Taking the Blame

by John Creasey

  Mannering stopped outside a house in a terrace.

  “This is it,” he said.

  “Remember,” said Bud ominously.

  The man who lived here would be in. Lorna had telephoned him and made the arrangements. He was a thief with a sense of humour and who owed Mannering his freedom.

  He would be loyal.

  Mannering’s heart began to thump. They could only get the gems by a trick which Bud might see too quickly – and if he did, Bud would undoubtedly use his gun. A straightforward snatch at the suit-case would fail, it would be best to carry the bluff to the limit before making the attempt. Timing was all-important. The longer all went well, the more Bud’s suspicions would ease.

  Mannering rang the bell. The door opened almost at once, and a diminutive man stood aside and said hoarsely: “You’re late.”

  “Don’t blame me,” said Mannering.

  They stepped into the narrow hall, and the door closed with a snap.

  Now everything depended on how the little man, whose name was Lark, played his part in the interview.

  Lark was not a fence, but a cracksman at least as clever as Jumpy Dale had been. A year ago, he and Mannering had met in a remarkable affair in the wilds of Corshire, when Lark had nearly met his death at the hands of a megalomaniac crook who kept a fantastic household on the moors. Lark had sworn that if Mannering ever wanted any kind of help, he would give it at once …

  He would play the part as he had arranged with Lorna, and leave the lead to Mannering, who would judge the moment to take the collection. There were other dangers. Lark was suspect by the police. He had never been inside, but he was known. The police might have chosen that night to watch him, and thus know who had come here. Lanky might have been followed. And there was Bud, wary, suspicious, with his finger on the trigger of his gun.

  Lark was a tiny fellow, with a brown nut-cracker face and bright blue eyes, a small mouth and a scraggy neck. For the occasion he had put on a collar and tie. He led the way into a dimly lighted room at the foot of a flight of stairs which led up from the passage, waited until they were seated, then shuffled to a small desk; on it stood a reading lamp. He switched this on; it was much brighter than the lamp which hung from the ceiling, and made Mannering and Bud blink. Lark looked at them as he turned round, and managed to create the impression that he was wary and suspicious – even hostile. The small room was crowded with furniture, and on the desk was a small suit-case. Every now and again Lark touched the case, as if anxious to draw their attention to it.

  Bud said: “You know what I’ve got.”

  “I know what you say you’ve got.”

  “It’s true,” said Bud. He lifted his suit-case to the desk, but didn’t open it. “I want thirty thousand.”

  Lark rested his hands on the desk, shook his head slowly, and shot Mannering a sour glance.

  “I told him twenty-three was my limit. If you won’t deal at twenty-three thousand—in one pound notes—there isn’t going to be any deal.” He touched the other case lightly, and Bud glanced towards it. He couldn’t keep the greed out of his eyes.

  He kept his right hand in his overcoat pocket, and now and again Mannering felt something hard touch his thigh. Lark sat unblinking under the bright light. Bud shifted his position slightly, and said: “It’s robbery, but show me the cash.”

  “Show me the goods,” countered Lark.

  Slowly, Bud took out a key and unlocked his suit-case. The jewels were in three chamois bags, and there were a dozen old books in the case, giving it added weight. Tension sprang into the room as Bud pushed one of the bags across the desk. Lark took it with lean, eager fingers, pulled out some cotton wool, took the wool off the jewels, and brought fire and light and glory into the room.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Swanmore Collection

  It was the Swanmore Collection.

  Lark examined piece after piece and, a convincing touch, ticked off each jewel against a typewritten list which he took from a drawer. Diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, pearls, treasures in precious stones which made Mannering feel the pull of their seductive loveliness, were tumbled on to the table. Lark finished one bag, and would have taken another, but Bud said: “One at a time.”

  The jewels were put back in cotton wool and the bag refilled, before the second was opened. It was a long, almost laborious business, but it was drawing near the end. Lark would be looking for a signal to act, at any time, and Mannering had to make sure that it was the right moment. For all his interest in the jewels, Bud seemed to be able to concentrate on other things – and the gun kept pressing into his thigh.

  The third and last bag was being examined, only a few more jewels needed checking against the list.

  Lark finished.

  In a moment, he would have to open the other case, and Bud would realise that there was no money in it. But perhaps Lark had put a top layer of one pound notes and thus prepared to give Mannering an opportunity to act while Bud started to count. He looked at Lark – and the little crook winked, a swift hardly perceptible flicker of the eyelid, which Bud certainly didn’t notice. There was a world of reassurance in that, and Mannering winked back and held his hand.

  “Count ’em,” Lark said, and pushed the case towards Bud.

  “You count, I’ll check you,” Bud said – he did not intend to use both his hands to touch the notes. Mannering held his breath. Not a muscle of Lark’s face moved; he turned the case round and opened it.

  It was crammed with one pound notes.

  Marmering sat back in his chair, staring. Lark took out a bundle and said: “One hundred.” He began to count.

  There were two hundred and thirty tight bundles, each kept together by a rubber band.

  “Cor strike a light!” gasped Lark. “I’ve never seed anythink like it, Mr. Mannering. Cor strike a light—the whole ruddy lot! Every piece of his lordship’s collection—cor, strike me eliatrope, I wouldn’t have believed it. You know, Mr. Mannering, there’s a lot more in you than meets the eye. How did you get on to him?” Lark put the question but did not wait for an answer. He went on talking in husky superlatives, while he let the jewels fall through his fingers to the nest of cotton-wool on the desk.

  Only Mannering and Lark remained in the room.

  Bud had been gone for nearly twenty minutes.

  “Yes, it’s one of the best deals I’ve ever come across,” Lark said, chuckling. “Smart—you’re smart, I’ll say that, and the missus! Soon as she put it to me, I said, yes I said, you don’t ’ave to worry, Mrs. Mannering, I’ll look arter the old man. I won’t never forget what he did for me dahn at that ruddy great house, believe me. And I got to work quick—didn’t do a bad job, neither,” he went on. “Pretty neat, when you come to think about, it, Mr. Mannering, pretty neat! I knew where I could lay me ’ands on a lot of dud smackers—poor stuff, wouldn’t deceive anyone, a lot of waste paper, that’s all. So I put a real smacker on the top, one in the middle and another at the bottom of each bundle—three in each; that’s nearly seven hundred quid, Mr. Mannering, but I thought it would be worth that to you.”

  “Every penny!” said Mannering fervently.

  “That’s the ticket! And when ’e asked me to show him the notes, what did I do. Took some at random—that’s good, Mr. Mannering, at random! ’E had a good decko at it, and it was real, of course it was real; ’e didn’t think I’d palm off any dud stuff on ’im, did ’e?” Lark burst into a cackle of delighted laughter. “It’s one o’ the neatest jobs I’ve ever ’ad anything to do with, Mr. Mannering. Bit o’ luck, too. I bin away. Only bin back ’alf a’nour when Mrs. M. rang me up. Didn’t even know the Swanmore stuff ’ad been lifted.”

  Mannering said slowly: “Didn’t you, Larky?”

  Something in the tone of his voice startled the little crook, who said sharply: “No. What’s the dope?”

  “Don’t you know about Jumpy Dale?”

  Lark shook his head; his eyes were very bright and suspicious no
w; the look of triumph had gone.

  “What abaht Jumpy?” he demanded.

  Mannering told him.

  Lark sat quite still, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him, eyes unwinking. When Mannering had finished, the cracksman sat in exactly the same position, as if he were trying to get everything clear in his mind. Then he shifted his position very slightly, and touched the jewels. He didn’t hold them up and let them fall this time. Looking into Mannering’s eyes, he said: “Jumpy wasn’t a pal o’ mine, Mr. Mannering. Never ’ad much time for ’im. Too fond of using a weapon, that was Jumpy—and ’e never was any good at breaking-in, just a lock man, that was Jumpy, but—I wish I’d known. I wish I’d known, Mr. Mannering, because I’d have cut that barstid’s throat before I’d let him go.” Lark’s voice was very thin now. “I’m surprised at you, Mr. Mannering, letting ’im go. I’d have fixed ’em so that the dicks got ’im, somehow. I—”

  “It isn’t so easy as that,” said Mannering quietly. “Other people are involved, Larky. And there’s the rest of the stuff.”

  “Yeh,” said Lark. “Yeh, I suppose that’s right.” He rubbed his hands together, making a little hissing noise. “Yeh, I see.” A smile curved his lips. “I’d like to see ‘is face when he realises what’s in that case. Well, what are we going to do now, Mr. Mannering?”

  Mannering said: “Something that’ll hurt you, Larky—we’re going to see that Swanmore gets his collection back.”

  Lark shrugged.

  “Okay, okay—I wouldn’t expect you to do anythink else, anyway. You’d better ’andle them, though. I wouldn’t like to be caught with that stuff in the house, Mr. Mannering—it would mean the eight o’clock walk as sure as my name’s Lark, and I don’t fancy it.” He shivered suddenly—he had every criminal’s horror of the hangman’s rope. “You’ll move ’em pretty quick, won’t you?”

  “I’ll take them with me,” said Mannering, “but I want to make sure the coast is clear.”

  “’Course it’s clear.”

  Mannering smiled broadly.

  “You’re not yourself,” he said. “If we could plan to put one across Bud, he could certainly plan to outsmart us. It wouldn’t surprise me if he isn’t waiting outside, hoping to come in and lift the stuff—or snatch it, if someone takes it away at once. Have a look round, will you?”

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Lark. “I won’t be a couple of jiffs. No one else in the house,” he added, “but I ’ad a good look rahnd before you came, to make sure all the windows was okay, and that no one ’ad sneaked in. ’Ave to be careful.” He stood up, took a cigarette out of a crumpled paper packet, lit it, and hurried out of the room.

  Mannering also smoked.

  The switch had gone so well that he was on edge, in case something was wrong which he had not noticed. Luck was queer and unreliable, and he had a touch of superstition, part of the temperament of all who took desperate chances. Would the luck hold until he got safely away with the collection? Had he overlooked anything? Lark would not make any mistake about the street; if he came back and said that everything was clear, then it would be safe to leave. Probably Bud was fully satisfied with the result of his night’s work; Lark’s trick had been a stroke of genius. Lorna had done her part and was back at the Chelsea flat by now.

  He couldn’t see a flaw.

  A door slammed!

  The bang made Mannering jump up from his seat, and his heart hammer against his ribs. Running footsteps in the passage added to the flare of alarm. He picked up one of the chamois bags and began to cram the jewels into it. That bag was full when the door banged back against the wall, and Lark appeared, gasping for breath.

  Mannering snapped: “What is it?”

  “The ruddy dicks!” gasped Lark. “The coppers—Bristow’s with ’em, you’ve got to get that stuff aht of ’ere!”

  Bristow was taking no chances.

  Lawson had told him that George Swanmore and the lanky man, an old lag named Sam Hennessy, had met that evening. Lanky Sam had been followed, seen to drive a taxi from a garage and later to pick up two men and drive to Aldgate. Police patrols had been on the look-out for the taxi, a Divisional detective had shadowed them to the end of the street, and reported that they had gone into Lark’s house.

  Lark, Bristow knew, had been ‘in the country’ for a few days. It was a remarkable coincidence that there had been several country-house burglaries in the Midlands during those three days, and so a look-out had been kept near his house.

  Bristow had acted swiftly and in strength.

  Bud hurried along the street, clutching the suit-case tightly to him, and still holding his gun. No one stirred in the street, no one appeared to be taking the slightest interest in him. He reached the High Street. His taxi, with Lanky Sam at the wheel, stood with its flag down, near Petticoat Lane. Bud reached it, opened the door and put the case inside.

  Policemen and plain-clothes detectives loomed out of the night, a car pulled up at the side of the taxi.

  “Don’t make any fuss,” a policeman said.

  Lanky Sam didn’t even try to get out of his seat.

  There was a moment of absolute stillness.

  Then Bud struck savagely at the nearest man and as two others leapt at him, he fired at one through his coat. The first man fell, clutching his stomach; the other stumbled over the victim. Bud fired twice again as he raced across the road, dodging in front of a lumbering tram, scaring a man on a bicycle and making him crash. He raced along the High Street, took the first turning to the left and, with police and detectives in pursuit, headed for the Thames and Tower Bridge.

  In Aldgate High Street, a policeman lay dying.

  “All right, don’t get panicky,” Mannering said to Lark. “Have you got anything else here?”

  “Nothing that matters,” said Lark. “But you’ll never get away with them.” He stared at the jewels which remained on the table.

  Mannering swept them into a chamois bag and slipped the bag into his pocket.

  “Just sit tight. If they’ve caught the man who was here just now, say he came to try to sell the Swanmore Collection and you sent him packing—got that?”

  “Yes, but—”

  There was a heavy knock on the front door; the noise seemed to shake the house.

  “It’s no use,” Lark muttered. “We’ve ’ad it.”

  “Don’t let them panic you, Larky. Keep them downstairs for a few minutes. They’ll be both back and front.”

  The thunderous knocking was repeated, followed by a shrill blast on a police whistle. Someone shouted, and the knocking went on and on. Mannering hurried out of the little back room, and could see the door shaking under the impact of a policeman’s truncheon. He ran up the stairs, feeling curiously calm – the real truth, that Lark was right and that his chance of escape was negligible, hadn’t really sunk in yet. He knew the house slightly, and turned along a narrow passage and hurried up a second flight of stairs to the attics.

  He heard the door open and footsteps thumping about the hall. Lark squealed out in protest, and Bristow’s familiar voice called orders. He thought he heard footsteps on the stairs, but couldn’t be sure. He entered one of the attic rooms and switched on the light – although he knew that might attract the attention of the police outside. There was a single wardrobe and a single iron bedstead in the room, with a few oddments of furniture. He pushed the bedstead towards the door. The foot-rail just fitted beneath the handle. He jammed it close, then snatched the pillows off the bed and pushed them under the legs at the top end. That jammed the door tightly – it would take some time for the police to break in. If he could move the wardrobe too, it would make the obstacle more formidable, but was too heavy and he dared not waste time.

  He switched off the light and went to the window. It was just large enough the climb through.

  He fumbled with the catch, fumed because it was jammed, but it soon opened. A faint light came in from outside and he could hear sounds both inside and out.
He was breathing heavily, and there was a cold sweat at the back of his neck and on his forehead. The ugly truth was seeping through. He had the jewels in his pocket; if he were caught, the disguise served no purpose. He, John Mannering, would be caught with the jewels.

  If he left the jewels here, or threw them out of the window, it would incriminate Lark.

  He must keep them.

  The old days of the Baron were back …

  Stark fear of the police – fear of disclosure, humiliation, shame, a long prison sentence stretching into the future – all these things were his company. Nothing could save him. He might not be found guilty of any part in the murders at Quinns, but the rest – conviction for being in the possession of the stolen gems; the probability that the prosecution could ‘prove’ that he had instigated the robbery, even though he had taken no part in it; the fact that all the Yard’s enmity against the Baron and every record of the Baron’s activities would be raked up – all these things pressed close as he climbed out of the window and crouched on the narrow ledge.

  The danger of falling hardly seemed to matter.

  He looked down into the back yards of this house and those nearby, long, murky stretches, lit by lights from the rear windows of houses opposite. A radio blared out. He saw two uniformed policemen watching the back door, and heard others battering on the back door itself. If they glanced up they would see him. There was enough light for that.

  He looked upwards.

  The light was a help in one way, for he could see the edge of the roof and the guttering. He had to get up on the roof. Odd thing that he should be driven to escape by the roof, when the man who had burgled Quinns had come by it. Silly thought – it didn’t matter. He glanced down again; the watching police did not seem to give a thought to the top windows. Bristow’s mistake. No, not Bristow’s – men who were carried away by the excitement of the raid, and forgot the small thing which might give their quarry a chance to escape.