by John Creasey
A dog frisked, not far away.
Seale yawned, ran a hand over his face, and went to the door. He didn’t trouble to put on a dressing-gown. The legs of the pyjamas were too short for him, and one was torn, so that most of the leg from the knee downwards showed; it was very white and almost free from hairs. He unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped out. No one was in the passage. He let the door bang and while he was in the bathroom heard Paul Greer running up the stairs.
“Lucien, you there?”
“Coming,” Seale called. He washed his hands and face in cold water, and then went out.
Paul Greer was in grey flannels, a yellow shirt and a red muffler tied choker-fashion. He looked plump, sleek, well-fed and rested.
“I thought you were never going to wake up,” he complained. “I tried—”
“I know you tried. It’s lucky for you you didn’t try to force your way in.”
Whatever the shorter man was going to say wasn’t uttered. He blinked up at Seale, and then gave an involuntary shiver. He turned and led the way towards the bedroom. Seale took off his pyjama jacket. He was so thin that his ribs showed through, and he had that same whiteness. There were two big, puckered scars, one at his right shoulder and the other just above his stomach.
“You just don’t trust anybody, do you?” Greer said at last.
“Not even you.”
“What would I have to gain by double-crossing you?” asked Greer heavily. “Not a thing, and you know it. You scare me sometimes, you aren’t like you used to be.”
Seale grinned. “You never said a truer word!”
“I didn’t mean that way,” Greer said uneasily. “You know what I mean. You used to be—oh, forget it. I wanted to tell you—”
Seale said: “We don’t forget it, Paul, we remember it.” He didn’t move; yet he seemed to hold Greer by sheer hypnotic force, so that the plump man couldn’t escape. “That’s one of the things you have to learn. I don’t ever forget. I don’t forget that I got smashed up the way I did. I don’t forget that I had to be given a new face, and some new skin in a lot of other places. I don’t forget that it took me five years—five years, Paul—in a hospital, going through agony time after time, before I could show myself in public. No, I don’t forget, I’m not made that way. Even if I were, every time I looked into a mirror I’d be reminded of what had happened.” He moved towards the wash-basin, and turned on the hot tap, looking hard at his face in the mirror. “There’s one thing, I don’t have to shave now, do I, Paul? There’s another thing: I want what I want and I’m going to get it. If it hadn’t been for that old swine at Orme this wouldn’t have happened to me. First he double-crossed me, then—”
Greer made himself interrupt. “Listen, Lucien. He didn’t know what he was doing, he couldn’t have guessed that you’d be smashed up the way you were. Hell, that was an accident.”
“It was an accident that wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t swindled me,” Seale sneered. “But he doesn’t matter any more. He left a safe deposit key and the keys to his own vault in that box, we can use both. From now on, I’m on the way up. Don’t forget it. I’ve been as far down as a man can be, and now I’m going as high as a man can go. There are two people in this world who might be able to stop me. One is Mannering, and the other is Joanna Woburn.”
“If you’d left the woman to me—”
“But I didn’t, did I?” sneered Seale. “I wanted to see what happened myself, and if I hadn’t been there probably you and the others would have been caught. That’s how good you are.” He turned away from the basin. “That’s how good. What kind of men have you got on the pay roll, Paul? You’re supposed to look after that. A man had a simple job to do last night, and what happened? He misses Mannering and makes him raging mad, makes the job we’ve got ten times more difficult. That’s wonderful, Paul, isn’t it? Brilliant. The—”
Greer said almost desperately: “Why don’t you listen to reason? Mannering isn’t going to sit and wait for you to knock him off. He’s good. Look at the way he acted yesterday afternoon, look at the way he saved himself last night. He has some luck, but he wouldn’t have so much if we weren’t good. It’s not going to be so easy.”
“It’s going to be done.”
Paul said: “I don’t know, Lucien, I just don’t know.”
“That mean you’re scared?”
Greer gave a funny little explosive laugh. “Too right I’m scared! Ever since we teamed up again, I’ve been scared. There’s something in you that I don’t like. It terrifies me. You’re good, but you won’t listen to reason. This time, reason says that you ought to lie low for a long time. Maybe you ought to work through a stooge and not show yourself—”
“I don’t use any stooge,” Seale said. “We get Mannering and the girl, quickly.” He began to put on singlet and trunks. “What did you come to see me so early for?”
There was a long pause. Then: “Peter’s here,” Greer answered. “He wants to cross into France and stay there for a few weeks, in case anything went wrong last night. I wouldn’t let him until I’d got your okay.”
Seale didn’t answer.
After a minute, Greer said testily: “He’s waiting and I’m waiting, and you don’t have to behave as if you were King of the Cocoa Islands.”
For some reason, that amused Seale.
“Okay, Paul, okay! You can tell Pete no, we’ve got more work for him. Just tell him to lie low in London for a few days; as soon as we’ve finished he can find himself a skirt and take her to the Riviera. Just between you and me, he hasn’t earned his corn yet.”
Greer said: “That’s true enough, but if he’s scared he might be dangerous.”
“Soothe him, Paul,” urged Seale. “Don’t let him be scared. You know how good you are with men like Pete. Now there’s that old police uniform—we still got it?”
“Yes.”
“Mannering wouldn’t expect trouble from a copper, would he?” Seale asked thoughtfully. “Try that old trick—with a knife. If it doesn’t work, we’ll use one of those hand-grenades you bought, and throw it into his car.”
“But other people might—” began Greer sharply.
Seale just showed his teeth, and rasped into the silence: “Nancy up yet?”
“Yes.”
“Tell her I want some tea, now, and then some breakfast,” Seale ordered. “And over breakfast we can discuss how to kill Mannering and the Woburn girl.” He actually chuckled. “Not that there ought to be any difficulty with the Woburn girl, she’s sitting right in the heart of trouble, isn’t she?”
Greer flashed: “You can’t use anyone down there now!”
“Can’t I?” asked Seale. “We’ll see.”
“Listen, you can’t risk—”
“Why don’t you worry less and do what you’re told more?” Seale asked. “When we’re ready, we can use who we want. Now we have that box, we have nearly everything. It’s just a matter of patience. Go and tell Mickey and Nancy.” Greer shrugged, and went out, obviously uneasy. Seale put on his rather shabby clothes. He didn’t smile, didn’t change his expression. He did not speak to the young woman who came in with tea on a tray, not even to answer her “Good morning, Lucien.” She did not seem surprised, but went out at once. Downstairs, she said to Paul Greer: “He’s going to run himself and a lot of other people into big trouble if we’re not careful.”
“He’ll calm down.”
“I’m not so sure.” Nancy pushed her heavy corn-coloured hair back. She had big, bold features, a big, rather floppy figure; she needed corsets, not just a belt. “Know what I think? I think he’s just eaten up with hatred.”
“For whom?” Paul asked. “The old so-and-so at Orme, or—”
“Anyone on two legs,” Nancy said.
Mannering woke, slowly.
H
e felt a pain at the back of his neck and another behind his right knee. For the first few seconds he didn’t know why, or where he was; then he realised that he wasn’t in bed, but in an armchair in the study. His mouth was harsh and dry, his eyes were heavy. The whisky bottle was on the table by his side, with his glass and Bristow’s.
Bristow’s –
He remembered.
He had started to move, but now sat absolutely still. He stared at the whisky bottle; there was the head and shoulders of a Highlander on it, a ruddy-faced man with blue eyes; the picture faded, and Mannering seemed to see Lorna, alive – and dead.
He got up, slowly. His neck and his knee still hurt. He stared at the telephone. He had last spoken into it at four o’clock, when the hospital had called to tell him that the operation was over, she was comfortable, there would be no further news until next morning.
It was half-past eight.
He moistened his lips, then went into the empty kitchen and put a kettle on. All he could really think about was telephoning the hospital, but eagerness to do that was touched with fear of what the news might be. He made himself go into the study again, and pick up the receiver. He dialled the hospital number.
“… Hospital, can I help you?”
“Hold on, please.”
“I’m trying to find Sister, hold on, please.”
Hold on, hold on, hold on.
“Oh, Mr. Mannering, I’m sorry to have kept you.” He knew the Day Sister, and this was her bell-like voice. “There isn’t very much change to report.”
Mannering dropped into the chair.
“So she’s—kept going?”
“Yes, steadily,” the Sister said briskly, “and the fact that she has got through the night makes it more hopeful.”
“If I come—”
“You could come, and be thoroughly distressed,” the Day Sister said. “If you stay near a telephone, I’ll make quite sure that you have all the news as it comes through, and you’re only ten minutes’ drive away from the hospital. I should stay home, if I were you.” The briskness softened a little. “Really, I’m most hopeful, and I know Dr. Morrison is.”
“Bless you,” Mannering said fervently. “I’ll be here, unless I send a message.”
He rang off.
He heard the kettle boiling, but didn’t get up.
He was beginning to realise just what it would mean to him if Lorna didn’t recover, and didn’t come back. This flat, with his old furniture, its charm, its picturesqueness, would seem empty and barren without her. He was almost maudlin, and knew it, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
That kettle!
He jumped up.
After a bath and shave, he boiled two eggs and made some toast. It was a bright morning and he sat looking out of the window of the small dining-room; he could see the distant Thames, and a few small craft moving slowly along it. The newspaper carried a small story of the attack on him, only one had a picture of Lorna; but all his friends would know, now, the telephone would soon start ringing; it was surprising that it hadn’t started already.
Before he finished breakfast, it began.
Friends, the Press, Bristow, an assistant at Quinns, Ethel with her twisted ankle, came on the line one after another. Anxious, worried, curious. At moments it infuriated him, at others he realised that it was giving him plenty to think about. Into a lull, he sat back and smoked a cigarette – and heard the front-door bell ring.
He was half-way to the door before the possibility dawned on him that this might be danger in a new guise. He stopped, a yard from the door. He couldn’t see through it from here, but there was a small spy-hole, put there almost as a joke, a few months ago. He could see through that, if he went close to the door.
The bell rang again.
It might be a policeman; it might be a friend; it might and probably was a newspaperman. There wasn’t the slightest reason to believe that it might be anyone with intent to kill, yet he couldn’t get the thought out of his mind.
The police were watching, weren’t they?
He reached the spy-hole, and peered through. At first all he saw was a patch of blue, and glitter of something silvery. Then the man out there moved back a little, and Mannering saw his helmet, his collar with the Metropolitan police numbers on it.
He relaxed, feeling sharply annoyed with himself. His nervous reaction was partly due to Bristow, he shouldn’t be anything like so jittery.
One copper.
He opened the door.
The ‘policeman’ held a knife.
Chapter Eleven
The ‘Policeman’
He was a shorter man than Mannering, young, hard eyed. The knife was in his right hand, held just in front of him, dagger fashion. He lunged, as soon as the door was open, and the knife should have buried itself in Mannering. Mannering flung himself to one side, felt the blade catch in his coat, and smashed his right fist at the ‘policeman’s’ face. The man backed away, gasping.
Mannering snatched at the wrist above the knife. He felt the other screw himself up for a desperate effort. For a moment they stood together, grunting, straining to get the knife.
Mannering knew that if he failed, he would be killed.
The other man’s left hand was at his wrist, twisting, thrusting his arm upwards. Mannering was forcing the man’s hand downwards so that the point of the knife was thrust towards the floor. They hardly moved; just steeled themselves for greater effort. Sweat gathered on their foreheads. If he relaxed, even if he shouted, Mannering knew that the other would have that vital moment that he needed for the kill.
Then Mannering butted the ‘policeman’ on the nose, and as the man sagged back, twisted the bony wrist. He felt the finger tendons relax, and heard the knife clatter. He struck again, savagely. The ‘policeman’ staggered away, doubled up with pain, very close to the top of the stairs. He couldn’t stop himself, and Mannering couldn’t stop him. The ‘policeman’ fell backwards from the head of the stairs, then thudded down to the first landing.
Mannering stood at the top, breathing very hard.
For a few seconds, nothing happened or moved. Then he saw that the man was lying very still, and his neck seemed to be oddly twisted. Slowly, Mannering went downstairs. Next he heard the street door open, and a man called up: “Everything all right there?”
Mannering drew a deep breath.
“Come—up,” he called.
He reached the man who lay in that oddly shaped heap. He felt quite sure what had happened, it was plain to see. He couldn’t possibly blame himself, but deep bitterness built up inside him, going as deep as bitterness and self-reproach could go.
This man was dead.
The man who’d just come in, a Yard man on street duty, came at the double. He slackened his pace when he saw the ‘policeman’, looked into Mannering’s bleak eyes, and started to excuse himself. He had actually spoken to the man, asked him what Division he’d come from; the letters on his uniform had tallied with his story; he couldn’t be blamed …
“No one’s blaming you,” Mannering said tautly. “No one’s blaming anybody.”
But a man who might have talked was dead.
By the middle of the morning the police were able to say that the dead man was a Peter Arthur Byall, with a record for robbery with violence. He had been in France for some months, and had only just returned to England. He had rooms at Highgate, where his landlady swore that she knew nothing about him. He also had a motorcycle, and might be the man who had stabbed Lorna. A call went out for anyone who knew anything about his movements during the past few weeks, but there was no response.
“The one inescapable thing is that you can’t feel safe anywhere,” Bristow said. “If they really mean to get you, they can strike from a dozen places and use a dozen foul tricks.”
He looked into Mannering’s face, badly shaken because the man he had sent to watch Mannering had fallen down on his job; and because he felt quite sure that Mannering was in acute danger. “After this, I feel quite sure they mean to kill you. Everything else being even, they will.”
“Job’s comforter,” Mannering said. “Two attempts have failed.”
“I’m sick and tired of arguing with a pig-headed fool,” Bristow rasped. “I know what you feel, and I hate having to say what I’m saying. But given a man who is determined to kill you at all costs, there’s no way in which we can guarantee your safety. Know what I think you ought to do?”
Mannering said slowly, softly: “Go on.”
“If I had my way, you’d be out of the country in a few hours’ time.”
“You forget—”
“I don’t forget Lorna or anything or anyone,” Bristow said. “Lorna’s still keeping going. The last I heard from the hospital, they were optimistic. You can keep in touch by telephone. But whether you stay in the country or not, you’ve got to leave this flat, keep away from Quinns, keep under cover.”
Mannering just looked at him.
“The same applies to Joanna Woburn,” Bristow said. “I’d pack the pair of you off, if—”
“Bill,” said Mannering, in a soft, smooth voice, “I think you may have got something. I really do. Lie low. Disappear.” He began to smile. “Why not? I needn’t leave England, need I? You don’t really expect me to, that was just to impress me with the depth of your feeling.” He laughed, with a burst of excitement. “I could do two jobs at the same time, Bill, look after Joanna Woburn and probe into the problem of Jimmy Garfield. Be useful to know who’ll inherit if he dies. Found his will yet?”
