The Warning

by John Creasey

  He parked at a corner and studied the house. There were four bells, and a card beneath each. Garielle Lee was in Flat 4. He tried the door and it was locked.

  He took out his knife and opened it to a mica blade. He started to push this into the lock of the door. The strip was halfway through when he heard footsteps approaching, slow and steady. He stopped working and moved into shadow. The footsteps came on, measured, ponderous, almost certainly those of a policeman. If he chose to shine his torch this way he would see Mannering. Every footfall sounded like impending doom. There was a pause; he fancied that he saw a glow of light, brighter than the street lamps; the policeman’s torch was on. As he drew level with Mannering, he switched off the torch and was swallowed up in gloom. Mannering turned back to the door.

  He heard the lock click two seconds later and pushed the door open. He stood inside a wide hall, then went quickly to the foot of the stairs. A dim electric light shone from a landing. He hurried up, making little noise.

  Flat 4 was on the top floor. The landing was small and narrow, and the door big and dark. He tried the handle. It was locked, of course, but the lock was an ordinary Yale; he could open it as easily as he had opened the other.

  There was no sound; and the only light here came from the landing below.

  He started to work on the door.

  Two minutes later he stepped inside Garielle Lee’s flat.

  There were three rooms and a kitchen. All were furnished with charm and taste.

  Mannering tried to picture what had happened to the girl, and gave it up. He couldn’t be absolutely sure that she had been unaware of the man in the dickey-seat.

  He made himself think logically.

  Paul K. wanted that letter and had tried everywhere to find it; he hadn’t been lucky. He might have watched Garielle Lee from the time she had met Powell, or he might have been watching Mannering’s flat.

  When the girl had called, Paul K. – or those who worked for him – would jump to a conclusion; that she and Mannering were working together. What was simpler than to hide in the back of her car, take control, and force her to drive wherever he wanted? Then he would question her, find out why she had seen Mannering, whether she knew anything about that letter.

  That, of course, was on the assumption that she knew nothing more than she had said. Mannering couldn’t get rid of the notion that she might be more deeply involved. He might find out from here. He’d started the police on the hunt, there wasn’t anything more he could do to help her.

  He began to look round, prying, searching, not liking himself at all.

  Everything pointed to her genuineness. That she was, in fact, simple straightforward, and as honest as she looked.

  He searched everywhere, and found nothing that connected her with Powell, Liggett or Paul K. Garielle Lee was in this case by sheer fluke, and also in a danger which could be deadly.

  He went to the telephone in the living-room and dialled 999 again.

  Information came through, and reported that the Singer had been found, abandoned, less than five minutes away from Mannering’s flat.

  No, they knew nothing of Miss Lee; they hadn’t found an armed man or any signs of shooting. They were anxious to have another word with Mr Mannering.

  ‘I’ll come in the morning,’ Mannering said. ‘And this is urgent: list Miss Lee as missing, and tell Mr Bristow.’

  It was now after midnight. There were two lines he could take: wait here, in the hope that the flat would be burgled, or go and see Sir Paul Kennard.

  To stay – or to go?

  The decision was made for him.

  He heard a footstep. He moved swiftly behind the living-room door and watched the front door handle. It turned slowly.

  He switched off the light.

  There was another footfall, and he felt sure it was a man’s. Then the beam of a torch shot out and moved slowly round the room.

  The girl wouldn’t use a torch.

  In the reflected glow he saw a man groping for the electric light switch on the wall.

  Chapter 7

  Prisoner

  The light went on.

  Mannering narrowed his eyes against it, shot out his right hand, and gripped a bony wrist. The torch crashed. Mannering pulled the man round and smashed a left fist to the chin. The man hit the door jamb with a bang, and his knees buckled under him.

  Swiftly Mannering went through his pockets. He found no papers to identify him, merely a note on which was typed:

  Lee girl’s flat 17 Mirral Street Clapham urgent flat should be empty.

  Was there time to wait until he regained consciousness? The police might come, and Mannering didn’t want trouble with them yet. He could take this man to the flat or somewhere safer for later questioning.

  His decision made, Mannering hoisted him quickly on to his shoulder, and left the flat.

  The man was a lightweight; it was easy.

  The unknown was on the floor at the back of the hired car, tied and gagged. He wouldn’t be easily noticed. Mannering drove towards Victoria, where he had a lock-up garage and a faster Austin, kept for emergencies. He transferred his victim from the hired car to the Austin, sat him in the back and left him.

  He locked the door and drove to the garage where his own car had been repaired. He left the Cambridge, and from a call-box telephoned Larraby.

  Larraby had room to keep the prisoner at his home in Notting Hill Gate, and had a key to the lock-up garage.

  His voice was soft, gentle.

  ‘I’ll see to it, Mr Mannering. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Thank you, Josh,’ said Mannering. ‘Be careful.’

  He drove in his own Bentley back to the Chelsea flat.

  As he drew up he saw the shadow of a man disappear into the doorway of a house opposite. A closer look convinced him it was one of Bristow’s men.

  He was being watched.

  Mannering wasn’t happy. Paul K. beckoned him, in the guise of Sir Paul Kennard. He could hand the name over to Bristow, and what would Bristow do? Laugh. No one could blame him. This wasn’t a job for the police – it was a streamlined one for him.

  Mannering went upstairs and looked out over the back yard. Bristow knew – and sometimes pretended he didn’t – that he occasionally went out this way, risking his neck.

  Mannering saw no one. He thrust the window further up, leaned forward, and tested an iron stake which jutted out of the wall – fixed for a fire escape which had never been completed. There were stakes all the way down.

  He drew back, and going into the bedroom opened a makeup case. Deft touches of grease-paint; rubber cheek pads; a thin film of rubber to spread over his teeth, changed him beyond recognition.

  The Baron …

  King of cracksmen; Bristow’s bête noire; thief by night and jewel merchant by day – that had been the Baron. Embittered by a woman, bearing a grudge against life and society, he had been born overnight and worked and plundered – and met Lorna. He didn’t know whether it had been Lorna or his own temperament, but he had changed.

  He had become – he smiled wryly to himself – a detective. Still Bristow’s bête noire, but an honest man.

  When he finished the work on his face, he took Liggett’s gun, a small roll of tools, some cord, other oddments that he might need, and a pair of cotton gloves.

  He went to the kitchen window, leaving the room in darkness, and climbed out. Each stake jutting from the wall supported his full weight. One slip, and he would be a hospital case. He didn’t slip.

  When he reached the garden at the back of the house he walked swiftly to an alley and found it empty. Good. Bristow evidently wasn’t as hostile as he seemed to be.

  Mannering forced his mind to other things.

  He knew a little about Sir Paul Kennard; that he was reputed to be a millionaire with generous impulses, that he avoided publicity, and that he lived in Moynham Square, not a mile from the humble house where Powell had lodged.

  A new thought struck Ma
nnering. Why had Powell chosen to stay there? He seemed to be fairly well off, judging from his luggage. He was on leave, South African salaries were high. Anyone on holiday by himself could afford to stay at a reasonable hotel. Had he gone to the place to save money? To hide? Or for another reason, which might be discovered at the lodging-house?

  Mannering made a mental note to go there again as he walked towards King’s Road. He got a taxi for part of the way, and then walked on to Moynham Square. London was a dark, gaunt city after midnight, and few passed him.

  Kennard’s was a house in the middle of the north side. The houses were terraced, with small basement areas in front. Only in two out of many houses were lights to be seen.

  Outside Number 27 Mannering listened for footsteps which would lead to the kitchen quarters. The door was locked, and the window barred; there was no easy way in. He opened his tool kit and set to work on the lock. It was easy, and soon moved.

  Examining the door more closely, he found that it was flanged. He couldn’t get at the bolt without cutting away some of the door.

  He took out a small, well-oiled drill, and drilled a hole through the wood. Then he fitted a narrow blade to a saw handle and cut a hole. Gradually the cuts lengthened, until he had only to knock out the square of wood to reveal the bolt.

  This he gripped with a pair of thin pincers, and pushed it back.

  As he did so, a car turned into the street, and came to a standstill outside the house.

  Chapter 8

  Sir Paul Kennard

  Mannering pressed back against the area doorway, and could see the heads of two men and a woman.

  The woman’s hair seemed to sparkle with silver lights, reflections from jewels in her hair.

  A pleasant, authoritative voice said: ‘All right, Lester, I shan’t want you again tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, Miss Daphne.’

  Mannering heard the man and woman walk up the steps to the front door. Deftly Mannering stepped into the kitchen. Using the torch, he went out through a narrow passage to a short flight of stairs. At the top of these was a swing door; and through the door he heard voices.

  ‘Enjoy yourself, my dear?’

  ‘Wonderful!’

  ‘Like a night-cap?’

  ‘Love one, Paul.’

  The man actually chuckled.

  ‘It would have been Uncle Paul in my day!’

  Footsteps sounded, grew fainter, as Mannering slipped through the swing door.

  A tiger’s head snarled from a corner of the hall. There were other trophies of the hunt, and memory seeped back to Mannering. In his early days, Kennard had had a reputation as a big game hunter.

  Mannering looked into the downstairs rooms. In none were there papers, desk or safe. He approached the foot of the wide staircase. Voices came from an open door.

  ‘So you think you’ll be able to put up with me?’ said Kennard.

  ‘The real question,’ replied the girl, ‘is whether you’ll be able to put up with me.’

  ‘H’m, yes.’ Kennard became serious. ‘Daphne, it’s not so easy as it may seem, you know. You’ll be away from all your friends, and I’ve none of your age. You’ve lived in America for a long time, and our ways are probably strange to you. You might lose a great deal.’

  ‘Let me think about it again, Uncle,’ the girl said.

  ‘Of course. And now, goodnight!’ A glass chinked. ‘It’s nearly half-past one; I have to be up at seven in the morning.’

  ‘Why do rich men work so hard?’ she asked musingly, ‘and so unnecessarily?’

  Kennard’s voice was almost sharp.

  ‘Once work gets into you—’

  Mannering was on the landing now. He reached the corner of a jutting cupboard before the girl came out, closing the door softly. She was humming to herself as she went up another flight of stairs to her own room.

  Mannering went to the closed door and listened; there was no sound. He turned the handle slowly, and the light came through in a bright sliver. Liquid tinkled into a glass. Mannering opened the door more widely.

  Kennard was sitting with his back to the door in a large armchair.

  The telephone bell rang.

  ‘Yes?’

  There was a pause; an irritating one for Mannering.

  Then Kennard said: ‘Was that necessary?’ He was now sitting forward in his chair, tensely; he gave Mannering the impression of being old, tired and jaded. His next words came slowly: ‘It will be difficult to replace Liggett.’

  Liggett, Liggett, Liggett; so there was no argument now. Kennard was being told that Liggett had been murdered, and the murderer of Liggett had taken Garielle Lee away.

  ‘Well, if you say so, I suppose I’ll have to agree,’ Kennard was saying. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

  Silence.

  Then he said sharply: ‘We’ll discuss this some other time, Dawson. Goodnight.’

  He stood up abruptly, still staring at the telephone. Mannering could imagine hatred in his eyes – for the man Dawson, a name that was worth knowing.

  Then Kennard turned round, and saw Mannering.

  Once the shock was past, Kennard relaxed and stood watching and waiting.

  Mannering let him wait.

  At last Kennard spoke.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m a pal of Liggett’s,’ Mannering said.

  He drew a step nearer, took his hand out of his pocket, and showed the gun.

  Kennard neither flinched nor drew back.

  ‘And what concern is that of mine?’

  ‘You killed him,’ Mannering said. His voice was harsh and grating, with a hint of cockney accent. No one would have recognised it. ‘You and Dawson—’

  He broke off.

  Kennard said quietly: ‘Get out of my house.’

  ‘Don’t get the idea that I’m bluffing, Kennard. A life for a life, that’s my motto.’ Mannering raised the gun. Kennard would surely make some attempt to save himself; but the man didn’t move. ‘Why did you kill Liggett?’

  Kennard said: ‘I didn’t kill Liggett, nor am I responsible for his death. He was an employee of mine, certainly, but I seldom saw him. Who are you?’

  ‘Liggett had a big job to do today, at Quinns, didn’t he?’ Mannering snapped.

  ‘You think you know so much,’ Kennard said wearily. He turned away, and sat down, as if the life had been drained out of him.

  Mannering was ready for a trick, but Kennard did not play one. He was as pale as Liggett had been in death; as pale as Powell.

  ‘How much do you want to go away?’ he asked tonelessly.

  ‘Money,’ mocked Mannering. ‘You think you can buy everything with money.’ He sneered into the tired face, and saw Kennard’s eyes, shadowed, not with fear but with a sense of hopelessness. ‘What do you think the girl Daphne will do if she knows the kind of guy you are?’

  Kennard said sharply: ‘She knows nothing of this.’

  ‘But she can learn,’ jeered Mannering. ‘You can be fixed for Liggett’s murder, and for Powell’s.’

  Kennard said wearily: ‘If money won’t buy you off, what will?’

  ‘I want to know why you killed Powell,’ Mannering said.

  Kennard’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to be speculating; why was his visitor so interested in Powell?

  Then Mannering heard a sound from the door. Quickly he shifted his position as the door was flung open, and the girl appeared just inside the room, an old Service revolver thrust forward in her right hand, courage and fear mingled in her eyes.

  Her voice was high and not perfectly steady. ‘Drop that gun!’

  Kennard cried: ‘Daphne! Go away! Go away!’

  ‘Not while he’s here,’ the girl said. She drew a step nearer. ‘Drop that—’

  As she spoke, a shot barked, a bullet smashed against Mannering’s gun, wrenching it out of his hand. The girl screamed and swung round.

  A man came into the room, a smoking automat
ic in his right hand.

  Chapter 9

  Dawson

  Mannering’s wrist felt as if it were shattered. Pain drove him back to the wall, and he leaned against it heavily. The girl stared at the newcomer, who had eyes only for Mannering.

  He was not tall, but massive. Broad shoulders and a thick torso made him look shorter than he was. Impressive, even good-looking, he stood and watched Mannering.

  ‘Having trouble, Paul?’ His voice was deep, matching the man.

  The girl said: ‘Of course he is!’

  The massive man smiled at her, and the smile relieved some of the heaviness of his face. ‘You needn’t worry; there won’t be any more. Better put that cannon down.’

  ‘How did you get in, Luke?’ Kennard asked.

  ‘The kitchen door was open,’ the man said. ‘You can leave this to us now, Daphne.’

  The girl said: ‘I want to know what it’s all about.’ Slim, dark and nymph-like, she moved across to Kennard. ‘Uncle, are you all right?’

  ‘Quite all right, my dear.’ Kennard spoke more briskly. ‘We’ve had a burglar, and, thanks to you and Mr Dawson, we’ve caught him. You’d better leave it to us now. There’s no need for you to be questioned by the police.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, reluctantly.

  ‘I’ll see you to your room.’

  Dawson gave Kennard his gun, and went out after the girl. She looked at him with dislike, resenting his patronising manner. There were undercurrents here, deep and swirling. Kennard had asked sharply how Dawson had got in – an odd question to ask, when Dawson had come so conveniently. Dawson left the door open.

  If there were to be a chance to escape, this was it. Kennard stood a few yards from Mannering with the gun in his hand, held casually. Mannering moved a step. The grip on the gun tightened.

  He said casually: ‘Dawson is no good to you.’

  ‘Kind of you to bother about it.’

  The words were spoken lightly, but Mannering’s remark had sunk in. There was silence for a few minutes, uneasy and tense. Then Dawson came striding back.

  ‘I’ve locked her in her room, it’s safer that way. What does this slob want?’