by John Creasey
Slash.
He turned the handle of the detective’s door, and a new fear crowded in on the others; that the man would wake up with a start, and shout for help.
He wasn’t asleep; he was sitting in an easy chair, with a book on his knees, and a revolver in his hand. It covered the door. He looked scared, even behind the gun, and his eyes were huge in a broad face. Mannering put a finger to his lips, and took a step towards him.
“Keep back!” the man whispered.
“Someone in her room,” Mannering breathed. “Down the chimney.”
The man didn’t have to believe him; might even suspect his intentions; if he were trigger happy, it wouldn’t help much to have explanations afterwards.
Mannering turned towards the door, and prayed.
He mustn’t alarm the man in the girl’s room.
If there was no man –
He didn’t think seriously of that possibility as he turned the handle slowly, acutely conscious of the police man just behind him, gun at the ready. He opened the door a crack. He saw the faint light, and knew that light would go from this room into the other, and that if a man were in there and looking towards the door –
Mannering opened the door wider.
He looked round, and saw the small man, torch in one hand, the other hand hidden. The man’s bent back was towards Mannering. He was close to the bed. His right hand seemed to be raised, as his arm would be if he were going to strike.
“Turn round!” Mannering rasped.
It still might be too late –
He saw the tension, the movement, the small body half-turn. He saw the knife, out of its sheath, the torch light glittering on it. He saw the breathing mask. Then the little man swung round, moving the knife, as if at all costs he had to finish his job before he was caught.
The policeman fired.
The knife flashed down, the little man cried out in pain, and staggered away from the bed. Mannering rushed towards the bed, seeing Joanna Woburn as the little man moved.
She woke up.
Mannering, still ‘Mr. Richardson’ to the life, watched as the little man stood in the room next door, with White questioning him, the other policeman standing by. The bullet had caught the man in the shoulders, and they had given him first aid; but the white bandage was already showing signs of crimson.
The prisoner didn’t say a word.
With his mask off, he was just a pale-faced, plain little creature, with dark eyes and a nervous manner, thin lips, and the rather raw look that some killers had. His hands and knees were scratched, where he had come down the chimney.
He hadn’t said anything that mattered, just insisted on seeing a doctor and a lawyer. He wasn’t truculent, in fact he was scared; but he was adamant, and none of White’s cajolery or loud-voiced threats or reasoning had the slightest effect on him.
“What about a doctor, my shoulder’s hurting.”
“I hope it hurts a damned sight more. Who sent you?”
Silence.
“Look here, it won’t do you any good in the long run, and if you help us all you can now, it’ll go easier for you,” White said. “Where did you get that diagram of the roof?”
“It was given to me.”
“Who by?”
“Listen,” the little man said, “where’s that doctor, I’m losing an awful lot of blood.”
Mannering went out of the room. He heard a low-pitched voice in the next room, which was Joanna’s, and the door was ajar. He tapped, and when Mrs. Baddelow said “Come in” he opened it wider. Mrs. Baddelow, in a dressing-gown and with her grey hair mousy and untidy without its bun, was sitting in an easy chair by the side of Joanna’s bed; there was a tray with two glasses of hot milk in metal holders on it. Joanna picked up a glass.
“Feeling more yourself?” Mannering asked.
“The things Miss Woburn’s had to put up with while she’s been in this house is something awful,” Mrs. Baddelow said. Her voice was strident, as if she resented being gazed upon by a male in such a state of untidiness. “The police actually let a man get into her room! If I had my way I’d tell them a thing or two. I think she’s marvellous,” Mrs. Baddelow went on, and glowered as if she expected the remark to be challenged. “The way she stands up to all this.”
Mannering said: “You’re not alone in thinking she’s marvellous. How are you, Miss Woburn?” He went to her.
She said in a low-pitched voice: “More frightened than I ever thought I could be. If they can get in here—”
“It was obvious, really, down the chimney,” Mannering said. “The problem” – he looked at Mrs. Baddelow thoughtfully – “is how he knew what chimney to choose. Had them swept lately, Mrs. Baddelow?”
“No, not since I’ve been here, except the ones in the library and the dining-room.”
“Who sweeps them?”
“A man from Orme. All electric, but don’t you believe it when he says there’s no soot, the place was smothered! And I don’t mind telling you that he’s been sweeping chimneys in Orme for twenty years to my knowledge; I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
Mannering said: “Just trying to help.” He went out, convinced that it was pointless to say anything else to Joanna Woburn. There was just one good thing that might come out of this: Merrow might be persuaded to talk. A visit to Merrow was on the agenda for first thing in the morning.
He looked at his watch. It was nearly six, and he hadn’t slept for more than three hours, if as much. The police were handling the prisoner, and even if he had any constructive ideas, they probably wouldn’t be welcome. He went back to his own room. The wind was much louder, and he could hear it sweeping across the parkland, howling now and again on a high note which was almost frightening.
If the wind had been up like this an hour or so ago, he wouldn’t have heard that rustling.
It was getting near daylight; the pitch darkness had gone, and he could just make out the shape of trees and the pale outline of the gravel drive. He heard the policeman talking, down below.
He went back to bed.
It was impossible to be sure what would happen next; impossible to be sure that any precautions were good enough. The unknown man was going to kill at all costs.
And he was going to use men who were ready to take the risk, and wouldn’t talk when they were caught.
This one might crack –
Mannering knew that it wasn’t likely. You could pick out men who were likely to break down under pressure, and those who would hold out.
He stretched himself out in bed luxuriously. At least there was nothing more to worry about tonight.
He willed sleep; and now, it came.
Seale knotted his brown tie in front of the dressing-table mirror of his Hampstead house, tugged it too tightly, and then looked out of the window. It was nearly ten o’clock. The rush of traffic into London had really started. A string of buses went noisily, splashing and shimmering in the heavy rain. A cyclist in oilskins pedalled on, obviously unable to see more than a few yards ahead of him because of the big sou’wester.
Seale went downstairs.
His face was set and looked more unreal than ever; shiny, too, where he had washed. His eyes were dull. He reached the foot of the stairs and turned slowly and with deliberation which a robot might have used. He heard the yellow-haired woman, Nancy, talking to someone out of sight. That was in the kitchen. The telephone was in a room which faced the stairs.
He moved towards the kitchen.
The telephone bell rang.
He turned round, and it was almost painful to see his movements – it would have been easy to believe that each one hurt. He clenched his teeth and parted his lips as he stared at the door of the room where the telephone was. Then he moved towards it, but before he was inside Paul Gre
er came hurrying from the kitchen, in a puce coloured shirt and cream tie and flannels with a beautiful sharp crease.
“You going to take it?” he asked.
“No. You.”
“Okay.” Greer pushed past the big man. The telephone was on a table just behind the door. Seale watched as Greer lifted the receiver, and said: “Hallo?”
He paused.
He flashed a glance at Seale, and told him that it was a call that mattered. Both men seemed to go stiff; and sweat broke out on Greer’s forehead.
He said thinly: “What?”
There was a long pause, but his expression told Seale what there was to know. Seale clenched his hands so tightly that his nails hurt his palms; and the veins in his neck stood out like whipcord. His breathing came hissingly through his broad nostrils.
“You sure?” Greer asked.
There was another pause.
“Okay,” he said. “Nothing—no, nothing yet. I’ll call you.” He put the receiver down slowly. Then he rubbed his hands together; they were sticky. He stared into Seale’s eyes, and he was afraid.
“He missed her,” he said thinly.
“Where is he?”
“On a charge.”
“On a—charge?”
“That’s right. They caught him. He did everything, got into the room, was just going to kill her, and they caught him. It was the police and the Richardson guy. They caught him.” Greer kept repeating that as if he couldn’t really believe it. “He’s on a charge, at Orme Police Station. Aylmer’s sent for the Yard, dunno who’s going there, but someone is.”
Seale didn’t speak.
“There’s one thing,” Greer said, with a grotesque effort, “Brill won’t talk. He’s good that way, he won’t talk.” His expression changed, it was as if he had said something which he knew might please Seale. “None of the boys will talk.”
Seale began to move again; creakily.
“Mannering?”
“No news of Mannering,” Greer said. “He’s just vanished. We’ve got a couple of men working all the nursing-homes, but that’ll take a hell of a time, you can’t go in and ask. We’re doing the West End ones first. The thing about Mannering is, he—”
Greer stopped.
“Let’s have it,” Seale demanded.
Greer moved, and eased his neck. The news had come as a severe shock, had affected him as badly as it had Seale, but he seemed to have recovered more quickly.
“Mannering might be dead,” he said.
“When I know someone who’s seen Mannering buried, I’ll believe he’s dead,” Seale told him gratingly. “Dead, nothing. Lying low. Is he a fool?”
“We can’t do a thing if we don’t know where he is.”
“We don’t seem to be able to do a thing if we know where anyone is,” Seale said. “That girl’s moved about, hasn’t she? She’s been up and downstairs, she’s eaten, she’s had a bath, maybe she’s taken a walk, maybe she’s been out for a drive.”
“She saw Merrow yesterday.”
Seale moistened his lips. “She gets herself a nice time, and the men I pay good money to watch her move around. Maybe they like her figure.”
“Listen, Lucien, it was all laid on—”
“It wasn’t done,” Seale said. “It’s got to be done. What do we have a stooge down there for if it isn’t to take risks? Come on, tell me.”
“We can’t take too many chances. We haven’t all that number of men.”
“We can take chances,” Seale said. “We’ve got to finish them both. Find Mannering, find the girl, finish—” He paused, and then went on very softly: “Do you think I’m doing this for fun?”
“Don’t be a fool, Lucien. You want to take it easy, you want a rest—”
“Paul,” Seale said, “that woman’s down there, at Orme. We can make sure that she never leaves Orme. We’ll have to sacrifice an agent. Okay, that’s what we’ll do. Get rid of her. Then find Mannering, and—”
“It’s not so easy!”
Seale said: “It’s got to be done.”
Chapter Seventeen
Merrow Talks
Mannering stood at the front entrance of Brook House, looking over the parkland and the drive. The wind was still high, but the clouds had gone and the sun had the brightness which follows rain. The grass was vivid, and seemed very close; and the trees reflected the hard brightness of the sun. A motor-mower was working out of sight; there was no other sound near by, but not far off, over a lawn, one of Aylmer’s policemen walked, in a frustrated searching for some unknown, even unsuspected clue.
Mannering moved to the top of the steps.
He was thinking of the girl, still in her room. No one could be surprised that she was in a state of prostration. The doctor, elderly and white-haired and rather fussy, had ordered complete quiet and rest. Aylmer, so shaken by Brill’s way of forcing entry, had a man at her door, another at her window, another at the door of the adjoining room; and two men all the time in the grounds. No one quite could guess which way an attack might come next time.
Aylmer had just gone back to Orme; harassed, nearly bad tempered. He had asked the Yard for help, and no one had yet arrived. He was probably taking a beating from his Chief Constable and he would certainly take one from the Press. If you hadn’t been directly involved in the night’s raid, it seemed fantastic that the police couldn’t have kept one man out.
The thing that most worried Mannering was the diagram. It had been drawn fairly recently, because the paper was fresh and white; but it might be a copy of an older drawing. Its accuracy was remarkable. It could only have been sketched by someone who had been up on the roof, or had copied a photograph or plan of it. No one remotely associated with Brook House, in Orme, could recall a plan of the roof having been prepared. The chimneys were swept each year, but only four were used regularly; and the bedroom chimneys hadn’t been cleaned for years; they were used mostly for ventilation.
So, who had been up there?
One of the staff? That was an obvious possibility. Mrs. Baddelow? Mannering let her name drift in and out of his mind. He had talked to Aylmer about the housekeeper, and been assured that she came from a nearby town, was very well known, had a thoroughly good reputation. Merrow? Well, Merrow might have been up to the roof, but had anyone known of the need for the diagram before Merrow’s injury? That was a question Mannering couldn’t answer, but one thing gradually made itself clear. If anyone had wanted to break into Brook House for an ordinary burglary, the one possible way was from the roof – and the one way in which it would be almost impossible to raise an alarm was through a chimney. By night, the supposed impregnable house was in fact easily entered. Most ‘impregnable’ houses were to men with daring and skill.
When had the diagram been drawn? And by whom?
If Merrow, how had it come into Brill’s possession?
If Merrow, why had Merrow been attacked?
Mannering stopped guessing, and went down to the drive, then walked towards the garages at the back. He didn’t hurry. The sun was warm. He saw a small van outside the garage, with a picture of a grey horse on either side, and when he drew nearer, he saw the words ‘Grey Mare’. A man whom he had seen casually once or twice was lifting a small barrel of beer from the back of the van. Seated inside the van, ears cocked, eyes fixed on Mannering, was the big Alsatian.
“Afternoon, sir,” the man greeted.
“Good afternoon.” Mannering smiled as Mr. Richardson might be expected to smile, and went to the antiquated Austin. He remembered being told that the big man was Jeff Liddicombe, Priscilla’s father. That had him thinking about Priscilla, showing her claws. When one looked at her casually, it didn’t seem possible that she had such strength of purpose; the feline had shown almost savagely when she had talked to him.
Who had drawn that diagram?
Could a tradesman get access to the roof? Had any building been on the roof lately? When had there last been decorating work done?
He drove off, slowly, down the drive, quickening his pace when he reached the road. Orme was nearly half an hour away, because of a winding road. The inn sign of the ‘Grey Mare’ was swinging in the wind and the gravel outside it seemed deeper yellow because of the rain.
He drove straight to the hospital. No one bade him nay, and he went to Merrow’s ward. Outside some wards was a card, reading ‘Engaged’; no card hung on the handle of Merrow’s door.
Mannering went in.
Merrow was reading a newspaper.
He looked up, recognised ‘Mr. Richardson’, but didn’t put the paper down until Mannering was half-way across the room. He had been shaved, and looked much more presentable than he had the previous afternoon.
“What do you want?” he asked gruffly.
Mannering didn’t pull a chair, but stood at the foot of the bed. His confidence in his disguise was complete now; no one here had looked twice at him, he was absolutely sure that they did not dream that he was anything but the middle-aged man he looked.
He said: “A man named Brill climbed down Miss Woburn’s chimney last night, and—”
Merrow dropped the newspaper. “No!” His eyes showed all the terror any man could feel.
“… and attempted to kill her. More by luck than judgment, she was saved.” Mannering kept his voice very flat. “She’s now in a state of collapse, and likely to stay that way if we can’t take this load off her mind soon. She can’t keep it back any longer, she’s afraid of being killed. She knows that someone is going to stop at nothing to kill her. So do I.”
Mannering stopped. Merrow hadn’t attempted to look away from him.
Mannering let the silence drag out, wanting Merrow to speak next. He judged the inward battle that the man was fighting, wondered what caused his obstinacy and his defiance.
Then Merrow said: “I don’t know that I can help at all.”
