by John Creasey
He could have had this lock forced in twenty seconds with a proper instrument. Now, minutes ticked by, until at last the wire held fast. Would it be strong enough to turn? He held the end with a handkerchief, and twisted gently, afraid that it would slip or break.
The lock rasped back.
His heart jumped as he waited, listening intently. There was still no sound, nothing to suggest that the noise had been heard. He turned off the electric light, easing the switch against a sudden click. Then he turned the handle and opened the door an inch.
A dim light showed a landing and the head of a flight of stairs. He opened the door wider. He could see no one. unless a man stood close to the well, no one was there. He was prepared for a sudden attack as he sidled out, but none came; and soon he could see the whole of the landing. He had been left unguarded.
He could hear a murmur of voices, now, and crept down the stairs, keeping close to the wall. Even with that precaution the treads creaked. He reached the next landing and saw a streak of light beneath a door, on his left. There was a lighted hall below, narrow and dingy looking. Against one wall was a hall stand, and in it, two umbrellas and a walking stick. He went down the next flight still keeping close to the wall. He picked up the walking stick, and then opened the front door. He could smell petrol; this was a garage, and probably the garage near Southwark Street.
He hurried back upstairs. The murmuring of voices was still going on. As he reached the door, it stopped. He turned the handle, and pushed; the door wasn’t locked.
The sardonic man said: “You’ll get hurt if you don’t talk, Josh. Your Boss wouldn’t like that, would he?”
There was no answer; trust Josh!
Mannering thrust the door open and stepped inside.
Larraby stood in a corner, with a man behind him, holding his right arm in a hammer lock. The sardonic man was in front of Josh. A cigarette drooped from the corner of his lips. For the first second, no one stirred.
The man behind Josh, too astonished to know what exactly was happening, released his hold.
“That’s better,” Mannering said in the new harsh voice. “Take it easy, all of you.” He strode to a table and leaned against it.
It was a deal table, laid for a meal at one end. On the other end were the things taken from Mannering’s pockets. The tool waist belt was unrolled, but intact. Mannering picked everything up, watched by the tall man. His face didn’t fit into any category easily; the word that sprang to Mannering’s mind was satanic.
This was a kitchen, with an old fashioned dresser, several kitchen chairs, and a cooking stove.
“So you are good,” said the sardonic man.
“Sure, Smith, I’m good.” There was swagger in Mannering’s manner, gloating in his voice. “There isn’t a lock that can keep me inside, if I want to get out. And vice versa. Have they hurt you, Josh”
Larraby said: “No – no, Guv’nor.”
“Told them anything?”
“Not a word, Guv’nor, I swear . . .”
“It’s okay, but you could have done, I told them all they need to know.” Mannering laughed. “Not feeling so good now, Smith, are you?”
Smith shrugged. “One move of the game is not the whole show.”
Mannering said: “That’s the point. I don’t know what your game is, but I do know it’s not mail order. Let’s have the truth. Mail order’s a cover – what’s your line?”
“The same as yours,” said Smith laconically.
“So it’s the same as mine.” Mannering laughed. “Maybe we ought to get together.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” said Smith. “If you’re as good at cracking a crib as you are at opening a door, we ought to be able to form a partnership.”
“We’ll see,” said Mannering. “Just get one thing into your thick head Smith. I can bust any lock. They don’t make them so hard that they can keep me out. Isn’t that so, Josh?”
Larraby licked his lips.
“You’re a wonder, Guv’nor, a perishing wonder.” His voice was pitched to a whining note, the calm dignity which was part of him at Quinns lost in a cringing obsequiousness.
“If you’re as good as that, why waste time with my stuff?” Smith sneered. “You’re just a piker.”
“I play safe,” said Mannering.
“Maybe.” Smith’s manner was exactly the same as it had been upstairs, the turn of the tables hadn’t affected him outwardly. “I could use a good screw.”
“You could use one, could you? I don’t go into any job working for anyone else, Mister Smith, get that straight. Maybe I’d go fifty-fifty, but it’s only maybe. If you want to talk business, make an appointment – with Mr. Brown, Post Office, Strand – the Trafalgar Square end. Josh, we’re getting out of here.”
Smith moved. “Listen . . .”
“You heard,” Mannering said.
Josh slipped past the man. The other, more than a little out of his depth, had stayed where he was. He didn’t move now. Mannering backed to the door. Smith made no further attempt to stop him. Mannering covered Josh as he slipped out. Quickly following, he turned the key in the lock.
“Wonderful!” breathed Josh.
“Not yet,” said Mannering. “Stay outside until they get free. Try and get a close up of everyone who comes to the front door or to the garage. We’re near Southwark Street. Don’t let them catch you again, and keep away from Quinns until this is all over, they might find out where you work otherwise. All clear?”
“But –”
“Stay at a hotel near Quinns and let me know which it is,” said Mannering. “I’ll be seeing you.”
He ran down the stairs and out into the street. It was as he had thought, the same garage, and the man in the kitchen was the man he had seen standing there in his shirt sleeves. He hurried towards one of the larger garages, and five minutes after leaving the house, was in a taxi, humming towards Blackfriars Bridge. Little more than ten minutes later, he was standing by the side of his Buick, near Buckley Street He paid off the driver, and waited until the cab had disappeared. Then he headed for Number 13, Buckley Street. He had a knife in his hand, one with some remarkable blades; with one, he opened the front door almost as quickly as if he had a key for the Yale lock.
There was no light on; and there had been none at the windows.
He found himself in a wide hall, with a passage running alongside a narrow staircase; there was a door at the end of the passage. It was unlocked, and he walked through an office. Another door led to a kitchen which had been turned into a stationery store room, although the gas stove was still in service, and there were cups and a teapot on the table. The back door was locked and bolted; he opened it, and left it latched, and then returned quickly to the staircase. The only sound was that of his own movements. Although he was sure that the house was empty, he went up cautiously. Several rooms led off the first landing, all of them were store rooms filled with boxes. He went up to the next flight of stairs, groped for and found the light, and looked about him.
It was obviously the landing of two fiats. But each, rather strangely, had the same number: 3. He turned to the nearer door, and took out the knife.
There was one disadvantage about forcing a Yale lock; once damaged, you couldn’t close the door securely again. He closed it as best it would go, and then switched on a light.
He was in a small, comfortably furnished room. There were water colours on the walls, a standard lamp, books in corner fittings, several easy chairs and a thick carpet. Three rooms led from it. He explored each in turn. There was a book lined study, a bedroom and a bathroom; and all obviously belonged to a man. In the study beneath a rack of pipes, golf clubs were reared up against a corner. It was a comfortable, pleasant room, but he was in no mood to be beguiled. He moved the several oil paintings, but failed to expose the expected wall safe. The only piece of furniture which might conceal what he was looking for was the desk. It was large, almost too large for the room.
Behind it
was a comfortable chair. He sat in the chair, and studied the drawers of the desk. Then he pulled them out, one after the other; each was the same length, about two feet; but the desk was nearly four feet across.
Walking round it, he studied the back. Tapping it sharply it gave off a keen, not wooden, sound. He straightened up, smiling faintly.
The back of the desk was of metal almost certainly steel. The desk was the safe.
He examined the top surface more closely. It was made out of two pieces of wood, and the join was permanent. He examined the carving at the edges, pressing here and there, but discovered nothing. Then he found screws, at each corner, cunningly concealed by the carving itself. He used the screwdriver blade.
When the screws were out, the top of the desk could be moved. It wasn’t so heavy as he had expected. Beneath it was a layer of oak, fitted with hinges at one side and a lock at the other. Picking that lock would take some time. He glanced at his watch. He had been here for over half an hour. It was nearly an hour since he had left the garage. There was no certainty that Smith or Caton would come straight here, but he might. Mannering left the desk as it was, and went across to the door, listening. He heard nothing, but a keen awareness of danger caused him to push the door open.
A girl stood in the middle of the hall, covering him with a gun.
8: The Girl
She was young and strikingly attractive.
She wore a dark dress, with lace at the neck and cuffs; absurd things to notice, but he noticed them. Her glossy dark hair dropped to her shoulders, curling inwards at the ends. The gun, a small automatic, was steady in her hand.
“Go to the corner by the lamp,” she said, “and don’t try to be clever.”
The voice was calm and untroubled, and he had heard it before; she was the girl who had taken the pendant to Pender’s flat. He obeyed her, backing step by step.
The door behind her was ajar.
Near it, was a telephone. Keeping him covered, she lifted the receiver with her free hand. He heard the faint burring sound.
“Do you know of any good reason why I shouldn’t send for the police?”
Mannering said: “Yes, I do.”
“What is it?”
“There’s more than a chance that it might seriously annoy Smith.”
She started, and her forefinger moved away from the dial. Mannering watched her eyes. She wasn’t frightened, but suddenly she had become a little less certain of procedure.
“You don’t know him.”
“Don’t I?” asked Mannering. “He knows me, anyway, and before I leave here, I’m going to know a lot more about him. Him and his – shadow.”
He dropped the word out, sharply. He expected her to show reaction, but there was nothing.
“I think he’d want me to send for the police,” she said, “but he’ll be here, soon, I can ask him.”
“Maybe he won’t be here so soon as you think.”
That shook her. “Why not?”
Mannering grinned, showing his discoloured teeth. He wasn’t handsome in this guise, and had often practised that one sided leer, worse in effect, he calculated, than the sardonic grin which had become a habit with Smith.
“He met with a little accident,” Mannering said.
Her eyes blazed, and she took a step forward; he thought she would come near enough for him to strike at the gun, but she kept just out of reach.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I say, dearie,” Mannering said “Smith thought he’d fixed me tonight, but I had a little surprise waiting for him. I’m good at surprises. He’s had a nasty time; maybe he’ll tell you all about it – when he wakes up. Or if he wakes up.” Voice, words and manner were all intended to unnerve her, and he noted with satisfaction that she had lost much of her poise. But the gun was steady, pointing unswervingly at his chest
“What have you done to him?”
“Never you mind, dearie. Just put that gun down, and be sensible. Then you won’t get hurt.”
“I won’t get hurt”
“That so? What about my pals, outside?”
Her head moved, upwards; but she stopped herself from looking round, robbing him of the chance of striking the gun aside. He needed only a split second, but she wasn’t easy to fool.
“There aren’t any,” she said. “I don’t think you understand. If I shoot you, it’ll be quite safe. I shall tell the police that I caught you in here, and you tried to attack me. Where is Paul?” She didn’t seem to realise that she had said “Paul”, not Smith.
“Where would you expect him to be?” Mannering asked.
“Don’t be clever. Remember that it will hurt if I shoot you.” She lowered the gun and now it covered his stomach. “I’ll aim where it hurts most.” The words took on even more sinister meaning coming so calmly, and in that pleasant voice. “I mean what I say.”
“It would be your big mistake,” Mannering said.
He was only just out of reach of the gun. If the girl took one step nearer, he could knock it aside. But if he jumped she would shoot. Her forefinger was steady on the trigger, and he didn’t like the expression in her eyes. It had been a mistake to tell her that he had injured her Paul. He felt the slow drops of sweat beading his forehead. He’d been in jams where the danger was more real but none where it was greater. The beauty in her eyes was superseded by the smouldering hatred in them – outwardly, she was calm; inwardly she was afire, and it was the inward fire which might make her decide to shoot
She said: “If you don’t tell me where Paul is, I shall shoot you in the guts.”
“Your insistence leaves me little choice. I left him at the garage. He was smart, but not quite so smart as he thought he was.”
“You couldn’t have fooled Paul.” Fanatical belief in Smith was in her voice.
“Thank so?” Feigning an ease he was far from feeling,
Mannering sat down on the arm of a chair. It worked, as far as the fact that the girl visibly relaxed; but the gun stayed unmoving. “Neither of you is as clever as you think you are, honey. You and your shadow!” He flung the word out again, but the reaction, or lack of it, was the same. It was obvious that she was thinking of Smith and the possibility that he was lying badly hurt. Mannering leaned back and grinned, and it wasn’t a leer this time. “You needn’t worry,” he said. “We had an argument, and I came out on the winning side, that’s all. He’s not hurt. We parted almost good friends; he thinks he might have a job for me, later on. He wasn’t sure I was expert enough at breaking into places, and I thought I’d demonstrate. He won’t argue about that in future.” Mannering actually laughed, and moved his hand towards his pocket.
“Keep your hands in sight,” she said. “Paul wouldn’t work with anyone else. You’re lying.”
“All right, I’m lying. You don’t have to believe me.” Mannering yawned. Suddenly, and for the first time, tension went out of her; the gun sagged, pointing at his feet.
He slid forward, propelling himself with his arms, and knocked against her with such force that the gun went off. He seized her arm and the weapon dropped to the floor. When he released her, she was limp and breathless. He pushed her off, snatched up the gun and slipped it into his own pocket, then moved away. She lay on the floor, still breathless but beginning to recover, her expression was baleful.
“Sorry I had to be rough,” said Mannering. “I may have to be rougher. Remember I can put the cops on to your pal Paul any time I want to. If you kick up a shindig, you’ll bring them in and I’ll give Paul away.” He bent down and lifted her bodily. She struck him across the face, and then drew back as his grip tightened. He carried her to the bathroom, stood her down, and went out, locking the door behind him.
He dragged a big settee across the door, and then went back to the study. He examined the lock in the top of the desk, and tested it with a pick-lock. Short of shooting the lock, there was no other way to get at it. He might cut out a piece of the wood, but the top was probably steel lined
and he couldn’t do anything about steel without an oxy-acetylene cutter. If he were to break through here, he would have to use the pick-lock.
He went out to the front door, and left it wide open.
There was a risk that the older woman would turn up; he had to take that. But he had to make sure that he couldn’t be caught unawares. He pushed the outer door to, and placed a chair across it so that it couldn’t be moved without making a noise. Then he went into the kitchen. A fire escape led to a tiny back garden. Leaving that door open also, he returned to the desk and set to work with the pick-lock.
Five minutes convinced him that he hadn’t a hope this way.
He went back to the kitchen, pulling open every drawer until he came to a small one, fitted out like a tool chest; there was a chisel. He hesitated, and then opened a cupboard beneath the dresser. Then he laughed spontaneously, for there was an oxy-acetylene burner, a small cylinder and a pair of goggles.
The Shadow’s equipment?
It was a light model, but still fairly weighty, and he grunted as he carried it to the study. There was no sound from the bathroom or from outside. He used a chisel on the unpolished wood, chipping it away round the keyhole. The noise was loud, but he hadn’t time to be quiet. Soon, the bare steel round the keyhole lay revealed. He would have known after using the pick-lock if it was electrified, but he checked it carefully first, touching it lightly with the blade of his knife which had an insulated handle. There was no spark.
He hadn’t used a cutter for a long time. . . .
He had been in the flat at least an hour and a half, but he forced himself to work carefully, and without panic. Through the dark goggles he saw the flame, cutting through the steel like a hot knife through butter. He cut out a square, then put the burner down, and prized the square out. After that, it was simply a matter of lifting back the top of the desk on its hinges.
It was empty; a big empty space, the shape of a coffin.
9: Alarm
He stood looking into the emptiness. If there were any valuables, or anything which Smith wanted to hide here, they would have been in the desk safe. There was nothing, he had wasted his time. He smiled wryly, feeling uneasy and frustrated. He could try to make the girl talk, but he didn’t think she would be easily persuaded. He stood back and surveyed the ruin of the safe, picked up the chisel, and put it down again. He might as well get out, while the going was good.
