by John Creasey
He could find out . . . and he was less than twenty yards from the keep!
There was no door from the main passage to the smaller one that led to the keep. Mannering turned left into it, and sped along. He was going silently, his ears strained, his teeth set. In his right hand was the ether gas-pistol with two more charges.
He reached the steps leading to the keep itself. Beyond that door was another circular passage that ran about the keep, and there were three other ways of approaching it. There might be someone on the other side, a guard there night and day, and if the door was locked it would cause trouble.
Mannering used his torch to examine the thick oak door and the lock. It was anything but modern, and would take him no more than a few seconds if the door was unbolted.
He switched the light off and took out his pick-lock. He pushed it into the keyhole, and then suddenly his tension eased, for the key was in the lock.
A year ago that might have worried him; but now it was easy to tackle and safe. He took a miniature oilcan from his vest-pocket and squirted oil along the keyhole. Then he produced a small, round pair of pincers, a French tool whose jaws, when closed, made a barrel-shape. He manoeuvred it slowly, forcing the barrel over the key. He judged he had a grip of over an inch before he tightened the pincers and, moving quickly, turned the key to the right.
It moved without a squeak. The lock clicked back and Mannering gripped the handle and turned it. The door opened a fraction of an inch on its well-oiled hinges.
Then Mannering had a bad shock.
There was a light in the passage surrounding the keep. He stopped dead still. No sound came of footsteps or of men breathing, but if the light was on he could be sure that the keep would be visited every so often during the night.
He was below the floor level of The Towers, and the silence seemed even more profound, but the door squealed as he pushed it wider open. Any moment Mannering was prepared for further trouble, any moment he expected a voice to come out of the darkness.
Nothing came.
The door was wide open, and Mannering stepped through into the stone passage. There was no carpet on the floors, and the least sound echoed eerily round the heavy granite walls.
Mannering slipped the key of the door into his pocket, and glanced up at the bolts. There were three, each screwed into the oak. The way out when he had finished must be straightforward all the way, so he unscrewed the bolts, and put them close against the wall.
Now he could afford to look round.
The thrill of being in here was tremendous. He was within a couple of yards of the keep door, a massive thing of wrought iron, and within three yards of Didcotte’s jewels.
What was his best plan? To start on the door, or look about the passage?
He determined on the latter quickly, and pressed himself against the wall of the keep, flattening his hands and going along crab-fashion. He had moved five yards when very clearly came a muffled sneeze!
Mannering was creeping towards the light, and his gas-pistol was outstretched. He went along inches at a time until suddenly he caught a glimpse of a man.
He was sitting with his back to the keep wall, facing two of the doors into the passage. His white handkerchief fluttered and he was trumpeting like a sick elephant. Mannering’s eyes glinted as he jumped forward.
His gas-pistol was ready, the job looked easy, but at the last moment his plans went awry.
The man turned. For a second he stared in stupefaction at the Baron. Then his right hand flashed towards his pocket, and he dodged to one side. The gas hissed out, passing his head, and Mannering knew he was within an ace of being shot. He went straight forward, crashing his right fist into the man’s stomach. The gun, half out of the guard’s pocket, flew from his hands as he staggered back.
Mannering dived for the gun, caught it a couple of inches from the floor and straightened up. If the gun had hit the floor it would almost certainly have gone off. The sound of a shot in that confined space would have echoed throughout the ground floor and upstairs.
The guard was recovering from that blow in the stomach. He had banged against the wall and staggered back. Now he lurched forward. It was impossible to use the gas-pistol. Mannering clenched his fist and drove it into the guard’s face. The man gasped and thudded into the wall again. His head gave a sickening thud and he sank down.
Behind his mask Mannering’s expression was very tense.
He took some adhesive tape from his kit and stuck up the man’s lips. Thin cord bound his ankles and wrists. Mannering made sure he was not seriously hurt, and straightened up.
Now there was only one guard left – unless Didcotte had lied. Mannering turned towards the keep door. Suddenly he snapped his fingers and made a complete turn-about, for the guard might have keys.
He bent over the man and went through his pockets. His fingers hit against cold metal. He drew the thing out and stared down at the key in his hand hardly able to believe his eyes.
The key?
The Baron swung round again and reached the keep door. He slipped the key in silently, for the lock was well-oiled, and turned. The lock went back!
The Baron came nearer to laughing aloud than he had done all the night. He pushed the door open a couple of inches.
And his inclination to chuckle disappeared, for there was a brilliant light inside the keep: and something else.
Crack!
The shot came with a devastating suddenness, smashing against the door. Mannering caught a glimpse of a tall, bulky man with a gun in his hand, standing by the wall. He pulled the door to with a crash as the second shot came.
The door was still quivering, and the guard could not have moved two yards when Mannering flung it open again. As he did so he bent double. A third bullet whistled past.
Mannering threw his pistol as he charged.
It was the last thing the guard expected, and the aim was good. The guard dodged to one side, a bullet wasted itself in the floor, and next moment Mannering was on his man.
They met with a thud and both went down, the guard rolling, kicking, swearing, the Baron fighting to get at his gun hand. Twice the man jerked it away; twice Mannering grabbed his wrist again and bent it backward.
They were fighting desperately, evenly matched for strength, but Mannering was pressing hard against his opponent’s body. The man was trying to knee him, but Mannering’s pressure was remorseless. Slowly the man’s right wrist went back, the fingers loosened.
The guard was gasping with pain, but Didcotte had known what he was about when he had engaged Speel. But that dreadful pressure was unbearable; Speel felt as if his wrist would crack. Suddenly he let go, and the automatic dropped to the floor.
Mannering drew his left arm back and jabbed his fist to Speel’s jaw.
Nine men out of ten could not have connected as suddenly in that cramped position. Mannering had all the Mendor Club training and the experience of a dozen rough houses behind him. Speel’s head jerked back. He grunted once, and his eyes rolled. Mannering had no need to ask himself whether the other was feigning unconsciousness or not.
He stood up slowly, breathing hard, and for a moment his brain whirled. He rested against the wall until his head grew easier.
He looked about him and saw the safe in the wall, and knew that it could be opened in a few seconds with gelignite – he could afford to use explosives now. He started to work, but before he lit a thirty-second fuse he drew Speel’s unconscious body to one corner, and crouched down himself. The seconds seemed to drag, but the boom of the explosion came at last. There was a flash of yellow flame, a billow of smoke, an acrid smell in the Baron’s nostrils. But as the smoke cleared away he saw the safe door hanging open.
Had Didcotte told the truth? Were the jewels there?
Mannering knew the answer ten seconds la
ter – when a world of beauty lay before him. He had never dreamed there would be such a collection. Diamonds, rubies and sapphires in profusion, pendants and tiaras, necklets and bracelets, brooches and rings! There must be half-a-million pounds’ worth.
He stared at the glittering array for a long time, hardly able to believe his eyes. In the bright light of the electric lamp in the ceiling, he saw that every one of them was a genuine stone.
He laughed aloud as he began to stuff the jewels in his capacious pocket. The safe was cleared in less than a minute, and the Baron turned round.
And then he stared, transfixed.
There was a man in the doorway, a youngster little more than twenty, very much like Jonathan Didcotte, but without that man’s broken nose. His clear eyes were narrowed, his lips set. He spoke between them, and the gun in his right hand spoke with him.
‘Put your hands over your head. Take off your mask, first.’
Chapter Fourteen
THE WORD OF JONATHAN DIDCOTTE
The Baron put his hands up very slowly.
It was the only thing to do; but as he stared at the fresh-faced youngster his mind was working quickly, and he was estimating his chances of making a rush. That the other was young had its advantages, but he was looking very grim, and the gun in his hand did not waver.
‘The mask. Didn’t you hear me?’
‘Sorry,’ said Mannering, and actually chuckled, to the youngster’s surprise. ‘Yes, I heard, but I’m not obliging you.’
‘Have you ever been shot?’ enquired the youngster, whose American accent was quite distinguishable.
‘Yes – in circumstances very much like these. I got away.’
Young Didcotte’s lips parted in a reluctant smile.
‘Maybe you did, but you won’t get away this time.’
‘Maybe I won’t,’ said the Baron. He stared at the youngster, his arms were still stretched above his head; young Didcotte had no idea of the way his heart was thumping, his blood racing, his mind searching desperately for a way of escape. The Baron was afraid of the outcome of this, yet he looked cool and his voice sounded casual.
‘You’d better be sensible,’ said the other. ‘I don’t like shooting a defenceless man.’
‘Have you seen the wreckage tonight?’
‘Yes.’ Didcotte snapped the word. ‘Now, that’s enough talk. Take off your mask.’
Mannering began to see a way out although he would need luck to use it – luck and a belief in young Didcotte being cast in his father’s mould. He had a job to keep his voice steady, but his eyes still smiled.
‘Didcotte, I know your father . . .’
‘That makes you even more of a heel.’
‘In a way, perhaps. Supposing I tell you that he knew I was coming?’
For the first time Guy Didcotte smiled as if he meant it.
‘I know he did. He telephoned to Speel and warned him.’
‘Did he mention names?’
‘He just told him to be careful.’
‘That’s why you’re up and about?’
‘I came home unexpectedly this afternoon,’ added Guy, with a grin. ‘I didn’t expect to have this kind of fun. But stop gabbing, and take that mask off.’
‘Will you make a promise if I take the mask off?’ asked Mannering mildly.
‘No!’
‘Simply promise to consult your father before sending for the police.’
For a moment Guy Didcotte hesitated. His tone was uncertain when he did answer, as if this was more than he had bargained for.
‘I phoned the police at Guildford when I found Halloran knocked out upstairs. I . . .’
‘Did you, by God!’ snapped the Baron, and he chose that moment to take a desperate chance.
The realisation that the police were coming, the knowledge that his chances of escape were negligible, made him fling caution and badinage to the winds.
Didcotte saw him coming and touched the trigger of his gun, but Mannering swerved to the right and the bullet hummed past. Before the second came, he found Didcotte’s stomach with a straight left. The lad’s chin jerked up and connected with Mannering’s right fist. Didcotte slumped down; it was over as quickly as that.
The Baron raced through the open door of the keep, towards the door that led to the library. The door opened easily, and he leaped up the stone stairs, through the passage, into the library, with the door gaping open.
The window was still wide open. Mannering climbed out of it, dropped on to the soft turf and sprinted for the wall, unwinding the rope at his waist as he went. His breath was coming in quick, short gasps, and it was all he could do to hurl the rope up. It failed to catch the first time.
He tried again, and the hook gripped, but he was slower getting to the top of the wall. He did not wait to unhook the rope, but lowered himself quickly. He fell as he reached the ground and rolled over, breathless.
He reached his feet again, staggering towards his car. His sense of direction was good, and at last he reached the Lea-Francis, his legs so weary that they would hardly carry him. He took a sip from a whisky flask before starting the engine. It ticked over and the car moved across bumpy ground towards the road. The Baron turned left, knowing that he had to drive for half a mile along a narrow lane. He reached the main road without meeting a soul, breathing more easily and telling himself that he could still get through. But he knew that every car the police met would be stopped, and the jewels were like burning coals in his pockets.
He turned left towards London at the junction with the main road, and the speedometer needle touched seventy. He dared not go far at that speed, and he felt his heart turn over when for the first time he saw the broad beams of a car’s headlights, perhaps a mile in front of him.
The police?
There was a good chance of that, so he decided to swing off the road at the first opportunity.
There was a narrow lane a hundred yards farther on, and Mannering backed into it. He switched off the lights and waited at the wheel of the car, while the headlights of the oncomer spread a white glow about the countryside.
Now he could hear the powerful engine. He waited on tenterhooks. If it was a police car he was all right for the time being.
Then he gasped, for a car flashed by in the opposite direction, using only its wing-lights! He caught a glimpse of peak-capped men, and knew that the hunt was on!
He heard the big car stop less than a hundred yards away from the lane. Desperately anxious to do something, he left the Lea-Francis and crept to the corner.
In the headlights of the big car he saw three men, two in uniform, one in evening dress. He could hear the mutter of their voices, but could catch none of the words. Suddenly the man in evening dress turned, and Mannering saw him clearly.
Didcotte on his way back from London!
On that instant, Mannering reached a decision. He knew that when the police learned of the violence at The Towers and the size of the robbery they would have every available man scouring the neighbourhood. The chances of a getaway now were a thousand to one against the Baron.
The policemen saluted and climbed back into their car. Mannering hear the engine start and saw the red tail-light move before Didcotte’s car started again. It travelled slowly at first, giving Mannering the only chance there was.
He stepped out into the road in front of the car, waving his arms. If there was a chauffeur, the chance was lost already.
Didcotte was alone.
The American pulled up frowning until suddenly he recognised Mannering, and he looked astounded. The car jolted to a standstill, and for a few seconds Didcotte gaped. As Mannering drew up to the window the American gulped: ‘Mannering!’
‘The job’s done,’ Mannering said. ‘And the police are on the trail.’
&
nbsp; ‘You’ve actually been to The Towers?’ Didcotte’s voice was hoarse. ‘They said there’d been a robbery, but I couldn’t believe it was you.’
‘But for the unknown factor, your son. I’d be clear away. And so . . .’
‘And so what?’ asked Jonathan Didcotte.
‘In my opinion I’ve won that wager,’ said Mannering. ‘I’ve been in, and I’ve come out. If you doubt it . . .’
He slipped his hand into his pocket as he spoke and drew out the first jewel that came into his hand. It sparkled like a living fire in the side-lights of the big car.
‘So what?’ repeated Didcotte, as if he hadn’t heard a word.
‘I think it would be a good idea,’ Mannering went on. ‘if you took me back to The Towers as an expected guest, don’t you?’
He waited on tenterhooks, wondering whether he should have taken his chance with the police. He had just robbed the man of a fortune, and now he was asking for his help!
‘Er—Mannering,’ said Jonathan Didcotte. He opened the car door and got out. ‘I didn’t know Guy would be home. You haven’t hurt him, have you?’
‘No.’
‘Come back and stay the night,’ invited Jonathan Didcotte.
‘He was a man about your build, Mr. Mannering, but not so tall,’ said Guy Didcotte excitedly. ‘Does he pack his punch!’
‘He certainly found one for you,’ conceded Mannering.
‘You’d better go up to bed,’ said Jonathan Didcotte easily. ‘I’m going now. We can’t do anything more; the police are searching the countryside, and Speel’s all right, you say, as well as the others?’
‘They’re all right, but Speel’s pretty mad,’ said Guy Didcotte.
