by John Creasey
He could still hear it, in his imagination.
He did not even have to turn his head to see how big a piece had been chipped out of the steps. But gradually the blood began to warm in his veins and at last he moved. He did so with the greatest caution, for there might be a double barrel, or even a second gun. He peered round the edge of the door. There was the gun, a rifle, propped up against a Y-shaped piece of wood and secured to the ceiling by a taut rope. He could see how the trigger had been wired, so that if the door opened the shot was fired. There must be another press button which would disconnect wire and trigger.
A smell of cordite hung in the air.
He went forward, edging past the gun; and when he was on the other side he lifted the stock from the Y-shaped support and unfastened the nylon rope which was fastened at the top to a hook in the ceiling. He placed the rifle on the floor, behind the door which had slid back beyond the inside wall.
It was one of the oldest tricks; his previous experience of it, his awareness of what could happen must have warned his subconscious and made him leap to one side. He was hot, now; sweating; and his hands felt clammy. He listened intently but heard no sound, yet was sufficiently on edge to go up the stairs and into the wash-house and outside. Except that the fog seemed thicker, everything was the same. He went back to the cellar, keeping to one side of the damaged step, and then moving beyond a kind of air-lock protection of two brick walls, each a little more than half the width of the passage, and each from a different side. The result was to make him go slowly into the cellar beyond, a little nervous as to what these delaying tactics might mean.
He was now in a big room, and the light from behind him showed shelves and shadowed shapes standing on them. He found a switch on the inside of the second half-wall, and fluorescent light flickered for a few moments and then came on brightly. There was not one but four big fluorescent tubes and the room was large enough to need them all. He could see now that the lowest shelf was about a foot from the floor and perhaps two feet wide; the one above, eighteen inches higher and not quite so wide; shelves, in fact, in staggered widths so that there was ample room for the things stored on them.
To Mannering, it was as if he was suddenly back in his own strong-room, for he had seen these objets d’art there. He recognised not just one or two but dozens.
There were some ivory carvings of a seated King and Queen, beyond doubt the same; there were statuettes, gem-encrusted knives and vases – a dazzlingly beautiful collection – here. Not at Quinn’s, but here.
After the first shock he moved towards the nearest, the King and Queen. And as he approached he realised that they were not the same. For one thing the yellowed ivory had been yellowed by some artificial process, not by age. On the Queen’s right ear there should have been the tiniest of chips; it wasn’t there. It was a beautiful piece of carving; carving in the Far East was one of the crafts which by some miracle had survived; but there was no antiquity, and it was the antiquity which gave the pair their unique value.
He examined other pieces.
There was a jewelled sword, the original of which had a pearl-encrusted handle. The piece at Quinn’s had real pearls of great age; there could be no doubt of their rare lustre. But these were cultured pearls, beautiful in their way, but lacking the value of uniqueness and antiquity.
Every piece he examined was a copy; many of them brilliantly executed and lovely in their own right, but – copies.
He fancied he could hear George Peek’s voice in his ears: “We’ve got our cake and we’ve eaten it!”
Here at least was a partial explanation; perhaps the key to it all. The whole of the Peek Collection, itself absolutely genuine, had a replica here; and if the replicas were sold under the guarantee of Mannering’s valuation, then they would fetch ten or twenty times their real value. Not just one or two pieces, but all of them. Could he be sure these were ‘all’ he asked himself. There were so many that there seemed no reasonable doubt. If George and Stanley had their way then they would get the genuine pieces from Lucille and sell the false ones. “We’ve got our cake and we’ve eaten it!”
He wandered along shelf after shelf, touching pieces which he could almost swear were identical with those at Quinn’s, until he reached the end of the cellar. It was so still that he could hear his own breathing. Slowly, he turned back to the shelves and began to examine the walls beyond. There might be a way out from this end, an escape route for an emergency. He could see no evidence, but then it had been almost by accident that he had discovered the real nature of the clothes boiler.
Did a second entrance matter?
He could go upstairs and lock the door to the wash-house, even if someone stirred abroad they would notice nothing, and no one was likely to venture out on such a night as this. The obvious was the thing to do. He began to walk towards the open door, still bemused, yet trying to come to a decision. One thing dawned on him belatedly. There was no crime in making replicas of objets d’art which one owned oneself; no crime unless one tried to pass them off as the real thing. He could not swear that any of the goods had been stolen, and those at Quinn’s had come from old Ezra Peek; neither of his sons could be accused of stealing them, even if they had in fact been stolen.
What charge could be levelled against the Peek brothers?
The attacks on him would be enough, but there was no evidence at all that the assailants had been employed by them, unless the voice of Stanley could be called evidence. And that wasn’t enough. Tones of voice, nuances, implications, these things weren’t evidence: he had no evidence yet, all he had were indications that the conditions for a several million pound fraud were in this cellar.
He reached the door and stepped through, stood on the outside and pressed the spot which he had pressed before – and the door began to close. Now that he had finished the main part of his task he began to sweat again. There had been a period when he would have taken success for granted, but this one had gone so smoothly it was like a miracle.
He need not go back into the house.
Needn’t he? What about Lucille? He simply hadn’t the evidence he needed to send for the police, and if the brothers found her missing they would be bound to search; now he could not argue with himself any longer, he had to get her away.
He reached the back door – and a woman’s voice sounded almost in his ear!
“I’ll just see if they want anything.”
He heard her footsteps inside the house, and the temptation to turn and hurry to his car became almost overwhelming. Stoically he stayed where he was, but the November cold had crept into his bones before the woman’s voice sounded again: “No, we can go up now. I’ve got the coffee things.”
‘Going up’ could only mean up to bed; up to the floor where Lucille had been, up to the floor where he wanted to go.
Would they wash the coffee cups up tonight?
He opened and closed the door quickly and went in; the television or radio was still blaring loudly, and under its cover he crept up the back staircase and on to the attic. In sudden panic he moved the trunks aside; but Lucille was still there, still inert and apparently lifeless under the influence of the drug.
He lifted her over his left shoulder, fireman fashion, and began to go down the top ladder, hearing no voices or footsteps. He was on the landing when a door closed and a woman said: “Are you coming or aren’t you?”
Mannering stayed close to the wall at the foot of the ladder, saw the woman coming up; she carried newspapers and books. Her husband followed, carrying a tray with teapot and cups, everything wanted for early morning tea. He was yawning widely and without restraint. The woman, went into the bedroom and switched on the light. If the man so much as glanced up he could not fail to see Mannering.
He turned into the room.
“It’s cold up here, we ought to have another heater,” the woman said irritably. She closed the door and on the instant Mannering started down the stairs. There was no reason at all to believe eit
her of the brothers would come to the domestic quarters and he should be outside the house in ten minutes, now: seconds. He had reached the main landing when a door opened and George Peek called out: “Now I’m going to tuck Lucille up for the night!”
He began to leap, two at a time, up the main stairs.
Mannering could either cower there with Lucille still over his shoulder, or go forward. And it did not take him a split second to decide what to do. He tightened his grip round Lucille’s legs and moved forward. George, halfway up the stairs, did not see Mannering on the landing until he was several steps below.
Then, one foot raised, he grabbed the banisters and came to a startled halt.
Mannering simply shot out a foot and caught the man on the chest. George’s fingers slid off the handrail and he toppled backwards, a cry strangled in his throat. As his victim toppled, Mannering turned and strode towards the back staircase. If he ran, he might trip and undo all the good he had done. He heard Stanley cry out but heard nothing from George, except the thudding on the stairs as the big man fell.
“George!” Stanley screamed. “George!”
Mannering reached the passage which led to the kitchen and the back door; the dim light was still on. He saw that the door was both bolted and chained, and shifting Lucille to a more comfortable position, he undid both of these, opened the door and strode outside. Lucille was safe, he was safe: then suddenly he checked. A man appeared at the end of the passage, which led to the garages.
Mannering stood utterly dumbfounded.
He should have known this must be one of George’s hired assassins. With the fog swirling about him, an automatic pistol in his hand, he was levelling it at Mannering; or rather, at ‘Mason’, the character he had assumed. In the seconds which followed it came instantly to Mannering that the other man was just as surprised at the apparition in front of him as he, Mannering, was surprised.
Then, he recognised the other man: it was Charles Pace.
To Pace, he was a stranger in his present guise.
And Pace was working with the Peeks.
He, Mannering, could run; with Lucille over his shoulders there was a chance that the man would not shoot. But he did not know the way in the fog, while running he might stumble. The moments of indecision were swift, but they seemed to drag before Pace said: “Who are you?”
He came nearer and then apparently realised that Mannering was carrying a woman over his shoulder, for he cried: “Who is that?—don’t move.”
In the voice of ‘Mr. Mason’ Mannering said: “I’m not going to move with a gun pointed at my belly. This is Lucille Peek.”
“What the devil—”
Mannering said: “Why did you come back? You were in the house with them, I heard you talking. What are you doing here?”
“I came to—” Pace broke off. “That’s my business. Who—?”
“I work for Mannering,” Mannering said roughly. “He wanted to find out if Mrs. Peek was here and told me to get her away if I could.” He moved a step forward, and Pace did not threaten again. “They had kidnapped her. They’re killers, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Pace said with unexpected assurance. “And one thing is that I don’t believe you. I know Mannering, he wouldn’t employ a thug—”
“He employed me all right,” Mannering said, “and he wants to know the minute I’ve got the woman, but don’t ask me what he’s going to do.” He felt a surging impatience, not so much with Pace as with the situation. “Why don’t you talk to Mannering—?”
“He isn’t going to talk to anybody!” came the voice of Stanley from just behind Pace. “Drop your gun, Pace – and you, whoever you are, drop the woman.”
Mannering heard movements behind him, and was sure there was more than one man although no one else spoke. He could just make out the spindly figure of Stanley, clouded in mist. He shifted Lucille’s weight and moved his hand towards the pocket where he held the gas pistol, but he did not think he would be able to reach it; and he did not doubt that they would shoot him if they saw what he was doing.
“I won’t tell you again,” Stanley Peek said in that high-pitched voice; and if the menace in it had been imaginary before, it was real and ominous enough now. “Drop that gun and drop—”
Pace seemed to drop to his knees.
Then, suddenly, he fired at Stanley, the flash from his gun biting through the fog. As he fired he flung himself to the right. Three shots rang out, and one plucked at Mannering’s coat, but it was Stanley who staggered, and began to fall. Everything happened at furious speed, blurred by the fog, and uncertainty as to who, and where, everyone was.
Stanley fell sideways, full length.
Pace disappeared into the night.
A man appeared at Mannering’s side, and Mannering saw the gun in his hand, felt it poking him in the ribs. At the same time George Peek’s voice came from the back doorway, harsh and commanding.
“Take him into the cellar,” he ordered. “Take them both down to the cellar.”
A man protested: “If the police—”
“If the police heard the shooting, we had a burglar and shot it out,” George rasped. “Get them down to the cellar. Make him carry her, for such a knight errant that should be easy enough.” He appeared in front of Mannering, and swept his right hand round, the flat of his palm striking Mannering with tremendous force and sending him reeling. “That’s just a beginning,” he said. “Before I’ve finished with you you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
It was the oldest kind of threat; as often as not as empty as the words themselves. But this time it wasn’t empty. George meant exactly what he said.
Mannering steadied, and with the gun pointing into his ribs and Lucille over his shoulder he went back into the wash-house. He could not even use their shock, at the discovery that the approach to the steps was open and that the rifle had been fired, to his advantage.
Lucille was too great a burden; with her he had no chance to get away.
19
Second Visit
George Peek demanded. “Did you break in here?” and Mannering said: “Yes.” There was no more point in lying.
“If Mannering employs experts like you I wonder what else he gets up to,” George said. “When I come again I want to know why he sent you and what you’re really after. Maybe if I believe you I’ll leave part of you alive.”
He went out, covered by the man with the gun, and the steel door began to close.
Mannering did not move until they had been shut off from sight, then he lowered Lucille slowly to a long packing case. He made her as comfortable as he could, judging it would be two hours or more before she came round.
He fingered the temple which had been cut and the cheek which George had struck with such power. He had to think, but first he had to adjust to the fact that he was here, apparently helpless. He had to get used to the idea before he could even begin to think what he could do. And he had to get some facts clear in his mind.
First, that Pace had not betrayed his dead partner; and he had escaped.
Second, that if the police had heard the shooting, George Peek would have a thoroughly sound explanation and a wounded Stanley would be all the confirmation needed.
Third, that somewhere on the premises or in the grounds the armed man, or men, had been waiting, and he, or they, were the only positive connection between the Peeks and the attempts to kill him, Mannering.
Fourth: so far he could prove no other crime against the Peeks, but Bristow might be able to.
The thoughts passed slowly through his mind, jostling with one another until the most important emerged: the apparent fact that George and his brother knew that the death of old Ezra Peek and of Norman Harcourt had been induced. If he could only prove that …
At the moment he would be lucky to stay alive.
He began to move about the cellar, but this time only to examine the walls and ceiling. One thing was immediately evide
nt. This place was as well ventilated as the attic, and that meant a system of ventilation ducts and grills leading above ground.
One of these was in the ceiling at one end of the room; another was high in a corner near the steel door, a third in a corner at the far end of the cellar. And ventilation grills could be made larger; so could ventilation ducts. It would take time, but he would have to try, unless by chance he could find another door. He walked slowly round the cellar, checking the wall between each shelf, one tap at intervals of about eighteen inches. It was a tiring job, and he relaxed for a few minutes, letting thoughts drift through his mind.
What would Pace do, for instance? Would the police come?
These were of course useless speculations, and he started again at the end of the room opposite the door.
Tap-tap-tap-tap. Every place he touched was as solid as rock, and the chance of finding a weak spot grew less and less.
Disheartened, he started at last on the third wall. Every tap which yielded a solid echo brought him nearer to the inevitable: there was no weak spot. This was a cellar deep in the ground, and even if he could get through the concrete, which might be six or seven inches thick, there would be solid earth beyond. If there was a way out it was through one of the ducts or through the door. He examined this with great care, but found nothing in the wall on either side to suggest how to chip through to the electrical supply line; everything was controlled from the outside.
He stared at each of the ventilation bricks in turn, rubbing his eyes. They were getting strained. A glance at his watch told him that it was after midnight, not late but late enough after the day and the night he’d had.
He pulled up a small crate, and sat on it, but it wasn’t comfortable.
He would give anything, almost anything, to stretch out for ten or fifteen minutes in comfort.
There was the concrete floor.
Or there was the padded box on which Lucille lay. He looked at her with a crooked smile and then his whole body stiffened, for he thought her eyelids flickered. Tense as he had not been since he had been thrust into this prison he sat and stared at her.
