by John Creasey
The premises of Messrs. Salmonson & Grey, on the corner, had two separate entrances. One was to the shop, the other to the offices above. Mannering might have decided to pick the lock of the offices, but he believed there was only one entrance to Salmonson’s room, and one way to the vault; through the shop itself. Despite the thick bars of the gate the front door was his safest bet, but the small porch by the office entrance in Liber Street would be useful for shelter.
Mannering reached the corner and turned it, without pausing in his stride but glancing sharply up and down the street. There was no one in sight but the policeman, whose back was turned towards him. The man was not due to pass this corner again for half an hour.
Mannering slipped into the porch and opened his case. His tools were in it, together with the blue mask and his gas-pistol. Except for the heavy steel cutter, he put everything in his pockets. He did not propose to put on the blue mask until he was inside.
He stepped to the corner again, with the cutter under his coat. It was as weighty as two jemmies tied together, and shaped like a pair of pincers. The powerful maw could cut through inch thick steel in seconds, the leverage power of the tool was so great. Mannering had not believed what it could do until he had actually operated the tool. That maw could snap inch steel as easily as he could cut barbed wire with ordinary cutters, with even less effort.
He reached the corner from the shadows of the porch, his heart beating fast now, every sense alert. No one was in sight, and there were no lights within fifty feet of him. No one farther away than twenty yards could see him clearly.
The door of Salmonson & Grey’s was locked for the night, and to the outward eye seemed impenetrable. Mannering was thinking about the chief obstacle, the iron-barred gate inside. The lock of this door should be child’s play. As he began to work, the personality of the Baron gradually took over.
He used a pick-lock which was second nature now, but he hardly had it in the keyhole before he heard the sound of footsteps from somewhere close by.
The sound came without a moment’s warning, right in his ears. He went rigid, then realised that someone was coming down the stairs of the premises next door, close enough to be dangerous and yet out of sight. He pushed the pick-lock into his pocket and stepped to the edge of the pavement. The footsteps sounded, sharp and incisive.
A glance over his shoulder showed the Baron that the door looked normal enough. No one could know that a pick-lock had been in it a few seconds before. He took a cigarette from his pocket, and stood lounging on the corner. A moment later a short, dry-faced man with side-whiskers came out of the next-door building.
He looked sharply, almost suspiciously at Mannering, never dreaming how the lounger’s heart was thumping, and then turned right, away from Liber Street. Mannering watched him out of his sight, his pulse steadying, but still on edge. The suddenness of those footsteps had jolted him badly.
The man with the side-whiskers had not locked his door, which suggested there was someone else to follow. To Mannering the waiting seemed interminable. He was tempted to try again when suddenly he heard the sound of heavier footsteps. He went round the corner this time, still able to hear the second man coming downstairs. The key of the door was turned, and he knew the place was shut up for the night.
He slipped into the shadows of the doorway where he had left his case. A moment later the fellow passed him, without suspecting his presence. Mannering watched the second man disappear before slipping to the corner again.
Five precious minutes had gone, but there was no one else in sight and the first door would soon be open. He pushed the pick-lock in with steady fingers. Suddenly there was a sharp click! and the Baron stood there, with the door swinging open. Ahead of him, across the passage, was the barred gate he had seen that afternoon.
The streets were empty, although from a distant room came the sound of a man’s voice, bawling Yeah, yeah, yeah with a drunken gaiety. Mannering cursed the singer, for he was straining his ears to catch the slightest sound of approach.
Now was the testing time for the cutters.
The darkness was complete, but he flashed his lamp to make sure of his position. Then he took the cutters from under his coat, and put the maw about one of the inch thick iron bars. He levered the handles slowly, feeling the sudden pressure as the jaws began to bite through the steel. Almost before he realised it had happened the two jaws met together with a faint click.
The first bar was in two parts!
Mannering was breathing hard as he started on the second bar, but it was as easy as the first. In less than three minutes the lock had been cut away from the grille-gates, and he pushed it slowly.
He pushed it wider, stepped across the threshold, into the small shop, and turned to pull the grille behind him. He worked very fast, following a preconceived plan without a pause. He ran two pieces of sticking plaster on the door edge and the framework, making sure the door would not open accidentally with a rush of wind. The silence was profound, not even the voice of the singer penetrated into the shop.
The Baron slipped inside, closing the shop door behind him without locking it. His mind felt very clear. Salmonson’s office was on the ground floor, just behind the workroom, and he knew just which door he had to pass through. He did not use a light, except one flash from his torch to show the direction.
The door leading from the shop to the passage beyond was locked, but Mannering made a quick job of it with the pick-lock. Then he stood in the passage, in utter darkness, hardly breathing. One more door and he was in Salmonson’s room, the way to the vault was open.
He slipped the blue handkerchief over his chin, and stepped to Salmonson’s door. With the shop door closed, no one could possibly see him from outside, but Mannering worked with the light of his torch all the time, deciding not to switch on the electric light.
The lock was a perfect example of the locksmith’s art. No pick-lock in the world could open it, but the Baron had seen the type when he had visited Salmonson, and had known how to prepare. He had two well greased keys, made for similar locks, among his tools. He pushed them into the double-locks, after dusting them with a fine white powder. When he withdrew them, making no sound at all, the edges where the locks had come up against the keys and prevented them from turning showed clearly in the light of his torch.
Time was flying, but he had to be patient. He used a sharp file, working on the edges steadily. In sixty seconds one key was altered enough to fit, in two minutes they were both effective. He turned them together without a sound.
The lock yielded, and the Baron pushed at the door. It opened, slowly at first, and he drew a sharp breath as he pushed it wider.
As he did so he was conscious of an odd uncertainty in his mind, something that should not have been present when his plans had prospered as they had.
He paused, his ears strained for the slightest alarm.
And then he realised there was a sound, a slight hissing he could not understand.
He caught the first whiff of a very sweet scent a second later, and then he knew what it was. As the door opened a gas cylinder was operated: the hissing sound was coming as the gas spread through the room! For a moment he was flabbergasted, and then his mind began to take in the situation. If Salmonson, the clever devil, was capable of that trick, what else might be waiting?
Chapter Seven
Salmonson’s Vault
The knowledge that the room was filling with gas, and at that with his own weapon, ether-gas, seemed to numb the Baron as he stood against the open door, hearing that faint hissing sound and feeling the sweet odour in his nostrils. He was thinking fast as he held his breath, determined not to take in the gas a moment sooner than he had to.
The gas was coming slowly, and it would be some minutes before there was enough in the room to affect him. Salmonson would not expect anyone to hear the escape when the door opened, would rely on the marauder crossing the room and trying to open the vault, unaware of the danger until the
fumes were thick enough to take effect. If the Baron could stop the escape of gas now, he would have Salmonson beaten.
Less than ten seconds passed from the moment when he had first heard the hissing, and the moment he started to move. He closed the door behind him, flashed his torch, and pressed down the electric switch. Light flooded the office. He narrowed his eyes against the glare as he looked up for the gas cylinder. He dared not breathe in, but his chest was tightening, and he knew that he would have to get relief very soon. He backed to the far corner of the room, and when at last he took a careful breath only the faintest scent came to his nostrils; the gas had no immediate effect.
He went forward again, towards the cylinder that fitted to the top of the door. The cleverness of it was worthy of any engineer, for the container was actually a pneumatic door-closer of the type fitted in every other office in London, and Mannering could see the whitish vapour coming from one end. He stood a chair by the door, and climbed on it.
As he neared the gas cylinder the smell was overpowering, and he would not have many seconds to work without losing consciousness, but the possibility of being beaten did not enter his mind.
He took a piece of adhesive tape from the precious toolkit, and pressed it quickly on the small hole through which the gas was escaping.
The white vapour cleared sluggishly away. Mannering’s eyes shone as he finished his job, pressing the tape on tightly all round the hole. Then he waited for a few seconds although his chest was fit to burst.
He saw the faint bulge coming in the centre of the plaster and he knew the pressure of the gas was strong enough to force its way through; he had to use more plaster. By the time he had finished his face was like a beetroot, but the cylinder was thickly covered with adhesive tape.
It was impossible to estimate how long he would have before the gas would find a way through, but he put that to the back of his mind, got down from the chair and away from the door, and gulped in great breaths. He felt his head swimming, for the gas had floated about the room now, and for a while he was hardly certain whether he could last out.
Every muscle in his body was rigid, as though he was preparing for a physical effort, his head was still swimming, there was a drumming in his ears. He was suddenly filled with alarm. He lurched towards the door, his eyes wide open, his legs weak beneath him. He had taken too many chances, he would never be able to get outside. He should have given it up when he had seen the risk.
He was steadying a little as he reached the door and opened it. He glanced up at the cylinder but the opening of the door did not disturb the plaster. Again he took in great gasps of clear air, and the swirling of his senses eased, his legs became steadier.
He switched off the light in Salmonson’s office, glad of the darkness. In the passage the air was clear, and he decided to let some of the gas escape from the office before he ventured in again. Five precious minutes had passed when he went back.
The odour of ether-gas was still noticeable, but nothing like so strong, and the Baron knew that his effort had succeeded; the danger was no longer acute. He closed the door, glancing up at the cylinder. The slight bulge in the plaster seemed no bigger; no more gas would escape. The Baron was feeling almost light-headed as he stepped across to the desk and stretched his hand towards the inkwell. Salmonson had given him a great deal more to think about than he had expected. No wonder the man did not employ a night-watchman!
There was little need for the Baron’s mask. With the door closed, no one could see the light in the office. He ran his fingers about the inkstand, and then, so suddenly that he was startled for a moment, he heard the sliding of the door to the vault.
“Perfect,” murmured the Baron aloud.
The vault was in darkness, a black void. The Baron waited until the door slid right back, and then stepped towards it, wondering what next Salmonson had in store for him. As he reached the vault opening, he realised that he had not underestimated the cunning of Mr. Salmonson.
For what he thought was the black void of the vault was a sheet of steel, painted a dull black. The Baron’s fingers knocked against it sharply, and he drew back, surprised at the sudden pain and the fact that he touched anything but air.
Again he stood poised, staring ahead at another door, another barrier. Time seemed to stand still.
“He’s certainly good,” murmured the Baron at last, and the sound of his own voice gave him confidence. He looked at the edges of the sheet of steel, and he found what he was after. There was a small keyhole, although nothing else to suggest a lock. Salmonson obviously took this extra precaution when he was off the premises, and the steel had not been visible that morning because Salmonson had used the vault before Mannering’s arrival.
The Baron took out his pick-lock, inserting it quickly, but no pick-lock would help him this time. It was far too complicated, and the key was probably one of the newest type, an expanding block, with the barrel little thicker than a darning needle. The barrel was pushed into the hole, and the top of the key pressed, so that the block itself expanded to fit inside the hole.
“And that means gelignite,” said the Baron aloud. He had never encountered anything better guarded than Salmonson’s vault, and success here would be an absolute triumph.
It was reasonably certain that the explosion of gelignite would not be heard outside, with all the doors closed. He went out into the shop to make sure every door was closed, re-entered the office and pressed the adhesive tape more tightly, then took a small stick of gelignite from his pocket. It had a sixty-second fuse, and he had brought it for the safe inside. He had two other sticks, and he could well afford to use one.
He widened the keyhole with his file, pushed in as much of the gelignite stick as he could, and lit the fuse. Then he hurried out of the office, closing the door, and waited in the passage. The seconds ticked by interminably, until with a suddenness that surprised him the dull boom! came.
The sound was deafened by the closed office door, and he doubted whether anyone would be able to hear it outside. The only next-door premises had been locked, and it was safe to assume they were empty. But he waited for three minutes before going into the office again, and odd sounds, inevitable in the darkness, came to his ears, making his heart thump, stretching his nerves to a fever pitch. But no alarm was raised, and the Baron went in.
As he switched on the light he saw the steel door gaping at the lock, and he was smiling as he crossed the office. A single push was all he needed to open the door, and the light from the office showed him the stairs down which he had walked with Salmonson.
He found the light switch for the vault, and the click echoed loudly through the silence. The Baron paused on the top of the steps, and started down. The safe was just as he had seen it earlier in the day. He went down quickly now, ignoring the safes that Salmonson had opened, and making for the small one in the corner.
Gelignite was needed again, and time was pressing.
He lost no time trying the lock with his keys, pushed in the gelignite and repeated his previous manoeuvre, this time closing the electrically controlled door and waiting by the desk. The boom came only faintly; had he not been expecting it, he would probably not have heard the explosion; Salmonson’s doors were nearly soundproof. In a tear of anxiety he released the sliding door again and went down the stairs.
The explosion had broken the electric lamp, and he had to use his torch. A glance showed that the safe was open! He pulled at the door, finding four small trays inside, and on each tray there were several black jewel cases.
He took the cases in his hands, carrying them in one heap to the office, where the light was better. Every moment was doubly precious now. Each case was locked, and he used a screwdriver to prize them open.
He worked methodically, taking the smaller cases first and examining the stones quickly. They glittered like fire beneath the brilliant light above Salmonson’s desk, but the stone he was after was by itself in a small case, in all its lambent glory.
> The Diamond of Desire!
Mannering took the rose-tinted gem in his fingers as he glanced at it, his lips and eyes showing his excitement. It was flawless, a stone from the olden days. Legend had it that it had been among the jewels Cortez had brought back with him after his war with Montezuma. The Diamond of Desire had been given to his wife by Montezuma, to break down her coldness, and dislike. Mannering recalled the tragic history of the unhappy Aztec King and other thoughts flitted through his mind as he put the stone aside and started on the remaining cases. How Cortez, neglected in his old age and desperate for recognition at the Spanish King’s Court, had given the stone to Charles V, how its renown as a gem to inspire desire had spread, how men had fought for it, stolen it, shed blood over it, until at last it had come to rest in the Crown of Castilla.
Odd thoughts for a cracksman who was opening case after case and examining their contents as though they were his by right.
Suddenly his thoughts were jolted from the past to the present, for between two cases was a tiny sealed envelope. The Baron pushed the glittering array of stones away from him, and opened the envelope. He had had no idea what would be in it, but when he saw the list of names and addresses it contained his lips tightened. There were twenty-one, and every name was a woman’s. Beside each was the name of a diamond brooch, a necklace, sometimes a tiara, with an amount in brackets after it. The smallest was for five thousand pounds.
The Baron sat still for perhaps ten seconds.
He knew what the list meant. It was Salmonson’s record of his victims, the women Leverson had mentioned. The amount would represent the sum for which Salmonson would return the diamonds, the sum to buy his silence.
It was easy to imagine the agony of the women concerned, few daring to confess to their husbands or their family that the jewels had gone. Salmonson had talked to him glibly of paste gems to aid impoverished aristocracy; replicas of most of these would have to be worn on big occasions.