by John Creasey
Mannering didn’t protest.
Mick dialled; Mannering refilled his glass, and the man hardly seemed to notice. He stood with the receiver at his ear for a long time. At last he said; “We’re at the flat. They’re not here.”
Mannering muttered: “I’ll go over the other room again.” He went out, slipping into the bedroom; there was an extension telephone on the bedside table. He picked it up, and heard Smith’s voice. It was damning Mick, “Brown” and everyone who failed to do his job properly, He sounded at a high pitch of nervous tension.
“Brown still with you?”
“Sure. You said I wasn’t to finish him until I’d found the books. He’s good, I’ll say that for him, never seen anyone pick a lock like he can. We might find him useful.”
“Those things must be at the flat or Quinns.”
“But they’re not!”
There was a pause; then Smith said: “Did you leave the tins?”
“Sure. And I want to be away before two o’clock.”
“You’d better come here,” Smith said. “What else did you pick up?”
“Plenty, especially from Q.”
“It will be a help,” Smith said. “We’ll have to clear out. I’ve got the tickets, we can leave tonight. Mannering won’t do anything while we’ve got his wife, we’ll have time. You haven’t run into him, have you?”
“No, neither place.”
“He’s probably with Fleming,” Smith said. “I’ll talk to him. You come straight here.”
“With Brown?”
Smith swore at him.
“Okay, okay, I’ll leave him to roast,” Mick said.
He put down the telephone. So did Mannering. Mick called out: “Where the hell are you?” and came out of the study. He saw the light on in the bedroom. “What are you wasting time in here for?”
Mannering said: “I think I’ve found something.”
“What?” Mick came almost excitedly into the room, his right hand snatched from his pocket. Mannering was behind the door, on one knee, reaching under the bed. Mick bent down and lifted the bedspread. Mannering, straightening up, caught the man under the chin with the back of his head Mick’s teeth snapped together and he jolted back. Mannering thrust his hand swiftly into his pocket, and whipped out the gun. He was covering Mick as the man fell against the bed, so shocked by this development that he almost forgot the pain.
Mannering said: “So you were going to kill me.” Mick put up his hands, as if to fend him off. “Well, you’ve got another think coming. So has Smith. Where is Smith?”
“Put – put that gun down!”
Mannering raised the gun, covering Mick’s face. The man had drunk too much whisky, and the effect was beginning to show. His hands shook, his legs were unsteady.
“Tell me where Smith is, or I’ll blow your brains out.”
“Get away!” screeched Mick. “Get away! He’s at Leven Street, Victoria, 9 Leven Street. Get away!”
“You got a key?”
“No! No, he wouldn’t let me have one.” Mick gasped despairingly, seeing Mannering loom over him. “Get away. I haven’t got a key. I have to go to the back door, there’s a bell under the knocker, a special bell. Get away!”
Mannering’s fist crashed into his chin. As he slumped over the bed, Mannering hit him on the right temple with the butt of his gun, then picking him up bodily, carried him into the kitchen. He bound his wrists and ankles with cord from a drawer, forcing himself to do everything carefully; if he lost his head he would lose valuable time. He pushed Mick into the larder and locked the door on him, then went into the drawing room. He stood looking round; nothing seemed to be disturbed. He went across to the piano; the canister wasn’t there. He found it beneath the writing desk near the window, and dropped it into his pocket.
He hadn’t much time.
He went into the bedroom, and began wiping the greasepaint off his face. “Brown” faded into the past. He had to be thorough. He rubbed his face with spirit and examined it carefully. Changing quickly into one of his own suits, be put the canister into one pocket, Mick’s gun in another, then bundled the clothes up into a parcel, which he tied with string.
Then he went upstairs.
Hetty, bound and gagged, lay in a corner, unconscious. He cut the cords, and took the gag away, and left her. Downstairs, he put the bundle over his shoulder and went to the door. Before he reached it, he heard someone approaching. Bristow?
He dropped the bundle behind a hall chair, and the canister on top of it. The front door bell rang. He lit a cigarette before he opened the door, fully expecting to see Bristow.
Fleming stood there.
28: The Shadow
“Hallo, Mannering.” Fleming came in briskly. “I’m glad I’ve caught you. Do you know that Smith has taken Celia back?”
“Yes,” said Mannering. “She isn’t alone. My wife’s with her.”
Fleming said: “Your wife!” He looked dumbfounded. “Do you mean to say that . . .?”
“He’s played himself into my hands, and this is his way of getting out again,” Mannering said. “I think he’s planning a getaway, and he’ll probably take Celia with him. He won’t want to be handicapped with my wife.” The words sounded as bleak as he felt. “I’m going to his place, now. I shall leave a message for the police to raid it soon afterwards. Final showdown with Mr. Smith! If you want to come with me, meet me at Victoria Station in half an hour.”
Mannering waved him away, then locked the door and returned to the kitchen. There was no sound from Mick. He opened the window and climbed out, with the bundle slung over his shoulder. Only a few lighted windows broke the darkness. He hurried to the middle of the patch of waste land near the houses, and placed the bundle, with the canister in the middle, where it could do little harm.
Then he made for the main road. He saw the Austin parked at the corner, and Larraby standing in shadows, watching the taxi which was drawn up outside Mannering’s front door.
Mannering whispered: “Josh.”
Larraby started, and turned.
“Josh, listen to me.” Mannering rested his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “I’ve an urgent job. Mrs. Mannering is with Smith. Never mind the details. They’re at 9 Leven Street, Victoria. I want half an hour’s grace, then telephone Bristow.”
“Very good, sir.” Larraby’s soft voice was itself a reassurance.
“When you’ve done that, go to your hotel and collect the parcel of books and papers which you’ll find addressed to you. Take it to the Palling garage and leave it there, preferably in Smith’s room. I don’t think you’ll find anyone at the garage. If you do, drop the stuff and then call the police. After that, go to the shop. There’s a tin in the middle drawer of the office desk – highly inflammable. Get rid of it. All clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“Is there anything else to report?” Mannering asked.
“A man just called at your house, sir, driving a Humber.”
“Fleming, that’s all right. Get another car, I need this one.”
Larraby nodded. Mannering climbed into the Austin and turned towards Victoria. He reached the station in ten minutes, pulled up outside it, and went to look for Fleming. There was no sign of the man. He waited for five minutes, and then inquired of a taxi driver, for Leven Street. It was nearby, and Number 9 was one of a terrace of tall narrow houses, served by a service alley. It was in one of the backwaters of London, a Georgian house with an iron balcony and a fine wrought iron gate.
He went round to the back.
As he reached the gateway leading to a small, narrow garden, he thought he heard a sound, as of a door opening. He stood quite still, and then tried the handle of the gate it moved at a touch. He looked through, and saw a faint forward, seeing the man disappearing into the house. Mannering gave him a few seconds to get through the room, and then tried the handle of the door. It had been forced swiftly and expertly.
Mannering opened it just wide enough to get
through. He saw the final shadow of a man’s figure advancing along a narrow passage. The door of this room, a kitchen, was ajar, and the light came from the front hall.
The man reached the foot of a flight of stairs, and when he turned, the light fell on his face. Mannering, pressed tightly against the wall, his presence unsuspected, recognised Fleming.
Fleming had forced the lock of the gate and of the back door. Both locks would defeat any but a first class cracksman.
Was Fleming the Shadow?
Mannering kept close to the staircase, as Fleming went up. There was no sound in the house. Mannering stayed by the wall, straining his ears. Fleming moved silent as a wraith. There was a long, tense pause. A car travelled along the street, its engine sounding loud; but when it faded, there was a silence so full that Mannering could hear his own breathing and the beating of his heart.
Then upstairs a door crashed back.
Fleming said: “Don’t move!”
Mannering reached the end of the passage. The light was brighter now, coming from a room on the landing. There was no sound of any answering voice. Mannering crept stealthily up the stairs. Halfway up, he could see Fleming standing in a doorway with his back towards him. He could see, also, the gun in Fleming’s hand. He couldn’t see Smith.
There was a squat cupboard on the landing. Mannering quickened his pace. He caught a glimpse of Smith’s face, set in a stare of frigid surprise as it glared at Fleming.
Mannering reached the cover of the cupboard. He could see part of Fleming’s back and a corner of the room; and could hear everything, even the long, slow intake of breath as Smith began to speak.
“So Major Fleming has finally come out in his true colours!”
“Move back,” Fleming said.
“Major Fleming alias the Shadow. You haven’t forgotten that little fact, have you? You haven’t forgotten that I’ve proof against you which will be handed to the police whether I live or die?”
“Move back,” Fleming said. Smith apparently obeyed, for Fleming edged forward. “I have forgotten nothing.”
“Nothing except a few little things which seem to have slipped an accommodating memory. Put that gun away, Shadow. It won’t help you.”
“It’ll help,” Fleming said. “I’m still a good shot, and before I leave here you’ll be a dead man. You’ve had it coming for a long time, Smith. You’ve blackmailed me for six years, and it’s all over.”
“Of course I’ve blackmailed you. You were a sitting pigeon. An ex-Army officer with a distinguished record couldn’t allow it to be suspected that he was a cracksman, could he? In plainer words; a thief. I advise you to drop that gun, Fleming.”
“Keep where you are,” Fleming answered. His voice was steady. “You’ve had a long run. You started turning the screw on my wife. I had to give way. I couldn’t satisfy you, and I turned to burglary. You discovered it. You had me where you wanted me, and made Celia’s life a hell. But then you went too far.”
“Hanging’s an ugly death,” Smith said.
“I shan’t hang. I shall shoot myself. First you, then myself – after I’ve released Mannering’s wife and Celia. Mannering will look after Celia, and do a better job than I’ll be able to do.”
“You’re crazy!” The first edgy note was discernible in Smith’s voice.
“You think I’m crazy. Smith, I’ve done all this for one reason: to help my wife. You wouldn’t understand it, but I loved her. I built my life around her. You fastened on to her weakness, deliberately, and for your own foul purpose, and then telephoned her, to say that Muriel was coming. She’s told me that. You lied to her, saying that Muriel was my mistress. Remember? You wanted Muriel dead and my wife and I hanged for it. It nearly worked; she killed Muriel. I discovered it and covered her tracks. But the shock was too great. My wife died this evening.’’
Smith caught his breath.
“You killed her as surely, as relentlessly, as if you’d cut her throat,” said Fleming. “You’ve made her last years hell. Yet your life was on sufferance, because I daren’t risk killing you, daren’t risk the truth coming out – she needed me so much. She doesn’t need me any more. Now do you understand why I’ve come?”
Smith didn’t speak.
Fleming said: “Where is Celia? Where is Mrs. Mannering?”
“You – won’t find out!” The words came in a rush.
“I’ll find out,” said Fleming, “but you can make it easier for me. And for yourself. If you tell me, I’ll shoot you in the head. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you in the stomach, where it will hurt. Understand – hurt.” Fleming’s voice was so quiet that the words hardly seemed to hold their true meaning. “Where are they?”
“Fleming, put that gun away! Talk sense! I’ve a fortune here – I made a big haul tonight. I emptied Mannering’s shop of everything that could be brought away. I’ve a fortune salted away in several countries; we needn’t keep up this vendetta. Put the gun away and talk business.”
“Where are they?” asked Fleming. “I haven’t much time. Mannering’s coming, with the police, I don’t want any interruption. Where are the women?”
“Put that gun away!”
“I shall give you ten seconds,” Fleming said.
There was silence; but a clock was ticking. Fleming raised his arm, Mannering could just see the movement. He wished he could see Smith’s face.
Smith muttered: “They’re here, upstairs. They’re all right! Fleming, I’ve finished with Celia, you needn’t worry about that any more. You can’t blame me because she fell in love with me, that was her fault, it wasn’t mine. She’s not quite sane, you know that. She’s like her mother, she –”
“Keep your foul mouth shut!”
Smith cried: “Don’t shoot, don’t –”
Mannering moved from his hiding place, swept an arm round, and struck Fleming on the shoulder. A shot roared out. Mannering saw Smith, half-turning, hands in front of his face trying to get away. The bullet missed. Fleming swung round on Mannering, and Mannering gripped his right wrist, twisted and forced the gun out of his grasp.”
“Get the women,” Mannering snapped. “Don’t worry about Smith.” He thrust Fleming aside and went into the room, as Smith dropped his right hand to his pocket. Mannering flicked the gun from his hand.
Smith said unevenly, his face ashen: “Mannering, I’ll give you a fortune if you’ll let me go.”
“My own fortune?” Mannering asked politely.
“You can have mat back, and fifty thousand pounds in addition. I’ve got to get away before the police arrive. I’ve got everything ready, passport, passage – everything. I won’t come back, I won’t worry Celia again, you needn’t worry. Let me go, let me get away.”
Mannering said. “Where’s the evidence against the Shadow?”
“It –” Smith broke off.”Mannering, if I tell you, will you let me go?”
“It’s your only chance. Where’s the evidence?”
“If I tell you –”
“Where is it?”
“It’s in the safe at the garage, you missed that. It’s all there; you can have the triumph of your life and be able to laugh at the police from now to Doomsday. Mannering – “the man’s thin lips were working; his eyes had a frenzied look.”Let me go, the money’s here, I’ve turned everything I could lay my hands on into cash today. I knew I’d have to get away. Your wife’s all right.” He eased his collar. “I wasn’t going to hurt her, I was only fooling, she’s not hurt. Celia isn’t either, she . . .”
There was a sound behind Mannering. He didn’t turn round.
Lorna said: “John–”
He kept looking at Smith.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Lorna said, her voice low. “Celia’s here.”
“Get her away. Take her to the flat. Look after Hetty, she’s up in the studio, and send for the police, there’s a man locked in the larder. Say you found him and that I know nothing about it. I’ll be there soon.” He wa
tched Smith lynx-eyed. “Where’s Fleming?”
“Here,” Fleming said.
“Look in the safe at Palling Garage, Palling Street,” Mannering said. “You’ll find some of the contents interesting. Then come to my flat. Send for George Lee, and we’ll have a party.”
Smith screeched: “Mannering, you’ve got everything you want, you can catch the Shadow. You can . . .”
“Hurry,” Mannering said.
“We’re on our way,” said Fleming. There were footsteps and muted voices. The front door opened, and closed sharply; and silence fell.
Smith broke it.
“Mannering, you can take everything that’s here, you will be worth a fortune. Just give me an hour’s start of the police, that’s all I want.” ‘
Mannering said: “You’re not much of an ornament to society, Smith. You aren’t much good to yourself or to anyone else. There isn’t a chance of escape. I caught Mick and another man at my flat. The other man escaped. Mick didn’t. Mick will confess. You’ll get a long stretch – ten or fifteen years. They might even get you for murder.”
There was sweat on Smith’s forehead; his face was like a death’s head.
“Let me go, give me a start, I won’t harm anyone else.”
Mannering said: “I wouldn’t trust you for five seconds. You’ll be arrested tonight, charged, go to the Magistrate’s Court in the morning and be remanded for eight days. Then there’ll be a fuller hearing. After that, you’ll be committed for trial. You’ll have the full glare of publicity. You’ll stand in the dock, knowing you won’t have a chance. Ten years in jail, at least, the whole story told –”
“I couldn’t stand it!”
Mannering tossed the gun on to a chair.
“The police will be here in a few minutes,” he said, and went out and closed the door. He turned the key in the lock and waited.
He had been there, in the semi-darkness, for several minutes, when he heard a car draw up outside; this would be Bristow. He stared at the locked door. There was a harsh ringing of the front door bell. From the room, a shot rang out
Bristow was at the head of the three men who ran up the stairs. Mannering stood waiting for them. Bristow said abruptly: “What that a shot?”
