Into the Trap

by John Creasey

  He turned and walked back.

  A small man who had been near the tobacconist’s counter moved forward. He had a newspaper tucked beneath his arm – and in his right hand an envelope. Thin, dark-haired, and indifferently shaved, there was nothing remarkable about him.

  The man handed Nigel an envelope.

  Nigel tore it open and peered inside. He closed his eyes for a moment – he looked ill, ready to faint. Mannering felt his own nerves almost at screaming point. If Nigel made a fuss—

  Nigel handed over the roll.

  The man took it and held out his hand for the envelope. Nigel thrust it into his pocket and glared defiantly. The man shrugged and said something. Nigel hesitated, then turned on his heel and went out.

  The man lit a cigarette, hitched the roll more firmly under his hand, and appeared to melt into the crowd.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Mr. Smith”

  Mannering reached the narrow street at the side of the Grand Palace as the man stepped briskly across it and hailed a taxi. Mannering turned and walked in the opposite direction. A taxi slowed down.

  “Cab, sir?”

  “Yes. Follow that cab – five pounds if you keep it in sight until the passenger gets out.”

  “That’s my money, Guv’nor!”

  There was only twenty yards behind the cars as the leading taxi reached Piccadilly Circus. The first cab went round the Circus, down Haymarket and turned left into Pall Mall.

  Traffic was thick. One behind the other, the two taxis went down Whitehall.

  They turned left, making for Westminster Bridge. As they reached it Mannering looked towards the two great buildings of Scotland Yard. A green Morris was turning into the entrance of the second white building – Bristow’s car. Mannering sat back and smiled faintly.

  The leading cab turned into Waterloo.

  Mannering said quickly: “Other entrance, fast.”

  “You might lose him.”

  “You’ll get your money.”

  They were lucky with the traffic, and drew up beneath the railway bridge in Lambeth Road. Mannering put five pound notes in the driver’s hand as he left the cab and ran up the stairs. At the top he looked right and caught sight of a roll of brown paper. The man was heading for the suburban lines at the far end of the station. He passed the booking hall. Mannering stood near the train indicator and saw his quarry pass the barrier at Platform 16; the indicator said that a Hounslow train would leave at 1.40. At the booking office Mannering took a return ticket to Hounslow and walked down the platform. The man with the plans was in a compartment halfway along the short train. Mannering went to the next compartment, which was empty.

  He sat on the side near the platform. Without leaning out of the window, he would be able to see the next door opening.

  Before the train left, another man entered the compartment next door. The door slammed, the guard’s whistle blew and the train moved off. Mannering opened his window and leaned out. He heard voices.

  “Okay, Sam?”

  “Sure, it was easy.”

  “Anyone around?”

  “That kid was too scared.”

  Both men laughed. “He was scared all right!”

  So they were alone in the compartment.

  Mannering lit a cigarette.

  If he got out and followed them, they would see him; no matter what station they chose, there would be few other passengers alighting and he would be noticeable; apparently, as yet, they had no suspicion.

  They hadn’t done their job too well. One was covering the other to make sure that no one followed him, and was satisfied. But although they would think it all over, bar the shouting, they would keep a look out when they reached their station. He could tackle one, but—

  The train stopped at Clapham Junction. No one entered either compartment.

  If he climbed along while the train was moving—

  No, it wouldn’t work. He might scare them with the gun and get inside, but there was too much risk. If he were seen from the line, a message would probably be telephoned to the next stopping station. And there was no way of making sure that no one else would get into either compartment.

  They stopped at several stations. The men next door were still talking, but in low-pitched voices; he couldn’t hear what they said. There was a long run to Isleworth, the last station before Hounslow. At Isleworth he thought he heard the door open.

  The thin man appeared, carrying the plans.

  The other followed, and they hurried past. Doors slammed, but Mannering sat where he was. He could see half a dozen people at the barrier, the two men from ‘Mr. Smith’ were the last. The whistle blew and the train moved slowly off. Mannering opened the door but didn’t stand up yet. The two men disappeared beyond the barrier. Mannering opened the door wider. The train was gathering speed as he jumped out.

  A porter nearby said: “Want to break your neck?”

  “I was dreaming.”

  “You nearly woke up in the next world,” said the porter. “Okay.” There was no one else on this platform now. The men were crossing the footbridge to the other side, and Mannering waited until they had reached the booking office before he started over the bridge. When he reached the station yard they were walking briskly towards the main road; so they had no car. A taxi, with an old driver at the wheel, was drawn up nearby.

  “Cab, sir?”

  “Yes, if you’ll do what I want you to.”

  “What’s that?” The shrewd eyes were suspicious.

  “Go to the corner and stop for a moment, so that I can see along the main road. Then I’ll decide.”

  “Okay.”

  Mannering climbed in. At the corner he saw the couple crossing the road. On this side there was a terrace of shops, but few people were about and most of the shops were shut for lunch. A train rumbled over the bridge above his head.

  Mannering said: “Drive slowly, and I’ll tell you where to stop again.”

  “Okay.”

  He stopped the cab when the two men were crossing at another street corner. They didn’t look behind them, and seemed to have no idea that they were followed. Mannering let them get a hundred yards in front, and said: “Off we go, but take it slowly.”

  The two men turned a corner.

  When the cab reached it the road was deserted. Mannering caught sight of two moving heads in the garden of a house with a high privet hedge.

  The door of the house, Number 10, closed as the cab went by; neither of the men looked towards it. The street was wide and tree-lined, and each of the houses was detached, with a small garden.

  “Next turning right,” Mannering said, “and stop round the corner.”

  The driver obeyed.

  “That’s fine.” He handed the man two pound notes. “I may be a couple of hours and I may be five minutes. I’d like you to stay at this corner. At the end of two hours, if I haven’t turned up, drive towards Number 10, in the road we’ve just left – Elms Avenue. All clear?”

  “Well, it’s your money,” the old cabby said.

  Across back gardens of houses in the street where the taxi stood Mannering could see the backs of the houses in the avenue. Number 10 was the fifth house from the main road. There was no service alley to the back of the house, and its fenced garden joined that of the two on either side and one at the back. There were no high hedges and no trees behind which he could take shelter. But he could get into the garden of Number 10 from any one of the other three gardens, and have a chance of escaping notice.

  A road led to the right, running parallel with Elms Avenue; it led straight to the main road. Mannering walked along it. There was no cut through to Number 10; the only approach would be direct to the front door or across one of the garden fences. Eventually he reached the bottom end of Elms Avenue.

  By the side of Number 10 was a garage; the doors of the house were closed. Windows on the top floor were open, those on the ground floor were shut. Curtains were drawn, so that he could not see
into any of the rooms.

  He walked past on the opposite side of the street.

  The front door opened and the two men he had followed came out, empty-handed, walking towards the main road. Mannering did not know whether they glanced at him as they passed; certainly they didn’t look round from the corner.

  He had no idea how many people were left in Number 10. But there was little risk in taking a chance here. Shooting or shouting would quickly arouse the attention of neighbours; the people inside would be cautious. He approached the front door.

  As he did so he saw a hand at a downstairs window curtain. He showed no indication of having seen it, reached the light-oak front door and gave a sharp rat-tat.

  Pratt, the butler at the Grange, opened the door.

  Mannering showed no hint of recognition. Pratt kept a hand at the door.

  “What do you want?”

  “Good morning,” said Mannering breezily. “I’ve called on behalf of—”

  “Too busy,” said Pratt. He moved back and made to slam the door. It stopped at Mannering’s foot.

  “I’m sure you will be interested in this,” said Mannering earnestly, and took his hand out of his pocket. “There are so few like it.”

  A gun covered Pratt.

  The man’s lips parted, then closed. He glanced at the gun and then at Mannering’s face; his eyes seemed to ask: “Where have I seen you before?”

  He said: “I’m not interested.”

  “Your mistake,” said Mannering. He pushed the door open wider with his foot. Pratt still held on to it. “We’re going to have a little chat.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Get inside,” Mannering said, “and—”

  Pratt opened his mouth to shout. Mannering drove his fist into his stomach, slipped inside and closed the door, watching the narrow stairs and the passage which ran alongside it. No one appeared. Pratt, doubled up by the blow, clasping his stomach, stole a hand towards his pocket. Mannering waited until the hand was actually inside, then hit him again, a sharp jolt to the side of the chin. Pratt thudded against the wall and lay still.

  No one appeared.

  Mannering looked into the front room, where the hand had been at the window, It was empty. He lifted Pratt and carried him inside. If Pratt were ‘Smith’—

  He stopped guessing.

  He tied the man’s hands behind his back with his own tie, thrust a handkerchief into his mouth, then dumped him behind a settee. Pratt would give no trouble for the next ten or fifteen minutes. Mannering went to the door and peered cautiously along the passage and up the stairs. There was no sound, no sign that anyone else was in the house.

  He wanted to find Alicia Hill.

  He slipped out of the doorway and into the next room; it was empty. So was the kitchen, scullery and another tiny room on the ground floor. The back door was locked and bolted; all the window catches were fastened. He returned to the passage.

  Was Pratt ‘Smith’?

  He stood by the side of the stairs, his head on a level with the treads halfway up. He could see a little above, and heard nothing at all. Cautiously he approached the foot of the stairs – and then for the first time heard a creak, as of a door opening.

  A man said: “Who the hell are you?”

  There was something startling about the voice coming so suddenly. It was the voice of the man who had telephoned Nigel. He scowled at the gun in Mannering’s hand.

  “Well? Lost your tongue?”

  Mannering said: “I’ve come to see Mr. Smith.”

  “What’s in a name?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out,” said Mannering. “Stand back.” The man obeyed.

  He could not have recognised Mannering’s voice; few had ever heard him speak in that harsh, clipped fashion. It was like sandpaper; no more like Mannering’s than his shapeless blue suit was like the clothes he usually wore.

  He went up, still covering the other with his gun. The man kept his hands in sight, showed no sign of fear, no indication that he was armed. Mannering reached the landing. They were much of a height; Mannering a little taller. The other was well-dressed, strong-looking, with narrowed blue eyes and a square chin. His lips were thin.

  “Where shall we talk?” demanded Mannering.

  “In here.” The man turned and led the way into a room on the left. He flung the door wide open so that it hit against the wall. Mannering approached cautiously. The room was empty. Mannering went inside and closed the door. He turned the key in the lock and put it into his pocket.

  The man said: “Scared, aren’t you?”

  “Just cautious.” The room was barely furnished, with a large desk across one corner, several filing cabinets, a set of open bookshelves, a telephone – all the usual oddments that one would find in an office. In one corner was an old-fashioned Landon safe.

  Mannering said: “Open the safe.”

  “What’s this – a hold up?”

  “You’ll find out – open the safe.”

  The man turned towards it with a shrug. For the first time he put his right hand to his pocket, but all he drew out was a key-ring. He went down on one knee to open the safe without turning his head. He seemed to be completely unafraid.

  He pulled the door open and then glanced round. “What do you want?”

  “To see everything that’s in it. Bring the stuff to the desk.”

  The man had to make three journeys. Most of what he brought were jewel cases. He piled them up neatly. There were some documents and a cash-box. The man unlocked the cash-box and the lid sprang up; the inside was tightly packed with one pound and five pound notes.

  “Help yourself,” he said.

  He was so composed that it suggested to Mannering that others were in the house, were watching, and could break in when they wanted to.

  Smith sat at the desk.

  “What now?”

  “Take the third case from the first pile, the second from the second pile and the fourth from the third, open them, and put the contents on the desk, near me.”

  It was easy; far too easy.

  Diamonds glinted bright in the well-lit room. Smith placed them carefully on the edge of the desk. Several were very large and there were two small bracelets studded with tiny gems. Mannering picked one up. He didn’t spend much time examining it; it was paste.

  He put it down.

  “Where’s Alicia Hill?” he asked.

  “So Courtney sent you, did he? I didn’t think the young fool had the guts. What do you want out of it? There are two thousand pounds in that cash-box. That enough?”

  “No. Courtney didn’t send me. But I know Courtney lifted his stepmother’s diamonds. I want them. I’ve been watching him for a long time, ever since you got your claws into him.”

  “And you think you’ve got your claws into me?”

  “That’s right.”

  But the man’s confidence was uncanny. What trick was he preparing to spring?

  “You’ll learn,” the man said. “But I don’t want trouble, I’ve too much on my hands. Take the two thousand quid and forget it.”

  “I want those diamonds.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know,” Smith said. “These are the sparklers that Courtney took, and it’s no use calling me a liar. They are all paste – everyone of them. They aren’t worth fifty quid altogether. You can have them if you want them, but it’s all I’ve got here.”

  Mannering said: “I don’t believe you.”

  “I can’t make you,” said Smith. He didn’t stand up, but his hand strayed towards the plan papers, now in a loose roll on the desk. These were Nigel’s plans. The brown paper wrapping was on the floor.

  Mannering said: “Push that nearer to me.”

  “Forget it, son. I’m not going to fool around anymore. There’s two thousand quid, more than enough for your trouble. Take it and clear out.”

  Mannering leaned forward and picked up the rolls of paper. Smith’s hands clenched at his side, bu
t he kept them in sight. Mannering flattened one roll of paper with his left hand, keeping Smith covered. The drawings might have been any plans at first sight, but in black ink at the bottom corner were the words: Courtney Grange.

  He glanced at Smith sharply – and then laughed. It was an uglier laugh than Smith’s. He pushed the roll aside and saw it fall to the floor.

  Smith said sharply: “What’s funny?”

  “You are. Don’t you ever read the papers?”

  “What papers?”

  “Newspapers. Courtney Grange was raided last night. The thieves got away with the Carla pearls. They—”

  He saw the glint of satisfaction spring into Smith’s eyes; knew that he had made a mistake, but couldn’t see what it was. He kept quite still.

  “Go on,” said Smith evenly.

  “They killed a man while they were at it.”

  “Did they?” Smith leaned forward. “Sure, I read the papers. I read them all. I was told about this job, just before I got these plans. It’s upset mine, but I’ll readjust them. There was one thing the papers didn’t mention. The Carlas. No one knows what’s missing yet. Except you.” He laughed again. He had small, even teeth, very white and wide-spaced. “Except you, son. Been to Courtney Grange lately?”

  “They got into the vaults, didn’t they? What else would they take?”

  “It’s one thing to guess and another thing to know,” said Smith. “I think I get you. You want to sell. What’s your price?”

  Mannering said: “You’ve got me all wrong, Smith. I don’t know anything about the job, I just read my papers. I want those sparklers and I don’t believe that Courtney brought you paste.”

  “Courtney didn’t bring me anything; I took the stuff from him,” sneered Smith. “If you’ve got the Carlas, I can talk big money. I’ve a buyer. Allingham didn’t have a buyer but thought he could get his hands on the stuff. He made a mistake.” Smith laughed. “I won’t rat on you. Tell me the truth – you’ve got the Carlas, haven’t you?”

  Mannering said: “You’re bad at guessing.”