by John Creasey
‘Yes.’
‘We had an anonymous telephone call soon after it happened. The make and number of the car was given, and it was easy to pick it up. See what that means?’
Mannering said: ‘Yes, I see what it means.’
‘Dawson had a man watching,’ Lorna said slowly. ‘When he realised who had been shot, he tried to frame you.’
Bristow said drily: ‘I’ve had my orders, John, and they’re to hold you. But I believe you stand a better chance of finding out exactly what’s behind this than I do. You’ve taken some big chances in the past,’ went on Bristow, ‘but I don’t think you’ve ever knocked out a superintendent of the C.I.D. and escaped from custody.’
Mannering said: ‘I don’t fly so high.’
‘I’m not laying a trap for you. Once you get to the Yard, you won’t be released for a day or two, and I’ve a feeling that the next day or two is going to be important.’ He pulled into the kerb. ‘Well?’
Lorna said breathlessly: ‘Supposing John were to escape, and couldn’t find out what has happened? You would have to charge him with assault.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Bristow heavily.
Mannering said lightly: ‘Bill, I’m going to drop a list of names and addresses on the seat by your side. All of them are worth attention. If you visit every address, you might put a very big spoke in Dawson’s wheel.’
Lorna said: ‘John, it’s terribly dangerous.’
‘Whichever way you look, there’s danger,’ Bristow said. ‘I’ve been told to bring you in and hold you for questioning. If I hadn’t done it, the Special Branch would have. They wouldn’t give you a chance. What’s the matter with you?’
The slip of paper on which Chittering had written the names and addresses fluttered to the seat.
‘How hard may I hit?’ asked Mannering mildly.
Bristow glowered.
‘Hard enough to knock me out.’
Lorna didn’t see Mannering’s hand move from his pocket. Bristow didn’t realise what was coming until Mannering struck him with the butt of his gun. Bristow slumped down. Mannering pushed open the door of the car, and Lorna began to follow.
He held her hands tightly.
‘Not you, my sweet.’
‘But—’
‘Not you. Stay and look after Bristow, and call for help. When it comes, tell them what happened; say you can’t understand what’s come over me, that I must have gone mad. Then go along to the Yard. They probably won’t hold you.’
‘No, John—’
‘It’s the only way to help, darling. Call the flat and speak to Robby as soon as you can. He’s to get Dickson out of the studio, and take him away, but not to Larraby’s place. Tell him to phone Larraby to fix somewhere for both Dickson and Riley. The Yard will soon visit Larraby in case he’s sheltering me.’
Lorna said: ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Robby isn’t to tell Garielle, Harrison or Chittering. When he’s finished, ask him to go to the Club and stay there until he hears from me. When he does, it’ll be from a Mr Browning. Clear?’
Mannering pulled her close, kissed her, then turned and hurried off. Bristow didn’t stir.
Mannering walked swiftly along the narrow street leading from the Embankment to a main road. A car swung into sight and he saw Harrison at the wheel. Another followed – Chittering was driving Garielle. A third car was outside his house; Robby must have hired one. He hurried up to the flat and slipped inside.
The shadow of a man showed against the living-room doorway; Robby was alone. He swung round.
‘I haven’t long,’ said Mannering hurriedly, already making for the wardrobe door. ‘I knocked Bristow out and ran for it. Not a word to a soul.’
‘I’m—speechless, anyhow,’ Robby gasped.
Mannering withdrew a small theatrical make-up set and stood up.
‘I think Lorna will be released, they’ll expect me to get in touch with her. They’ll be watching you closely, too, but there’s no one else I can trust.’
‘If the police come back—’
‘They won’t, yet. You’re going to lose a hired Vauxhall Victor for a few hours. Forget to tell them about that car.’
‘I’ve forgotten,’ said Robby, faintly.
‘If you think of anything else that might help, have it all ready for when a Mr Browning contacts you,’ said Mannering. ‘I’ll be Browning.’ He repeated what he had said to Lorna, while packing a small case with a pair of thin cotton gloves, a dark blue scarf and an old suit. ‘There’s a pair of old golf shoes in the corner, get ’em for me, will you?’
‘John, what the hell are you going to do?’ Robby’s voice was hoarse.
‘Go after Dawson.’
Robby said: ‘There are limits to what I’ll let you do for me. I can look after myself.’
Mannering took the shoes.
‘Thanks. I knocked Bristow out, and that will mean twelve months jail at least unless I can prove justification. My neck is out as far as it can go. You look after Lorna, and spare an eye for Garielle – though not one intent enough to be dazzled until this affair is over.’
He had closed the case and was lifting it off the bed.
‘Are you seriously suggesting that Garielle—’ began Robby.
‘I’m merely cautioning against emotional entanglements,’ said Mannering. He reached the door.
Robby said, a little stiffly: ‘I’ll go downstairs and make sure the road’s clear.’
They crept down the stairs in near silence, Robby a yard ahead.
They reached the front door.
Robby went out, looked up and down, and beckoned. As Mannering passed, Robby handed him the key of the car. Mannering started the engine, waved, and drove off.
Mannering left the hired Vauxhall Victor at Victoria and walked briskly towards the garage.
Opening the door he stepped inside and switched on the light. It took him an hour to make up his face, working carefully. That done he drove off, and telephoned Larraby.
‘Have you heard from Mr White?’ Mannering asked.
‘Yes, sir.’ Larraby was as calm as ever. ‘I have given him an address in Golders Green, where everything will be quite safe. I stayed here myself, in case the police call. The address is …’
The little house in Golders Green was in darkness when Mannering arrived. He forced a window, and was soon inside. Dickson, bound and gagged, was in an upstairs room; Riley next door. Mannering unfastened the cords and got him a drink.
‘Do you know a man named Dickson?’
Riley nodded.
‘What is his reputation?’
Riley said slowly: ‘As bad as they come.’
‘How did you get into this game?’ Mannering inquired.
It was an old story: crime in Riley’s early youth, a period of trying to go straight, another robbery to get himself out of debt, and then – Reed.
He had blackmailed Riley, and Riley had been forced to do what he was told. The tragedy of it was that he’d married a woman who believed him to be a commercial traveller, and had no idea of his double life.
‘Do you know who Reed worked for?’ asked Mannering.
‘The biggest payer,’ Riley muttered. ‘That’s all I know.’
‘Ever heard of a man named Dawson?’
‘No.’
Mannering said: ‘He’s a big, powerful man, with a chin like a spade and very light grey eyes. He—’
‘Dawson!’ cried Riley. ‘That’s not Dawson, that’s Luke Kane!’
‘Well, well,’ said Mannering. ‘Do you know Kane well?’
‘No, I can’t say I do, but I’ve met him.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Near Lord’s cricket ground,’ Riley answered. ‘81 Drew Crescent, in St. John’s Wood.’
Mannering tried to work this out. Dawson, as Dawson, had the ear of the Government. Dawson, as Kane, was known to crooks like Riley and big-shot crooks like Reed; that meant that Dawson took a lot of cha
nces.
‘All right,’ said Mannering, ‘I believe you.’ He didn’t think that Riley had a lie left in him. ‘Now I’m going.’ He began to tie the man’s wrists again, and Riley submitted without protest. ‘Any message for your wife?’
‘Ring her and say—’
‘I’m going to call on her. Is it a house or a flat?’
‘House,’ said Riley. ‘It’s a nice little place, and—’
‘I may want to stay there for a day or two,’ said Mannering, ‘and I may have a girl with me. You’ll have to take a chance that I’m on the level.’
Riley hesitated, then looked down at his hands. ‘You could take her this ring—’
‘All right, Riley,’ said Mannering. ‘I’ll give you a break when this is over, and meanwhile your wife won’t come to any harm.’
Ten minutes later he left the house. It was nearly half-past four, but there was a job to be done before he got any rest.
The first greyness of dawn was breaking the night’s darkness when he reached the house in St John’s Wood. There was little sound, but buses were already moving along the main streets. Mannering opened the gate which led into the garden, closed it behind him, and walked swiftly to the side of the house.
Dawson alias Kane owned this place, or rented it. He was examining the lock on the door when he heard a sound inside the house.
Chapter 21
Dawn Visit
Footsteps came along a passage, and something clattered. A kettle? Water started to run from a tap.
A chain clanked: bolts were drawn back.
Mannering waited until the man – if it was a man – had returned to the kitchen, then stepped to the door. He turned the handle, and the door opened.
He stepped into a narrow passage. A door on the left stood open, and Mannering crept towards it.
A big, ungainly man stood at the sink rinsing out a cup. He was dressed in a pair of old grey flannel trousers, carpet slippers and a yellow shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Mannering drew near him, stealthily, then closed his hands round the thick throat – tightly with his uninjured hand, firmly enough with the other. His fingers pressed deep into the flesh, then loosened.
He said harshly: ‘Keep quiet, and answer questions. Is this Kane’s house?’
‘Ye—yes.’
‘Kane here?’
‘No!’
‘How many others are?’
‘Only me, my wife, and—’ He broke off.
‘Go on.’
‘There’s one other guy,’ the terrified man muttered. ‘He’s armed; he’ll shoot if—’
‘Is anyone else here?’
The man didn’t answer.
Mannering pressed harder.
‘Anyone else?’ Mannering demanded.
‘There—there’s the girl.’
‘What girl?’
‘The Kennard girl. She’s upstairs.’
‘Locked in?’ demanded Mannering.
‘Ye—yes! Tiggy’s got the key. He’ll kill—’
‘Which room?’ demanded Mannering.
The man gulped.
‘It’s—it’s the third room along the passage. Tiggy’s in the second. He’s—he’s a killer.’
‘I’ll deal with Tiggy.’ Mannering raised his hand and brought it down sideways on the nape of the fat neck. The man sagged.
Mannering let the unconscious man fall, then dragged him across to a broom cupboard, and pushed him inside, bolting the door.
He went into the passage, to a wide hall. He noted with satisfaction that there were several doors, giving him wider means of escape than he had expected.
He was halfway up the stairs before he remembered that a postman or newsboy might come, and he ought to have gagged the man.
If he went back he would lose precious time.
He reached the landing, which was large and square. Several doors led off it. Mannering went slowly towards the second one – Tiggy’s, grateful for thick piled carpet which deadened any sound he made.
He drew the gun he had taken from Dickson out of his pocket and turned the handle.
As it turned, he heard a slight movement, so faint that he could hardly be sure that it was one. He flung the door open and darted to one side.
A shot spat out from a silenced automatic. The sound of breathing came clearly – the man who had fired stood opposite the door, ready, waiting. Mannering tightened his grip on his own gun and watched for the first sign that the man was moving.
Slowly the nose of a gun came in sight. There was no sign of the man’s face or hand; Just the ugly snout of the gun. Mannering stayed pressed against the wall, his gun trained on the barrel of the other.
Suddenly the gun was thrust forward.
Mannering fired.
He did not see his bullet smack into the other’s fingers, but heard a gasp, then heard the gun clattering to the floor. He leapt forward. Tiggy reeled into sight, his back to Mannering. Mannering turned the gun in his hand and brought it down on the back of Tiggy’s head.
Mannering straightened up. Fists were banging a fierce tattoo on a door nearby.
He heard footsteps – heavy and shuffling. He hurried to the end of the passage in time to catch a glimpse of a big, plump woman hurrying as fast as she could down the back stairs. As she reached the door leading to the kitchen he called sharply: ‘Stay there!’
She screamed, her eyes glazed with terror.
‘All right, Ma,’ he said. ‘If you behave yourself you won’t get hurt.’
He thrust her into the kitchen towards the cupboard in which the man he presumed to be her husband was locked. Unlocking the door, he pushed her in, gagged them both with dusters, bound their wrists, and bolted them inside.
Tiggy hadn’t moved when he got back upstairs.
The banging on the nearby door had stopped. He tapped, then spoke in the voice which Dawson would have recognised as the burglar’s.
‘Who’s in there?’
A voice answered him, low-pitched and cool.
‘I am Daphne Kennard and am being kept here against my will. Please let me out.’
Mannering said: ‘Listen to me – I’m a friend of Mannering. If I let you out you must do exactly what I tell you.’
Could he trust her? Could he trust anyone? A wave of fatigue surged over him. He would have to take this chance. He turned the key in the lock of the door and pushed the door open.
She recognised him on the instant, he could see that from her expression, but she didn’t say so. Her great eyes were heavy with tiredness; but the lift of her chin showed courage.
‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.
He kept his voice rough and harsh, but the gaze from the girl’s eyes was disconcerting.
‘Mannering is after Dawson, and you’re going to be the chink in Dawson’s armour. You’re to come with me, stay where I take you, and do nothing until you hear from Mannering.’
Without a word she followed him down the stairs.
‘I’ve a car nearby,’ he said. ‘Walk straight out and wait for me at the gate.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I won’t be long,’ he said. ‘Hurry.’
She opened the door – and as she did so, he heard her gasp, saw her face flare with alarm.
Chapter 22
Pell Street
A man’s voice said softly: ‘Well, well, so you’ve managed to get out, sweetie. You can just get back inside.’
If she glanced towards Mannering it would betray him. She didn’t glance right or left, but backed into the hall. A man followed her, gun in hand.
Mannering lunged towards him, aiming a blow which sent him flying. The girl was already out of the house, walking quickly. Mannering pulled the door to after her, and they reached the double gateway together.
‘Turn right,’ he said.
She turned right.
“Next corner,’ said Mannering.
A shot roared out, and a blow hit him on the
side of the head like a kick from a mule. He fell forward and would have fallen but for the girl’s aid.
His eyes were blurred, and his head an agony, as they reached the corner. The Victor was parked near. He pointed to it, and she went on ahead, while he staggered after her.
Daphne opened the door of the car, pushed him into it, and took the wheel.
‘Where to?’
He muttered: ‘Pell Road, Golders Green.’
The girl pulled into Pell Road a few minutes later – a wide street of small, semi-detached houses. Number 10 was near the far corner, small, two-storied, with a neat garden surrounded by a privet hedge.
Mannering walked along the narrow garden path, swaying from side to side; the girl stayed at the wheel and watched him. He rang the bell, then fumbled in his pocket for Riley’s ring. The door opened quickly, revealing a nice-looking woman wearing a blue dressing-gown.
‘Oh,’ she said, obviously disappointed. ‘I thought—’
‘I’m from your husband.’ Mannering held out the ring. ‘He will be all right, if you do what I ask. I want to stay here for a day or two, with—my niece. It’s urgent, and I—’
He swayed forward, saw alarm flooding the woman’s face, and heard footsteps behind him. Daphne’s? He wasn’t sure. He would have fallen but for the woman’s support, knew that – and then faded into unconsciousness.
Daphne Kennard spoke softly. ‘Are you feeling better?’ A hand rested on his shoulder.
‘It isn’t a serious wound,’ she continued, after a moment. ‘And the woman downstairs has been very helpful. But you must tell me what to do.’
Mannering formed his words carefully.
‘We must stay here. Dawson will know you’ve gone, but won’t know where to find you. You are Mannering’s trump card.’
He saw her smile.
‘Mannering will—use that trump,’ he made himself say.
‘I’m sure he will,’ said Daphne Kennard. ‘Is there anything we can do at the moment?’
He hesitated, and tried to sit up. ‘Yes, there is. Tell the police about that house, and—’ He broke off.
The man who had fired at him would release the others before the police could raid the place; it would be empty and cleared of everything that might be helpful. He was working against time.