by John Creasey
Big Ben boomed.
One …
The note quivered into the quiet of the night.
He had been here less than an hour when he drove the car out, closed the doors, drove to Victoria Station, and left the suitcase of clothes and oddments at the all-night parcels and left-luggage office. Then he bustled back to his car. His rounded shoulders and thick waist made him unrecognisable. A few of the station staff glanced at him – so did two policemen just outside – but no one took especial notice. He drove without haste through a London that was almost deserted. The Panorama Hotel was an oasis of light in abysmal darkness, for the great park carried no lights. He parked near the block of flats where Odell had lived, making sure that he had a position from which he could drive off in a hurry.
He took a tool-kit from a compartment in the car, with every tool he was likely to need tonight in its own place, each item checked and tested when he had last been at the garage.
Everything was ready.
Now he had to break into the building which was said to be impregnable, had to get into Odell’s apartment, and find out if he was right.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Burglary
A few people were about, an occasional taxi passed, and a few cars. Mannering walked briskly, like a man on lawful business, towards Park Court. He could see inside the spacious entrance to the uniformed commissionaire. In the doorway of a Georgian house opposite, a man was standing with almost suspicious stillness. That would be a Yard officer, so the flats were under observation.
Mannering had expected that.
Yet his heart began to thump.
He walked past, and took the first turning on the left. The great building looked pale, with its light grey stone, against the night. Here and there lights were on, but most of the windows were in darkness. In the dark windows lay Mannering’s greatest hope. Man could invent every kind of burglar alarm, but had not yet overcome the greatest single security risk: the house owner or occupier. Windows would probably be unlocked even if they were not left open. And here on a chilly May night, half of London’s eight millions would have a window open several inches.
The building took up the whole of one block. There was another entrance on the parallel street, and a man would be watching there too. On this side was a high wall, with trees beyond it, leaves rustling faintly. Here were street lights. Behind Mannering a taxi trundled, and when it passed, he saw a couple clinging to each other on the back seat. Silence followed. He came to the tradesmen’s entrance of the flats, and the main gates were closed, but a small gate set in them was open. He stood listening, and heard footsteps on the other side of the door. A man drew nearer. Mannering stood very close to the wall, so that he could not easily be seen if the man came and looked outside.
He did not, but passed the door.
Mannering moved inside swiftly. The man was walking with slow, deliberate steps away from him, clear in the pale light from the apartment building. Mannering went straight across to the nearest patch of black shadow. The police were taking extreme care, as if they too thought Theo might be here. More likely, they were watching for any of Odell’s associates who might come.
There was a drive on to a steep ramp running down to the garage and the tradesmen’s entrance. Would that be watched inside as well as outside? The patrolling figure was still in sight, walking away. Mannering slipped out of the protecting shadow, to the ramp and down it. He kept close to the wall. The ramp was so steep that it was hard to go slowly and cautiously; once, he almost pitched forward. There was no sound below, but there would be at least one all-night garage hand, and much more likely two. Cars would be coming in and out at all hours.
He heard a car engine being revved, saw the glow of headlights near the entrance to the ramp. He jumped the last two yards, and swung round the corner. Two cars were parked close to him, and he darted behind them, catching sight of a stocky man in overalls who was standing over a car which had the bonnet up. The arriving car came down the ramp at crazy speed, jolted to a standstill, and made the garage hand turn round and glare. A middle-aged man opened the door of the car, and said in a mellow voice, ‘Here we are, m’dear, soon be tucked up in beddy!’ He hiccoughed. The garage hand came over without enthusiasm. ‘Put my car away,’ the tipsy man ordered, and helped his wife out; she was younger, dumpy, and plump-breasted.
‘Yes, sir,’ the garage hand said.
The couple moved off towards the lifts, and the garage man got into the car and began to drive to the far end of the huge garage, using only the sidelights. Mannering kept moving between cars so that he could not be seen. The lift doors opened, then swallowed up the couple. He reached the lifts: there were six in all. The car was still moving, and the hum of the engine filled the low-ceilinged cellar. Mannering pressed the button of the nearest lift, and another button lit up, announcing: ‘Lift Coming.’ It was still coming when the car engine stopped, and he saw the brake light go on. In a moment, the garage hand might get out.
The lift came, and the doors opened automatically.
Mannering stepped in, and pressed the button for the fifth floor, for the telephone directory gave the Odell number as 516. He drew his hand across his forehead as the lift rose. It came away wet with sweat. There was a chance that the lift would stop at one of the other floors; he couldn’t be sure. A bell clanged softly past each floor – three, four, five. It stopped. He stepped out, half expecting to see a man at the landing.
No one was in sight.
Notices on the wall showed not only where the different flats were situated but also showed names. He soon found:
Odell, M … Apartment 516.
That was to the left. He went along, without hurrying, prepared to meet a member of the night staff or a Yard man, but he didn’t think the Yard would be so careful inside the building as they were outside: they were checking all who went in and out. He reached the corner of a wide passage, with the thick pile carpet and the panelled walls, the cut-glass chandeliers – all the opulence one could expect – and no one was there.
Ten minutes after entering the building, he was at the door of Odell’s apartment.
He bent down and examined the lock, for locks had many telltale signs. This was not only a double lock, but of the most modern type, the kind fitted when the latest invisible-ray system was used to detect burglary. It would be impossible to get inside while the door was locked, and it would be a waste of time trying.
At the end of the passage was a window, with rich red velvet curtains drawn. Mannering put out the passage lamp, and the only light left was a glow from the corner. He drew back the curtains to uncover the window, and examined it: there was the wiring system with a control switch, so each window had individual control.
He switched this one off and opened the window.
There was the darkness of the park in the distance and, nearer, street lamps, the headlamps of a car coming along towards the main entrance, and the glow of the lights at the entrance: so this flat faced the street, and a man was in a doorway opposite, watching. He might glance up here.
Mannering opened the window wider, and began to smile. There was no balcony, the drop to the ground was sheer, and if one fell, the chances of escaping alive were almost non-existent. But close by was a balcony outside a room of Odell’s flat. It was four feet away, and so within a tall man’s reach.
It did not occur to Mannering not to try to reach it.
He pressed close to the window, and drew the curtains behind him, so that there was no risk of being seen from the passage. Then he climbed out, clinging tightly to the window frame. He did not look below: he had to take the risk of being seen from the street. He judged the distance to the balcony, edged as far as he could to one side, then let himself fall sideways, with his arms outstretched. He had to fall to the left. Now that the danger was most acute, he was free from both fear and emotion. If he missed his grip he would fall; but it did not occur to him that he would miss.
&nbs
p; His hand touched the metal of the balcony, and his fingers closed about it. The rest would be easy. He leaned all his weight on the iron rail, and twisted round until he was able to get his right arm round, and grip with his right hand. Then he hauled himself to the balcony with a single movement, and swung himself over.
He was safe.
Now that he was here, crouching against the wall, his heart began to pound and his breath to come in short gasps. The sweat on his forehead and on the back of his neck felt cold in the night’s wind. He stared at the houses opposite, expecting the quiet to be broken by a shout or the shrill blast of a whistle, but no sound came.
He hadn’t been seen.
He looked at the window which led to the balcony. If the current had been switched on inside this window, then the best hope was to cut a pane of glass and grope inside until he found the switch: and he might need to cut not one but several panes. He glanced up. There was a fanlight, open a few inches and all fear went; all tension faded.
If a fanlight was left open, the current probably wasn’t on.
It wasn’t.
Mannering forced the secondary lock of the French windows in less than three minutes, stepped inside the apartment, and closed the doors behind him.
He stood absolutely still, listening for the slightest sound; if anyone was sleeping in this room he would be able to hear the breathing. He heard none. He switched on a pencil torch, and its narrow beam spread about the room: a small room, with books on one wall, a television set reflecting the bright orb of the torch, the beam, and Mannering’s shadow. There were armchairs, and there was the smell of Turkish tobacco.
Mannering checked the position of the door, and crossed to it.
He opened it, and light came from the entrance hall, soft and yet, after the darkness, almost dazzling. He kept the door open an inch. He thought he heard voices, but could not be sure. He went into the hall, seeing four other doors and a small passage; and one of the doors led to the main passage outside. He stepped swiftly to this, saw the control switch, and pressed it down. Now he could open the door quickly, and if he had to run for safety, could get out at a moment’s notice.
He stood listening, and there was no doubt of a man’s voice. The sound seemed to come from a door next to the room from which he had come, another room with a front aspect. He stepped towards it. Yes, a man spoke, and then a woman said, ‘No!’
It was impossible to be sure whether it was a cry of alarm or the cry of someone who was a little tipsy. Mannering stood still, trying to hear what the man said next. All he could catch was a faint rumble of sound. It stopped again, but this time the woman didn’t speak.
Mannering turned the handle, very slowly.
If the man or the woman were looking this way, he or she would probably notice it.
Theo said, in a tone at once gentle and hard, ‘You don’t know me, honey, or you wouldn’t say a thing like that. You’ve got me all wrong.’
‘I know your kind,’ the woman answered, and undoubtedly she sounded frightened. ‘You’re all talk, and you won’t do anything about it.’
‘Now, honey, isn’t that unkind,’ Theo jeered.
Now Mannering had the door open wide enough to see inside. The blonde widow was sitting on a couch, with one leg drawn up beneath her, wearing a dark dress which threw the smoothness of her arms and legs and shoulders into bold relief. She was the blonde who had been at the Signet Club with Micky Odell. She was sideways to the door, and Mannering recognised her on the instant.
Theo was standing and looking down at her. He was smiling. In his right hand he held a small, dagger-like knife, hidden from the girl behind his back.
Once, Mannering had felt sure that Theo Wray would never use a knife.
Now he moved so that the girl could see it, and that was when Mannering saw fear leap into her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Blonde Widow
Mannering could thrust the door wide open and make Theo swing round, could distract his attention with a shout, a call, even a quiet word. He did none of these things. He opened the door a little wider, but not enough to step through. The blonde was staring up into Theo’s face, and the fear in her eyes seemed to touch lips which were drawn back over her teeth. Yet she looked more striking than she had at the Signet Club: fear gave a character to her face. She didn’t move, and Mannering saw the way in which Theo moved the knife gently forward, the point towards her breast.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Mrs Odell,’ he said. ‘I mean business.’
She tried to press back against the silken cushions; and the cushions and the couch were all that Mannering noticed of the lovely room, one meant for millionaires.
‘I know you mean business,’ she said chokily. ‘But when you killed Micky, you killed yourself. I don’t care what you do to me; I wouldn’t say a word to help you.’
‘You might regret that,’ Theo said.
She couldn’t get another inch away from him, and he was creeping closer. She tried to stare him out, but could not. Mannering could only see Theo’s profile, that lean, graceful body, and the blade of the knife which was so much nearer the pale flesh.
‘I wouldn’t regret it as much as you would,’ she said. There was a funny kind of catch in her voice, almost as if she were trying to laugh in spite of her fears. ‘You’re finished, Wray. You’re through. Micky said he’d finish you.’
‘Not yet,’ Theo said. ‘Not by a long way.’
Mannering pushed the door wider, and squeezed through.
The girl was more likely than Theo to see him, but she did not see him yet; she could only look into Theo’s face, and then glance fearfully towards the knife.
‘Micky set out to ruin you, and we’ll finish the job,’ the blonde said. ‘Nothing you can do can stop it!’
‘I can stop it,’ declared Theo. He stopped; and the knife kept still.
Mannering could see his profile – in fact, could see more: there was a beading of sweat at Theo’s forehead and upper lip, and he was very pale. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. Theo in a wild fury might kill, but Theo wasn’t the calculating kind of killer, and had no appetite for this. As he watched, Mannering began to realise that Odell’s widow suspected that, and felt less afraid with every passing second. The fear faded from her eyes, and her lips slackened; she stopped pressing back against the pillows.
‘You won’t kill me,’ she said flatly.
‘I’ll kill you,’ declared Theo, but it was clear that he would not, unless something happened to spark off the rage which could burn him up. ‘You’ve just time to tell me who killed Odell, that’s all. Because if I’m to be blamed for Odell’s murder, I might just as well add yours to it. That way I’d get punishment for something that I did do. Don’t underestimate the danger, Diana dear.’
She actually leaned forward, and her voice was full and venomous. ‘You’ll never find out who killed Micky! You’ll never find out a thing.’
‘Wrong,’ Theo asserted. ‘I’ve been finding some things out while I’ve been searching this fine apartment. I know that you’re Abe Cunningham’s daughter, but Cunningham didn’t kill Micky Odell; he was already out of the country. I know that when your father heard that I was corning to England, way back in December, he began to plan to fix me, baby. He started with Norman Kilham, but Kilham couldn’t help, except to send him on to Micky.’
There was a pause, before Theo went on. ‘That looked as if it would pay off, didn’t it? And you and Micky got married, to celebrate in advance. It was to be a squeeze that would dry me right out, and when I fell for Rosamund you had all the answers – or thought you had.
‘Too bad Rosamund wouldn’t play it your way, wasn’t it?’ Theo demanded harshly. ‘Too bad my nerves didn’t crack, in spite of the tough guys Micky sent to work on me. Too bad I had a shadow named Charley Simpson, who taught me what I needed to know about judo and boxing.’
Theo caught his breath, and when he continued, his voice was pitche
d on a higher plane. ‘And too bad I didn’t fall for your talk about killing your mother too. Want to know something, Mrs Odell? That bothered me for a while; I discovered that I had a conscience. But since I’ve been here I found out your mother died of cancer which she had had for years before I ruined Abe, so my conscience got right up again.’
‘Your conscience,’ Diana Odell sneered. ‘It won’t keep you out of prison. And look where you are now. You daren’t show up tomorrow, because the police would get you at once. You’ve got to stay in hiding. While you’re in hiding, you’ll lose everything you’ve got.’ She actually laughed, and there was a kind of courage in her: it was as if she was defying Theo to strike. ‘In just a few days you’ll be ruined, because you daren’t show your face to the world. It’s a nice way of getting one’s own back, Theo dear. You ruined my father, you killed my mother, and now you’ve killed Micky. I don’t care if you kill me. I don’t care if I don’t draw another breath. All I want is to make sure that nothing can save you.’
‘If you knew who’d killed Micky, it might help.’
‘I won’t help you, and no one else can.’
Was that deadly, murderous fury building up in Theo now?
Mannering could see the way his lips were set, and his nostrils began to narrow and go white. But it might not be with fury; it might be with fear. Odell’s widow meant exactly what she said, and no one could gainsay her courage.
There was only one good thing.
She knew who had killed Micky Odell, and it hadn’t been Theo Wray.
Had Theo been going to strike, he would have struck by now. He didn’t. He probably felt vicious with the girl because he was standing there like a fool, while she mocked him. She was smiling into his face, and there was a glint of triumph in her eyes.
That was the moment when Mannering let them know he was present.