Into the Trap

by John Creasey

  The girl with the sharp features and the dark hair was at the wheel of her car when Mannering drove out of Scotland Yard. She followed him. There was not a great deal of traffic. He drove up Whitehall, along Pall Mall, up Regent Street to Oxford Street, and arrived, finally, at Langton Square; Thelma Courtney’s flat was Number 27. Mannering stopped near the house, then strolled back towards the car, which had pulled up twenty yards behind him. Two or three other cars were parked in the street; there were few pedestrians. It was getting dark, and the waning fight was kind to the grey solidity of the old houses, to the trees in the garden of the square, and the shrubs through which a soft wind whistled.

  Mannering reached the car.

  “Hallo,” he said. “Remember me?”

  “Yes,” said the girl. “I know you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’m mildly interested.”

  She smiled. “When you get really interested I might tell you.”

  Mannering shrugged, and moved on to Number 27. There was no sound of a car moving behind him, and he guessed that the girl was preparing to wait until he came back.

  Number 27 proved to be divided into four flats; the Courtneys’ was on the first floor, approached by a wide, carpeted staircase which made Mannering picture the spacious days when the house had but one owner. By the side of a closed door was a small wooden panel on which was painted the words: Richard Courtney: Mrs. Richard Courtney. A maid answered his ring. She was a middle-aged woman with a pleasant voice, and a plain, intelligent face. She took his gloves and stick, and crossed the small square hall to a closed door. She tapped, opened it and announced him. So Thelma Courtney had been at pains to tell her what he looked like, and had felt sure that he would come.

  She rose from an easy chair, and he was surprised to see that she was in a black dinner gown; it emphasised the flawlessness of her throat and the gentle swell of her breast. Her hair was upswept, and emeralds glinted in her ears, and in the single pendant at her neck.

  Drinks were on a table near her chair.

  She smiled, and meant him to know that it was a smile of welcome.

  “I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

  “Afraid?”

  “A little more than a figure of speech. I’m most anxious to talk to you.”

  “Is there a lot to talk about?”

  “I think so,” she said. “Will you help yourself to a drink?”

  “Thanks. What will you have?”

  “Gin and Italian, please.” Mannering poured out, taking whisky for himself.

  “Why have you taken such a violent dislike to Gerald Allingham?” she asked.

  “Such a conclusion is an error of judgement on your part I’m afraid. I hardly know Allingham well enough to like or dislike him. I do know that he might harbour some deep dark secrets, so I’m making him angry. No violent antipathy, you see, merely simple tactics. Incidentally, Nigel has confessed, and is prepared to go to the police. I think he would rather like to. He will then be able to accuse you of stealing the real diamonds.”

  “Can you steal what belongs to you?”

  “A wife can steal from her husband. Are the diamonds yours or his?”

  She said slowly: “I don’t think we need fence. I did not touch the diamonds, of course, and I don’t know who stole them. I’ve already asked you to find out. Is there any way in which I can help you?”

  “Yes. Tell me why you’ve been to see the jewel dealers.”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “You could elaborate on it.”

  She sipped her drink, making no attempt to impress him. Her smile was grave, and she could no more help being beautiful than he could help loving precious stones. Yet the soft lighting and the lovely room combined to create a feeling of intimacy; he did not feel the restriction of knowing this woman for only twenty-four hours.

  “You’re persistent,” she said. “Very well. A friend of mine told me that he had heard that the Carla collection was for sale. I was finding out if that was true.”

  She stopped; and there was silence in the room. Mannering looked into those deep grey eyes and wondered if she were telling the whole truth; he thought that she was.

  He said slowly: “Why did you go to that trouble?”

  “My husband has three great loves, Mr. Mannering; and although I put them in the order I think is right, he would probably see no difference in their importance. First, his son; second, his wife; third, the Carla collection. He has never suggested to me that he wishes to sell the collection. If they are being offered on the market it is not with his knowledge. I am convinced of that.”

  “Where are they?”

  “At Courtney Grange.”

  “In charge of Allingham,” said Mannering drily.

  “You know what I think about his trustworthiness. But since the diamonds were stolen and this rumour has spread, I’ve begun to wonder whether the Carla pearls are still at the Grange. I suppose it is possible that they have been stolen from the vaults. If so—”

  “This just doesn’t add up. If they’ve been stolen and the theft hasn’t been reported, Allingham must be involved. You told me that you weren’t going to let personal relationships interfere with your judgement.”

  “You are inexact, Mr. Mannering. I said that if you could offer proof – not circumstantial evidence or guesswork but proof – that Allingham was concerned, I would accept it.”

  “That’ll serve,” said Mannering. “Who else might have broken into the vaults?”

  “Only an extremely clever cracksman could get in; but at least one other besides the staff at the Grange could have shown the thief how to reach the vaults. Nigel – obviously.”

  “You’re about as fond of him as he is of you,” said Mannering. “Yours isn’t an opinion, it’s a prejudice. You want to believe it’s Nigel – you would rather it were anyone but Allingham. Isn’t that true?”

  She smiled at him thoughtfully; amusedly?

  “No,” she said. “But you’re here to find out the facts. There’s one thing which I can’t find out myself. Is the collection still at the Grange?”

  Mannering said slowly: “So you can’t find that out?”

  As he spoke he heard the faintest of sounds from behind him. Unwilling to let Thelma Courtney know that he had noticed anything, he went to the table where drinks were, finished his own, and turned, so that he was facing the door. He wished the light were brighter.

  He saw nothing.

  “No. The vaults were left securely locked. There are two sets of keys, and one is useless without the other. The two sets were left at different banks, one in London, one in Swindon. Neither manager will yield up his set of keys except on receipt of a message from my husband in code – and no one, except my husband knows the code. These precautions are exactly the same as those which have always been taken when my husband has left the country for any period. I can’t ask him to send the message to the managers without making him anxious. Isn’t that logical?”

  “It’s almost convincing,” said Mannering. He glanced at the door, and knew that it was open a crack; yet it had been closed firmly when he had come in. “Be quiet, while I think a moment, will you?” She caught her breath as he moved towards the door. The soft pile of the carpet muffled the sound of his footsteps. Thelma Courtney stood up and watched him. He reached the door, took the handle firmly, and pulled it open.

  A woman, dressed for out-of-doors, stood there.

  She turned in retreat. Mannering shot out his hand and grabbed her arm.

  It was Thelma Courtney’s maid.

  “Don’t go yet,” he said mildly. “There are one or two questions that Mrs. Courtney—”

  She bent her head quickly, sinking her teeth into his hand. He let her go. She turned and ran towards the front door which stood open. Before he could reach it the door slammed shut.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chase

  The maid’s footsteps soun
ded on the stairs. Mannering ran out. The light was good; he saw the top of her head as she reached the front hall. He started down the stairs – and when he was halfway down the first flight the light went out.

  He missed a step and grabbed at the banisters.

  He fell on to his knees, saved himself from a heavy fall, stumbled to the first landing and heard the front door slam. Immediately light shone out from behind him; Thelma Courtney had put on the landing light.

  “Wait there!” shouted Mannering.

  In spite of the light it was gloomy downstairs; he had to grope for the catch of the front door. The maid had switched the light off, of course; she had been fully prepared for flight. The door opened, cool night air met him. He saw the maid running towards the left – and, as she ran, a small car moving towards her.

  She waved to the driver.

  Mannering raced after her, but she was fifty yards away. She ran into the road, and the little car seemed to slow down. The maid shouted. Two or three people stood and stared. A man bellowed: “What’s all this?”

  The running woman was clearly visible in the glow of the approaching car’s sidelights – and suddenly became a vivid silhouette, for the car’s headlamps flashed on. They dazzled Mannering, but he saw the maid fling an arm across her eyes to protect them from the glare.

  He heard a voice from just behind him, and the hum of a car engine.

  Then the little car in front leapt forward.

  One moment the maid stood in the road, one hand raised, the other covering her eyes. Then she screamed – and the car hit her. She fell headlong.

  The car swerved away from her, headlights still blazing, and scorched past Mannering and the second small car, which was now alongside him. Two men were running towards the maid, who was lying inert.

  A woman’s voice said: “Get in!”

  The car alongside was the one which had followed him earlier. No one was looking at Mannering, all were staring dazedly at the injured woman.

  “Get in!”

  Mannering slid in beside the woman. She swung the wheel, turned in the width of the road and trod on the accelerator. The car leapt forward as the killer car swung out of the square. At the same moment the headlights went off.

  The woman at the wheel swung round the corner. The rear light of the car in front was a hundred yards ahead, but there was no other traffic. Lights at crossroads shone red; the leading car ignored them, and the woman by Mannering’s side didn’t slow down. A large car was coming towards the lights from the left; the woman blew her horn loudly and sped across; the bonnet of the large car wasn’t a yard from them as they flashed by.

  Mannering said: “You’ll lose your licence.”

  “Don’t you want to catch them?”

  “A new hat if you can manage it!”

  As they passed beneath the light of a street lamp he saw her smile. The light glistened on her eyes and her teeth, she looked excited – eager, thrilled. She handled the car better than most men; in spite of the wild risks, she hadn’t caused him real concern.

  Here the streets were deserted; the car ahead was still a hundred yards away – and Mannering fancied he saw the blurred outline of a face pressed close to the rear window. The driver of the killer car knew that he was being followed.

  He turned left.

  “If we could make them crash we’d do something,” said the woman.

  Mannering grunted.

  She either knew or guessed the right turning, and swung round it, cutting close to the kerb. The wheels screeched as they skidded. The red glow from the rear light of the car in front seemed nearer. Wind cut in at the open window. With little room for his long legs, Mannering sat upright and tense. He saw a mental picture of Thelma Courtney’s maid falling.

  He felt cold anger against that driver.

  The red light disappeared towards the left. This was a wider street; there was more traffic and more pedestrians, all gaping at the speeding cars. A policeman stood at the corner, whistle at his lips. The girl at the wheel ignored him and suddenly pulled out round a bus, cut in between it and two cyclists. The cyclists, scared, lurched towards the kerb and fell. Shouts and blaring car horns made the night ugly with sound. The killer car turned right again. Mannering’s driver followed coolly.

  These were deserted streets.

  Mannering said: “Take it easy.”

  “You say that?” Her foot went down harder on the accelerator. As they turned into a narrow street a flash glinted in front of them above the red light – and a sharp thud came upon the windscreen. Between the girl and Mannering the glass became a giant spider’s web of pale white.

  “See what I mean,” said Mannering, opened the windscreen, and glanced across at her.

  She wasn’t smiling now. Her teeth were set, her lips parted. She didn’t slow down, and the rear light ahead still glowed defiant and beckoning. Another flash brought a tinny clang from a front wing; bad shooting. They were within thirty yards of the car ahead now. It turned another corner. They caught a glimpse of a man in the road jumping for his life. They went on two wheels round the corner. Two more flashes brought sharp sounds on the roof, but the woman at the wheel took no notice.

  Ahead, bright lights shone, a bus lumbered past the end of the road. The leading car reached the corner and turned. Another car had to swerve violently out of the way.

  “Take it easy!” growled Mannering.

  The girl saw the stream of traffic ahead and slowed down – and, as she did so, the killer car disappeared at a furious rate. They drew near the corner, forced to slow down by a bus and a lorry which had pulled up at the end of this street.

  The crash came then.

  It seemed like an explosion – a single roar followed by a rending noise, drowning all other sound until a woman screamed.

  The girl at the wheel pulled into the side. “Hurry,” she said calmly.

  She jammed on the brakes, and before Mannering was out of the car started to run for the main road. She turned the corner well ahead of Mannering. When he reached it she was standing on the kerb, one of a crowd which had gathered in a few seconds. The car they had been chasing lay on its side. Across the road, its radiator flush with the wall of a house, was a double-decker bus. The driver was climbing down. Inside, the bright lights shone on a milling crowd of passengers, all struggling to climb out. Half a dozen policemen appeared and began to force the crowd back.

  Mannering joined the woman.

  She was staring at the car which had run the maid down. In the front part was a man; or what was left of a man. Even from here they could see that the rear door of the car had been wrenched off – and there was no one in the back.

  The woman looked up, and said: “One of them got away.”

  “Can you spare your car for an hour?” Mannering asked. “It’ll be at Langton Square.”

  “All right.”

  “Tell one of these policemen that they must report the smash to Bristow at the Yard – got that? Bristow at the Yard – and tell him Mannering said so.”

  She looked up at him with a half-smile.

  “Look after the car.”

  “I’ll be looking after you before this is over,” said Mannering drily. “Thanks.”

  “It’s a pleasure.”

  He laughed and turned away. Dozens of people were pressing towards the smash; he had to force his way through the crowd. No one was at the corner of the street, no other cars were drawn up behind the woman’s. He sat at the wheel. His knees were jammed against the dashboard, and he moved the seat back, turned and started for Thelma Courtney’s home. He didn’t think much about anything on the way, but kept seeing the maid, her arms outstretched to beckon the driver, falling, falling.

  She lay on the kerb with a blanket over her. Two policemen and a small crowd of people stood by. Her face was covered, which meant she was dead. The sharp ringing sound of an ambulance bell became louder as Mannering approached.

  A man in front of him said: “Deliberate, tha
t’s what it looked like, officer.”

  A constable, notebook and pencil in hand, said heavily:

  “Just tell me what happened, sir, please.”

  Mannering walked towards Number 27. The front door was closed but not locked. No one took any interest in him or in the house. The light downstairs was on again. He walked up heavily.

  As he reached the landing, Thelma Courtney’s door opened. She put out a hand and touched his, drawing him in. She said very quietly: “Don’t blame yourself. I saw it all from the window.”

  He pulled his hand free and went into the drawing-room. A whisky and soda was already poured out. He tossed it down. A box of cigarettes was put in front of him, and as he took one Thelma said: “Another drink?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” she repeated.

  He watched her as she poured out the drink with long, narrow hands, rose-tipped; beautiful hands, absolutely steady. He took the drink and watched her. There wasn’t a hair out of place. She looked at him, and it seemed to him that in the grey depths of her eyes there was a reflection of his own cold anger; anger not untouched by horror.

  The effect was catching up on him now; two violent deaths within ten minutes of each other, all starting from the moment when he had opened the door of this room.

  Thelma said sharply: “Your hand!”

  It was hurting a little. He looked down. Blood had dried on it; teeth-marks showed. He took out his handkerchief but she pulled it away.

  “Come with me.”

  She led him out of the room and into the bathroom. Everything she did was quick and confident; water in the basin; a sponge; a towel; an antiseptic lotion; a few quick dabs with cottonwool; and then firm pressure from her cool fingers as she pressed down lint and elastoplast. Finished, she said: “Did you catch the man?”

  “He’s dead too.”

  She led the way back to the drawing-room. He sipped his drink. He knew that it was useless to curse himself or her; futile to blame anyone for what had happened except those deliberately responsible. He began to think clearly about the sharp-faced woman and her courage and speed; and about Thelma Courtney’s calmness.