The Blood Diamond

by John Creasey

Then he heard a sound inside the house. He switched off the flashlight, on the instant. The sound was repeated, a man was walking towards him.

  A light came on and blazed out from a window, two feet from where Mannering stood.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE BARON AND THE WINDOW

  There came the sound of splashing water, and a metallic noise; a man was filling a kettle. He began to whistle a popular tune. There was a pop as the gas was lit, a clatter as the kettle went on.

  Mannering stepped cautiously away from the window. He could see a corner of this room and an open door. Light shone so brightly that he could be seen against it from next door. The whistling continued, merging with the radio music, from the kitchen of Green Ways.

  On the grass path, Mannering walked quickly towards the unlighted side of the house. The shadows of bushes moved gently, as if men were walking there; it was the wind. There were faint night sounds, close by.

  He reached the far side of the house and felt the windows with his gloved hands; the flashlight wasn’t needed for this.

  He felt the top of the tools round his waist; he knew each, by its handle. He drew out a glass-cutter with its tiny splinter of diamond, and there was a tube of thin glue, wrapped in a cloth. With the cloth, he smeared glue over the middle of the window, then pressed a square of thick brown paper over it, smoothing it down. He worked as swiftly as if he were in daily practice.

  People came along the street – heavy steps and light. A man spoke, and his words carried clearly above the sound of music.

  ‘Do you know whose car this is?’

  ‘Sorry, no. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’ The couple walked on, but the first speaker remained.

  So a policeman was within earshot.

  Mannering turned to the window and pressed the cutter against the glass, it gave off a faint squeaky note. He made two diagonal cuts, one above and one below the square of paper.

  The policeman walked past and his footsteps faded.

  Mannering cut the glass again, twice, then drew back. He fingered the corners of the paper, and touched a piece of tape, stuck firmly to its He pulled the tape gently, one hand touching the paper.

  The glass came away with the paper.

  He eased it away, then put it by the wall, out of reach of the window. He put the tools away, cleaned the touches of gum from his gloves with spirit from a tiny spray, and paused.

  The music sounded like a triumphal march.

  He put his arm through the hole and felt the window catch, then groped cautiously. He identified a thin strand of wire – the wire of the burglar alarm. It would raise a din if the wire were cut, but not if he moved it gently. He eased it away from the catch until it hung loose.

  The catch was strong, probably had a spring which would make it shoot back and strike the window loudly. He held the finger of his left hand against the catch, and pushed with his right. The catch stung his finger as it moved.

  He pushed the window up; it made a faint sound.

  He climbed in and went straight across the dark room, feeling his way. There was a crack of light beneath the door, presumably from the hall. The door wasn’t locked.

  He peered into the hall; it was empty. He went to the front door, unfastened it, leaving it on the latch; a quick getaway might depend on trifles.

  He crossed to the other side of the hall, and to the room where he had heard voices. Men were talking, but he couldn’t catch the words. He went to the back of the house; there was no light on in the kitchen; the man had finished his tea-making.

  The murmur of voices made the only sound now.

  He looked quickly in all the other downstairs rooms, which were empty, then went upstairs. The thick carpet on stairs and landing muffled his footsteps. He glanced into four of five rooms which opened from the landing; all were empty bedrooms.

  He opened the fifth door cautiously and heard someone breathing. He stood tense, ears strained. Yes, someone was in here. He felt for the key, which was on the outside, and took it out.

  Bed springs creaked; and his heart jumped.

  There was a sigh, as of a man or woman waking up; a woman? The springs creaked again, and then the breathing steadied.

  A woman? Lorna.

  He stepped inside. A faint light came from the windows of the house next door. He could see the shape of the bed, the bedclothes and the pillow.

  Lorna’s dark hair was not against the pillow; whoever lay there was fair.

  He went nearer, hearing the woman’s even breathing. He made out her features, vague yet unmistakable. This was Marjorie Addel.

  He hated her because she wasn’t Lorna.

  He went out and locked the door, and slipped the key into his pocket. The girl had not stirred. He went up another flight of stairs, and looked into three attic bedrooms and a bathroom; all were empty.

  He went downstairs.

  The door of the room where the men had been talking opened. As he reached the first floor landing, on his way down, a door opened. A squat man left the room, and another called from inside:

  ‘That won’t make him hurry. Don’t waste your time.’

  ‘I’ll be back,’ said the squat man.

  He was dark and good-looking – an Italian, Spaniard or Southern Frenchman. A squat man with powerful shoulders, a deep chest and firm tread. A squat man; no other word could describe him so well.

  He walked to the front door as Mannering watched.

  The squat man paused at the door, then opened it and went outside. He didn’t stay long, but hurried in and locked the door. He started to speak before reaching the room.

  ‘I thought I told you to lock the front door.’ His voice was easy on the ear, with a faint accent; a Latin accent, which Mannering had heard over the telephone,

  ‘So I did,’ another said.

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’

  ‘But, Lopey—’

  ‘I said don’t lie to me. I’ve just seen it with my own eyes.’ He went into the room, and closed the door on a phrase: ‘Mannering hadn’t better be much longer.’

  The door was closed; but it wasn’t locked.

  Mannering reached it, touched the handle, opened it a fraction; the squat man could hardly have sat down.

  ‘’You didn’t think he’d come, did you?’

  ‘You will be quiet while I talk to the lady,’ said the foreigner.

  Lorna!

  ‘Do you think he will come? Yes? He had better come. We will, perhaps, send him some what is the word? Bait, yes.’

  Mannering heard a gasp; heard Lorna.

  He opened the door another half inch, and took out his gun,

  ‘You will be sorry if he does not,’ went on the squat man. ‘I am told that you paint beautiful pictures.’ He laughed. ‘With your lovely hands, yes. This one? You are right-handed, yes? Now if I bend it a little more, the bone would break. You wouldn’t do very much painting for some time if that happened. You would do none, if you lost all your fingers. Do you think just the little finger would bring your husband along?’

  Lorna did not speak.

  Mannering pushed the door wide open and went in, with the gun in his right hand.

  ‘Nothing will bring Mannering,’ he said. His voice was hard, metallic, unfamiliar. ‘I’ve come in his place.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE MAN AND HIS WIFE

  A tableau of three rigid figures faced Mannering. Lorna, sitting forward on a wooden chair, one hand stretched out, hair dishevelled and face white with pain, eyes dazed but beginning to glow; for Lorna wasn’t fooled about his identity. The squat man, one hand almost touching Lorna’s, was twisted round in an odd position as he stared at the door; the third figure was a big, ungainly brute with thick wet lips, a low, rece
ding forehead and massive chin.

  The brilliant eyes of the squat man flickered. He straightened up and his hand moved slowly towards the inside of his coat,

  ‘So you have come instead of the gentleman,’ he said softly. His hand kept moving, almost imperceptibly. ‘Welcome, my friend.’

  ‘Take your hand away.’

  ‘My friend! I—’

  ‘Take it away and keep both hands in sight. That goes for you, too,’ Mannering said, and nodded.

  ‘Sure,’ the brute gasped, ‘Sure!’

  Lopey lowered his right hand – then moved it, like a dart, inside his coat and towards his shoulder. He jumped to one side, and Lorna put out a leg. He fell over it, hit the floor with a crash, and was still moving when Mannering reached him. Mannering dipped his hand inside his coat and drew a snub-nosed automatic out of a shoulder holster. He slipped it into his pocket and backed away.

  The brute was licking his lips and breathing wheezily.

  Mannering said: ‘Get out, Mrs. Mannering. Unlock the front door and wait for me on the porch.’ No one in the world, not even Lorna, could have recognised his voice as his. She almost seemed to doubt who he was.

  He snapped: ‘Hurry! Mannering’s not paying me by the hour!’

  She stood up, steadied herself against the back of the chair, and passed him; she didn’t hurry; he thought it was because she couldn’t, was too stiff from sitting on that chair. Lopey rolled over.

  ‘Listen, pal—’ began the brute.

  ‘You tell your story to the fairies,’ Mannering said. ‘Turn round and face the wall.’

  The man gulped and obeyed, slowly. Lopey began to sit up; he’d banged his head and was dazed. Mannering turned the gun round in his hand and struck him sharply on the temple with the butt. He dropped back, with a grunt; there was no foxing about the way he fell.

  ‘Listen—’ the big man twisted his head round to see what had happened. ‘I never—’

  ‘Later,’ said Mannering.

  The man spun round and jumped at him. Mannering smashed his left fist into the big jaw, but it was like hitting concrete. He brought his knee up into the man’s stomach, and that was more like a feather pillow. The gasp of agony was shrill, the man staggered to one side. Mannering struck him on the nape of the neck with the gun; he pitched forward and hit the wall with his head,

  Mannering turned – and his right knee gave under him, pain streaked through his leg. He gasped and stood upright, clenching his teeth. After a while, he moved more cautiously, and bent over Lopey. He went through the man’s clothes, putting everything on the chair Lorna had been using. Watch, wallet, comb – he had black, glossy hair with a natural wave, he was like a handsome man whose head and face had been crushed into a concertina. The quality of his clothes were good and the cut was foreign; certainly not Savile Row. The padded shoulders were square but they didn’t exaggerate the real size much, Lopey had the chest and shoulders of a bull.

  Mannering’s knee throbbed. He didn’t find what he wanted – the diamonds which had been taken from his flat, or any diamonds.

  He ran his hands over Lopey, prodding, probing, and found something flat and hard, not in a pocket, but sewn into the coat. He made a cut with his knife and ripped the lining open. Inside was a small paper packet. As he unfolded it, diamonds winked up at him, a glory of light and colour. He paused only long enough to examine them; they were the real diamonds which had been stolen from his flat.

  He went towards a bookcase in the corner, and as he reached it, heard a movement outside. He swung round, gun at the ready.

  Lorna whispered: ‘Are you there?’

  Relief ran through him, like warmth on a cold day.

  Lorna stood on the threshold.

  ‘Yes, I won’t be long.’ His voice was still harsh and unfamiliar, he was living the part. ‘All quiet outside?’

  ‘A policeman is standing near the big car. Is it yours?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll manage without it.’

  He spared a moment to look at her. Colour was back in her cheeks, she’d smoothed down her hair. She was wearing gloves, and massaging the little finger of her right hand. He shot a malevolent glance at the squat man.

  ‘Did you know that Marjorie Addel was here?’ he asked.

  ‘We can’t try to get her away!’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Mannering. ‘And if it comes to that, why should we? ‘

  ‘She’s been drugged.’

  ‘Sure she’s not kidding?’

  ‘She got here just after me. I was in a room upstairs and I heard the two men talking. They were to give her a shot, to keep her quiet.’

  ‘She may be coming round now,’ Mannering said. ‘We ought to try—’

  ‘We can’t!’

  ‘All right, we’ll leave her,’ he decided. There were limits to folly. ‘You can tell Bristow about the drugging later, that should put her right with the police.’ He moved several of the books in the bookcase and dropped the diamonds behind them. ‘Bristow ought to find that hiding place without much trouble,’ he added. ‘As you’re here, call the Guildford Police, just tell them there’s been a burglary. They should arrive in ten minutes, we’ll leave the door open and make them a present of Lopey and his friends.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘There’s another trussed up in the garden,’ said Mannering. ‘Keep your gloves on, there’s no need to say you used the telephone.’

  Lopey and the brute were still unconscious, and not likely to come round for some time. Mannering took cord from his pocket and tied their wrists, lifted Lopey and dumped him behind a chair in a corner of the room. If the police were delayed and the two men came round, they would have little chance of freeing each other.

  Lorna was at the telephone.

  Ought he to leave Marjorie?

  ‘I’m going upstairs,’ he said.

  The girl was still in the room. Mannering switched on the light, and she turned in her sleep, muttering, but did not open her eyes. She looked almost sulky. One bare arm lay over the side of the bed, and in the crook of the elbow was a small red puncture; so dope had been injected.

  Her handbag was on the dressing-table. It contained the usual oddments of make-up, all expensive; there were no letters.

  Mannering hurried downstairs, leaving her door unlocked. Lorna was coming from the drawing-room.

  ‘They’re on the way,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s go.’ That was Mannering’s ‘own’ voice, and there was a lilt in it.

  ‘Dare we use the car?’

  ‘If the luck’s with us’

  They went across the hall towards the front garden. Mannering’s knee hurt badly. He was trying to persuade himself that the watchful policeman would ignore them if they walked away; the man was interested only in the owner of the big car. Mannering took Lorna’s arm and squeezed, but neither spoke.

  They reached the drive as a car came along the road with headlights full on.

  It swung out, then turned towards this house. One moment, welcome darkness was about them; the next, they couldn’t escape the light.

  Mannering whispered: ‘Come on!’

  He pulled at Lorna’s arm and they ran out of the beam of the car lights. His knee screamed. They reached a corner of the garden as the car swung round the circular carriageway. Mannering glanced over his shoulder, and saw two men jump from the car almost before it stopped; and come towards them, knowing they were there. Police?

  Lorna’s breathing was short, panting. They reached the wall, and the two men were separated from them by shrubs and trees. Rough grass near the wall made them stumble, and jolted Mannering’s knee again. The men plunged behind them, noisily, but no police whistles sounded; would the police work silently?

  There was a thick hedge near the wall.

>   ‘Over you go,’ Mannering said. He lifted Lorna by the waist and raised her to the top of the hedge. His knee bent beneath him, and he stifled a gasp of pain. Torches were shining towards him, and strange, spiky shadows appeared.

  There were still no shout or whistle of alarm; these men weren’t policemen.

  Lorna scrambled down to the street, and he climbed up the hedge; that wasn’t easy. When on the other side, he wouldn’t be able to run; he would have to use the big car, policeman or no policeman.

  As he reached the top of the wall, he looked back.

  The two men in the grounds both had torches, and one beam shone fully into Mannering’s eyes.

  ‘There he is!’ a man cried.

  Another man slipped, the flashlight swivelled round.-

  It shone on Larraby – a different Larraby, with his hair smoothed down, and a trilby hat on, but – Larraby.

  Mannering had only a swift glimpse of him as the torch wavered wildly. Then a different voice came, from the gate.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ The policeman was back.

  The flashlights blacked out, as Mannering dropped to the ground in a hush. His knee gave out again, and he gasped.

  ‘What is it?’ Lorna asked sharply. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My old pal, the knee,’ said Mannering. ‘We’ll have to make for the car.’

  He forced himself to run; pain stabbed through his leg like red-hot needles. The red glow of the borrowed car’s rear-light seemed a long way off. He went past the drive-gates and saw aflashlight pierce the gloom, shining on the uniformed policeman, who was on the ground; a man – Larraby? – stood over him, with an arm raised. Mannering shouted: ‘Police!’

  He passed the gates before the men looked up. Lorna was already at the wheel, the car door was open. As he climbed in, she let in the clutch, and the car moved off. ‘Which way?’ she asked.

  ‘Straight on. Headlights.’

  She switched them on, and a white blaze carved a light in front of them.

  Near the corner with the main road, two cars swung towards them. Mannering saw police uniforms, four or five of them in each. One of the cars slowed down. A man shouted, and the driver of the second car waved out of the window, Lorna swung the car towards London, Mannering watched the driving-mirror tensely. Neither police car had turned yet there were no others cars on the road.