Into the Trap

by John Creasey

  He stood up, this time without suffering, and went to the large wardrobe; this was locked. He used his knife – they had left him that – and had no trouble in opening one door. A woman’s clothes hung in neat array, and a glance told that they were expensive. He didn’t trouble to look further; the thing added up. This was Courtney’s house, and this was Thelma Courtney’s bedroom. Instructive; there was no communicating door to a dressing-room or to Courtney’s. Did it matter? It might throw some light, later on, because it hinted at the relationship between man and wife.

  Had Thelma Courtney been responsible for bringing him here? Had she discovered what he had done the previous night and made immediate plans to prevent further interference? He didn’t think so; he thought that she was more likely to be in London. Then who—

  Nigel?

  Nothing he knew of Nigel suggested it. Mannering did not know all the family, nor those who had influence with the family; he had to collect more facts, many more facts. He laughed again and this time without pain to his head. He was in a fine position to do so! They were soft-pedalling now but they would step up the pressure when they wanted him to—what?

  What did they want of him?

  Footsteps sounded outside again. They stopped. He watched tensely as the door opened. There were two people outside, and the first to enter was Mike, the chauffeur. He carried a small folding table, and a man behind him carried a tray. The table was set up and the tray placed on it. Then the men withdrew.

  Roast duck, green peas, new potatoes – a luxury meal. Eating was painful at first, because the working muscles affected the back of his head, but that passed and he consumed food with a connoisseur’s enjoyment. When he had finished it was nearly two o’clock.

  He knew where he was; and ‘they’ must know that he had realised it by now. So they were confident either that he would not or could not betray them. The second possibility wasn’t stimulating. He thrust the dark thought aside and as he did so the bathroom door opened and a man came in.

  He smiled at Mannering.

  “Hallo,” he said. “Everything all right? I’m going to have coffee with you, if you don’t mind.”

  The man was tall, young, slender; something of an exquisite. His voice drawled a little. He was dressed in a well-cut suit, and moved easily across the room. His fair hair – he was nearly as fair as Alicia Hill – waved slightly, although it had obviously been heavily brushed down. He had a most friendly face; friendly, pleasant, not by any standard handsome but, by all, wholesome. He might have walked out of the Royal Enclosure at Ascot.

  “Hallo,” said Mannering. “I don’t mind having coffee with you, provided you don’t slip a lethal dose in mine.”

  The stranger laughed.

  “There wouldn’t be much point, would there? We shouldn’t be able to get the help we need if you were to die. No need for anything like that; we don’t want to harm you.”

  Mannering stroked the back of his head gingerly.

  “Yes, I know you had a clout, but it had to be quick and effective. We couldn’t take chances. Another one of the tablets will make you forget all about it; no great harm’s done.” There was a tap at the door, and he glanced towards it. “Come in.” He didn’t speak while the two men removed the tray, and left the coffee on a small table close to Mannering. When the door finally shut, he said: “Shall I pour out?”

  “Go ahead,” said Mannering. “You’re the host.”

  “Oh yes.” The easy smile had all the confidence in the world. “My absent chief would be very sorry indeed if we didn’t look after our guests.” His laugh was infectious. “This isn’t quite what you expected, is it?”

  “I didn’t expect anything.”

  “You did – after Mrs. Courtney came to see you last night.” The smile flashed again, and the man glanced across at the photographs; his gaze lingered there for some time.

  “You seem to know,” murmured Mannering.

  “It isn’t necessary to be told everything in basic English. You knew that there was trouble or she wouldn’t have come to you, but you didn’t expect to be brought to her home. I shouldn’t worry about that and similar inexplicable things, if I were you. You’re here to talk business – big business. Well worth that bang on the head!”

  “Ah! What is a cracked cranium compared with ten per cent of the proceeds?”

  “That’s it – except that you won’t get ten per cent; your share is two and a quarter. You’re only a go-between.” The smooth, easy voice was confident; the man’s composure began to get irritating. “We might talk terms, of course; it will depend on what you get for the stuff.”

  “So I’m a salesman,” murmured Mannering.

  “Is there anything new about that? You own Quinn’s, and there isn’t a more reputable antique and jewel dealer in London. In fact, in the world.” The stranger knew what he was talking about. “It isn’t unusual for you to act as go-between, is it – agent between buyer and seller. And you don’t make every deal over the counter.”

  “I don’t often get knocked over the head and press-ganged into acting for my clients, either.”

  “That needn’t be stressed,” said the other, almost impatiently. “I understood that you were a man who could be relied on to see the real significance of a deal. I had to see you soon and had my own reasons for not wanting to come and see you either at your home or at Quinn’s, so I did it this way.”

  “Plus,” said Mannering.

  “Plus what?”

  “Plus the little extra – that it would be a lesson and a warning to me, showing what to expect if I wouldn’t play the game your way.”

  “That goes without saying. You’re no fool. And there is big money in this, even at the commission I’ve mentioned. There will be nothing illegal about it, either – you needn’t fear the police.”

  “What, no crime?”

  “No. The jewels will be sold by their legal owner. They will be sold in this country – what happens to them afterwards is no concern either of the seller or his agent. Your help is needed for two reasons: your position in the trade and your knowledge of criminals. Because efforts are being made to steal this collection, and your job is to make sure that it’s not stolen – and that it’s not sold in a phoney market. There are other considerations. Do you know whose house this is?”

  Mannering nodded.

  “Good! Richard Courtney is also the owner and seller of the collection. The sale must be made secretly, without his wife’s or his son’s knowledge. The fact that the collection is on the market is not to be generally known. There are already rumours of it, and those rumours have to be squashed.”

  “I’ve quite a job,” murmured Mannering. “Who are you?”

  “Gerald Allingham, Courtney’s private secretary. Have you seen the general outline on which you will have to work?”

  “Yes. What I haven’t seen yet is why I should take on the job.”

  “The profit, for you, will be substantially higher than ten thousand pounds. Money talks.”

  “It talks loudest to the poor, and I’m not poor.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” said Allingham. “The man with money is always the man who wants more. Ten thousand pounds means plenty to you. If that isn’t enough—” he leaned back in his chair and smiled faintly; it wasn’t a pleasant smile. “Well, there are other things, Mannering. You’ve quite a past you know.”

  Past.

  The word had come without any warning; it was impossible not to show some surprise. Mannering recovered quickly, but Allingham’s smile broadened; in it was a touch of mockery, and pleasure in Mannering’s position.

  “We needn’t go into that now,” said Allingham, “or stress the fact that your cryptic past is known to us. There’s no reason why it should go any further, and it won’t if you do exactly what you’re told, and pull this off. It shouldn’t be difficult for you. The Carla pearls and the rest of Courtney’s collection are to be sold without it being known that they are on the market,
without his wife or son knowing what is happening. The buyer must be a genuine buyer. I’ve even some names which I can put up to you, people known to be interested in them. You’ve nothing to do, except think a bit and be careful.”

  Mannering stood up and went to the window. The room seemed darker than it had been five minutes before – the shadow of the past was here. Allingham leaned forward and poured out more coffee.

  “Certain details of your past life aren’t widely known and certainly won’t be broadcast. I’m using them because I must make sure that you can’t play the fool. Leopards, they say, are notoriously unable to change their spots. Perhaps you catch the implication? Come and sit down and look at this as a rational human being. You stand to gain, not lose, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Mannering turned slowly and looked at him, disliking the thin-lipped smile. Allingham no longer seemed wholesome.

  “Come and sit down, Mannering!”

  Mannering stood where he was. Allingham sipped his coffee and crossed his legs, with wary deliberation. Mannering didn’t move. The silence was heavy and oppressive. Too oppressive for Allingham, who, unable to endure it any longer, leapt to his feet.

  “I should have thought you were hardened to it by now, Mannering. What’s got under your skin?”

  Mannering didn’t speak. Allingham came towards him slowly. He looked as if he had gone over to the defensive, as if he couldn’t understand Mannering’s attitude and it worried him. He stood a few yards away from Mannering, undecided; and Mannering looked at him in stony silence, his mind working fast.

  “Say something, damn you!” Allingham’s voice rose perceptibly.

  Mannering said: “You ruddy fool.” He laughed and went on laughing.

  Allingham said: “You’re not so clever! I’ve warned you—”

  “You poor, muddle-headed fool,” said Mannering. He tensed himself but showed no outward sign of it, actually slid his hands deep into his trousers pockets. “I didn’t think they grew like you anymore.”

  Allingham drew nearer.

  “What the hell are you driving at?”

  “I’m telling you what you are. It will do you good. You’ve had too many of this world’s goods and you’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a hearty kick in the pants. Talking of a kick in the pants,” went on Mannering, drawling, “it wouldn’t be a bad idea, if—”

  He snatched his hands from his pockets and leapt forward. Allingham backed away but wasn’t quick enough. Mannering caught him by the shoulder, and spun him round. Allingham staggered forward towards the chair, knocked into the coffee table and fell sprawling. Cups, pot, milk and sugar crashed, a dark stain and a milky one spread over the carpet.

  Allingham struggled to his feet. The gun in his pocket showed where the coat was rucked up. His lips were parted and his nostrils flared, but he breathed softly.

  He said: “For that, Mannering—”

  “There are plenty more where that came from,” said Mannering. “If you want to talk business, I’ll talk – but in my own way and on my own terms. Don’t get any silly idea in your head that you can blackmail me. In fact, that’s the first job to tackle. Take everything you think you know to the police. Add any documents and testimony you think may influence them, and take it to Bill Bristow at the Yard. Then sit back and listen to him laughing at you. There isn’t a thing you or anyone else has on me that isn’t phoney – as phoney as you are. Remember that.”

  Chapter Eight

  Folly

  Allingham said: “That’s a lie. I’m no fool, Mannering. I’ve enough dope on you to send you behind bars for ten years. Don’t try to pull a fast one over me.”

  Mannering shrugged. “All right. No deal.”

  “You’ll do what I tell you, or—”

  “You aren’t having a good day,” said Mannering. “No deal, I said. While you’re running around with that fool idea in your head, we can’t come to terms. Nothing in this world would make me play your game. And even if we sorted this out there’ll still be difficulties. You’re a liar and a cheat. This is crime. Courtney wouldn’t sell the Carla collection through you or anyone else; if he wanted to sell, he’d do it himself. What do you think I am? A born idiot?”

  Allingham said harshly: “About ten minutes with Mike and you’ll sing a different tune.” He swung round to the tall fireplace and stabbed his finger against a bell push. Then he stood back.

  Mannering said: “You say you want to do business. I may agree, but it’ll be on my terms – and I’m not talking about money. The first thing you’ll do is show me this proof you’re supposed to have about my black past. Then I’ll show you that it’s faked. If you won’t—” he shrugged. “All the roughnecks in your rogues’ gallery won’t persuade me to work with you.”

  Allingham snapped: “You’re a fence!”

  “So I buy and sell stolen goods, do I?”

  “You know damned well that you do.”

  Mannering laughed. It was evident that Allingham thought that through Quinn’s he dealt in stolen jewels. He didn’t. The only past that mattered was the era of the Baron; Allingham probably knew nothing about that. And Allingham wasn’t happy, or he wouldn’t have accused him of being a fence and so shown his hand.

  Footsteps sounded in the passage.

  Mannering backed to the window swiftly. His head was still slightly numbed; he knew that if it came to the point he wouldn’t be able to make much of a fight. He thrust the curtain aside and flung open the large casement window. There was a tap at the door. Mannering stood by the open window and Allingham watched him tensely. A man called out: “Did you ring, sir?” There was urgency in the voice.

  It was Mannering who called: “Yes, come in.” He held the window frame and hooked a chair towards him. There was a long drop to the garden below. He glanced out. Immediately beneath the window the path was paved; it wouldn’t be fun falling on to that. He stood on the chair as the door opened. The man who had been in the car came in – and drew back sharply when he saw Mannering standing there.

  “Get down!” growled Allingham.

  “You don’t get the idea,” said Mannering easily. “Supposing I get down, what is going to happen? In your own words, a beating-up. I don’t like being beaten up. You want me to do a job for you and I shall have to be hale and hearty in order to do it. A man with a broken leg or concussion won’t be any good to you. I’ll risk breaking a leg or getting concussed before I’ll let you have your own silly way.”

  He climbed up backwards and stood in the open window, his head bent slightly. There was a narrow sill behind him and then a sheer drop to the paving. But a little to the left was the flat roof of the porch over the front door. Standing on the drive was the Daimler car in which he had been brought here. Normally, he wouldn’t have had any qualms about what to do, but would his head stand the inevitable jolting of a downward leap; could he stand up to the strain of getting at the wheel of the Daimler and driving off?

  Allingham drew his gun from his pocket, and said with forced calmness:

  “Get down, Mannering, or I’ll shoot you. There’s no one within earshot – no one who matters, anyhow. Get down.”

  Mannering grinned at him, and as he grinned leapt sideways. The roof of the porch seemed to rise up to meet him. He landed on both feet but fell forward, thudding into the wall. He swung round, reached the edge and jumped again. The jolt almost dislocated his body and the pain in his head was like a dynamo, but he kept his balance. Now he was cut off from the window, could neither see nor be seen. The long nose of the Daimler showed. He went towards it, pulled open the driving door, and knew that because the car was so close to the house he wasn’t in immediate danger. He could imagine the men rushing to the door, ringing the bell, roaring out an alarm; he actually heard shouting. Head swimming, he sat at the wheel of the Daimler, switched on the engine and pressed the self starter; it needed only one touch. He drove mechanically, hardly aware of thinking or feeling except for that thudding dynam
o in his head. He swung the car towards the main drive. The nearside tyre crunched over a flower bed and the tyre sank deeply into the earth. Would it stick? He turned the steering wheel again; the car swung on to the gravel.

  He heard the bark of a shot. Metal clanged.

  The drive was long and straight for fifty yards, then turned left; he couldn’t see the gates, didn’t know whether Allingham had anyone in the grounds to act in case of such an emergency. Another shot was followed by another clang on the roof, above his head. A lucky shot and he would be finished. His head was clearer now. He scorched down the drive, hit the grass verge, straightened out, and saw the gates in front of him – iron gates set in stone pillars; and they were wide open. The car had turned left when entering the drive, he must turn right to get away. He drove through the gates and swung to the right. The wheels struck the opposite bank; for a wild moment he thought the car would overturn. He trod on the accelerator and the car shot along the narrow road. In a few minutes they would be after him, but he had a winning start.

  He caught sight of telegraph poles, which meant another, bigger road. Here he turned left – because on the journey they had turned right. Another car, coming towards him, pulled into the hedge; and the driver’s face showed his alarm. Words floated to Mannering: “Crazy fool!” Yes, he was a crazy fool. He laughed.

  He was on high ground. Green, undulating country stretched out in front of him, dotted here and there by farms, hayricks and sheds. In the distance he saw a cluster of roofs and the squat square tower of a Norman church. In the valley was a main road, with several cars moving in both directions; there’d be no great danger once he was at that road, and it wasn’t far away. He had driven along a straight stretch for the better part of a mile and now looked behind him; no other car was in sight.

  “Not bad,” he said aloud. “Not bad at all.”

  Then he saw a pale blue car coming towards him. It was travelling at speed, and a woman was at the wheel. It wasn’t until the two cars were almost level that he recognised Thelma Courtney.