by John Creasey
The two things happened at the same moment.
The watchman and his two dogs were almost level with the window, and the man glanced up. The moon, until then a friend to the Baron, broke from the clouds. He stood very clear in its silvery light, and saw the watchman’s lips open as the cry of alarm came.
‘Hi, there! Hi!’
The Baron dodged back out of sight, but as he moved he saw the man level his gun; he was much too quick for the Baron to hope he was dealing with a slow-witted rustic. The explosion came with a devastating suddenness, and the shot rattled against the window, cracking the glass in a dozen places.
The Baron’s lips tightened as he swung round towards the door, his only means of escape. As he reached it he heard windows banging on the floor below. Men’s voices were raised, and the barking of the dogs, frantic and deep-throated, added to the din.
Chapter Two
HIT AND RUSH
If Mannering had become the Baron when he started to climb the tree, the Baron was yet a different man as he snatched the door of Teevens’s room open and entered the passage. Suddenly the situation had become desperate, and the Baron realised it was touch and go. The whole house was roused, and Teevens kept five or six man-servants, more than enough to make the odds seem hopeless.
There was uproar upstairs, questions and answers were being shouted, doors were banging, footsteps thudding on the stairs. The Baron caught a glimpse of a pair of pyjama trousers on the top landing as he started for the hall, two flights below. He was going fast and silently, but the pursuers were stumbling and shouting as they rushed after him.
Mannering jumped five stairs to the next landing, swung round, and started for the last flight. He had no idea what he was going to face, did not know whether the door was barred and bolted or even chained. Too late, he realised what a fool he had been. He had told himself time after time that he would never leave anything to chance again, but he had taken a risk that getting out would be as easy as getting in, and he had lost. He was in as tight a corner as he had ever been in his life.
Then he realised that there was no one on the ground floor and his heart leapt. He ran on towards the hall, then jumped blindly in the dim light; as he landed his heart and stomach seemed to turn upside down.
He landed on a rug, and it slid on the polished floor. His arms went upwards as he tried to keep his balance, but he failed. He thudded down, somehow managing to keep his head clear of the floor, and caught a glimpse of those fluttering white pyjamas. A man was within a couple of yards of him!
The Baron evaded the fatal mistake of getting up in a rush and hoping he could keep his balance. He lay where he was, and the pyjamas leaped downward. The man was only two steps away when he saw the intruder, and the Baron was then on the move, steadier for a few seconds respite.
He grabbed the man’s ankle and jerked him down. His own thud had been minor in comparison; the walls seemed to shake as the man’s head cracked against the floor. He groaned. The Baron did not think much more trouble was likely from that source, and he had a moment’s respite before the other servants were upon him.
Three came in close formation, and one most vital question was answered; none of them was armed. Mannering had no time to get his gas-pistol out, and against three at a time it would have been useless; the only thing he could do was to fight.
The three leaped at him together, in silence. He met the leader with a right to the nose that sent him staggering, but before he could drive his left into the second man’s ribs, a clenched fist caught him on the side of the jaw.
The blow shook him. It also tore that last fragment of caution away from him, and turned him into a fighting machine. He went forward, his eyes blazing even in the gloom, and his opponents seemed to wilt before the fury of the attack. A brutal-looking customer with fists like hams made an effort to flatten him with a steam-hammer blow on the top of the head, but the Baron side-stepped and punched hard at the man’s solar plexus. The man gasped and went down.
The Baron was off his balance when the last attacker leaped at him, carrying him down with the force of his rush. They crashed together, with the Baron on top, although he had no idea how he managed to get there. It was no time for niceties, hardly conscious thought. The wind had been knocked out of his opponent, and the Baron banged his head on the polished floor three times; the man groaned and lost consciousness.
The strongest of his opponents was out for a minute or more, but the man with the swollen nose made a half-hearted attempt to stop him with a wild swing. The Baron dodged with almost scornful ease. He countered with a right that rattled the man’s teeth and sent him down.
That gave the Baron a moment’s respite, but seconds counted now, and he had four to spare before one of the other men could return to the attack. Such a crisis as this proved the value of regular training, but he was breathing hard.
The front door was near, but the night-watchman might be there; the back of the house might be deserted. The Baron knew there was only one flight of stairs, and unless someone slept on the ground floor he should have a chance. But the front door was nearer, and he had decided to go that way when he heard a thudding on the door, followed by the ominous roar of a shot, obviously from a shotgun. Lead rattled against the glass of the window-panels, breaking nothing but making the Baron swing round and race along the passage at the side of the stairs.
It had been easy to get a working knowledge of the house and grounds in his mind, and he knew that he had a straight run to the kitchen exit, providing the doors were unlocked. The first door was ajar, and the key was in the lock.
For the first time since he had been seen, the sinking fear of imminent capture faded. He slammed the door after him and turned the key in the lock, shooting a bolt for added safety. That would keep any pursuers back for several minutes, and the odds were much more even.
The watchman could not be at the back and front. There was still one servant to be accounted for, but he might be away, or looking after the unconscious Teevens. The Baron was sure that once he was in the grounds he could escape, although he might have to leave his hat and coat behind. There were no name tabs in them – he had bought them for nocturnal adventures from a mail-order house – and they would give no clues to the police.
He was in a small morning-room and the next door would lead to a short passage and thence to the kitchen. It would take twenty seconds to reach the kitchen door, thirty to unlock it and pull back the bolts, sixty more to reach the car. The watchman was still battering at the front door, apparently neglecting the back.
Then came the final surprise of that night of surprises, with a staggering unexpectedness that made him gasp. It seemed fantastic.
A woman’s voice came clearly through the darkness!
‘For heaven’s sake don’t let them catch me!’
For a split second the Baron was paralysed by the unexpectedness of the words and the voice. Then he saw her. She was a slight fair-haired slip of a girl standing at the far end of the passage, and peering at him through the gloom. He could not make out her features, but the anguish in her voice was unmistakable.
‘Why don’t you say something?’ She whispered, her voice was quivering with tension.
The Baron drew a deep breath.
‘Don’t you belong here?’
‘No, I must get away – don’t waste time talking!’
Now that she was nearer he could see how attractive she was. The last thing he wanted was company, but the terror in her voice could not be ignored.
‘Straight ahead,’ he said. The girl said nothing, simply turned and obeyed him blindly, creating a sudden impulse for him to use his torch to see how she moved. If she was slow it would put paid to them both.
She was anything but slow, for she reached the kitchen and the back door well ahead of him. She was fumbling at the bolts as he arrived
and turned the key. The door was open less than twenty seconds after that desperate ‘don’t let them catch me’.
As they ran from the house the fitful moon came out again. The girl turned right on Mannering’s whispered direction, and he saw her profile for the first time. The pale light silvered her hair and made it look beautiful. Her profile, touched by the night and the moon and the mystery, was enough to make his heart miss a beat. He had time to marvel at that, then he raced onwards, overtaking her as they reached the corner of the house.
There was little or no sound from behind, even the baying of the dogs was silenced. Mannering was suspicious of the quiet as he caught the girl’s right arm, urging her along. She was running easily, and her mouth was closed, so she was in good condition, too.
He tried to forget that, grasping the gas-pistol in his right hand, half expecting what would come next.
The dogs were ahead of them.
Whether the watchman with his gun was near or not the Baron could not tell, but he saw the lean, grey shapes of two Alsatians leaping towards them in the moonlight. He stopped still, pulling the girl’s arm and throwing her forward off her balance. She gasped as she stumbled; Mannering muttered ‘Sorry,’ as he saved her from falling, and went on in the same breath, ‘Keep behind me and don’t run. Understand, don’t run!’
Then the first dog sprang at him.
Mannering could see its eyes glinting green, its white teeth and its hanging tongue. He knew the dice was loaded heavily against him; knew there was only one sane thing to do; use his feet.
It was a simple fact that he couldn’t. He let the beast come, shooting out his hands towards a sleek-coated neck. The whole weight of the dog’s body was checked, and Mannering’s left fingers dug into the thick throat. He knew it was impossible to choke it to unconsciousness before the other arrived, but his mind was working fast, and he saw one chance.
He held the brute off with his left hand while he pressed the bulb of the gas-pistol with his right. It was a treble-charged gun, and he could spend the whole of a charge to do the job quickly.
The ether-gas went down the gaping jaws, and the effect was almost instantaneous. After a single yelp the dog went still, dropping from Mannering’s hold to the grass.
But the second brute was on him.
The girl behind him cried out. He told himself that he would always be grateful that she did not scream, for a scream just then would have shattered his nerves.
He staggered as the beast thudded into him, and dodged its snapping jaws more by luck than by judgment. As it dropped back he smashed his fist into the taut neck, heard the brute gulp and knew that it was dazed enough to enable him to reload the pistol.
He saw the long, lean body drop a foot away from its companion. He stood still for twenty seconds, breathing fast, unable to move, He did not realise how much nervous energy had gone in that grim fight; he just felt exhausted.
The girl was by his side now.
‘Are you—are you all right?’
He was glad of her voice, and not because of its attractive huskiness, but because it snapped some energy back into him. The mask was still about his mouth and chin and she could not see his lips move.
‘I’m all right. Thanks. Come on.’
She seemed satisfied with that breathless exhortation, it was almost as though she believed he could get them to safety. He started to run again, heading for the Austin. She was still fleet-footed, with her long hair streaming behind her.
That and a dozen other thoughts flashed through Mannering’s mind, but some questions grew more insistent. Who was she? What had she been doing at Teevens’s house?
The answers could wait; he had less than fifty yards to go to reach the car, and the crisis seemed as good as over. He heard nothing from the house; that was natural, for although it seemed an age not three minutes had passed since he had left the three men in the hall.
Only the missing servant and the watchman mattered, and he hoped that the watchman had forced his way into the house, worrying about Teevens and trusting the dogs to stop the intruder. He . . .
Then a man seemed to rise out of the ground, a gun pointing towards him.
In that second John Mannering felt more afraid than he had ever been in his life, and for the first time the girl at his side uttered a scream. He knew the man would not hesitate to shoot, that the man had been lying in wait all the time.
He touched the trigger as the Baron went the only way left – rugger-fashion, for the man’s knees. He had no time to tell the girl what to do, but he prayed that she would have the sense to drop behind him.
For the third time that night the shattering explosion of the shotgun rent the silence; for the second time Mannering missed the shot by inches. Some of the pellets tore through the back of his coat, but he was unscathed.
He grabbed the man’s knees and hurled him upward, sending him curving over his shoulders in a backward arc. The man shrieked as his feet left the ground, but the instinct of self-preservation made him twist around so that his shoulder hit the ground first. Had he crashed on his head there could have been only one result – a broken neck. That would be called murder.
As it was the watchman groaned a little before losing consciousness. His gun flew into the air and clattered on to the ground. The second charge went off, but the report was muffled, and the shot sprayed only the grass.
Mannering felt shaken and winded, and his mask was awry. The girl hurried to him, obviously unhurt, and her expression showed her anxiety.
‘Are you all right this time?’ Her voice was tense now.
‘Some questions become almost a habit,’ murmured the Baron, and his eyes smiled into hers. ‘Give me a hand up, and I’ll tell you.’
He needed the helping hand, noting that she pulled at him quite effortlessly. She had unusual strength for a girl. Her expression was still anxious, but his smile, which she could see now with all its charm, eased her mind.
‘Thank you, my pet,’ said the Baron. ‘You’re quite a heroine. The din’s starting in the house again, though. Towards that beech-tree, I’ve left a coat there.’
It was an exaggeration to say that the din was starting again, although a window in the house had banged open and a shout echoed across the grounds. They were at the side of the house, and unless the servants came through the windows they had at least a minute’s start. That should be enough, for the girl would keep pace.
He was running on his toes and reached the friendly beech five yards ahead of the girl. He bent down as he ran, grabbing his coat, then swerved towards the right, motioning the girl in the same direction. She was tiring, but it would be suicidal to let her relax.
‘Follow me – I’ll be waiting.’ He shouted without pausing to see whether she had heard, reached the car, opened the door and slipped into the driving seat. By the time the girl arrived the engine was humming and the headlights shedding their white beam ahead. He could tell she was exhausted. Her breath was coming in short gasps, and she staggered as she approached the car, but she had the courage of desperation.
‘A car – wonderful.’
‘I put it here,’ said Mannering as he let in the clutch. The hired Austin moved forward as the girl slammed the door. Soon they were out of the drive that led to Teevens’s house, and turning into the main road.
There was no sign of pursuit.
By the time they were half a mile away from the house, the girl was smiling to herself. The more Mannering saw of her the more he realised how attractive she was. Everything was fine, he needn’t drive fast for long.
Suddenly he muttered under his breath and glanced at her. His face was set, and it seemed grim and formidable now that he wasn’t smiling.
‘What’s the trouble?’ she asked with a flash of anxiety.
‘My memory,’ said Mannering. ‘I for
got to cut the telephone wires. I don’t know a surer sign of trouble. Do you?’
Chapter Three
NIGHT ENCOUNTER
Mannering had promised himself that he would soon ask questions, for the girl owed him plenty of explanations, when the realisation of his omission flashed into his mind. Usually his first precaution was to jam the telephone so that no one in the burgled house could get the exchange. In emergency he simply cut the wires, and risked alarming the exchange. It had been urgent enough that night, yet in the rush of the escape from Teevens’s house he had forgotten the simple precaution.
Teevens’s house was in Hampshire, between Winchester and Basingstoke, and there were a dozen private estates near as well as several villages. Mannering realised most vividly that Teevens’s men could summon the Winchester police by phone. In a few minutes warning calls would be going to radio patrols on all local roads – to Reading, Newbury and Andover from north to south, on the west side, and Alton and Alresford on the east. He was encircled. The police could come from any and every direction, at this very moment patrol cars might be on the move.
His best chance of escape was to drive fast towards Winchester, eight miles away. In that direction there was more hope of losing himself and the girl than in any other. Even then there was a real risk of a night encounter with the police.
The girl drew a deep breath when he told her, but nervous tension, or perhaps common sense, prevented her from asking pointless questions. The one she did ask, looking at him steadily and yet with obvious fear, was reasonable.
‘What chance do we have?’
Mannering shrugged his shoulders and a glint of the smile came back to his eyes.
‘Fifty-fifty – but I like odds better than that. How are you feeling?’
‘I shall be all right. But I was nearly exhausted back there.’
