Into the Trap

by John Creasey

  “No.” But she was shivering.

  He went back. He had lost precious minutes, simply to reassure her. He couldn’t afford those minutes. He went down the first flight of stairs and, from the foot, examined each tread. When his gaze had travelled halfway down he saw a faint outline, the shape of a narrow rectangle. He knelt on the bottom tread and studied this.

  Yes, a panel was let in here; it seemed to be made of stone, like the rest of the steps. He tapped it with his forefinger, then tapped the cement; there was a slightly different reaction. He tapped both again with the head of the screwdriver.

  The panel was of metal.

  There was no keyhole, no apparent means of prising it out of position, but it couldn’t be as difficult as that; it would have to be used every time the vaults were entered. One tiny gap where the panel was let into the step itself was slightly wider than that on the other side; both gaps were filled in with what looked like putty. The screwdriver was too thick to go in the gap. He took out his knife and probed the soft, yielding substance. He moved it slowly up and down, and near the top of the panel met some obstruction. He pressed down harder; the resistance suddenly disappeared.

  Inside there was a switch; he’d pressed it down.

  The panel opened slowly. Beyond was a narrow aperture and another bat-type electric switch. He pressed that upwards; there was a faint click. He turned and started for the vaults – and then he heard a hissing whisper of sound. He swung round.

  “John!” It was Lorna, he could hear but not see her. He went swiftly up the steps and when he came within sight of the west wing door saw her standing and staring towards him.

  She didn’t speak, but raised her head slightly and glanced towards the interior of the house. He nodded, and went forward swiftly.

  He listened intently, but heard nothing. She must have been sure that someone was about, or she wouldn’t have risked that call. He kept quite still. Through the silence there came a faint click, as of a door opening or closing. He crept close to the big door. Where it opened there was a crack through which he could see into the lighted passage. He stood close, with his eye at the crack. He could not see the door through which he had come from the main part of the house, but he fancied that he heard another sound.

  Then Mannering heard an unmistakable padding noise, as of a man walking. Man? He couldn’t be sure; it was a strange sound, but for the stillness he wouldn’t have heard it.

  Lorna turned—and screamed!

  As she screamed she flung her hands up towards her face. Terror shone in her eyes as a lean, lithe form flashed past Mannering’s eyes – a dog. He swung round, heart thumping. The dog, an Alsatian with bared fangs, was at Lorna’s throat.

  The whistle dropped nervelessly from Lorna’s hand.

  Mannering moved forward.

  Lorna screamed again—

  A man said sharply: “Enough, Bruno!”

  The words acted like a charm. The dog dropped away and stood glaring at Lorna. There was no mark on her, except the mark of fear. She didn’t look towards Mannering, only at the dog, as if hypnotised.

  The man said: “Fancy meeting you!”

  It was Allingham.

  He was still out of sight, and didn’t appear to realise or guess that anyone else was about. If there were only Allingham to tackle, it would be easy. But the Alsatian, ears cocked as it stared at Lorna, was a killer.

  “And how many friends did you bring with you?” Allingham’s voice was low-pitched, confident, gloating, as he came into sight. He carried an automatic in his right hand. “Come on, sweetheart, tell me. If you don’t, I’ll send Bruno to find out. Bruno has been trained to kill anyone found in those vaults who shouldn’t be there. How many others are with you?”

  His back was towards Mannering.

  The dog was staring at Lorna, waiting for the word of command; but a single turn of that fine head would be sufficient to reveal Mannering, who crouched behind the door, out of Allingham’s sight.

  “Don’t waste my time,” Allingham said roughly. “How many?”

  Lorna licked her lips.

  “Two.” She whispered the lie.

  “That isn’t so many,” said Allingham.

  Mannering’s hand was at his waistband. His fingers groped cautiously along the tools. He touched a round metal container, about half an inch in diameter. He drew it out of its fastening slowly, fearful of making a sound, fearful of letting the container touch one of the tools. At last he had it in his hand.

  Allingham said: “We’d better go and see. Bruno!”

  The dog’s ears were quivering points.

  “Go and get them,” Allingham said, and pointed. “Go and get them!”

  The lid of the cylinder was off. Mannering shook out the contents; small phials in fragile glass – tear-gas. He tossed one at the dog as it bounded towards the doorway, threw another into Allingham’s face. Allingham saw him, and raised his gun as the phial hit him on the chin and broke; white vapour spread up, hiding the man’s face.

  Allingham fired.

  A bullet smashed into the door, inches from Mannering’s face. The dog yelped and turned. Mannering saw the vapour of the teargas like a halo about its head – but it didn’t stop the animal from leaping at him. He saw it coming, and lunged to one side. The gas was taking effect and it fell back, shivering violently.

  Allingham was leaning against the wall, with tears running down his cheeks; Lorna a few yards away from him. She’d worked the miracle; she had the gun.

  The air was much clearer now.

  Allingham lay on the floor, gagged, wrists and ankles tied. The dog lay on its side, a few yards away; dead. Mannering had shot it.

  Lorna wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “All right?” Mannering asked evenly. His voice was harsh and unrecognisable.

  Lorna nodded.

  “Better keep the gun. I won’t be long now.” She nodded again.

  “Use the whistle if it’s needed. If you have to shoot, shoot low – at the legs or feet.”

  Mannering looked up and down the passage. Twenty minutes had passed since the shooting; if anyone had been disturbed, they would surely have arrived by now.

  Mannering ran back to the vaults, tearing off a piece of test-wire as he went, wryly exulting. What would he have done without Lorna? He tossed the wire on to the passage floor; there was no blue flash. He stepped across the floor. The cage door was locked, bolted and padlocked. It would take hours to force each safety measure with handtools. With the burner-cutter the great iron door swung open in ten minutes, and he stepped inside the vaults.

  The Carla pearls were in the third safe he cut open.

  There was beauty here, and treasure almost beyond price.

  Each piece of the collection lay against deep red velvet in a leather case. Mannering felt their witchery, the almost magnetic attraction which perfect gems held for him. It had lured the Baron in the old days, and still held him spellbound. As he touched the smooth surface of pearl after pearl he felt excitement; they went to his head like strong wine.

  He lost count of time.

  He took out necklaces, ear-rings, brooches, pendants, rings, glorious pearls in settings of unsurpassed beauty, and spread them on the floor. There seemed no end to them.

  At last he had them all.

  He opened the neck of a linen bag, which was folded and hooked to the belt, and took out layers of cotton wool. He wrapped each jewel, and packed it carefully in the felt-lined bag.

  This safe was now emptied of jewels. He had no idea what there might be in the others.

  When he finished, he went out, leaving the doors open behind him.

  Lorna, ghostly pale, moved when she caught sight of him. Allingham made a gurgling noise behind his gag. Mannering took Lorna’s arm.

  “All safe,” he said.

  She didn’t speak, but he felt her trembling. Together they went through the west door, walked across the lawn towards the wall and passed through the gate whic
h they had left unbolted. Ten minutes after leaving the Grange, Mannering was at the wheel of the hired Humber.

  “Not bad,” he said. He felt jubilant, gay.

  “Never again,” said Lorna. “Never again.”

  “I don’t know. If you hadn’t come, a fine mess I’d be in.” He started the engine and the car moved across the uneven meadowland towards the road. He drove slowly until he reached the main road, then let the engine go all out. They covered fifty miles in the first hour, in silence.

  On the outskirts of a small village Mannering slowed down. “Like a drink?”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Go easy with it,” said Mannering, and handed her his whisky flask.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To telephone the police,” said Mannering. He laughed. “I’d hate Pratt or the others to find Allingham and release him. I’d hate them to have a chance of getting the rest of the jewels and money out of those vaults.”

  “But—”

  “Go easy with the whisky,” Mannering said.

  He called a country constabulary office in a village near Swindon, and had to wait several minutes before he was answered by a man with a sleepy voice. He said carefully: “This is urgent. Inform the Swindon police that there has been a burglary at Courtney Grange. Don’t lose any time. Tell them a man has been hurt.”

  “Who—”

  “That’s all,” said Mannering. “Hurry.”

  He rang off and strolled back to the car. The chill sharpness in the air invigorated him. He was clear-headed and fresh, felt no hint of tiredness.

  “John, hurry! I’m not sure you should have telephoned. If they get in touch with the Yard we might find someone at the flat; and if—”

  “Not on your life, my sweet. It will take the Swindon men half an hour to get to the Grange. It’ll be another half an hour before the burglary is officially listed. They might call the Yard then, but an hour from now we’ll be nicely tucked up in bed.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “It’s always worse after the job,” Mannering said. He lit a cigarette for Lorna, one for himself. “I don’t think there’s any cause for alarm. Hiding the swag is our chief concern.”

  “Where are you going to hide it?”

  “I’ve a lock-up garage for the Humber; the Talbot’s in it now. I’ll leave the pearls with it, and find a safer place in the morning.”

  “I’m not sure that you oughtn’t to have left them behind,” said Lorna. She looked tired out.

  “Not while there was half a chance that Allingham might be found before the police arrived. We couldn’t hand the stuff to Allingham on a plate. There ought to be some fun, after this.”

  “Fun!” breathed Lorna.

  At home, it took them twenty minutes to clean up; ten to put the cleansing wool and gloves into the kitchen incinerator. The tools were still in the hired car, with the pearls, in the lock-up garage in Brook Green.

  They went to bed and were soon asleep.

  Mannering felt a hand at his shoulder and tried to open his eyes. He grunted. The hand kept pressing – gently, almost nervously, and he heard a whispering voice:

  “Sir, please wake up, sir. Oh, please.”

  He managed to get one eye open. The room was bright in the morning sun. Lorna lay asleep in the other bed. Ethel stood over Mannering, her chubby face set nervously.

  “Please, sir, there’s—”

  Mannering didn’t see the bedroom door open, but a man appeared at Ethel’s side. Bristow. Bristow stared down with a hard, mirthless smile; and as Ethel drew back, he said: “Sleeping heavy this morning, aren’t you? You must have had a late night. I want to talk to you, right away. All right, miss.”

  Ethel gulped and backed out of the room.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hot News

  Mannering said: “I dislike all policemen.” He rubbed his eyes and sat up. Bristow stood over him. “Especially you.” Mannering pushed the bedclothes back and stuck out a leg.

  “You can stay there,” Bristow said. “Where were you last night?”

  “Working. I—”

  “Yes – working at what? You’ve gone too far this time. Where are the Carlas?”

  Mannering said: “I wish I knew what was the matter with you.” He pushed both legs out of bed and stood up. “And I wish you’d learn that it’s illegal for a policeman to burst into an Englishman’s castle. You ought to study your book of rules.”

  Bristow said savagely: “You’ll learn what’s illegal before I’ve finished with you. You’ve got the Carlas. Where are they?”

  “Oh, go away,” said Mannering testily. “Ask Ethel to make you a cup of tea; it might make you more human.” He pushed past Bristow.

  Lorna hadn’t stirred, but when he was at the other side of the room he saw that her eyes were open. He glanced away from her. Water splashed into the hand-basin. The sharp contact with his skin was stimulating and refreshing. As he dried himself, he went over the events of the night, seeking for danger spots. The Carlas were still in the Humber, quite safe. Bristow couldn’t know that he had been to the Grange. He knew only that he was interested in the Carlas, and that the robbery had the hallmark of a Baron job. The rest was guesswork.

  Mannering tossed the towel aside.

  “Let’s get out of here; we’ll wake Lorna.”

  “Was she with you?”

  “She waited up for me,” said Mannering. He took Bristow’s arm and pushed him towards the door. “This is to remind you that the old adage about an Englishman’s home being his castle still holds.” They reached the hall. Ethel hovered in the kitchen doorway like a disapproving, blue-smocked ghost. “Tea for two, in the study,” he said, and led the way into the room. “Now, what’s all this about?”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “At the shop.”

  “What job?”

  “Concerning Mrs. Courtney and her husband’s jewels. I like to know all about a case before I really work on it. Is it true that the Carlas have been stolen?”

  “You know damned well that it’s true.”

  “You will have your little joke,” said Mannering. “You may be loyal to that old canard that I’m the Baron, but you ought to know that even the Baron has stopped lifting baubles. He hasn’t done that kind of thing for a long time. How did you hear about it so soon?”

  “You haven’t looked at your watch,” said Bristow.

  Mannering looked at a wall-clock; it was twenty-five minutes to ten.

  Bristow slowed his words significantly: “What makes you say ‘so soon’?”

  “They must have been taken during the night or I’d have known about it before,” said Mannering. “Seriously – have they gone?”

  “Seriously – yes they have. And I want to know where they are. You may have some silly notion that you are protecting the owner, but you miscalculate. You’ve been warned often enough, and this time you’ve had it.”

  Mannering said: “I wish she’d hurry up with that tea. Old, old story, Bill. Why do you think I took the Carlas? Thelma Courtney was telling me a beautiful story last night about the precautions taken at the Grange; it sounded foolproof.”

  “So you knew all about them.” said Bristow heavily.

  “Of course. What’s the matter with your memory? I was officially asked by you, as a policeman, to find out what I could about the Carlas because it was rumoured that they were on the market. Thelma Courtney had also heard the rumour. She wanted it proved or disproved. She went into a lot of detail to show me the impossibility of cracking those vaults. I assume, therefore, that it must have been an inside job.”

  “I know who did it,” said Bristow. “And I wish I didn’t.” He lit a cigarette, slowly and deliberately.

  That was the first time that Mannering felt a twinge of real alarm. It was caused by the earnestness of that “I wish I didn’t”. Ethel chose that moment to come in with the tea. Bristow stared at Mannering while she put the tr
ay down. Mannering poured out; Bristow liked his tea strong, with plenty of sugar.

  Bristow said: “I can tell you, John, that you’ve gone so far this time that if I were the Home Secretary himself I couldn’t help you.” His manner held more distress than menace.

  Mannering sipped. “Too bad. Where does the Home Secretary come into it?”

  “He’s the man who decides whether murderers get hanged or not,” Bristow said.

  A try-on?

  “So it’s murder as well?” Mannering murmured.

  Bristow said: “It’s murder. You were crazy to go there. Crazy to take the risk. I knew that one day you’d find yourself in a jam and wouldn’t be able to get out of it. God! What a fool you’ve been. All this—” he waved his hand round the room. “Quinn’s, plenty of money, a lovely wife – and you throw it away. It won’t be worth a pound note to you on the gallows.”

  “Don’t be morbid.” Mannering yawned, but his heart was racing. “Who was killed?”

  “The man named Allingham. He was strangled. There’s just one chance for you.”

  “Nice to know. What?”

  “That you weren’t at the Grange last night. Can you prove that you weren’t?”

  “It’s an old English judicial custom that a man’s innocent until he’s proved guilty.”

  “I know all about that. If you can prove that you weren’t at the Grange, I needn’t take you away with me. If you can’t, I’m going to take you to the Yard for questioning. That’s how it stands.”

  The effect of the news caught up with Mannering like a kick from a mule. Someone had been to the Grange after he had left, or one of the staff, discovering Alfingham bound and gagged, had killed him in cold blood.

  Who would be blamed?

  The thief …

  Here was something to which Bristow couldn’t shut his eyes; a crime which changed the whole slant of the police investigation.

  Bristow said slowly, almost wearily: “Why did you have to kill him?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. I wasn’t there and didn’t kill him.”

  “You weren’t at Quinn’s. I can prove that. I had Quinn’s watched.”