by John Creasey
He meant it.
The man who had followed them in was leaning against the wall, watching.
Lessing gave the impression that he would kill anyone he could reach.
The quiet lasted for a long time before Mannering moved, glanced at Lessing, and then said to Scoby “Where’s his sister?”
“Upstairs. She’s okay.”
“When I’ve seen her I’ll believe it.”
“Come along up,” Scoby said. “Open the door, Mick.” The cretin obeyed as if Scoby had control of his reflexes. Scoby gave Lessing another careless glance; but perhaps it was not so careless as it seemed.
“Just think about that one thing, Lessing - did Francesca Lisle tell you anything about this, and how much did she tell you? Don’t hold out any longer. Next time you’ll really get hurt.”
He went out.
The door closed and the cretinous-looking man stood at the foot of the stairs, another on the landing, as Mannering and Scoby went up. Scoby was rubbing his chin; the stubble looked more black than blue.
“I could use a man like Lessing,” he said, “but he’s too righteous.” His grin was sardonic but regretful. “You can pick the honest ones out. But can he take it!” He whistled. “The only thing that made him whimper was a threat to his kid sister, but I don’t want to spoil her face for the sake of it. If he won’t tell me what Francesca told him, how much she knows, then I’ll have to work on little Joy.” He talked to Mannering as if to a partner in crime; as if it didn’t occur to him that Mannering would gladly have broken his neck.
He stopped at a door. It was locked, and the key was in the outside. Mannering didn’t see him signal, but was quite sure that one was given. The man at the head of the stairs moved, slapped Mannering’s pockets, felt the automatic and slipped it out as if the pocket were in his own jacket. He slapped Mannering’s waist.
“What’n hell . . .?”
His hands moved swiftly, expertly. He found the clip of the tool-kit, pulled the kit away and held it up. A glint of envy showed in his eyes.
Scoby said: “Mannering, you really do a job, don’t you?”
Mannering didn’t speak.
The other man slapped his pockets, actually took out the lighter, and dropped it back.
“Okay,” he said, “he’s harmless now.”
“How did you train your experts?” Mannering asked.
“I selected them after they’d been trained,” Scoby said. “I got two English, a French, a Pole and an American. They went on the run just before the war ended. If the authorities got them they’d be hanged or shot, so they’re glad to work for me. They know this is the last job, and they know they’re going to get a big rake-off, so they feel the same as I do about it.”
He flung open the door of the room, and strode inside. He didn’t get far, but stopped so sharply that Mannering banged into him. Mannering heard a hiss of breath from behind him, the man on the landing saw what had happened. It was glaringly obvious.
The window was wide open, the room was empty. On the floor were some pieces of blind cord, obviously cut.
“It isn’t possible,” Scoby muttered. “It isn’t . . .” He broke off and swore. Then: “One of you let her go. I’ll have his . . .”
Revelation and opportunity came to Mannering in that moment.
He stepped behind Scoby with a swift, swaying motion, put both hands on his waist, swivelled round with Scoby’s feet just off the floor, and pushed him into the man on the landing. The man there tried to dodge, missed a step, then staggered under the full force of Scoby’s body.
Mannering didn’t wait to see the two men fall, but raced down the stairs.
The cretinous creature crouching at the foot of the stairs, hammer in hand, suddenly became deadly.
In that moment Mannering knew who had smashed Lisle’s skull.
23: THE FINAL FEAR OF ALL
The man crouched, big and powerful, with the hammer raised. He was just the right distance from the bottom tread, too far away for Mannering to jump on to him. Mannering took his hand out of his pocket. Fear was driving him, something that lifted him above the immediate danger from the man waiting here.
His cigarette-lighter flashed.
A tiny bullet caught the cretin on the side of the forehead. It knocked him back. Mannering didn’t know whether it went right home or struck a glancing blow. He jumped, and the man reeled back, fingers still clinging to the handle of the hammer. Mannering struck him beneath the chin, heard his teeth snap, knew that he would be out for several minutes.
At least two men were outside in the street.
Two others were upstairs, too, and they wouldn’t be there for long.
There might be others in the house.
Mannering flung back the door of Simon Lessing’s room Lessing wrenched at his cords so violently that he dragged the chair inches from the floor and actually stood crouching with the chair jutting out from behind him.
“Joy’s gone,” Mannering said, and Lessing almost choked. Mannering slammed the door, turned the key in it, grabbed an upright chair and jammed it beneath the handle. He did everything with great precision, hardly looked as if he were in a hurry; the nearness of death calmed instead of panicking him. He took out his knife and cut at Lessing’s bonds; only those at the wrists took time. As the rope fell away, Mannering looked at the boarded window.
“Try to move around,” he said.
He heard footsteps on the stairs; one set pounding, one set staggering. A shoulder hit the outside of the door, and a man grunted. The handle rattled. Mannering reached the boarded window, and pulled a board away. They fitted into slots.
“They’ll kill as like as look at us,” he said. “Can you move?” He didn’t look round.
“Ye - yes,” Lessing gasped. “Sure!”
There was a shot, obviously aimed at the door; and the door sagged. The chair wouldn’t hold it for long against the fury of Scoby and his men.
There were those in the street too, remember.
A light flashed in the garden beyond the window. He saw that, then saw another door open at the back of the house. A shadow appeared. Mannering didn’t hear anything said and hardly needed to; they were blocking that way out.
He slammed the board back into position.
Lessing was leaning against a table; he was trying with all his strength, but the blood beginning to circulate through his legs and feet was bringing excruciating pain. He couldn’t stand properly, there had never been a chance that he could walk out either at the back or the front.
A telephone stood on a wall-bracket near the door.
The door was shivering under the impact of at least two men, and suddenly a different sound came, of a hammer being used against the wooden panels - thick, oak panels. Mannering lifted the receiver, and the buzzing sound came promptly, the line was in order. He dialled, his fingers still and cold.
Outside, Scoby shouted: “Cut that telephone cable!”
“Nine-nine-nine,” Mannering muttered. It was like an invocation to some god of numbers. There was silence outside, as men stopped hammering at the door; but someone started on the window, and glass smashed beyond the boards.
“There it is!” roared Scoby.
“Information Room, Scotland Yard.”
“Ninety-three Forth Road, St. John’s Wood, armed raiders.”
Mannering spoke with controlled swiftness. “Can you . . .?.
A shot sounded in the hall, loud in the narrow confines - and the line went dead.
Mannering couldn’t be sure whether the Yard had received the message, whether “93 Forth Road” had registered? They were bound to realise which Forth Road.
More glass smashed.
A bullet came through the boards at the window, and the hammering started again at the door.
“Go buy me a gun,” Simon Lessing mouthed. He tried to grin. He was actually standing now, but it was obvious that he couldn’t take half a dozen steps without falling. “Or a shroud. W
hat does . . .?”
The door bulged, near the handle and at one panel. They couldn’t see through either hole, but it wouldn’t be long before they would be able to and before Scoby would shoot. Scoby had meant what he said, he would shoot to kill. He’d played for high stakes, and he meant to exact the full price for his failure.
He would lose, wouldn’t he?
Mannering slid his hand into his waist, took out a small phial, and moved towards the door.
“Want to - get it over quick?” Simon gasped. “Gimme - time to apologise.”
Mannering said: “Accepted.” He reached the door. The head of the hammer leapt in sight as the panel splintered; it was only a matter, of seconds now. He held the phial close to the hole; if they fired, he would lose his hand. He flicked the phial through, then jumped away.
There was silence at the window.
From outside, there came a startled, choking cry.
“What the hell . . .?”
Two men began to splutter.
Simon Lessing listened and watched Mannering intently. He looked as if he had been dragged through a water-mill, then across a spiked board. But there was a light in his eyes and a triumphant grin on his face.
“John Mannering,” he said. “You’re good. You’re so . . .
He stopped.
Mannering spun round towards the window.
A police whistle sounded, and it wasn’t far away. Lessing raised his hands, the fingers clenched in a kind of supplication; as if hope, which had been taken away from him, had miraculously been brought back.
“We’ll find her,” he said, fiercely, “they’ll never find her now, thank God, thank - ”
Outside in the hall, men were coughing and spluttering and staggering away from the door. Outside in the garden, men were shooting; another police whistle sounded.
A car engine roared.
Mannering went to the door, pulled the chair away savagely, ignored Lessing’s shout of: “Careful!” and went into the hall. The front door was open, and the headlights of a car flashed past. There was no sign of Scoby. The cretinous man was on the floor, his head battered as Bernard Lisle’s had been.
Another car passed.
Scoby was on the run, and the police were after him. Scoby had a fifty-fifty chance of getting away, and if he escaped this time, he might try again.
A uniformed policeman and a man in plain clothes came running. A second car drew up, and the door opened and more men jumped out.
“I’m Mannering,” Mannering said, in a terse, hard voice. “We must get a message to the Yard at once. Radio it, please.” A man just in front of him was staring into his face. “I tell you I . . .”
“Okay, it’s Mannering,” the man said. “What’s that?”
“The radio,” Mannering said, “call the Yard.” He was making his way towards the street. Lessing was staggering after him. Police were watching, momentarily stilled by his manner, although there were footsteps at the back of the house, and men were coming in there.
A policeman picked up the radio-telephone in the front of the car.
“All right, what is it?”
“Watch Riverside Walk and Francesca Lisle’s flat,” Mannering said. The patrol man repeated the words almost before Mannering had got them out. “Watch Lisle’s flat, allow no one in. If Joy Lessing arrives, hold her. Don’t let her in, don’t let her go, hold her.”
“. . . don’t let her go, hold her,” the patrolman repeated into the mouthpiece. A voice came back through the speaker.
“Okay, message received, we’ll see to it.”
Lessing kept on his feet somehow, swaying. He grabbed Mannering’s arm and pulled him round.
“What’s got into you? What’s this about Joy?”
“Simon,” Mannering said in the same terse way, “you might be lucky with Francesca, you might even be lucky with Sue Pengelly, but you drew a bad number with your sister. Sorry. Coming?” He turned to the patrolman. “Can we get to Chelsea in a hurry?”
“Get in.”
“Thanks.” Mannering bent down, to get in. Lessing didn’t move. “If you’re coming, now’s the time,” Mannering said to Simon, then stopped and stared at the radio-telephone; a voice was coming from it, for it was still “live”.
“Patrol Car Fifty-two reporting, we’ve crashed, escaping car a Jaguar, colour grey, last seen heading for Marble Arch. Keep a sharp look-out, the driver is armed. Patrol Car Fifty-two . . .”
Lessing was getting into the patrol car. He didn’t speak. Nor did the patrolman who took the wheel or the other who slid in next to him.
They moved along the street at speed.
Front doors were open, windows were up, people were at their gates, clear in the garish brightness that had come to Forth Road. Tyres squealed. Once they were round the corner, the driver switched on his headlights.
Simon Lessing growled: “Tell me what you mean.”
“All right, Si,” Mannering said, very quietly. “One of the most puzzling questions was - why kidnap Joy? Was it to bring pressure to bear on me? They might try that incidentally, but it wasn’t likely to be the main reason. The only answer I could see at first was this: Joy knew something dangerous to Scoby, or was believed to. What dangerous knowledge could she have? Then there was another angle. Why had Scoby only kidnapped Joy, although he’d tried to murder Francesca? Why treat the two girls so differently? Thinking about both girls made one thing show up clearly. Joy disappeared immediately it was known that Francesca wasn’t dead. It wasn’t long before I asked myself whether Francesca knew something that could be dangerous to Joy? Or at least - did Joy have reason to think she did?
“Then it came out that Joy knew Scoby - they’d met in Paris. Could she have been spying on Lisle, through Francesca? I kept an open mind about that until I got here. Then I knew the answer.”
“What - what made you sure?” Lessing’s voice was hoarse.
“Joy’s disappearance tonight,” Mannering said. “I didn’t believe that Scoby would let Joy escape unless he wanted to. He rounded on his men, but they wouldn’t cut the cords and let her go - why should they? The cord wasn’t frayed or untied. It was there to make me think she’d been a prisoner, and escaped. Scoby had gone to a lot of trouble to lure me to the house. Why? To give evidence that Joy was held here?
“Once I felt sure that Joy was involved - I panicked.” Mannering shrugged. “If Joy was kept out of the way because Francesca knew - or might know - the truth about Joy, then Francesca’s in acute danger. The Yard knows, she’s being guarded, but the one person who would certainly be allowed to get at her is Joy . . .”
Simon drew in a hissing breath.
The car turned a corner, and threw Simon against Mannering. He felt the youth’s hot breath on his cheek, and guessed what Simon was feeling.
Simon grunted: “Go on. I can take it.”
“No one would stop Joy from going to see Francesca,” Mannering said. “Francesca’s in a mood to take her own life, even a little encouragement would send her right over the line; or a poisoned tablet or two. She’s ready made for suicide. And . . . ”
Simon muttered: “I don’t believe it! Joy wouldn’t . . ..”
“Simon,” said Mannering, “I honestly believe that Joy believes that Francesca knows that she, Joy, was working with Scoby and others over the Fioras. I think that Joy believes that her only chance of keeping clear of the law is a dead Francesca. I think Joy is the reason for the first attempt to kill Francesca. I think they captured and tortured you to find out if Francesca had told you anything which could incriminate Joy. Sorry.”
The car raced on, now on the Embankment and treating it as if it were Donnington Park.
24: THE RETURN OF JOY
Francesca sat in the quiet of her bedroom, the dressing-table and the bedside light on, so that the charming room was very bright; the brightness showed the pallor of her face, and the unnatural brightness of her eyes. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, one moment rel
axed, the next gripping tightly.
Close at hand was a razor; the thick, sword-like blade was out of the holder. She turned her hands slowly, and looked at her pale wrists. And she listened. The policewoman and Cissie were in the kitchen, with the door open. This door was closed, but they’d taken the key away. They kept making excuses to come in. They would be in again in a moment, and she would lose the razor; yet in some strange, helpless way, she wasn’t able to make herself hide it.
They wouldn’t look under the bed, if she put it there.
The razor had been meant for her father’s birthday, in a few days’ time. A secret to hug to herself and a surprise which would have delighted him.
She found strange fascination in its brightness.
The front-door bell rang.
Convulsively, Francesca moved, snatched up the blade, and thrust it under the bed, pushing the razor and the case after it.
Both Cissie and the policewoman came out of the kitchen. One was at the bedroom door in a second, opening it and peeping in. The other went to the front door. Francesca believed that it was Cissie who looked in.
Then she recognised a voice which made her jump to her feet.
“Where’s Miss Lisle?” Joy Lessing cried, as if she were distracted. “Where is she? I must see her.”
“Why, that’s Miss Lessing!” Cissie had been at the bedroom door, but she moved quickly away from it. “So you’re all right! You’re not . . .Oh!”
“Where is she?” Joy’s shrill voice was nearer.
“She’s in - she’s in the bedroom, Miss Joy! But don’t go upsetting her any more, she . . .”
“It’s all right, Joy,” said Francesca, opening the door wide. “I’m all right. I’m so glad you’re back.”
The policewoman and Cissie seemed to fade into the background. Joy, with her back to the closed front door, and Francesca, outlined against the bright lights of her own room, stood and looked at each other.
Joy’s eyes were searching, but she looked dreadful. She had on no make-up, her hair was dishevelled, a scratch over her right eye was bleeding, and there was a smear of blood on her chin.