by John Creasey
“Did you have any trouble?” asked the man with the cruel voice.
‘No, he was easy.”
“So, Mannering,” said the man inside. “You gave up without a struggle.” He laughed softly, unpleasantly. “That isn’t exactly what I was led to expect by a study of your past activities.”
Mannering stopped when the hand was taken from his arm. He sensed that he was standing in front of the speaker – who was perhaps two yards in front of him. He didn’t answer.
The pause lengthened, the room was silent except for the breathing of the men and the ticking of a clock, which sounded louder in his right ear. Faint light filtered through the sides of his glasses, but he knew that this room wasn’t sunlit; either it faced north or east, or the blinds were drawn, or they were in the shadow of a tall building. Small, trivial things to think about then; but helpful; he felt much calmer.
“Is it?” the man asked.
Mannering said: “Age takes its toll, you know. I’m not so reckless as I used to be.”
“Lucky for you.”
“But I make up for it in other ways,” said Mannering. “The old story of the swings and roundabouts. What I’ve lost in daring I’ve gained in cunning.”
A pause; and then: “Indeed, Mannering.”
“There’s always a compensation if you look hard enough for it,” said Mannering. “Do you mind if I take off my glasses?”
“Yes, I do. I don’t want you to make any mistake. If you take them off, if you catch so much as a glimpse of me, you will never return to your wife.”
Mannering said: “We can’t have that. Mind if I sit down?”
“Give him a chair,” said the man.
His voice was softer now, little above a whisper, but it lost none of its menace.
A chair was pushed behind him, against his legs. Before he could sit down, his captor patted his sides, felt beneath his armpits, even dipped into his pockets. Satisfied that there was no weapon, he put his hands on Mannering’s shoulders and forced him down.
It was an arm-chair; well sprung, with soft upholstery.
He ran his hands along the arms, as if he were ruffling the soft fur of a cat, then groped in his pocket for his cigarettes. His hand was pulled away roughly.
“Give him a cigarette,” said the man with the odd voice.
A cigarette was pushed between his lips, and he felt the gentle glow from a lighter very close to his eyes. He drew in the smoke gratefully, and settled back.
“All right, Parr. You can both wait outside.”
Mannering sensed a moment of curious tension, a clash of personalities; it ended when Parr – a name to remember – moved away from him, and the door opened and closed softly.
The door of his bedroom and the front door of Lithom Hall had been closed stealthily, rather like that.
Now there were only the two of them; together.
The man said: “Mannering, I am sitting at a desk with a small automatic in front of me, and that automatic is fitted with a silencer. The only sound you would hear would be a soft sneeze—something like that.” He made a mock sneeze. “I am only three yards away from you, and I am an excellent shot, especially with small arms. Don’t be foolish.”
“Which dictionary definition do you use?” asked Mannering.
“Webster’s.” There was an echo of reluctant laughter in the word. “I am going to ask you a number of questions and expect straight answers. Most of the answers I know already, so don’t lie.”
“It seems a silly parlour game,” said Mannering, “but if that’s the way you want it, I’ll play.”
“Yes, you’ll play,” said the other.
A match scraped, and Mannering caught a whiff of smoke from a good cigar. He waited for the questions to begin – but the man kept silent. To unnerve him? That wouldn’t be difficult, he didn’t feel brave; he even wondered whether the flippancy had been wise. The blackness in front of, and all about him was smoky now, and the bruise on his head was throbbing. He felt as if the other were staring with a cold, critical look, stripping all pretence at calmness.
The silence broke.
“Why did you examine the bookshelves in the study at Lithom Hall?”
So this was about Gloria.
Had he ever really doubted it?
“Answer me at once!” rasped the other.
Mannering stared through the misty darkness towards the voice, but kept silent. He heard a creak as the man shifted his position, sensed tension again; the man was desperately anxious to know the answer.
“Mannering, if you don’t—”
“They squeaked,” said Mannering.
“They what?”
“Squeaked. Made peculiar noises. And Gloria—a friend of mine, but I expect you know about Gloria—thought she had seen a body with the head almost severed from the shoulders. It wasn’t there when I went to look, but I always like to do things thoroughly, so I poked about a bit.”
The man breathed heavily; the cigar smoke was stronger; nearer.
“Why?”
“To see whether I could find a secret door,” said Mannering, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Houses like Lithom Hall are full of surprises, and ever since I was a boy I’ve wanted to discover a secret passage, and—”
His words drowned movement, but a stinging blow caught him on the side of the head, set the dynamo throbbing again, made him surge with hatred of this man.
The calmness of the voice surprised him.
“Don’t waste my time. So you were fool enough to look for a man who didn’t exist.”
“Didn’t he?”
“The girl is mad,” said the man contemptuously.
Mannering kept silent; the other went back to his chair which creaked.
“You also cut a piece of the pile from the carpet, after marking it with white chalk. Why did you do that?”
“I love acting like Sherlock Holmes,” said Mannering. “The only thing I lacked was a magnifying glass. There was a spot of something red. Could have been blood, could have been ink. I took it away for chemical analysis, because if it proved to be blood, it would suggest that Gloria hadn’t been nightmaring.”
“Have you had it analysed yet?” The voice was sharp.
“No.”
“Where is it now?”
“Reposing on the laboratory bench at Scotland Yard,” said Mannering. “Ever been there? The Yard is a fascinating place, and the Black Museum something that shouldn’t be missed. There’s a souvenir of every murderer whom the Yard has caught, convicted, and had hanged. Fascinating!”
“It’s a pity you went to Scotland Yard,” the man said harshly. “Did you tell them that you thought the girl had really seen a body?”
“No.”
“I warned you not to lie to me.”
“I told Bill Bristow that I thought she might have done and that the red spot ought to be analysed. I also said I washed my hands of the affair. One bump enough for me.”
“You must have altered. Since I heard you were at Lithom Hall, I’ve made some inquiries. You have a reputation for being an amateur sleuth with more daring than the police. There was a time when the great John Mannering would have probed into this on his own.”
“Old age has its cunning. Remember? They now do the work. I’m just a consultant.”
The man hesitated before he said: “You say you’ve told the police everything. Have you told your wife?”
That came out sharply, calculated to catch him off his guard. It did – he prayed that he didn’t show it. He understood, in a single illuminating flash, that this man, whom he had never seen but whom he would never forget, would use any means to get what he wanted – even menace Lorna.
“I have not. My wife doesn’t care for the detective in me—that’s why I went to Scotland Yard.”
“Why did you go to Lithom Hall in the first place?”
“Because my aunt told me about Gloria’s illness. I wanted to help.”
“Did yo
u discover anything else at Lithom Hall to interest the police?”
“No.”
Was he believed? There was no way of telling from the voice. There was a long pause; Mannering hated every moment of it.
“There are two things I can do with you,” said the man at the desk, slowly. “The first is to kill you. The second, to put you out of the way in some lonely spot, where you can languish until I’ve finished.”
He paused.
Mannering said: “If it has to be one or the other, I prefer the second. But couldn’t you think again?”
“I could hand you over to Parr, for questioning,” said the man softly. “I’m not sure that you’ve told me the truth, Mannering.”
The chair creaked; he was standing up again.
Mannering heard a footstep, something rustled; the man’s clothes. He could hear him breathing, smell the pungent cigar smoke as it rose from the end of the cigar. Next moment, he felt a cold hand on his face. The hand moved, fingers touched the bruise gently, then suddenly prodded. The pain was excruciating. It shot through his head and down his neck to his shoulders, agony beyond words. There was a mist in front of his eyes. He felt sweat breaking out on his forehead and on the back of his neck.
“So it hurts,” the other said coldly.
That called for no answer.
“Other things can hurt, much more than that.” The fingers touched the bump again, cool, almost caressing now, but any moment he might press again; Mannering braced himself.
“There is a third alternative.” The voice was as cruel as the pain he caused as he pressed again. “I could give you some work. I could use you, in two ways. I have valuable jewels and antiques which I should like valued, and you’re an expert in both. I shall probably want to dispose of some of these through legal channels. Shall we say through Quinns? Would you object to disposing of some of my possessions through your shop, Mannering?”
The fingers pressed up and down, the dynamo pounded, sickening Mannering with the pain. But even through the agony, he felt relief and satisfaction, for he now knew why he had been brought here. Not to talk about Gloria and Lithom Hall, but to be frightened – worked on until he agreed to use Quinns as this man’s shop window. The threats to himself and to Lorna, all made sense now.
He moved his right hand, and it brushed against some buttons: the buttons of the man’s waistcoat. So his captor was standing to his right, and leaning forward slightly. He had a big paunch; a fat man. The pressure of his fingers did not relax, the dynamo was throbbing, but Mannering was more used to the pain now.
He said: “It would depend on the terms.”
“Ah! And would you inquire too closely into the source of the valuables?” The fingers were removed. “Would you run to your friend Bristow, for instance?”
“It would depend on the terms,” repeated Mannering.
Then he drove his clenched fist into that protruding stomach with a strength which made the wind belch out of the man, and sent him staggering.
Chapter Six
The House in the Terrace
Mannering sprang up and pushed aside the glasses. One of the wings pressed against the bruise; he snatched them off and flung them to one side. The light was too bright for his eyes, but by the time the other fetched up on the floor by the fireplace, Mannering could see clearly. It was a fat man; big, paunchy, not flabby, who was crumpled up, gasping, and opening and closing his mouth like a great fish.
A small table crashed over, the contents slithered to the floor. Mannering saw the desk, but the automatic wasn’t there – no, it was on the floor, near the man. He glanced at the door; it was opening slowly, stealthily.
He grabbed the gun.
The fat man, trying to pick himself up, stamped at his hand and missed by an inch. Mannering caught his ankle, thrust him farther back, and heard his head strike one of the pillars of the mantelpiece. Mannering swivelled round, the automatic tight in his hand. It had a long rubber silencer—
A man in the doorway was pointing his gun at him.
Two flashes came together. Mannering flung himself to one side, and felt no pain. He heard the man in the doorway gasp and saw him sag away. Mannering, standing upright, jumped forward to get out of the man’s line of vision. The door was half open.
Mannering reached and slammed it.
There was a key on the inside; he turned it and grabbed a chair and thrust it under the handle.
The fat man was on his feet, holding a poker. He lunged forward, poker raised, his eyes blazing.
Mannering dodged. The poker grazed his arm but neither hurt nor delayed him. He drove his left fist into the big stomach, bringing the man forward with his chin an easy target. Mannering smashed a vicious uppercut home, the man toppled over.
There were footsteps on the stairs, and men were shouting. The door shook under an impact and the chair quivered.
Someone shouted: “Mind the window!”
It was tall and narrow, and the curtains were drawn. And it led to safety.
The desk and the whole room was at his mercy, if only he had time to search. His victim was lying on the floor, with blood drooling from his lips to his chin, quite helpless. The blood had splashed over his pale, plump face, too. He was dressed in a light-grey flannel suit and brown shoes.
On the mantelpiece above him was a photograph of the man himself; a good likeness. Mannering snatched it off and crammed it into his pocket with the gun as he moved towards the window and flung back the curtains. The door still quivered under the impact, and the lock groaned, a panel splintered, but the chair had lodged tightly. He heard a series of soft, sneezing noises, and light thuds; and something hit the wall behind the desk. Plaster powdered and sprayed downwards.
Mannering flung up the window.
It was at the side of a house, which was semi-detached. A five foot wall ran between this and the next house, leaving a narrow service alley on either side. The back door of the opposite house was closed; he couldn’t see below him properly, to the back door of this one. He glanced upwards. It was a three-storey house, there was no hope of climbing to the roof.
No hope of rescue?
He shouted: “Police! Police!”
The gardens beyond and the houses slept in warm sun and no one appeared to hear him; certainly no one responded. The sharp, sneezing gun shots came from behind him; there was a hole in the door, a hand groped for the key.
He glanced down at the wall, which was a foot wide.
He climbed out, on to the window-sill.
Then he heard two things at the same time. A crash behind him – so the chair was down – and a shout beneath him. He saw a man rush into the passage, brandishing an automatic, and peering upwards.
A bullet crashed through the glass, from behind him.
He jumped; and the wall seemed tiny and narrow, too narrow for a foothold.
He landed squarely, overbalanced, swayed wildly and saved himself. He felt a bullet tear through his coat. He jumped into the next door passage, without jolting his legs so much. The one door in sight remained closed – damning him.
It opened!
A woman stood clutching it.
“W-w-what?”
Mannering sprang forward, and she backed away in fright. A bullet struck the door. Mannering pushed the woman back into the kitchen, then slammed the door behind him. He shot the top bolt home, gasping: “Telephone!”
“W-w-w-what?”
“Is there a telephone? We want the police.”
“The—police?” She was shivering violently, too frightened to answer calmly, but before Mannering could speak again, a door at the other end of the kitchen opened and a boy of ten or twelve appeared. His eyes were rounded and glistening, and he carried a carving knife.
“Here, you!” he shouted shrilly, and then he saw the gun in Mannering’s hand, and his voice quavered: “Don’t—don’t you shoot my mum!” He brandished the knife, but didn’t budge.
Mannering was sharp and crisp.
“Dial—”
“999!”
“Derek, do what he says!” screamed the woman. “Dial 999!”
Men appeared in the passage outside; Mannering saw a pale, flat face pressing close to the window, which was covered by a fine net curtain. The window was smashed in, a leg appeared through it. Mannering shot at it, made the man draw back, then pushed the woman through the far door. They entered a parlour with a window looking out into the street.
He slammed and locked the communicating door as he heard the boy cry out: “Please will you come to 27 Chiltern Street, quick. There’s a man with a gun … 27 Chiltern Street, Bayswater … Please—”
He broke off, and came hurrying from the hall. The thugs were thumping at the communicating door, and Mannering saw a man appear in the front garden, peering into the room. One of them?
“What shall we do?” gasped the woman. “What—”
“Take the boy into that corner, we’ll be all right. The police won’t be long.”
But they might be too long.
Mannering watched the woman and the boy crouch in the corner, out of range from any possible shooting, while he stood near the wall by the window. A shadow appeared, as if a man were pressing his face close to this glass, now. The din in the kitchen shook the house; how long would the door resist the assault? The thudding, the pulsing throb in his head and the beat of the blood through his injured temple all merged together; he felt another spasm of vertigo. Too bad if the men forced their way in; he’d given all he’d got.
He …
The thudding had stopped, bringing a strange silence.
The man had disappeared from the window.
A policeman appeared, peering intently into the room.
25 Chiltern Street was empty when the police searched it.
A beat policeman had heard the disturbance, and arrived in time to see a carload of men disappearing, and others in the garden of this house and the one next door. He’d been too late to stop them from getting into a taxi which had pulled up, but he had the cab’s number.
That didn’t help; it wasn’t registered at Scotland Yard.
It had been a bad hour for Lorna.
