark, swiftly moving figures walked purposefully along the corridors. There were fewer people about than when he had been here during the day. He carried his hat in his hand, but kept the collar of his coat turned up. No one seemed to give him a second glance.
He didn’t go to the canteen, but looked for the Records Office. Twice he missed his turning along the wide passages, but did not risk asking anyone the way.
He realised suddenly that he was on the wrong floor, and went up another flight of stairs. As he reached the landing, one of the detectives who had been following him during the day, came out of a cloak-room. Mannering looked straight ahead, the C.I.D. man went past.
Now Mannering’s heart was thumping like a trip-hammer.
The doors were marked clearly.
At last he saw the small sign he was looking for – Records Office. He banged on the door and pushed it open. No one was in sight. A small office opened into a large room, with shelves round the walls and others running up and down the room, like a large library. Instead of books there were drab manilla envelopes, thousands upon thousands of them, and a few marks on the shelves, such as A to Ak and Al to At. Only a few lights were on, he was safe enough from recognition here, reasonably safe even against the danger of the make-up being noticed.
“Anyone about?” he called.
A grey-haired man, long, thin and melancholy looking, appeared from behind the shelves. He wore glasses, and looked much more like a librarian or a curator at a museum than a policeman. There was a pencil behind his ear, and his right hand was behind his back. Mannering suspected that he was smoking, and cupping the cigarette in his hand; the smell of cigarette smoke was plain enough.
“Yes,” said this official, thinly. “Who wants who?”
“I’m from Inspector Crispin, at—”
“Yes, I know where he is,” said the other, “I just heard—”
“He sent me over to see Superintendent Bristow and collect the dope on Mannering,” said Mannering. “Bristow’s out. Be a help if I collected it and took it down to Bristow’s office, wouldn’t it?”
“I daresay it would,” said the custodian, revealing his cigarette. “I think we’ll get him?”
“Him?”
“Mannering,” said the custodian scornfully.
Mannering gave an odd, little laugh.
“I think we’ve got him,” he said.
“That’s done it,” rejoiced the custodian. “Shake ’em up a bit to collar a man like Mannering, won’t it? Charlie! Charlie! Oh, there you are,” he broke off as a tall, plump man appear
ed from among the shelves. “Mannering’s file,” he said.
“Oke,” said the stout one, and disappeared.
The custodian gave his opinion of Mannering, which was part condemnatory and part admiring, and led the way to a small desk, on which were a number of forms. One was filled in, and Mannering read it swiftly, pretending at the same time to feel in his pockets for a pencil. There wasn’t one there. Without a word, the other handed him a fountain pen. Mannering scrawled: “A. K. Lee, Sgt.” on the receipt form, and the other filled in the details of the records which Sergeant Lee was to take with him. By the time that was over, Mannering saw the stout man approaching with a foolscap envelope. It was nothing like so thick as some of the others on the shelves.
“Is everything there?” he asked.
“Don’t be silly,” said the custodian. “Of course it is.”
Mannering grinned.
“I know you Yard people,” he said, “but you don’t know Crispin. If I get back without—”
“Now, listen,” said the custodian impressively. “If you knew the Yard you wouldn’t talk a lot of blah like that. Everything about Mannering is in there. We’ve got nothing anywhere else except what’s in Bristow’s office, and he’s only got copies. Some copies in there,” he added. “Bristow warned us earlier tonight we might have to get copies of the finger-prints run off to send out everywhere, but he hasn’t given the word yet.”
“All right, all right,” said Mannering. “Can’t you see a joke?”
“It’s not funny,” said the custodian. “We do a hundred per cent job here, you people in the Divisions don’t know half of it.”
“I know, it’s amazing,” said Mannering hastily. “Really amazing.”
