by John Creasey
There was another kind of difference, too.
Vandemeyer could not have come by them honestly. Mannering had never seen, nor even dreamed of a hoard of stolen jewels of such incalculable value.
And at the end of this chamber there was another wall.
Chapter Sixteen
The Tunnel
Mannering, dazed by what he had seen, began to ask himself whether he should call this a day and go back, or whether he should try to find what lay ahead. He went back into the room and heard no sound but the sonorous boom of a striking clock chiming three.
This was the hour when most people slept soundly.
He went back, heart in mouth, forcing himself to pass the objets on each side, although he could have lingered over each, and told the history of many. One of them made him stop in his tracks: a jewelled turban known as the Crown of Genghis Khan, ablaze with the colours of every jewel known to man. He passed on, seeking the secret of the sliding wall ahead, yet telling himself there might not be one, there must be an end to these treasures.
And these were stolen, he reminded himself: some had been missing for twenty years or more.
He saw a faint groove in the ceiling, noticeable only when he stood in a certain spot. There were no cracks, no protuberances. He stretched up and pressed and immediately the wall in front of him slid open.
This did not lead to another treasure house; instead there was a passage which was little more than a tunnel. Walls and ceiling were rough plastered like the floor which sloped downwards, but there were no shelves and no alcoves. Here and there the walls widened and there were some packing cases, corrugated paper, wrapping paper and thick string. He paused to judge his position, and realised that where he stood was underneath the porch of Number 17, and that this tunnel ran across the road, beneath the garden and – he needed no telling – to the house across the square. There was a subdued light from the ceiling, just enough to see by. He went slowly, counting each pace. He had counted seventy-one when he reached a shallow flight of steps. There was a door at the top of them.
He went up and tried the handle; the door was locked. Or was it bolted?
No, he reasoned – it would have to be approached from either side, a bolt would prohibit this. He took his knife from his pocket and opened it to a blade which looked like a long needle but in fact was a skeleton key. The keyhole was large and of the old-fashioned mortice lock; it should not be difficult to pick.
He felt the instrument catch, turned cautiously, felt pressure yielding – and then the lock clicked back.
The sound was very loud, louder in this confined space than anything he had yet heard. Was it as noticeable on the other side? He kept quite still but heard nothing, turned the handle again, and pulled.
The door yielded, slowly, squeaking faintly.
There was no light beyond.
All he must do here was find where the doorway led, and the size of the cellar of this house; it would be folly to stay longer, equal folly not to learn as much as he could. Cautiously he flicked on his torch. He was standing in the middle of a cellar about the size of the carpenter’s shop beneath Number 17 Ellesmere Square.
And in a corner, on a camp bed, lay a man.
The man seemed to be asleep, for he did not stir, gave no indication that he had been disturbed. Bedclothes were thrown loosely over him, one bare foot stuck out at the end of the bed. As Mannering drew nearer he saw a head of sparse white hair, and a pale wizened face. Nearer still, he saw that the frail left hand had a steel bracelet which was fastened to the bare brick wall by a black chain.
This must be Gillespie; who else could it be?
Was he alive and drugged to coma?
Or was he dead?
Mannering drew close to the emaciated figure, hatred welling up in him for the men who had done this thing. The man’s lined face bristled with stubble of at least a week’s growth. Mannering gritted his teeth as he slipped a hand between the filthy shirt and the skin stretched tight over prominent ribs.
Why do this to any man?
Mannering found the heart and felt it beating firmly; so the prisoner was not dead, but drugged. He drew back, facing the alternatives – to free this man and take him away now, or to get away and send for the police.
If he tried to carry the prisoner, it might take too long for safety. And he had to close all the entrances, to make sure that no one noticed the forced entry. Yet if he went off alone, this man might die, or, if the guard in the other cellar was found, be taken away, before help could reach him.
The sensible thing was to go back, alone, and telephone Scotland Yard. There was no question now of keeping anything from the police; what he had discovered in the secret treasure house was all the evidence they would need to investigate Vandemeyer’s activities. Why this had happened, what pressure Buff was exerting on Vandemeyer, why there was a substitute wife – all these things would be discovered one by one.
He must take Gillespie away if it were possible. If it was Gillespie.
Who else would it be? he asked himself again.
He placed the torch on the side of the bed so that the beam shone fully on to the bracelet and the chain. There were swellings and sores round the wrist – God, what a fiendish way to treat a human being.
The ‘bracelet’ was an old iron ring which hinged open, and was kept in position by a lock, and such a lock was difficult to force. Mannering’s skeleton key was not small enough; what he really needed was a file. He had a file blade in his knife but it would take an age to get through this. He examined the ring in the wall. It had been cemented in and the only way to free it would be to chip away the cement. Sawing or chipping would be heard.
They had made quite sure that Gillespie couldn’t escape.
Mannering was an expert on locks and keys, and knew that it would take twenty minutes to force this one. He could be back in the house and on the telephone in five.
He hated leaving the prisoner here, but there was no choice.
He replaced the blankets, and turned away. Not once during the whole period had Gillespie shown the slightest indication that he knew anything was going on, and he still did not stir.
Mannering went back along the tunnel, hurrying, yet careful not to make too much noise. When he reached the farther steps he had a moment’s fear that the doors might be closed against him, but the first one was open and the blaze of light reflected from the stolen treasures was dazzling. He passed through into the second chamber and into the anteroom.
The room was exactly as he had left it, and there was no sound. There was a telephone there, but if he lifted it, a ringing then in another part of the house might wake Buff or Wells. He hesitated, heart thumping. He was still sickened by what he had found and the fierce excitement at the discovery of the second treasure house had gone completely.
He had to risk disturbing others, now. He—
He heard a sound, on the staircase.
He stood stock still for a moment and then moved to the wall alongside the door. The noise was repeated, unmistakable, furtive. Someone was coming down the stairs. He heard the sound of agitated breathing and thought it more like a woman’s than a man’s.
Suddenly, as he peered through the opening between door and wall to see who it was, bright light flashed on.
A woman screamed on a muted note.
A man – Buff – called in a vicious voice, ‘Going places, my lady?’
‘Deirdre’ Vandemeyer gasped. ‘No, I—no! I couldn’t sleep, I—’
‘So you put on a coat to have a walk round the house,’ sneered Buff. ‘Turn around and come back.’
‘I—you can’t order me about!’ She almost screeched the words.
‘Can’t I?’ sneered Buff. ‘I’ll try again – turn around and come right back.’
‘No! No, I refuse!’
‘You’ll wish you’d obeyed me, my lady. I’ve had as much as I can take tonight, I’d be glad to take it out on somebody.’
‘
I—I’ll scream the house down!’
‘And who’s going to hear you? Your so-called husband couldn’t wake if a bomb dropped on him, Wells couldn’t care less, none of the others can hear you.’
‘Mr Marriott would!’ she gasped.
‘Up on the top floor he couldn’t hear you if you screamed your heart out. Do what I tell you, or—’
She shrieked wildly, ‘No, no!’ Suddenly she moved and rushed down the stairs, passing his door, flinging herself at the front door. A chain clattered, there were other noises as she tried to open the door. Mannering kept absolutely still; at all costs he must not reveal himself at this juncture.
The uncanny thing was Buff’s silence and his slow, deliberate movements.
The woman was clawing at the lock, which must have a patent fitment which she didn’t know how to open. Buff passed Mannering. He had a gun in his left hand, and his right was held in front of him, reminding Mannering vividly of his stance just before he had attacked Judy. There was a curl at his lips which showed just a glimpse of his teeth. He looked more animal than human.
‘No!’ the woman choked. ‘Don’t come any nearer, don’t come!’ She was half-sobbing and near hysteria. ‘Keep away from me.’
Buff was now between Mannering and the front door, and Mannering stepped into the passage. The woman did not notice him, all her attention was focused on the man who menaced her. She had stopped trying to open the door and had her back to it, pressing desperately as if she thought it would open by magic.
Mannering took two long strides, gripped Buff by the arms and spun him round and then hit him with all his strength on the point of the chin. Buff rose up a little on his toes; for the second time that night Mannering saw his eyes roll as he toppled backwards. His head thumped the floor only a few inches from the woman’s feet.
She stood quite still, absolutely petrified.
‘It’s all right,’ Mannering said in his normal speaking voice. ‘He can’t hurt you now.’
She opened her mouth but only gasped for breath.
‘You can relax,’ Mannering reassured her. ‘No one’s going to hurt you, now. You’ll be all right.’
‘Who—who are you?’
Her voice was high and uneven, and he knew that he must handle her very carefully if he were not to have a hysterical woman on his hands.
‘I’m a friend of Gillespie,’ he said.
‘Gillespie!’ she echoed.
‘I’ve come to look for him,’ said Mannering. ‘I’m glad I was in time to help you.’ He looked down at Buff, and asked, ‘Who is that?’
‘He—he works for my husband, he—’ She caught her breath again. ‘How did you get in?’
‘Through a window,’ Mannering answered easily. ‘Do relax, Lady Vandemeyer. There’s nothing at all to worry about now. The quicker we tell the police—’
He saw on the instant that he had made a mistake by saying ‘police.’ He did not know why he had said what he had – unless it was because he so desperately wanted to bring them here and that for a moment his defences were down. He went on almost without a pause.
‘… this man can be charged with assault, there’s nothing at all to worry about.’
‘No,’ she said, in a sighing voice. ‘I can’t—’
Mannering saw her glance down at Buff. He must be extremely careful, a moment’s carelessness over Buff could lead to utter disaster. He felt very tired from reaction, wanted just a few minutes in which he had nothing to think about, and he moved in a sudden burst of action, bending down and picking the man up by his coat collar, dragging him to the cloakroom by the front door. He knew the tiny window, knew that it was barred. He pushed Buff between the WC pedestal and the wall, then withdrew into the hall and slammed and locked the door.
The woman was still by the front door, but now she had a pistol in her right hand, and was covering him. Her hand wasn’t steady, but at such a range it was impossible for anyone to miss.
‘You’re not going to call the police,’ she said. ‘I won’t let you.’
She was still very pale, but the desperation of terror had gone; she knew exactly what she was doing and had herself under firm control. Mannering stared at her almost stupidly, the gun had taken him utterly by surprise. A question flashed through his mind: Why hadn’t she used the gun on Buff? But it was a pointless question, and he had another much more pressing one to answer.
What was he going to do?
At least there was no danger from Buff or – presumably – from Vandemeyer. If Wells or any of the other staff were going to appear at all they would surely have appeared by now. So there was only ‘Deirdre’ to handle and the best way would probably be to humour her.
‘Do you hear me?’ she demanded. ‘You’re not going to send for the police.’
‘Well, you’ve got a point,’ he said wryly. ‘I never argue with a gun.’
‘And you’d better not argue with me!’
‘I certainly won’t. Why don’t you want the police here, though?’
‘This—this is a personal affair.’
‘I see. It didn’t look very personal just now. May I remind you that you would have had a very rough time if I hadn’t stopped your friend.’
‘You can remind me but you’re not going to send for the police!’
‘So you said,’ said Mannering. ‘And now that I’ve had time to reflect, I don’t want them any more than you do.’
She flashed, ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve no right here,’ he pointed out. ‘I broke in to try to find out what had happened to Gillespie. Do you know?’ he asked suddenly.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘I’ve no idea!’
‘I was only asking,’ Mannering said ruefully. ‘I am what the police call a burglar, since I broke in. It would be difficult to prove that I didn’t come to steal, so—’ He shrugged. ‘What are you going to do? Will your husband be able to cope when he does wake up?’
After a short pause, she said, ‘I can cope.’
‘With the brute I locked in there?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘With you. If you’ll help me, if you’ll do exactly what I tell you I’ll let you go free, and I’ll pay you well, I’ll pay you a fortune!’ Eagerness blazed in her eyes. ‘Do you agree? Make up your mind – will you do exactly what I tell you?’
Chapter Seventeen
Woman Proposes
For the first time Mannering realised that she was really beautiful. Flushed with excitement and hope, young and vital, she looked a different woman. Her eyes were a peculiar shade of porcelain blue, those eyes which had first made Lorna suspicious. She was breathing hard, her lips slightly parted.
‘I’ll do what you tell me if you make it worth my while,’ Mannering said.
‘Oh. I’ll make it worth—’ She broke off. ‘You’ll do what I tell you whether I make it worth your while or not.’
Mannering said, ‘Let’s not argue. What do you want me to do?’
‘If you are a friend of Gillespie’s, it’s more than likely that you’re an expert on jewels and works of art. Are you?’
‘As it happens, I know quite a bit about them.’
‘Well, then, I’ll tell you. There’s a fortune in this house!’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘It’s mine.’
‘I thought it was your husband’s.’
‘It’s mine. Jewels like those are for a woman, not for an old man to gloat over.’ She drew nearer, the gun still pointing at him, and he did not like the way her hand shook. ‘They all think I’m a fool, just a stooge, but they’re wrong. I’ve got the brains.’
‘I don’t need telling that,’ Mannering said glibly.
‘I knew they’d never get away with what they’re planning to do, so I made plans to get away. I’ve a passage booked to Paris, tomorrow. I wasn’t going to stay here, anyhow, only long enough to get—to get my share.’
‘Very clever,’ Mannering approved, straight-faced.
‘I’m a
damned sight cleverer than you!’
‘I’m not arguing,’ Mannering said. ‘How much time do we have?’
‘Time? Time!’ Her eyes blazed. ‘We haven’t long, we’ve got to get a move on! You must do exactly what I tell you. Do you understand?’
‘I will, when you tell me.’
‘There’s a tunnel under the Square,’ she cried.
‘A tunnel?’ Mannering sounded astonished.
‘It leads across to the house on the other side of the Square, he owns that too. He owns most of the houses here, and people who work for him live in them. If he wants them he just rings for them.’
‘I see,’ Mannering said. ‘But he can’t ring now, can he?’
‘He’s dead to the world,’ ‘Deirdre’ declared. ‘He can’t sleep until he’s made himself stupid with dope. He’s the last man to worry about.’
‘And Buff’s the last man, too.’
‘Yes, but there are plenty of others. Don’t make any mistake, there are plenty of others, and they—they won’t hesitate to kill.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Mannering much more lightly than he felt.
‘It doesn’t matter! The—they’re Buff’s men. We mustn’t let them come here.’
‘Stop them coming through the tunnel, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Blow it up!’ she cried. ‘I told you I was clever. I’ve some dynamite, I stole it from Buff’s room when I first had the idea. There’s enough to blow the tunnel up, no one can possibly get through.’
‘And then?’
‘We’ll take his jewels,’ ‘Deirdre’ said triumphantly. ‘We’ll pack them in suitcases and take them away. There must be millions of pounds worth.’
‘Oh, there are,’ agreed Mannering.
She wasn’t normal, of course; first the wild impulsive attempt to escape by the front door, and now this theatrical, Guy Fawkes plot to blow up the tunnel. He had the impression that she was living under a stimulant – that she had taken a drug to pep up her courage. She did not really know what she was doing or saying. She was jumpy and unpredictable, and he would have to be very careful indeed. If he crossed her she would probably shoot him. As things were and for as long as she believed he was doing what he told her, she would keep on boasting and talking, and letting cats out of the bag.