by John Creasey
“Fifty thousand pounds sound all right to you?”
Mannering laughed. “You wouldn’t pay five! You’d pretend to talk big money, and if you got your hands on the pearls you’d stick a knife in my back or strangle me the way you strangled Allingham—”
Smith said evenly: “The newspapers don’t say that he was strangled, either. You know plenty about that job. You were the cracksman, weren’t you? It was a good, clean job – the best job I’ve ever come across. I didn’t think those vaults could be opened as easily as that. Listen – if you did the Grange job you’ve got murder printed all over you. You’ll be strung up – they always get murderers. But if you play along with me, you’ll be okay. I can let you out of the murder charge. I know who did it.”
Mannering said: “And he isn’t a mile away from here, is he?”
“No. He’s downstairs – the man you dealt with. The job was too big for him,” Smith went on. He leaned back in his chair, talking freely, confidently. “He couldn’t get me all the information I wanted about the Grange. Last night he knew that the dog was out, and went down to see what was happening. He found Allingham tied up and the vaults empty. He never liked Allingham – nor did I. He took his chance and killed him, and he knew that the thief would get hanged for that. Neat job wasn’t it? Only Pratt made a mistake. He’s always making mistakes. This time he forgot that when a man’s tied hand and foot the marks show even if they’re untied. He also forgot that if a thief took the trouble to tie Allingham up he wouldn’t kill him afterwards – he’d kill first. There was just one reason why Allingham should be killed by the thief – because he’d recognised the thief and could give him away.”
“But the thief felt safe, and tied him up – so he wasn’t a murderer.
“Pratt was. I can go a long way to proving it. Pratt is just waiting to stooge for the murderer. It’s easy. He can’t give me away because he doesn’t know what I really look like. Nor do you. You’ve a workmanlike disguise on, but the only safe way to disguise yourself is by plastic surgery. I’ve had one dose, and the minute I need it I’ll have another. Now – what about playing ball? Fifty thousand pounds for the Carlas, plus Pratt as the killer. It will put you in the clear; you’ll be able to retire and live a life of luxury and ease. How about it?”
Mannering said: “I’d have to see the colour of your money first.”
Smith grinned; all his front teeth showed.
“So you’ve got them,” he said softly. “That’s wonderful; that’s all I wanted to know. Except who you are, and we’ll soon find that out.”
He laughed.
He flicked something from his right hand, and it gleamed – as the little tear-gas containers had gleamed at the Grange. Mannering darted to one side, but the thing struck him on the chin and broke. He drew an involuntary breath and the tear-gas bit at his eyes and nose.
The door crashed in.
Before Mannering could recover, a second man snatched at his gun, then pushed him. Mannering saw the man through the mist in front of his eyes, while he was coughing and while the gas bit painfully, driving away thought of everything else.
Chapter Twenty-One
Two Prisoners
Mannering’s head ached, his mouth was sore and his eyes and nostrils were tender. He sat in a chair opposite Smith. A solidly built chunk of a man lounged against the wall, gun in hand, looking at him absently. Smith hadn’t spoken since the attack, but just sat there, watching and smiling.
The door reeled drunkenly on one hinge.
Smith said: “Go and get a glass of water for the gentleman, Bert.” The man went without a word, and Smith toyed with Mannering’s automatic which was on the desk in front of him. “Not so good, is it?”
Mannering didn’t speak.
“I think I know who you are,” Smith said. “Allingham was pretty sure that the famous Mr. Mannering wasn’t all he pretended to be. You don’t look much like Mannering now, but when you’ve got rid of that greasepaint and all the other stuff, maybe we’ll see a difference. Whoever you are, you’ve got the Carlas. And you fell for Pratt. You knew that the noose was pretty close to your neck, didn’t you? Hearing that Pratt had done that job made you feel fine; it was a chance of getting in the clear. Only Pratt’s a friend of mine. You’ll hang – and you’ll hang well. Unless I get the Carlas. You won’t get fifty thousand pounds for them but you’ll get a rake off. I’m an honest man, according to my lights.”
The other returned with a tumbler of water. Mannering sipped it. It was cold and refreshing.
“Well?” said Smith. Mannering didn’t speak.
The man called Bert said: “I’ll make him talk.”
“We don’t want rough stuff for the sake of it,” said Smith. “Listen.” He pointed a finger at Mannering. “I’ll tell you a thing or two. I knew the Courtneys had asked you to help – the kid as well as the woman. I reckoned you would stick close to Nigel. I knew that after last night there wasn’t a chance to get into the Grange, and that the Carlas were probably gone, anyway. So I kept working. Nigel and the plans were the bait that brought you. My two boys were up to you, all right. They did a good job. All my boys are good, Mannering. I don’t use them if they’re not.”
Mannering said: “What’s in a name?”
Smith chuckled.
“That stung, didn’t it. Listen – you may be Mannering, you may be the President of the United States. I don’t care. I want the Carlas and I want them soon. You’ve got them. Tell me where to find them and you can leave here – when I’ve found them – without a stain on your character! You can go home, take off the make-up, and get around among your fine friends again. That’s worth more than fifty thousand to you, if you are Mannering. How about it?”
Mannering said: “It will be a long time before I take your word for anything.”
Smith shrugged.
“It’s up to you. I’ve got a job to do; you can have an hour to think about it. If you won’t play ball, I’ll scrape that disguise off and take your fingerprints – I’ll fix you that way. I’ll make sure who you are, and if you won’t come across I’ll turn you over to the police. But if you’re Mannering, you’ll come across. Allingham spent three years at Parkmoor, and worked alongside a man who knew a certain gentleman who masqueraded under the name of the Baron. Allingham was always certain that he was right, and that Mannering was the Baron. He couldn’t prove it, but – maybe we can make some proof. Think it over, son. You’ve got one hour.”
Bert said: “It’s more than he deserves.”
“We don’t want trouble if we can avoid it,” said Smith. “Take him away.”
“Put him with the girl?”
“That won’t do any harm, provided you make sure they can’t get free,” said Smith.
He stretched out for the telephone and began to dial a number. It was the most casual thing he could have done. He seemed to dismiss Mannering from his mind.
The other took Mannering’s arm.
Smith said: “I’ve got you covered. Tie his hands, Bert.”
Bert took a length of cord from his pocket, pulled Mannering’s hands behind his back, slipped a noose over his wrists and pulled it tight enough to hurt. Then he pushed Mannering in front of him. They went along a narrow passage to a closed door. The man unlocked it and led the way into a bedroom with twin beds.
Alicia was lying on one of them. She was tied to the head of the bed by a rope which was fastened round her waist, so she had some freedom of movement. She stared at him; hopeful eyes – and the hope seemed to fade as he was pushed on to the second bed, face downwards. Her only clothes were pyjamas.
His ankles were tied, each to a bed post. Mannering couldn’t turn round, couldn’t move his arms, could only lie there and turn his head. The door closed and he heard the key turn in the lock.
Alicia’s hushed, nervous breathing sounded clearly.
Mannering’s head throbbed.
The past had caught up with him. A garrulous rogue in jail, boasting
of his connection with the big men of crime, boasting of knowing the Baron, saying he knew who the Baron was. In the old days that had been a favourite sport, and a few had whispered ‘Mannering’ but none had proved it to be true. It was easy to imagine Allingham storing up the rumour, holding it against the day when he might find it useful, and passing it on when he thought it would pay him. It explained Allingham’s confidence; Allingham would have come out with the Baron story later, when he wanted to step up the pressure.
Smith was more capable. Smith was clever and capable and dangerous.
The past had never been closer or more threatening.
Alicia whispered: “Who are you?”
Mannering heard her but didn’t move. There was silence; and then she drew in her breath and said hopefully: “Do you know Nigel Courtney?”
It would be dangerous to make any admission to her, although she whispered. She might be overheard; or, later, she might be questioned.
He gave a non-committal grunt.
They were near enough to the main road to hear traffic passing along it, once he heard the distant rumble of trains. Not much more than an hour ago he had been quite free; and at the end of this road a taxi driver would wait for two hours, then give him up – or call to see if he were ready.
That might be a way of getting help …
Smith or Pratt would get rid of the cabby in two seconds.
“I’m so frightened,” said Alicia, “so terribly frightened.” She spoke more loudly. “They’ve threatened to do—dreadful things.”
She was so naïve.
He turned his head to look at her. The dim light was kind. She had a fair, clear skin, and her hair was a shower of gold reaching as far as her shoulders. Her blue eyes were turned towards him entreatingly. She could move. The outline of the lips, almost perfect in shape, showed as clearly as if they were rouged.
She could move.
“If only we could get away,” she said.
She could move.
Mannering whispered huskily: “If I wriggle towards you, can you get at the cords at my wrists?”
He knew that it was folly to ask her, that there would be no escape from this room. He had come thinking he had most of the cards, and Smith had trumped his ace. Once the make-up was removed …
He could gain time, anyhow. He could tell Smith where to find the Carlas, gain the time that Smith would need to go and look for them, or have a search made. An extra hour or two might make the difference between hanging and freedom. It was evident that Smith wanted the Carlas above everything else. Other things were becoming clear, too. That he and Allingham had worked together on some things, but each had aimed at getting the Carlas for himself.
Alicia said: “I think so.”
“Wait a minute.” Mannering eased himself towards her. It wasn’t easy, there was little slack on the cord which fastened his legs. But by wriggling he was able to get his hands nearer Alicia’s bed. When he had moved as far as he could, he looked round at her. She had rolled over on to her side. By stretching out her arm she could touch his. Her fingers were cool. He felt them plucking at the cords – but she had hardly started before he knew that it was hopeless; she hadn’t the strength. She tried for a few minutes; to her they seemed long, to him seconds only. She gasped and her hands no longer touched his.
“I can’t.”
“Try again.”
“It’s no use, I tell you, I can’t do it.” Her voice broke.
“You’ll be all right.”
“I shan’t,” she said, in an unsteady voice. “I know I shan’t. I can feel it in my bones, something dreadful is going to happen.”
Dreadful …
Writhing, wriggling, twisting and turning his hands did nothing to help. The cords cut into his wrists and ankles. If anything, the knot tightened.
He could do without Alicia’s tears.
She was crying, her back towards him. The sound became exasperating, infuriating. Its persistence was like water running through pipes, a noise which prevented you from sleeping but which you couldn’t stop.
Verbal reassurances wouldn’t help her, nothing he could do now would help her.
Mannering turned his head and watched her dispassionately. Pins and needles crept first into his right leg and then spread to his left and to his arms.
How long had he been here?
Half an hour? More? Less?
Alicia whimpered into silence. He listened for other sounds in the house, but heard none. The ticking of his own wrist-watch suddenly made itself heard, its ceaseless regularity as unnerving as Alicia’s crying had been. The seconds ticked away remorselessly.
Then the door opened.
“Come on, pal,” said the man called Bert.
The only difference at Mannering’s second visit to the office was that Pratt sat near Smith and held an automatic. Smith was writing in a slim book. Pratt said viciously: “Now it’s your turn.” Smith put his pen aside. “Where are the pearls?”
“Scrape that muck off his face first,” Pratt said. “When we know who he is, we’ll make him talk faster.”
“That isn’t quite the idea,” said Smith. “I just want the Carla pearls. He’s had an hour to think it over; he won’t get any longer.”
A buzzer sounded at the desk. Pratt started violently, malevolence suddenly swallowed up by fear. Smith glanced towards the desk and didn’t speak. Both men raised their heads, listening. Footsteps sounded downstairs. Mannering heard the front door open. There was a confused mutter of conversation, then a man’s voice was raised.
“He’s gone, I tell you!”
It would be Bert, confronting the taxi driver.
Smith said sharply: “Go downstairs, see what it is.”
Pratt went out. His voice rose smoothly:
“Now what’s all the trouble, Bert?”
“This cabby—”
Across his words came a loud crash – of breaking glass. It shattered Smith’s composure, sent hope surging through Mannering. Glass fell somewhere at the back of the house. The front door slammed.
Smith said sharply: “If you know anything about this—”
A shot rang out, loud, clear; hope banging on a big bell.
Smith half rose from his chair. Something crashed downstairs. There was the sound of another shot. Mannering, hands tightly behind him, tensed himself for a leap, as Smith rounded the desk. Mannering leapt up bodily, and crashed into the man. They fell, sprawling.
Mannering’s chair crashed backwards. Another shuddering thud came from downstairs, a third shot – but as Mannering rolled over, Smith snatched up a round ebony ruler—
The window of the room smashed inwards.
Smith swung round.
A woman said: “I shouldn’t hit him.”
Mannering heard Smith catch his breath. There came a light thud, as if the woman had dropped down into the room.
Smith turned and sprang through the doorway. Rachel Smart came into sight.
She had an automatic in her right hand. Smith’s footsteps were thudding down the stairs; there was a confused roar of voices below, but no more shooting. The reporter crossed to Mannering, took a penknife off the desk and bent over him.
“Keep still,” she said.
Her breathing swept his wrist. The cord slackened and fell apart.
“Can you get up?”
Mannering grunted. “I can try.”
His wrists were excruciatingly painful; agony shot along his arms. As she helped him up there came a further sound of thudding footsteps. Doors crashed open, and a voice cried out in a strangled voice: “Alicia!”
It was Nigel.
Rachel said: “If you want to get away, you’d better hurry. The police will be here pretty soon. Do you want any help?”
“I’ll manage. Thanks.” Mannering switched on the harsh voice as he turned and moved towards the door. Outside, the engine of a car hummed and a car door slammed. Along the passage Nigel was talking wildly to Alicia.
&n
bsp; Mannering passed the open door. Nigel was sitting on the bed with his arms round the girl; all Mannering could see was her blonde hair falling over the youth’s shoulder.
Mannering reached the open front door; there was no sign of the cabby or his cab.
He reached the garden gate, seeing half a dozen neighbours staring towards the house.
A car swung round the corner.
Police?
If they caught him here the fight was over, there wouldn’t be any way out. ‘Found on enclosed premises’ and all the rest of the regulation charges made confusion in his mind. The car was large, sleek and glistening – the police didn’t often use a luxury model.
It pulled up alongside him.
“Get in!” called Lorna, and flung open the door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Welcome Home
Lorna drove towards the end of Elms Avenue, turned right and took the first turning on the left. There was no sound but the hum of the powerful engine, and no one followed them. They turned into the wide stretch of the Great West Road; there was little traffic. They streamed past big factories on both sides; at last they reached Chiswick High Road.
Lorna spoke at last. “Are you all right?”
“Yes – fine.”
“We sent the cabby for the police,” Lorna said. “I thought—” she didn’t finish.
“This is your case, my sweet. I hadn’t a chance, here or at the Grange.”
“You didn’t give yourself a chance. But don’t thank me for this – thank Rachel Smart.”
They were driving at thirty miles an hour along the main road, with houses and shops on either side. Lorna gave him a cigarette and he lit it with difficulty; his wrists were burning.
“What happened?”
“You told her to watch Nigel. She saw everything that happened – she hired a room opposite his. She was at the Grand Palace and on the same train as you, though she didn’t know it was you, of course. When she saw where you’d gone she telephoned the flat, hoping to get hold of you. Nigel was there, and we didn’t lose any time. He was desperate for news of Alicia.”
“He’s found her.”
