by John Creasey
‘Fay’s cry is: “Why didn’t they tell me he was worried?’” said Lorna, sitting on the end of the Baron’s bed while he drank coffee and sat in an easy chair opposite her. About the house the wind was rising in intensity, there was a thick layer of snow on the veranda. He had looked outside, to see the white carpet surrounding them, and he had tried to force back his anxiety.
‘I’m more interested in why he was worried,’ Mannering said. ‘The burglary or the company, and everything considered, I’m afraid it’s the burglary.’
‘That means he knew Armstrong wasn’t in it. It’s too beastly.’
‘The whole thing is beastly.’
He finished his coffee.
‘Of course, Mervin won’t stay at the flat for long, and I don’t think he’ll have much trouble in slipping the police. He’ll go either to Gillison’s place, or another rendezvous. Rogerson might know where that is, but I can’t be sure he’ll talk.’
‘You’ve given Theo and the others up?’
‘I can’t do yet. If Sharron dies we’ll be as much in the dark as ever.’ He lifted the telephone. There was a pause, and he pumped the rest up and down. ‘Hello, Exchange, hello!’
There was no answer.
‘I wonder,’ said Mannering slowly, ‘if Bristow has been playing tricks with this ‘phone. Have the others gone to bed?’
Lorna nodded.
‘We’ll try your phone first,’ said Mannering.
They could get no reply, but he was prepared to believe that Bristow had cut the wires leading to Lorna’s room as well as his own. He hurried downstairs, with Lorna behind him. In the hall he saw Tring and the plain-clothes man.
‘Can I help you, Mr. Mannering?’
‘I’ve put a London call through,’ said Mannering, ‘but something’s wrong with the phone.’
He did not imagine the glint of satisfaction in Tring’s eyes as the sergeant grunted: ‘There is, sir. The lines are down. We were just in time to get a call through to London an hour ago, but they’ll be down now until the snowstorm’s over. Twenty-four hours, at least, I’d say.’
Mannering stood rigid, his face expressionless.
It was now nearly five o’clock; by nine Rogerson would be free.
Tring broke in maliciously.
‘Anything important, sir?’
‘Damned important,’ admitted Mannering, covering his anxiety with a sharpness that seemed natural. ‘You’re sure about this?’
‘No doubt about it,’ Drew assured him. ‘You can see some of the wires down from here.’
Tring turned a chuckle into a cough.
‘Have to wait this time, Mr. Mannering, unless you’re thinking of driving up. I wouldn’t like the job, the snow’s nearly a foot deep in places.’
Tring was having his innings, and Mannering could hardly blame the man for gloating, but he could not get rid of a heaviness at the pit of his stomach. Like a refrain, a sentence ran through his mind: ‘Rogerson mustn’t go. Rogerson mustn’t go.’
But how to stop him?
He nodded goodnight to the smiling policeman. Back in his room, he turned resolutely to Lorna.
‘Rogerson mustn’t go!’
She answered quietly: ‘What will you do?’
‘I’ll have to try and get there.’
‘It’s almost impossible. They’ll be watching the grounds, and they’ll follow you. Tring expects you to try, and he’ll warn Bristow. He’ll have men on your heels all the way.’
Mannering nodded. The emergency had come with a frightening suddenness. Was it possible that the Baron’s career would end like this, that he would be forced to drop out of society by the implications at Rogerson’s trial?
And Lorna with him?
He stared at her blankly. Unless he could get word to Leverson, he had no chance to avoid a catastrophe.
‘I’m coming with you,’ Lorna said suddenly.
He stepped towards her, gripping her shoulders tightly.
‘Lorna, I’ll need word of what’s happening here, and I’ve got to be alone on this jaunt. There’s no danger unless I fail to get through, but if I do fail, you’ll be implicated. You mustn’t chance it, understand?’
Wordlessly she flung her arms found him.
She knew that she might never see him again unless it were furtively; she knew that within twenty-four hours, and even less, the Press might be screeching the story that Mannering was the Baron. The danger was not imaginary, it was real and near them, and the odds seemed hopeless.
He broke away.
‘I’ll get there,’ he said. ‘Go downstairs, and try to keep Tring and Drew engaged.’
He watched her disappear, then he slipped into a coat. He thought for a moment of trying to find boots to fit him, instead of shoes, but realised that minutes might make or break his chance.
He turned the light out, and stepped softly on to the veranda. From a room on the ground floor a light was shining through the fast-falling snow. It was difficult to see, and yet the white glare of the countryside was vivid enough. He leaned towards the left, running his hand towards the pillar that had helped him once before. Cautiously he climbed over the balcony rail.
He had to go this way, for the doors would be watched. Tring and Bristow between them would make sure that he did not get away without being followed. They might even try to detain him, and an hour’s delay would be fatal.
His hands slipped on the stone, but he found the top of the pillar, gripped it, let himself go.
There was no means of checking or controlling his descent, and it was with a profound sigh of relief that he finally hit the snow.
For a time he lay there, sprawled out and breathless, knowing that the snow’s deep drifting had saved him from injury.
He waited for less than twenty seconds, picked himself up, and turned from the house.
In that whirling storm it was impossible to be sure of his direction. He tried to remember the layout of the grounds, but the only thing vivid in his mind was the lines of pine trees. If he could find the avenue he could reach the end of the drive, and once he was on the road it would be easier going.
Easier?
If he made two miles an hour he would do well, and even if he reached the main road – four miles away – by seven o’clock, no traffic would be moving. Through the snow it would be virtually impossible. His only hope was to find a telephone from which he could ring London.
How far did the snow area stretch?
From London it had been negligible as far as Camberley, but Camberley was over twenty miles away. It was more obstinacy than hope that drove him on.
He staggered against a small tree, pulled up by a beam of light, not five yards from him.
He stood quite still, and as he watched he saw the burly figure of a man lurching past him. In the reflected glow of the torch he recognised Tring.
So Lorna had failed, they knew he was out of his room!
Tring blundered past.
To find anyone in the storm was nearly impossible, and the torch did more harm than good. But did Tring know the way to the drive? Mannering hesitated, then followed the sergeant. All the time he could see the dark blur of the policeman’s body against the white patch that his torch created in the snow, but there was no sound beyond the flurrying of snowflakes and the occasional whistle of the wind.
The walk seemed interminable as the Baron followed that ghostly light.
The snow was thick but even, walking was difficult but not impossible. Mannering calculated that they had been moving for over ten minutes; they should be near the drive now.
He saw Tring slow down.
Something else loomed out of the darkness.
The ‘something’ grew clearer, and he saw a second man, while faintly he saw the rim of a headlight. His heart leapt as he heard Tring’s voice, only just audible although less than ten yards away from him.
‘Anyone passed, Edwards?’
‘Haven’t seen a soul, but it ain’t easy.’
‘No. Still, keep a close watch. Someone’s got away from the house.’
Mannering, listening, rejoiced that his name was not mentioned. Bristow and Tring were keeping that knowledge to themselves; until there was a clear case against him his name would not be generally suspect at the Yard.
‘Well, he hasn’t passed this way. Sergeant, you haven’t got a nip with you, have you? I’m perished in this blasted car.’
‘Lucky you don’t have to stay in the open,’ retorted Tring severely.
There was a pause, as a whisky flask changed hands.
A sudden, desperate hope flashed into Mannering’s mind. He could just discern the posts of the gates, which were open, and the headlights of the car were turned towards them. The snow was only inches deep here, and on the road itself there was a chance that the car would run.
He circled round the two men standing by it.
As he drew nearer he could hear their voices again, but he could not see them. Snow had drifted against the doors, but that of the driving seat opened without trouble, and the effect of the headlights was to put the car itself in darkness.
He slipped in.
If the engine refused to start and the noise gave the others warning he would be no worse off, for they would never find him along the lane; it would merely confirm Tring’s knowledge that he was about. But his heart was hammering as he let in the clutch cautiously, and, holding his breath, pulled at the self-starter.
The engine hummed at once.
Three movements as one. Clutch in – brake off – throttle down! The car lurched forward. He reached the gates and swung left. The wheels slithered, but he kept on. He had no idea how close Tring and Edwards were behind him, but he was going too fast for them to hope to catch him up.
And there was no way they could send a call out from the Towers.
Chapter Twenty-One
Morning Encounter
Mannering was on the main road.
Now that the first rush of excitement was over he realised the difficulties and dangers of his manoeuvre, but when they were weighed up he knew that he had done the only thing possible. It was true that he had given Bristow a lever for charging him with taking the car without the owner’s consent; but it would only be against Mannering, and it was the worst that could happen provided he reached London, or got the message through.
There were other cars at the Towers; Bristow might decide to send men after him but he doubted it. No one at the Towers would seriously think he could get far, and Bristow was probably consoling himself with the thought that he was stuck in the lane.
The Baron’s lips curved, but there was anxiety as well as triumph in his eyes.
The clock in the dashboard was ticking, and he saw that it was a quarter to six. The speedometer needle was quivering on the twenty-five mark.
Twenty-five miles an hour meant Camberley at seven o’clock, and if the London lines from there were in order he would have ample time. He might even get to Staines before Leverson let Rogerson go, and he could surely get a message from the riverside town.
The suspense was nerve-wracking.
He felt weariness creeping over him insidiously, drugging him, and twice he had to sit up sharply to prevent himself from dozing at the wheel.
Blackwater. Camberley High Street.
It was a quarter to seven; he had made good time, but he wondered whether it was wise to stop and try to find a telephone. The first decision was taken out of his hands, for a milk lorry pulled up in front of him, the brakes squealing noisily. Mannering heard them in time to slow down, but the tyres did not grip firmly, and the Morris slithered helplessly across the road.
Through the steamed up side window he saw the lorry driver walk towards him.
‘You all right, sir?’
‘Yes, thanks, nothing to worry about.’
‘Bloomin’ lights.’ The man drew a crushed packet of Woodbines out of his pocket and proffered them. ‘I’m goin’ to have the devil’s own job gettin’ started again, but now I’m going to ‘ave some tea. Sure you’ll be all right, sir?’
‘Nothing but a scare,’ Mannering assured him. ‘That tea’s a good idea.’
The lights of an all-night cafe beckoned the lorry driver, but Mannering was more pleased by a kiosk nearby.
‘I’m going to use the telephone,’ he said. ‘Order a pot of tea for me, will you?’
The lorry driver nodded as Mannering hurried to the booth. He was wet through, and his feet were icy cold, but he forgot it completely as he took the receiver off the hook.
It was an age before the brrr-brrr stopped and he heard Leverson’s voice.
‘Flick,’ said Mannering, and knew Leverson had recognised his voice. ‘Don’t do anything in the morning, just wait for me.’
‘Right,’ said Leverson, and there was a tense note in his voice. ‘I’m going to ring you on the other line in fifteen minutes. What’s your number?’
Mannering gave it, and satisfaction was mingling with uncertainty as he entered the all-night bar. What did Leverson want to say that the police must not overhear?
At a table near a roaring fire sat his lorry driver, in front of two cups of tea, and a plate of meat pies.
At the end of fifteen minutes Mannering felt satisfied of body, if less so in mind. Surreptitiously he paid the bill for the two, lifted a hand, and went outside. As he reached the phone-box the bell rang.
His heart was hammering wildly as he opened the door.
‘Camberley 13256?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re through, caller.’
‘Hallo, John. Listen, it’s important. I’ve had the Glorias through, from someone who wants to sell in a hurry.’
‘Good man. I’ll buy them of course.’
‘You haven’t heard the half,’ snapped Leverson. ‘Mervin has been arrested, with Clara Mendleson, on a drug charge.’
‘You’re sure?’ Mannering’s voice hardened.
‘There’s no doubt at all. Do you see what it means?’
‘They’re scared and they’ve got to sell quickly, yes. Have you any address?’
‘No, but I’m meeting my man at Aldgate Pump at ten o’clock. It isn’t Smith as he’s gone up North, so it’s probably Gillison. Can you make it?’
‘I’ll have a damned good try!’
Mannering rang down, and stepped from the kiosk. As the wind struck against his face, he was too full of the possibilities that this development aroused to ponder over Leverson’s insistence that if the Glorias were offered by a ‘straight’ thief there was to be a straightforward deal. It was typical of Leverson, equally typical of the Baron that he agreed to buy back his own stones. It was part of the game, part of the price to pay.
The burning question was the identity of the man who was offering the Glorias. The Sharrons, Mervin, Rogerson and Smith were out; it must be Gillison or an unknown, and Crane seemed the only other possibility.
He still fought against believing that Theo had played a part in the robbery or the murders, but he remembered his shock when Rene Crane had been playing Der Jangling und Der Tong. A small thing, nothing in itself and yet perhaps significant.
As he walked towards his car he saw the lorry driver and a little crowd of people, prominent among them a policeman in blue. Mannering went close by, half-afraid that there might be an inquiry for him. He had taken it for granted that he had no need to worry about pursuit from Beverley, but he might have traded too much on the advantages of the storm. Ebb and flow all the time, not a moment to relax. He reached the crowd.
‘You might’—the policeman’s voice came clearly—‘have caused a serious accident, Larkin.’
‘All right, don’t keep sayin’ it. You’ve lorst me a job, I ‘ope that makes you enjoy yer Christmas dinner!’
‘I don’t want any lip now.’ The law was ponderous.
The lorry driver shrugged and walked across the road to the milk tank. The crowd split up, and the policeman closed his noteboo
k with a snap. The driver’s face bore an expression of hopelessness that struck the Baron vividly, and lingered in his mind’s eye. He saw him climb into the driving cabin as he reached the Morris.
Mannering hesitated, then hurried back to the phone-box. If there was a chance of pursuit from Beverley it would be as well to know it.
‘You won’t make it, sir. Trees are down between Hook and Basingstoke, and the road between Basingstoke and Andover is impassable … about midday at the earliest I think, sir. You can get through to Salisbury via Newbury, but it would be heavy going … Very good, sir, thank you.’
It was half-past seven, which gave him ample time to get to Aldgate by ten o’clock. Apart from a suppressed excitement, he felt steady and confident. Things were running as he had prayed they would, he should have no trouble. If necessary he would try to get Rogerson out of the country and pay him well: better that than a talk of Mannering as the Baron.
He was on the other side of Bagshot when he saw the milk-wagon again, and he remembered the driver’s hopeless expression after the police interview. He passed it, and then pulled into the side.
The lorry lumbered to a standstill behind him, and Mannering spoke through the open window of the driver’s cabin.
‘Did I hear you in trouble?’
‘Lorst me job,’ said the other. ‘Perishing perlice! I ‘adn’t pulled into the kerb, and I was too close ter them lights ‘e said. I told ‘im I was only on trial, but the swine said I didn’t deserve a job, if I couldn’t obey the law. Law! If I’d slipped ‘im arf a quid—’ He broke off, staring at the fiver in Mannering’s hand. ‘No, reely, sir, you don’t need t’do that—’
‘Take it, man,’ said the Baron sharply. ‘Your name’s Larkin, didn’t I hear?’
‘Bert Larkin, sir.’
‘If you’ll give me your address I might be able to find something for you.’
He scribbled a Fulham address in his notebook, waved, and hurried to his car. Ten minutes had gone, but even had he been more rushed for time he would not have regretted that stop.
He was reminded vividly of Errol, nearly as badly placed as this man would have been. As he drove on, Mannering found himself brooding more over the man Larkin than over the coming climax in the search for the Glorias. Generally speaking the police were trustworthy enough, but here and there would be an exception. A policeman’s opportunity for taking bribes or compounding felonies were endless, a constant temptation. The knowledge, for instance, that Tring had of him could easily be turned to account. A fiver, for looking the other way when he was leaving the flat—
