by John Creasey
The window shed a dim glow about the ground, and Mannering could just make out Ward’s head and shoulders. He crept nearer, prepared for sudden discovery, but Ward was cramped and a little tired.
Mannering was less than a yard away at last, and he stretched out his hand.
Ward felt something brush against his shoulder, swung round in alarm, and then felt a hand over his mouth, preventing him from crying out. More than a hand: something sticky, something that he could not move. All the time his right wrist was gripped in a hand that had the strength of a vice.
Mannering withdrew his right hand at last, and Ward tried in vain to free his lips from a broad piece of adhesive plaster. He struggled, but he was smaller than Mannering and in nothing like such good trim. Mannering made no sound, and only the thudding of their feet on the ground disturbed the silence.
Mannering had been prepared for trouble, and he used the same method when he could. Ward, still struggling, felt his wrists pressed together, and then a pair of police handcuffs snapped. Mannering swept him off his feet, prevented him from hitting the ground too hard, and bound cord about his ankles.
In less than five minutes the man from the Yard was lying in the laurel bushes, helpless and unable to move. Mannering was so preoccupied that he forgot the ditch outside the drive gates, stumbled, and just managed to save himself from a ducking. The ditch was narrow but deep, and the water flowed along it swiftly. Half a mile away it ran into a small loch, and then flowed into the river.
‘My luck’s still in,’ Mannering said aloud. ‘Now for The Lodge and Colonel Moore.’
He had decided to walk, for a car on those lonely moors would not be a great deal of help. Half an hour’s steady walking brought him to The Lodge gates. He opened them and walked through, leaving them open in case of need for a sudden get-away.
Old Menzies, who had sounded anything but dangerous, and the two agency men had to be coped with now.
The agency men puzzled Mannering.
He hardly knew why, but he had not believed Moore when the man said he had brought them specially from London because of the show. On the other hand, the explanation was reasonable enough. But there was something shifty about Colonel Moore, and Mannering was beginning to wonder whether the affair was going to be as easy as he had thought.
Was it possible that Moore had his suspicions, that the affability had been false, that a trap was set?
The Baron was feeling fidgety now, as he always did before a job. The silence seemed more remote here, the loneliness of The Lodge seemed accentuated; and now a light wind was springing up, whining through the trees, hissing through the long grass and the heather.
Ahead of him The Lodge loomed dark against the starlit sky. A tall tree was waving gently, topping the house by a few feet and moving there like a watchful sentinel. Imagination, Mannering knew, but he was on edge, ready for trouble at any moment, suspicious even of the silence. Moore was of the type who could hardly tell the truth if he wanted to.
As he drew nearer the house the Baron walked on the grass verge. He was less than twenty yards away when he heard the first rustle of sound. A man was walking towards him along the drive, going carefully so as not to make much noise on the gravel.
Mannering hugged the shadows of some trees and waited. The approaching man would have to pass within six feet of him. If he decided to get on the verge he would pass within a few inches of the Baron.
Mannering waited breathlessly. The footsteps, breaking clearly through the silence, came nearer. It was not pitch-dark, and Mannering could just make out the white oval of the man’s face.
The Baron’s body went suddenly rigid.
Detective-Superintendent Bristow was walking along the drive!
So Bristow was here, in Forfarshire.
The ‘agency men’ came from Scotland Yard; it was not too risky to jump to that conclusion. Either Moore had lied by habit, or he suspected Mannering. Bristow might even have asked for his co-operation. The sounds of Bristow’s footfalls dropped away, although the vague shape of the detective was clear enough against the background of stars and sky.
Mannering told himself he was a fool, a hundred times a fool, not to give up the attempt. But the Baron had never started a raid without trying to finish it. Bristow or no Bristow, he would not back out now. He found a window next to the porch, a large window close to the ground and apparently easy to open. It was easy; but on the other side the burglary alarm would be prepared, ready to waken the household with its clamour once the thief was through.
Mannering turned away quickly. The window would be all right for the entry later on. The weak spot in Moore’s impregnable strong-room was the next thing to worry about.
There was enough light from the stars, and he did not need his torch. Keeping to the grass, he reached the rear of The Lodge and saw the big shed where the generating plant was housed. He could make out the door, the shape of the roof and the light inside.
If there was a light there would be someone using it!
Mannering went on tiptoe now, hardly daring to breathe. He expected to meet Menzies; he was half afraid of meeting dogs. But he met neither, although he had another shock. He should have expected it, but for some reason the likelihood of it hadn’t occurred to him.
A low-powered light was burning in the dull yellow inside the shed, and on a stiff-backed chair a man was sitting with a gun in his hand, staring towards the door.
Mannering stopped dead still by the door, peering round it, yet making sure the man could not see him.
It was Detective Sergeant Tanker Tring, and he looked like business!
The weak spot was known by the police all right, and Mannering’s heart was racing!
The strong-room doors were controlled by electricity. Without electricity they would be useless, and although the wires and cables might lead underground, the supply was here. Put the plant out of action, and he could do what he liked inside the strong-room.
But Moore, Bristow and Tring knew that, so Tring was sitting here, a Tring who would shoot at the sight of a masked stranger.
Mannering stooped down and picked up a pebble. He could just see Tring, and he knew enough of the policeman’s habits to guess what would happen next. He tossed the pebble through the open door, and heard it hit against the wall behind the sergeant. It had the desired effect. Tring jumped out of his chair and swung towards the wall from where the sound had come. As he turned the Baron leaped through the open door, his gas-pistol ready. Tring heard him and swung round, but he had no time even to touch the trigger of his gun, for he met a charge of ether-gas which sent him swaying backward, coughing as he went.
The Baron grabbed the other’s gun to stop it clattering, and then lowered Tring gently to the ground. The man was right out, and for some time yet he would be useless, while the Baron could do what he liked with the generating plant.
It took him three minutes to find the control switch and disconnect it. The yellow light in the shed went out immediately, and there was no power at all in the house – the strong-room was far from impregnable.
But if Bristow and Tring were in the grounds there was no knowing what other guards would be inside.
Chapter Eighteen
SENSATION!
Mannering’s awareness of danger was stronger than he had ever experienced before, and he was strongly tempted not to go on.
But he would not turn back now.
Why had Bristow been going out of the grounds?
‘Forget it!’ Mannering muttered. He hurried to the front of the house again. The window he had selected was easy to force. A small screwdriver set back the catch, and he was able to open it without trouble. He groped down the sides in the darkness for the alarm wires and found them.
As the window had moved upward the wires had been pulled, and if the current had been running the alarm
would have awakened the household. Everything was working out as Mannering had expected. He moved across to the door quickly, walked through the wide hall to the library, his footsteps deadened by thick carpet. The place was in total darkness; even if there had been a light burning by the strong-room door it had been cut off now.
Mannering stood in the threshold and held his breath. He heard nothing. He went forward slowly, hand outstretched, and touched the strong-room door.
There was a supplementary lock, but it was of a conventional type, and a pick-lock soon forced it back. Mannering pulled at the door of the strong-room, and it opened without a protesting squeak. He was in!
He used his flat torch, shining it over the scintillating beauties on the tables. The collection, ready for the show on the following day, the unpleasant Colonel’s pride. Mannering was breathing hard through his nose. He wanted to take the smaller, more easily disposed of gems; it would be madness to try and take them all. The small ones were his, and he collected them quickly, hardly noticing whether they were diamonds or pearls, rubies or emeralds.
He filled his pockets quickly. The sharp facets of the stones pressed against the rubber fingertips as he hurried. Yet with all the success that feeling of panic, close to him all the time, was stronger than ever. This could not last; it had been too easy.
He turned round, his sense of direction as sure as ever, and found himself in the hall, then the room through which he had entered. The window was still up, and no sound came from inside or outside.
Mannering stepped through cautiously, carrying his gas-pistol in his right hand; his left was clenched. The only sound was of the increasing force of the wind. He reached the grass verge of the drive and hurried, more careless than he should have been, and reached the gates. There was no sign of the guard, nor of Bristow. It had all the appearances of a trap, and he was still on edge.
The walk across the moors in the whining darkness did nothing to allay his fears. He was well away from The Lodge, he had roused no one but the hapless Tanker Tring – and yet he was not happy.
He was frowning as he reached Fauntley’s house. The obvious thing to do was to go in the back way, as he had come. He hardly knew what prompted him, but he decided to look round before he did so; and when he came to the drive gates he recognised Bristow’s black Austin car a few yards away.
The front rooms of the house were lighted, although the blinds were drawn!
The premonition had been justified right enough. Bristow was waiting for the Baron to return with the proceeds. A dozen thoughts flashed through the Baron’s mind, and the first was Bristow’s apparent carelessness. Only Tring had come with him from London, and Ward had come on ahead. But why would Bristow think three were enough? He had used five men at Putney.
Mannering walked softly, keeping twenty yards from the fence surrounding the house. He went more slowly towards the car. As he moved he caught a glimpse of a man’s head and shoulders, not thirty yards away.
He stopped dead still, his heart thumping. He stared right and left, thankful for the dim light of the stars. Now a second figure materialised. A third . . .
Bristow had brought a strong force, determined Mannering should not get away once he was at the house. The Lodge had been a trap. And now, although the fence and hedges were peopled, the car itself was empty and unattended. Had Mannering not seen Bristow and recognised Tring he would not have had the slightest suspicion.
He could not even be sure that he had not been seen. The men would be waiting for him to walk into the trap.
The stones in his pockets were like hot coals. He ground his heel into the turf with a futile, furious rage against himself. If he turned and tried a getaway the risk was great. If he went on . . .
He took a false step, felt the ground giving way and pulled himself back abruptly. The damp turf gave no sound, but the sudden drop gave Mannering an idea. There was the ditch along the side of the road, with water over a foot deep and running fast.
And nearby was a manhole with a grille top!
His eyes were bright as he unloosened the kit from about his waist and placed it gently on the ground. The manhole cover was easy to lift, and he dropped the kit into the hole. There was hardly a sound. One at a time, he dropped the gems in. The moss-covered bricks at the side of the hole deadened the noise of their fall, there was not even a splash as they went in.
Mannering was telling himself now that there was a chance of escape. Even if the jewels were found there by the police, they would not be able to prove who put them there.
He screwed the blue silk scarf, mark of the Baron, into a tiny ball about two of the gems and let that follow the others. Then he straightened up and began to walk away from the house. Twice he glanced behind him, each time seeing one of the watchers. He bent down, and lit a match. As it flared, Mannering jerked an exclamation and muttered, ‘Got it!’
He straightened up to find himself looking into the eyes of a plain-clothes man whose voice was very hard.
‘What have you found, sir?’
Mannering literally jumped.
‘You startled me!’
‘Sorry, sir.’ The man, taken aback by Mannering’s obvious surprise, had no idea how Mannering’s heart was thumping. ‘What were you saying?’
‘I’d dropped my fountain pen, and I’ve found it.’ He showed the pen, and looked into the man’s eyes. ‘But who the devil are you?’
‘The police, sir. Are you Mr. Mannering?’
‘The police?’ Mannering frowned, but the following laugh was louder and more genuine. ‘Don’t tell me Bristow is in this part of the world?’
‘The Superintendent is waiting to interview you, sir.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said Mannering.
He was smiling widely when he reached the front door of the house. It was opened by a manservant. The library door was open, and Lorna was standing near. She looked tensely at Mannering, and his expression gave her courage.
‘Hallo, darling, back already?’
‘Yes.’ Mannering entered the room with his arm round her waist.
‘Hallo, Bill,’ he said. ‘What’s brought you north?’
According to his lights, Bristow was a fair man, and Lady Fauntley, in a heavy quilted dressing-gown, was sitting in an easy chair. As Mannering entered she jumped up.
‘John, the Superintendent says you might help him – he’s got such a lot of questions to ask. I told him you often went out for a walk at night, but he decided to wait. I do hope you’ll be able to do something. Apparently there’s a thief about. I . . .’
‘I’ll certainly try,’ said Mannering, as Lady Fauntley paused for breath. ‘But aren’t you cold?’
‘Well, yes, but it doesn’t matter, and I . . .’
‘You go to bed,’ said Mannering cheerfully. ‘That is, unless the Superintendent thinks you can help?’
‘There’s no need for Lady Fauntley to wait,’ said Bristow stiffly. He was in pale grey, his eyes were tired, but his moustache was newly clipped and his gardenia was fresh.
Lady Fauntley’s bright eyes searched Bristow’s face and then Mannering’s.
‘All right, all right, John. Lorna, you’ll come up?’
‘Shall I be in the way?’ Lorna asked, and Mannering said ‘No’ quickly. They watched Lady Fauntley leave the room, Mannering wondering whether she knew more about him than she professed.
But the door closed, and Bristow was looking bleak.
Mannering got in first. ‘Thanks, Bill.’
‘Where have you been?’ Bristow demanded.
‘For a walk.’
‘Do you always go out at one o’clock?’
‘I went out at twelve. Didn’t Lady Fauntley say so?’
‘You’ve been to The Lodge, you mean, and—ah!’
The telephone i
n the room burred out. Bristow stepped towards it quickly and picked up the receiver. Mannering and Lorna drew close. Mannering dared not say much, but he managed to whisper, ‘Down the manhole outside.’
She nodded, her eyes suddenly bright. Bristow was eyeing them suspiciously, but he was smiling now. He grunted once or twice into the telephone and then banged it down.
‘I’ve got you,’ he said quietly. ‘That was Colonel Moore. The Lodge has been burgled, and the Baron’s gas-pistol was used on Tring. I knew you would use that thing once too often!’
Mannering smiled. He was playing hard now, with the only weapon he had left – bluff.
‘You’re mixing me up again.’
‘Oh, am I,’ growled Bristow. ‘We’ll see. How about turning out your pockets.’
Mannering’s expression hardened. He managed to suggest alarm enough to make Bristow smile.
‘I certainly will not.’
‘If you won’t, you’ll be forcibly searched.’
‘Where’s your warrant?’ Mannering demanded coldly.
‘I don’t need one in order to arrest you on suspicion.’
‘Of what?’
‘Breaking and entering The Lodge, and stealing precious stones,’ said Bristow. ‘There’s no way out.’
Mannering shrugged his shoulders and grudgingly took his coat off. Bristow snatched it and ran through the pockets and the seams. The policeman’s expression darkened; he glowered at Mannering and then glanced at Lorna.
‘Will you go out for a moment, please?’
‘I’ll turn my back,’ smiled Lorna.
She turned again, three minutes later, to see Mannering smiling and Bristow red in the face. Mannering’s voice was very gentle.
‘Now I wonder why you thought I’d been to The Lodge, Superintendent. You should be more careful, even if you are a Yard man.’
‘Did you see him as he approached the house?’ Bristow asked the man who had brought Mannering in.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Anything unusual?’
