by John Creasey
Mannering jumped out, alone, but with another fiver in his hand.
“Take this fellow to the Yard, cabby, and tell them he’s a friend of the Greene arrested at Staines last night. Understand?”
For the first time the old driver looked startled, and his lips gaped open.
“Gawd! I—”
“And tell them exactly what happened,” Mannering went on quickly, “excepting that we stopped at Bramley Street.
We followed this fellow from Wardour Street down Edgware Road. Got it?”
“’Ere, ’arf a mo—”
“And tell them you were forced to do it,” urged Mannering. “You’ll have nothing to worry about, and I’ll testify for you if necessary. Take my word for it.”
“Orl right, Boss.” The man relaxed suddenly. “But why not say he was loaded up with another passenger, and the cove slipped at a traffic block? Easy for you.”
“Because Jackson can prove it’s a lie, and the police might not like it,” said Mannering. “Stick to the truth, George; I’ll find out from the Yard where to get you again.”
He pushed the fiver into the man’s hand, and hurried off. The cabby scratched his head, looked at his remaining passenger, and then drove off mumbling to himself.
Mannering reached the first telephone kiosk, and put through a telephone call.
A few seconds later, at the other end of the wire, Lorna Fauntley said anxiously: “It’s not too risky, John?”
“It’s the one and only chance,” said Mannering. “Pecker up, sweetheart, and with luck we’ll have Halliwell out and someone else in before this time tomorrow.”
He rang down and picked up a cab, leaving it by a garage on the opposite side of Westminster Bridge. In ten minutes he had hired a small Austin from the garage, and was driving quickly towards Bramley Street. He had a driving licence in a false name that enabled him to get past the cautious garage-clerk, who had no desire to find trouble by letting a car go to a man not holding a licence.
Darkness was over the Metropolis when he turned down Bramley Street, parking the Austin twenty yards from the corner of the alley. Then, with his tool-kit round his waist and his mask slung round his neck but hidden by his coat collar, he turned towards the middle door of the three courtyards.
People were passing up and down Bramley Street, but there was no light, and Mannering welcomed the darkness. A narrow beam shone from a window on the second floor of Kulper’s house, but it worked neither for nor against the Baron.
He reached the middle door, and took out a pick-lock.
Yale locks were never easy to open. Once a man turned down the alley and the Baron pressed close against the wall. The man turned into the garden of one of the hovels on the opposite side.
Mannering turned back to his work.
It was more nerve-racking than he had expected, for the patter of footsteps was continual, and once he saw the silhouette of a policeman passing the end of the alley. He had the lock back then, and he pressed close against the door. The policeman walked past stolidly, and Mannering pushed.
The door did not budge either way.
Kulper was being careful, for that meant it was bolted on the inside. The ledges of the door ran on the outside, and Mannering could not get at them to cut them with a file. In any case it would have taken too long.
Heart thudding, he reached up for the first strand of barbed wire above the brick wall.
He had wanted to avoid climbing because of the risk of being seen easily from the street, but he had no chance. Wire-cutters snapped the strand easily, and there was a little ping! as it parted, and curled back.
Now he had to reach the second strand, and he could not get at it with climbing or jumping. There was no hold for climbing, and he took a chance.
Holding the wire-cutters with the mouth wide, he jumped up and stabbed them towards the wire. Twice he missed. The third time the wire went between the maw, and he pressed sharply. A little ping! came again, and the second wire curled back.
There was room to get through now.
Mannering hoisted himself up quickly, carefully. As his eyes came over the level of the wall he could see the policeman passing on the far side of the street, and the winking of car lights on the main road. He would be several seconds climbing over, and if any one caught a glimpse of him the hue and cry would start.
He waited several seconds, and there was a moment when no one turned into Bramley Street. The Baron made his effort then.
There was glass stuck in concrete at the top of the wall, but it did not tear through his gloves. For a moment he was poised on the wall, clear for anyone who glanced up; and then he jumped down.
His foot kicked against a tin can that he had not seen in the darkness. The clatter as it went flying was like a tumult, and he waited in the shadows, heart thumping, nerves at a stretch, afraid of a cry of alarm.
None came.
The Baron went on slowly.
His eyes were able to make out the looming shapes, and he could see the single-storied wash-house looming towards him. He reached it, and as he went along a narrow passage he saw at the far end a window that led to the house.
Mannering reached it. No sound came from inside the house, and he could see no light, although the curtains were back. He examined the window carefully, and for a few seconds he used his torch.
The window was wired with an alarm on the inside, and he could just see the catch, a patent one that it would be almost impossible to force back without springing the alarm. Kulper had taken no chances at all, and the odds were lengthening against the Baron.
At eight-thirty – someone was coming to name him. The name and the photograph together would beat him; the name alone would put him for ever in Kulper’s power.
“Damn it, no!” snapped Mannering aloud.
He took a small chisel from his pocket, and pressed it against the putty lining the window. It went in fairly easily, and he started to work in earnest, running the chisel round the whole of the window frame. The putty came away in small pieces. In five minutes he had it all off, and he pressed against the top of the window, leaning his shoulder against the bottom.
There was a slight crack! as the glass pulled away from the inside plaster, and then the whole sheet toppled towards him. Mannering grabbed, but it slipped from his gloves, and for a moment he was afraid that it would fall. If it crashed—
Somehow he stopped it from hitting the ground, supporting it with his right shin, and feeling the sharp pain as it grazed his leg. He steadied it, and then rested it slowly against the ground. His head was drumming, for that crash would have been a fatal one, and he was facing disaster.
Again he used his torch, flashing it round for the wires. There was no need to cut them, for with the window pane right out he could climb through without touching them. He went through carefully, finding oil-cloth beneath his feet, hearing the sliding noise as his rubber-soled shoes slid against it.
Cautiously he flashed the torch. On the far side of the room was the door, and he prayed that it would not be locked. There was a squeak as he turned the handle, but the door opened silently.
A gleam of light came from the passage, but no sound.
Mannering tiptoed through. He slipped his mask over his mouth and chin, and pulled his hat well down. The Baron was working, slowly, silently, more grimly than he had ever done in his life before.
There would be no mercy from Kulper. He could not even rely on being handed to the police, for he could implicate them too deeply. He was gambling with his life against those photographs, and he went on to the stairs, mounting them carefully, ears strained to catch the slightest sound.
He saw a crack of light coming from beneath a door, and heard the murmur of voices.
He glanced about him. There were two large cupboards near, and a bathroom, all offering shelter. He stepped cautiously towards the door, trying to catch the words.
It was Kulper’s voice, but he could distinguish nothing else. Was he too
late, did Kulper know his name?
He waited, his heart thumping loudly, and then very sharply through the silence came a harsh ringing.
The front-door bell!
Mannering darted back into the shadows of a cupboard, as he went he heard the scraping of a chair. The door opened abruptly and Kulper came out, very clear against the light.
Kulper walked sharply towards the head of the stairs, and to Mannering. He had only to stretch out a hand to touch the Baron, and Mannering dared hardly breathe.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Portraits of The Baron
Kulper reached the spot where Mannering was standing, and passed it without turning his head. He rounded the stair head and started to go down. His footsteps echoed clearly down the stairs, and Mannering waited until his head had dropped out of sight. Then he moved from the cover and went towards the room with the open door.
He was treading like a cat, his ears alert for the sound of the opening street door, and the return of Kulper and the caller, while he reached the room. Standing very still, he peered through the gap between the hinges.
There was a man leaning back in a leather armchair with his eyes closed. The Baron had never seen him before, although he had a similar plumpness and floridness to Theodore Greene. It was one of Kulper’s men, and that was important. One man inside, how many below?
The front door had opened. Voices came again, Kulper’s very clearly.
“Good evening, sir. Is Jackson with you?”
The ‘sir’ proved that it was someone Kulper respected, a man, not a woman. Suspicions of Mrs. Willison faded. The man’s answer no more than a grunt: an arrogant gentleman, the Baron fancied.
He dropped back behind the cover of the cupboards, certain now that it was too dark for either of the others to see him. Kulper was coming up the stairs first. The second man was wearing a mackintosh with the collar turned up about his face, and in the shadows of the light from the hall he looked grotesque, unrecognisable.
Mannering was on tiptoe as Kulper and the newcomer reached the cupboard. His hands were free and clenched tightly, and he was prepared to start a fight at any moment.
They went past, and into the room. Mannering heard the door close, and waited for the sound of a key turning in the lock.
It did not come; Kulper felt safe.
There was a little smile on the Baron’s lips as he left his cover and went towards the room. The man who had just come in was speaking gruffly. Mannering had heard the voice before.
Where?
“What’s this about Jackson?”
“He was to have called for you, sir.” Kulper’s voice was as expressionless as ever. “Perhaps—”
“I haven’t been home. What about the photographs, Kulper? You’ve got them all?”
“Excepting one that Kate Loffatt had: she says that she burnt it. I’m afraid she had tricked us, for she did not meet Jackson.”
That familiar voice came again, and the Baron’s eyes were very hard and narrow. There was a barrier of disbelief in his mind and yet a knowledge that the thing was true. He waited, while the speaker said harshly:
“Doesn’t matter, we’ve got the Baron for keeps. I can identify him all right, although—”
“Do you know him?” asked Kulper very softly.
“I—”
At that moment Mannering flung open the door.
He had a gun in his hand, the mask was over his face, completely hiding him, and he stood like a statue on the threshold of the room. Kulper swung round, the man like Greene started up, and stared, his expression changing in a flash, while Mannering looked at the usually cheerful eyes, the rugged face and the short straight hair of Peter Lake.
The Baron understood now why Lake had tried to confuse the trails, casting suspicion on his foster mother to make sure he was clear himself. Lake had not been in England for the Maycourt robbery, but he had returned from Germany in ample time to murder Kingley. Mannering understood a dozen other things as he stared with his eyes narrowed, and the silence in the room seemed menacing.
It was the Baron who broke it.
He used the voice that Lorna had heard that afternoon, husky, deep, nothing like John Mannering’s. He saw Lake’s eyes widen, knew the man was startled, for he had expected Mannering’s voice. The gun in the Baron’s hand – a loaded automatic now, for he had not dared to rely on his gas-pistol with the occupants of Kulper’s house – was steady and threatening.
“So you think you know the Baron, eh? Like a lot of others you’re wrong. Kulper, where are those photographs?”
Kulper gulped. His single eye was roving, but Mannering was unaffected. If it came to a point he would shoot: there was going to be no escape for Kulper or Lake or the third man.
Now he was holding the cards he had to hurry, for Lorna was to phone the police to raid the house at a quarter to nine. He had ten minutes, perhaps a little more.
“Where are they, blast you!”
“In—the safe,” gulped Kulper.
“Fine. You seem worried, little man, and that must be a change for you. Who’re you?” he stared at Lake, his eyes narrowed, hiding their hazel lights. That was all Lake could possibly recognise about him, and he did not want that recognition. He knew from Lake’s manner that the man was telling himself he had made a mistake, and a big one.
“Don’t waste time. Who are you?”
It was the man like Greene who gave way.
He was trembling, and Mannering knew the threat of that gun was too much for him. He broke into a torrent of words, without pausing between the sentences, and his eyes were darting nervously to and fro.
“His name’s Lake—Lake! He’s given us orders, he told us to trick you at Staines. He—”
“I’m more interested in Kingley’s murderer,” said the Baron very slowly.
Lake was staring at him, his face working. Only Kulper seemed to have the remnants of self-possession, but he kept still, his hands in sight. Each of the trio knew that the Baron would not hesitate to shoot.
“It was Lake. Lake!” screeched the other. “He—”
“You little—” began Lake, and he jumped at the man, his eyes blazing.
As he moved, the Baron touched the trigger of his gun. There was a sharp report, echoing clearly in the room, and a bullet passed between the two men. Lake drew back, his face very pale. Kulper was staring, his scar flaming red.
“I’m serious,” said the Baron softly. “Lake, did you kill Kingley?”
“I—”
The Baron raised his gun again, and Lake stopped short, biting at his underlip. Mannering spoke very softly to Kulper. “Get me those faked photographs.”
Kulper hesitated, The gun moved, and he stood up slowly, going towards a safe in the corner of the room. Mannering had them all covered, and he watched Kulper like a lynx. The one-eyed man played with the combination. The safe opened, and his right hand went in. The Baron’s forehead was wet with sweat and he watched tensely, expecting Kulper to bring out a gun as a weapon. Kulper did not.
The photographs came, and Kulper shut the safe slowly, and then turned to the table.
“Count them,” Mannering ordered.
There were fifteen, and eight negatives, allowing for two prints of each photograph – including the one that Kate Loffatt had given him – the Baron believed they were all there. “Leave them and sit down, on the chair next to Lake.” Kulper obeyed. Mannering realised that the men were feeling as he had felt when Kulper had held him up in Jackson’s house. They knew that if they moved they would be shot, they were afraid of the Baron. They had no idea of the reason for the tearing haste in his mind, urgency he dared not show for fear of weakening his hand.
“That’s right. Now, Lake, I’ve heard of you. I have a friend who is also a friend of John Mannering’s.”
Lake started, but the Baron went on quickly, and his words sounded so cut and dried that the others could hardly disbelieve him.
“I was asked by Mannering, th
rough that friend, to clear Halliwell. And when I was brought into it, I was glad of the request. I’ll tell you now what I think happened. You, Lake, are badly in need of money. Marion Delray, who you wanted to marry, turned you down for Halliwell, and earned Mrs. Willison’s hatred. She had wanted the marriage. Through Jackson, you worked Halliwell into a fast set, and to get over your money difficulties you linked up with Kulper. To succeed, you needed men in the right social clique. You used Greene, Jackson, perhaps others, and you hired men like Loffatt and Mickey the Wisk to work for you. All the time you were protected, you bought the silence of the others by promising good money if they went to jail without talking. You organised a dozen robberies, including the Elan affair, and Halliwell’s at the Maycourt Hotel. Didn’t you?”
Lake licked his lips. Kulper moved restlessly, and the third man was shivering. Mannering knew he was outlining what had happened, knew he had found the whole truth.
“Didn’t you?”
Lake muttered: “Yes—yes.”
“Halliwell met Jackson at the Maycourt,” Mannering went on, “and while he was drinking with him one of your other men took the wallet with the jewels. You reckoned it would give you a fine motive for getting at Kingley’s safe, leaving Halliwell to stand the rap. And when you got there. Lake, Kingley recognised you. Answer, blast you!”
Lake was writhing now, and he gasped an affirmative that Mannering hardly heard. Mannering went on softly.
“So you shot him, knowing of Halliwell’s quarrel, and what it would mean. You got Jackson, when Halliwell went to see him, to tell him what had happened, you persuaded Halliwell he was in danger. Jackson sealed up the room at Renman’s, and then got away. If Mannering hadn’t arrived in time—by God! You were with Mannering!”
It was beautifully done. If Lake had had any lingering doubts as to the Baron’s identity, they went then. Moreover, Mannering realised that Lake had been watching him closely as Mannering all the time, finding how the Halliwell defence was going, in his guise as the cheerful, somewhat feckless friend.
