by John Creasey
One moment he was completely free from fear; the next, terror leapt to his heart, to his throat. The front of the huge vehicle towered crushingly above him; if it struck it would demolish the little car and hurl him to death.
He swung the wheel to the left, in desperation.
He saw the lorry loom up like a monster, but its front wheels passed him; he still had a chance.
Then the lorry caught the back of the Mini and spun it round in wild gyrations. A door flew open and he was flung on to the thick grass of the verge. Pieces of the car flew past him; something smacked into the ground only inches from his head.
The roar of the lorry’s engine, menacing, inexorable, screamed a warning to his ear.
Chapter Twelve
Threat of Death
The shock of realisation made Mannering sharply, fearfully, alert. He lay on his side, body quivering, facing the road, and now he could see the lorry coming towards him, could even make out the head and shoulders of the driver although he could not discern the features. He drew in his breath and straightened his arms and legs; there was only one hope, that he could roll out of the way of the oncoming wheels. Subconsciously, he realised that if he began to move too soon, the driver could change direction, and, teeth gritted, he waited for the wheels to mount the verge.
Then he rolled towards the right.
Once again he heard the roar of the engine, the scream of the merciless wheels as they skidded on the damp grass, then felt himself sliding downwards, out of control; he was in a ditch. He thudded to the bottom and lay spread-eagled on his back, seeing leaves and the branches of trees vivid against the sky. He grew tense, fearful that the machine of death would loom over the edge and come rushing down. The shadow of one gigantic wheel touched him. He half turned again, but there was nothing he could do, no way he could escape.
The shadow disappeared. The engine snarling a retreat.
He lay still, becoming as one with his surroundings, as a wild animal attempts to foil pursuit. Suddenly, a man appeared at the top of the ditch, in a strangely foreshortened view, his face shadowed and round, his glasses like lamps.
‘Here he is!’ he called.
A woman appeared by his side, hair frizzed to a ginger halo.
‘Is he hurt?’
‘His eyes are open.’
‘There’s blood on his forehead.’
‘Go and stop the next car,’ the man urged. ‘I’ll get down to him.’
The woman disappeared, and the man put one foot cautiously over the edge, arms stretched out to balance himself.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked anxiously.
Mannering muttered an incoherent answer.
‘Don’t move!’ The man was level with him now. ‘I know a bit about first aid, let’s see if there’re any bones broken.’ He ran his hands up and down Mannering’s arms and legs and then about his back and chest. ‘Doesn’t seem to be any trouble. Think you can get up? Let me give you a hand—watch it now, easy does it.’
Mannering, grunting, stumbled to his feet. He was dizzy, and swayed to one side; the man grabbed him.
‘Take your time, then. No hurry.’
‘You—you’re very good.’
‘Oh, nonsense. Can you manage? Someone else will soon be along.’
‘I’ll be okay.’ Except that his left shoulder hurt, Mannering could manage well enough. Supported by his rescuer, he reached the top of the ditch.
Fifty yards away, on its roof and with the rear crushed in and the windscreen and windows shattered, lay the red Mini. Nearer, parked off the road, was a white Rover. Legs firmly planted, the ginger-haired woman was waving down an approaching car. It slowed. Mannering felt a trickle on his right eye and wiped it with the back of his hand; blood dripped from his fingers.
He swayed again.
He heard the man say: ‘Quicker we get you to hospital the better.’
Voices and figures surrounded him. But there was no sign of the lorry except the marks of its wheels where it had scarred the soft ground, and where it could so easily have killed him.
‘There you are, sir. Is that easier?’ A Jamaican nurse stood back and examined the patch of plaster on Mannering’s forehead.
‘Much easier,’ Mannering said gratefully.
‘And your shoulder?’
‘Tender but movable,’ answered Mannering.
‘You were very lucky to get away with it as well as you did, sir.’
‘Believe me, I know it,’ Mannering said with feeling.
He walked out of the casualty ward at the Salisbury Infirmary, smiled on by the nurse and by an elderly woman coming towards the ward. Stepping into the small courtyard where cars and an ambulance were parked, he saw a police car in one corner, two policemen sitting at the front. The one in the driving seat got out and approached him.
‘Mr. Mannering?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Police Sergeant Webster, sir. I’d be very grateful if you’d come up to the station for a few minutes.’
‘What time is it?’ asked Mannering.
‘Half-past five, sir.’
‘I’m due to see Dr. Ignatzi at six o’clock, and I’d like to look in at a shop called The Kettle on the way.’
‘The shop will be closed,’ the sergeant said. ‘We’ll see you’re in good time for your appointment with Dr. Ignatzi.’
‘In that case—’ Mannering shrugged.
The police station, new and bare-looking, stood well back from a main road. The sergeant drove him to the front entrance, and the other man took him inside to an office more like a hospital than the hospital from which Mannering had just come. A big, raw-boned man in uniform, with an inspector’s stars on his shoulders, was sitting at a desk.
‘Mr. Mannering,’ said the policeman.
‘Oh, yes.’ The other man stood up. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Fishlock, Mr. Mannering.’ He shook hands, while looking searchingly at the plaster on Mannering’s forehead. ‘Please sit down.’ The door closed on the policeman. ‘You seem to have been very lucky, sir.’
‘Meaning, I ought to be dead.’
‘You might well have been.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, of Gloucester, saw your car by the side of the road, and stopped,’ Fishlock told him. ‘They made a statement after seeing you to the Infirmary.’
‘Do you have their address? I’d like to thank them.’
‘I’ll see you get it, sir. They reported seeing a lorry driving in the vicinity of the accident at what they described as a “crazy speed”. Were you struck by a lorry?’
Mannering hesitated.
Fishlock had very clear, very direct, grey eyes, and good, weathered features. He kept remarkably still as he talked, only his lips moving. The pause lengthened but he did not prompt Mannering, who finally made up his mind that there was a limit to what he could withhold from the police.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was attempted murder.’
Fishlock showed no change of expression. ‘In your opinion, a deliberate attempt to run you down?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see the driver?’
‘Not well enough to distinguish his features.’
‘I see, sir. What makes you think it was deliberate, and that it wasn’t simply a case of the driver losing control?’
‘A vehicle out of control is obviously out of control,’ Mannering said. ‘The marks on the grass are a clear indication that this one was not. There is also the fact that the driver didn’t stop.’
‘I see.’ Fishlock was over-formal. ‘We’ve been to the scene of the incident, sir, and taken measurements and photographs.’
‘Did you examine my car?’
‘The Mini, you mean? Yes, sir.’
&nbs
p; ‘There were two pictures in it,’ Mannering said. ‘I was taking them to a dealer.’
‘No pictures were found, sir.’
‘Have you found the lorry?’ asked Mannering.
‘Yes. It had been stolen from a quarry, a few miles along the road.’
‘The driver?’
Chief Inspector Fishlock frowned. ‘No trace of him, sir, and no fingerprints on the steering wheel. Why should anyone wish to run you down?’ he added. When Mannering didn’t answer, he went on: ‘Could it be anything to do with these, sir?’ He leaned back and took a package from the wall behind him – a package containing seven canvases, each flattened out, each with paper over the painted surface. He removed the paper from the top canvas and placed it on his desk.
It appeared to be identical with the Vermeer which hung in the north gallery at Nether Manor. Mannering studied it without expression, and then asked: ‘Is this one of the paintings I sent here with the taxi driver?’
‘Don’t you know, sir?’ Fishlock allowed himself to sound sceptical.
Mannering flashed a smile.
‘No, Inspector.’
‘But you gave them to the taxi driver!’
‘Yes, I did. Do you want to hear the whole story?’ Mannering asked.
‘In the form of a statement, sir?’
‘If you want to have it taken down, I don’t mind,’ Mannering assured him.
‘Would you object if the statement were taped?’
‘It might be a very good idea,’ Mannering said.
Fishlock lifted a tape-recorder from his desk, plugged it into a point behind him and then switched on. The spools began to turn at once.
Mannering said clearly: ‘Yesterday morning I received a letter from a Mrs. Eliza Doze stating that she thought some pictures in her attic might be valuable, but that she did not want to tell local dealers. Such finds are rare. I thought it worth coming to see for myself, particularly as knowledge of them had also reached a local dealer.’
Fishlock nodded.
‘Before I reached Mrs. Doze she had been attacked and taken to hospital. I went into her cottage to look for the pictures and found a man in the attic. He had those.’ Mannering pointed. ‘I took them from him and put him in my taxi, but there was a lot of excitement because the cottage suddenly went up in flames, and he got away. I sent the paintings here, for safe keeping, and spent the night at Nether Manor.’
‘Were you going there, sir, in any case?’
‘No. Miss Joanna Cunliffe invited me when she realised that I had nowhere to stay. And I was so intrigued by what had happened that I preferred to stay in the neighbourhood.’
‘And while you were at the Manor, the young lady herself was attacked,’ Fishlock said.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see the assault, sir?’
‘I saw her immediately after it; her screams roused the entire household, but I didn’t see who attacked her. I inquired at the hospital and was told she was still under sedation.’
‘So I understand, sir. Why didn’t you tell us the truth about the paintings last night?’
‘Seemed a little too involved to explain over the telephone. They were in your possession and could hardly be safer. I would have come to see you. In fact,’ added Mannering, ‘I was on the way when attacked by the lorry.’
‘Which leads me to a question I asked earlier, sir. Why do you think the attack was made on you?’
Mannering shrugged. ‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’
‘No, sir, not if you don’t know.’ Fishlock allowed doubt to hang in the air. ‘But have you told us everything you do know? Did you, for instance, come here solely to see Eliza Doze?’
‘Yes, Inspector, I did.’
‘You hadn’t been invited by anyone else?’
‘No, only by Mrs. Doze.’ Mannering looked at his watch. ‘I’ve an appointment with Dr. Ignatzi at six o’clock, Inspector—it’s ten to six now, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Chief Inspector Fishlock hesitated, then leaned back. ‘I understand you also wanted to see the owner of The Kettle, an antique shop here.’
‘Yes. He was the local dealer I mentioned.’
‘Do you know how he came to hear about the paintings at the cottage?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’d hoped to find out.’
‘Mr. Mannering,’ said Chief Inspector Fishlock, ‘we’re not unaware of your reputation and of the fact that the Metropolitan Police have often been grateful for your help. We know that in your particular business you have to be very discreet, but may we rely on you to tell us anything—anything,’ repeated Fishlock emphatically, ‘you feel we ought to know?’
‘Anything I feel you ought to know,’ murmured Mannering. ‘You certainly may, Inspector,’ he added blandly.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Will you hold those paintings and tell no one about them?’
Fishlock gave a faint smile.
‘You can rely on us too, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mannering. ‘Did you know that Jenkins of The Kettle had a police record?’
‘Yes,’ Fishlock answered flatly. He pressed a bell, and almost at once the door opened and the policeman appeared.
‘Take Mr. Mannering to Dr. Ignatzi’s house, will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Five minutes later, Mannering was sitting next to the driver as they drove along streets of houses and shops, some old, some new, then past the cathedral, its stately spire austerely rising against a foreground of trees and sweeping lawns. Within the Cathedral Close the world of bustle and business and crime seemed to fade away; there was a hush, even a sense of sanctity, in the beauty of the Georgian and Elizabethan houses which flanked it.
Dr. Ignatzi lived in a house the front of which overlooked the cathedral. The door was opened by a plump, bright-eyed woman who obviously recognised Mannering; she noted his injured forehead, but made no comment.
‘Good evening, Mr. Mannering. My husband is back. Please come in.’
She led the way to a room at the front of the house. Ignatzi was standing by the window looking at the cathedral through a bower of bush roses. He looked pale and tired.
‘Good evening, Mr. Mannering … What will you have? … A whisky and soda with that head? … I’d settle for sherry, if I were you …’ He talked briskly, conversationally, until they were both seated in chintz-covered armchairs; then Dr. Ignatzi lowered his glass sharply. ‘When you sent for me, did you realise that Joanna Cunliffe had been given morphia?’
‘Yes. The pinpoint pupils gave that away.’
‘It was a good job you discovered it,’ Ignatzi said. ‘If she’d been much later at the hospital, she might have been very ill indeed. She took morphia by mouth, Mannering. Either she recovered well enough to try to commit suicide, or an attempt was made to murder her. Had you realised that?’
Chapter Thirteen
Attempted Murder?
Mannering stood up and moved towards the window, looking out at the cathedral spire. It seemed wrong to be talking of violence and of murder here. A group of children were walking diagonally across the lawns, passing beneath a cedar of Lebanon whose branches swept the ground.
‘I know she is in deep trouble,’ he said at last.
‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ said Ignatzi.
‘No. You saw her last night.’ Mannering turned to face the doctor. ‘You gave her an injection. Could she have come round from that in time to dose herself with morphia?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’
‘Have you told the police?’ Mannering demanded.
‘They will be told by the hospital authorities.’
‘And when you’re questioned will you state that you think it might have b
een attempted murder?’
‘I think I shall have to,’ Ignatzi said uneasily. He placed a hand on the high dome of his forehead, looking troubled. ‘I know the family well, I don’t want to make the situation worse than it is, but—yes. I shall have to make it clear that I think she was given the tablets and that it was—may have been—attempted murder.’
‘The police already know there was an attempt to murder me,’ said Mannering.
Ignatzi stopped his glass halfway to his lips.
‘How was that?’
‘I was run down by a lorry. Dr. Ignatzi, how long have you known there was trouble in the Cunliffe family?’
‘For the better part of a year.’
‘Have you any idea what it’s about?’
‘None at all.’ Ignatzi sipped his drink. ‘Lady Markly put it down to the delayed effect on the Colonel and Joanna of the death of the Colonel’s wife. I don’t think that’s true. Certainly Cunliffe had a bad year after her death, but—’
‘Did you attend her?’ interrupted Mannering.
‘Yes. I have been the family doctor since I took over this practice just after the end of the war. Cunliffe was almost inconsolable—they had been so very close—but Joanna was away at school at the time. I saw her at the funeral and on holiday from time to time, and I would have said that her reaction was normal for a child of her age. Certainly nothing would lead me to expect that she had buried her grief for five years and then had this kind of reaction to it. Whatever the cause of the trouble I think it’s comparatively recent.’
‘Is there any history of insanity in the family?’
Ignatzi looked startled.
‘What makes you ask that?’
‘It’s an old family,’ Mannering said evasively. ‘Some times if there’s too much inbreeding—’
‘There’s a rumour of a brother, or maybe cousin, who spent much of his life in a private sanatorium,’ Ignatzi said slowly. ‘And I’ve heard other rumours, but I’ve seen absolutely no sign of mental instability in any members of this family, no sign at all. Whatever the cause of this trouble,’ he added with an air of finality, ‘I am convinced it comes from a situation, not from a mental condition.’
