by John Creasey
“Reason? It’s stuck away in a dark corner of the house, up on the second floor,” Sara told her. “Isn’t that reason enough?” She went quickly, restlessly, to the window. “I’ve always admired anyone who could paint. I wish I could myself, but I’m useless. All my women look like cows and all my men like satyrs. I suppose they are, really. Mrs Mannering, would you do me a very great favour?”
“If I can.”
“Would you let me see your studio? I’d love to. I once saw Augustus John’s, in Hampshire somewhere, and I was fascinated. Of course he was very old. I saw Picasso’s once, too. It was really rather shocking. About twenty of us gatecrashed. He was very charming, if a little odd. You are charming and not even a little odd! May I see where you work?”
“Of course,” Lorna said. “The studio is up in the attic.” She led the way out of this room along a passage between the kitchen and main bathroom. A loft ladder with a handrail was in position which led to a large hatch. She went up first, and switched on a light as soon as she reached the studio, then turned round and gave Sara a hand up.
Sara drew in a deep breath. “It’s wonderful!”
She stood at the top of the steps, as if awed.
The attic stretched across the whole of the top of the house, although at two sides the ceiling sloped so that there was no room to stand up. All round the walls were portraits, some standing on the floor, some hung; a few were finished paintings, most were drawings, some finished, some hardly started. Only one or two were framed. The colours of the portraits were vivid, all the likenesses were remarkable. Along one wall were rows of small portraits, almost miniatures, none of them framed. These were of people whom Lorna had met or whom she remembered; a fisherwoman from Looe, a Breton onion seller, an old Israeli with a patriarchal white beard and piercing eyes, an Arab child. There were several of Mannering, mostly black and white sketches, as well as a few small self portraits, none of which did her justice.
“But—this is an exhibition in its own right!” Sara declared. “I’ve never seen—oh, you must show them.”
“One day,” Lorna said.
“I really mean it,” Sara insisted. Her eyes looked as bright as the patriarch’s. “Soon – it’s wrong to keep such beautiful pictures up here where no one can see them. You ought to have an exhibition at Quinns.”
“Gentian House would be much more suitable,” Lorna said, jestingly.
For a moment, Sara’s eyes lit up. She cried: “Yes, of course!” Then slowly the fire seemed to fade out of her eyes, blankness replaced it. Her lips tightened. She did not look away from Lorna, who had seen many a disappointed child behave in much the same way. “No, I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible,” she said almost petulantly. She moved closer to the miniatures, but the edge had been taken off her eagerness, she was much more formal, almost naïvThe front doorbell rang. Ethel bustled across to it, singing quite loudly; Lorna was used to that by now, but Sara turned her head and looked towards the stairs. As Ethel opened the door, the telephone bell rang. There was an extension up here, but it wasn’t switched through. The ringing went on and on, drowning the voices at the door. A man was there, and soon footsteps sounded inside. The telephone bell kept ringing. It might be Chittering downstairs, Lorna thought, or Bristow – she laughed at herself; it might be anybody.
Sara was staring at the top of the loft ladder.
“Who—who is that?” she asked. Tension had gripped her; gripped her from the moment Lorna had suggested the exhibition at Gentian House. She had lost all her colour. “Who is it?”
The bell was ringing, and sounded louder.
“Ethel!” Lorna called, pitching her voice high. “Switch the call through to here.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Ethel called shrilly.
She did not say who had come. The man’s voice did not sound again. Sara moved towards Lorna and gripped the newel post at the top of the ladder. The ringing started up here, at a telephone over by the northlight, near the easel and some shelves which held most of the things Lorna needed. She hurried across, and snatched it up.
“This is Lorna Mannering.”
“Lorna, are you all right?” It was John, speaking in a sharp, anxious voice. “You were so long in answering—”
“Of course I’m all right,” Lorna replied. “Sara’s here. We’re in the studio, and the telephone wasn’t switched through. What makes you think—”
“Have you heard from Orde? If he knows you left the nursing home with Sara he might guess where Sara is,” reasoned Mannering. “Has he telephoned to say he’s coming?”
“Would you expect him to?”
“I don’t know what to expect. Don’t let Sara go out, will you? And don’t let Orde come in. I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.”
“All right, darling,” Lorna said. “I’ll look after everything, and—”
A scream broke across her words; shrill, high-pitched.
She nearly dropped the telephone as she spun round. John was calling: “What was that?”
Sara was backing away from the stepladder, and Claude Orde’s head and shoulders appeared above the level of the floor. �
20
FIRE
Sara screamed again.
Lorna cried: “John, he’s here! Don’t come any further!” she called to Orde, and banged the telephone down, leaving it off its cradle. “Go downstairs at once.”
Orde was staring at Sara.
“Orde! Go downstairs at once.”
“I’ll go downstairs when I’m ready,” Orde said. He put a hand on top of the newel post, and jumped up. He towered above Sara, who was backing away, eyes rounded in terror – as if she knew that he had come here to kill her.
Lorna shouted: “John!” so that she was bound to be heard over the telephone.
She swung round, for a weapon. There was nothing at hand except a piece of heavy gilt picture frame. She snatched it up. Sara backed away until she reached a spot where her head touched the sloping ceiling, and she could go no further. Her hands were held out in front of her as if she hoped that she would be able to fend Orde off. Lorna moved forward with the wooden framing held in front of her.
“If you touch her I’ll break this over your head,” she threatened.
Ethel was strangely silent; the telephone was silent, too. John had guessed Orde might come, and might already have alerted the police. But if she missed when she struck at Orde she might throw away their only chance.
“Orde!” she cried.
She raised the piece of picture frame. As she did so, Orde swung round, ducked and threw himself at her. The weapon struck him a glancing blow on the shoulder. He crashed into her bodily, and she staggered back. He snatched the frame from her and brought it down on her head. She felt a streak of pain, felt her body quiver, felt her legs give way. She did not lose consciousness, but could not prevent herself from falling. She heard Sara scream again. Orde turned round as the girl rushed to the head of the loft ladder, and before she reached it, Orde snatched at her and caught her arm.
He pulled her back roughly.
Lorna lay with one arm bent beneath her, pain throbbing in her head. She could see what was happening in all its horror but couldn’t do a thing to stop it. Oh God, she prayed, let me get up. She tried desperately, but collapsed again; the pain which surged through her head was agonising. Let me get up. Orde had pulled Sara to him. He had his hands round her neck. He was squeezing; squeezing. He was choking the life out of her.
Oh, God; let me get up.
He was killing her. Her head was bobbing to and fro. Her eyes were rolling.
Lorna managed to get up on one elbow, but could not raise her body, could not call out. Why didn’t Ethel come up? Something thudded downstairs. The blood pounded through her ears, and the effect of trying to get to her feet made pain much worse. She
saw everything through a pale red mist. She saw Sara’s long legs sag. She must do something—something! She caught sight of the weapon which Orde had snatched away so easily and flung down. If only she could get at it! She stretched out her hand.
Orde flung the girl away from him, and she fell heavily and lay crumpled up, without moving. Orde, gasping for breath, moved quickly, swinging round and staring at the northlight above the easel, and at the shelves by it. There Lorna kept her paints, her varnish, the cleaning spirits, the turpentine, her rags, her brushes. Orde ignored her, and strode towards the shelves. He had one hand in his pocket. He snatched it out, and Lorna saw something glisten. The miniature sword? He picked up a bottle of turpentine in his free hand and smashed it on the edge of a shelf.
Somehow, Lorna got to her knees. There was nothing at hand for her to touch, so as to help herself up; she had to do everything by herself, and her head was aching so much, she thought she would fall again. The sharp stench of the turpentine stung her nostrils. The liquid spread about the shelves, dropping to the floor, spreading as far as other bottles, the paints, the paint-soiled rags.
A flame leapt from his hand.
He had a cigarette lighter, and was flicking it. Click, click, click, click. It would catch the turps, the rags, the wood; if he set light to it the whole place would be ablaze in a few minutes.
No!
The flame appeared again, still tiny, and this time it did not die out, although it faded to a flickering flame. Orde sheltered it with a great fat hand. If she could move, if she could throw anything at him, if only she could blow on the flame it would go out. He was shielding it, and carrying it towards the rags – some of them now soaked with the inflammable turps. He meant to set the place on fire as if to hide the traces of his crime.
There was more thudding sound downstairs.
If she could only blow out that flame.
She saw it catch one of the rags; a fresh, sudden ripple of fire followed. Orde stood back, watching. Gloating? He swung round. The light of the lighter itself died away, but the rags were beginning to catch and blaze up.
“Put—” Lorna gasped. “Put—”
He jumped across and pushed her. She went sprawling. He swung away at once, obsessed by the fire. Lorna’s vision was blurred with tears of pain, but she could just make out the flames and see them leaping upwards. Orde backed away. A flame seemed to run along a shelf towards a tin of varnish. Orde stretched out his long arm and pushed the tin over. The varnish spilled out, sluggish, sticky. For a moment it seemed to put out the creeping flame, but suddenly there was a bigger flare, and the whole of the shelves seemed to be on fire.
Orde turned again, went over to Sara and bent down. He took her ankles and began to drag her along the floor, towards the flames. When she was only a few feet away from the shelves, he let her go. Her head was towards the fire, spread out like a golden mop. If once the flames caught that long, corn coloured hair . . .
Orde strode across to Lorna.
“Your turn,” he said savagely. He bent down. Lorna struck at him ineffectually. He brushed her hands aside with brutish strength, then twisted his hands so that he could grasp her wrists. He pulled her to a sitting position, let her go – and made a swift forward movement, his fingers crooked. He clutched her round the neck. He was going to do the same with her as he had with Sara – choke the life out of her, and leave her here. Oh, God. The pressure was so great, the pain so awful, the fear worst of all. She seemed to hear the burning behind her, as if the whole of the row of shelves was roaring.
She could see Orde’s face, a round pale moon, only a few inches away from her. The pressure of his fingers seemed to grow and grow, to become more and more painful.
Then, suddenly, the face was not there any longer.
She had not lost consciousness. She was aware of sounds, of movement, of voices. Orde’s face disappeared from her as if he had toppled backwards. The roaring might be of burning, or might be the sound of blood in her ears. Suddenly, a man appeared. Another face was close to Lorna’s for a second, before she felt hands beneath her arms, felt herself pulled first to her feet, to rest against a man, and then hoisted in his arms. As he carried her towards the stepladder, she tried to speak.
“Sara,” she tried to say. “There’s Sara!”
The man’s face was just above her. He had big, pale lips. She saw his teeth – he was smiling. Why should he smile? He was reassuring her, of course, actually saying something. She was half conscious, dazed, frightened. Sara. How was Sara? Had Sara’s hair been burned? Had she been hurt?
Mannering jumped out of the taxi before it stopped in Green Street, thrust a ten shilling note into the driver’s hand, called “Wait!” and ran into the house. Two police cars stood a few yards along, and he heard the ringing of a fire tender’s bell, but had no idea that the tender was on the way here. A uniformed constable stood just outside the front door.
“Is anyone hurt?”
“There’s been a bit of trouble,” the constable announced. “Don’t know much about it myself, sir.” He opened the door of the little automatic lift, and Mannering stepped inside. The lift crawled up. He kept hearing that scream in his mind, just as he kept hearing Lorna as she shouted at Orde.
He had dialled 999 and raised the alarm; the cars outside showed that the police had acted quickly, but had they been quick enough? This damned lift. At last it stopped. He flung the iron trellis work gates back and stepped out. The front door of his apartment was open, and he saw a pair of nylon-clad legs stretched out from a chair. Small, stocky legs – Ethel’s. Ethel was lying back in an armchair, arms flopped over the sides, head turned round while she stared at him.
“It was awful,” she said hoarsely. “It was awful. He—he nearly killed me. It was awful.”
Mannering said: “You’ll be all right. We’ll look after you.” He felt as if he were choking.
Suddenly, he smelt fire, and rushed towards the passage leading to the studio.
Then, like balm, he caught sight of Lorna. She was sitting against the wall of the bathroom, with her eyes closed. No one was with her. Footsteps sounded above Mannering’s head as if several men were up there.
He stepped into the bathroom.
“Lor—” he began.
She looked pale, as if she desperately needed rest, but she was all right; he could see her even breathing. He moved out of the room, thoughts switched to Sara Gentian and what might have happened to her.
A burly man appeared from the kitchen.
“Mr Mannering?”
“Yes. Is Miss Gentian—”
“The other lady who was in the studio is in a bedroom, sir. She’ll be all right,” the man assured him. “Not to worry. Mrs Mannering’s all right too, sir – the Fire Service are on the way, just to check. Everything will be all right, though. Not to worry.”
Almost at once, firemen appeared at the open door.
Mannering carried Lorna into the main bedroom. She was dazed, and did not talk, but obviously she recognised him. A police surgeon was already here, young, brisk, sleek – a Dr Norris. Mannering left Lorna on her bed, and looked in on Sara Gentian, who was unconscious. A policeman was in the room with the girl.
“Nearly choked the life out of her,” the man said. “We pulled her round though.”
“Yes,” Mannering said. “Yes. I’ll find a way to say ‘thanks’ later. Where is—the man who did it?”
“Up in the attic – the studio, sir.”
Mannering said: “Thanks,” as he turned away. Firemen were already on the stepladder, and it was several seconds before he could get up to the studio. As he put his head through the hatch, the stink of burning was very strong, and the studio was filled with smoke and with big men. There were four in all, in addition to Orde. Orde was standing by one of the upright beams, and Mannering saw that he
was handcuffed to it; the police certainly did not mean to take any chance that he would try to escape.
He glared at Mannering.
One of the big men turned round. This was Hickson, the Cockney, who gave a rather tense smile.
“Just got here in time, Mr Mannering.”
“Thank God you did!”
“The Division sent two chaps along as soon as you called, and Belling and me come straight over from the Yard,” Hickson said. “That swine was actually trying to strangle your wife. Had to be pulled off. What’s it all about, Mr Mannering? What is it all about? Why should he hate you as much as this?”
“I think I got in his way,” Mannering said. He was staring at Orde. “Has he talked?”
“Not a squeak. Just looks as if he hates our guts.”
“Perhaps he hates the world,” Mannering remarked.
He had been right about Orde’s purpose in running away. Could he be right in thinking that Gentian had known what he was going to do, and had helped him to get away?
“What’s on your mind, Mr Mannering?” Hickson asked.
“Orde told me he stole the miniature sword, and I can show you how he got into and out of Miss Gentian’s flat without you knowing,” Mannering said. “Just now I’m worried about my wife and Miss Gentian.”
“Is that all?” demanded Hickson.
“Isn’t it enough?”
“It would be too much for some people,” Hickson agreed, “but that doesn’t mean that it’s everything.”
He spoke almost as if Bristow had put the words into his mouth, but before he could go on, an ambulance arrived and Sara Gentian was taken away.
“We’ll save her life all right,” the police surgeon said, when she had gone. “I’m not so sure that we can save her mind.”
21
ONE HOPE
“i still don’t think you’ve told us everything,” Bristow said to Mannering. It was half past six that evening, and he had been at the flat for half an hour. “I think you’re trying to help or to shield someone. If you go on doing it, you’re crazy.”
