by John Creasey
He made himself stroll towards the cloak-room and stood with his back to the wall, until Lorna was about to hand in the case, an old one he had almost forgotten they possessed. He called: “Hallo, darling.”
She swung round, before putting the case on the counter, and Mannering went forward.
“No need to hand it in,” he said. “There’s a train at seven—” He didn’t finish; the remark ought to disarm any suspicions the attendant might harbour. Mannering took the case, and Lorna spoke as they walked away.
“Darling, we’ve had some luck. Mother called—she was there when you rang. I put on her hat and coat and drove here in her car. She knows something’s the matter, but she’s all right. The car’s outside, you can use it.”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Mannering. “Go straight back. When Bristow comes, and he soon will, tell him I telephoned to say that I reached Swanmore’s house and found him dead, and that although you begged me not to, I’m going to see this thing through myself.”
“All right,” said Lorna. “Be careful, my darling.”
Mannering kissed her fiercely, then turned and left her.
In the suit-case was a small make-up box, all the clothes he would need, including cotton gloves, shaving gear, toothbrush, chocolate, cigarettes and matches and other oddments. There was also an envelope containing thirty-three pound-notes, seven ten-shilling notes and about a pound in silver and copper; there were several tools which Lorna had taken from their car. She had also brought a skeleton key, which he always kept hidden in the study.
He worked quickly with the make-up, smearing grease-paint, rubbing it under his eyes, making lines at his mouth and nose, putting cheek-pads into his mouth and making himself look plump in the face. There was no rubber tooth-covering, so he couldn’t disguise his teeth, but he altered the shape of his eyes by gumming the corners and keeping them narrowed. It was uncomfortable, but once the gum was set it wouldn’t be so bad. He had no time to dye his hair, but combed it straight back from his forehead, without a parting.
Then he changed into the old clothes. They weren’t quite what he wanted; the cut was good, Bristow himself might recognise them, but they were different from what he had been wearing. He straightened the sports jacket, knotted the tie round the collar of a khaki shirt, and packed his own clothes in the suit-case.
He left the case at the cloak-room, tucked the ticket into his pocket, and walked briskly across the station. The sergeant didn’t give him a second glance.
Twenty minutes later, he was near Willis Street, at the wheel of a large car.
His confidence was coming back; he felt almost buoyant. He wasn’t Mannering, he was the Baron, with a tough job on his hands. He knew where to start it.
With Tubs Maudsley.
The police were still watching Willis Street; they were probably keeping an eye on George, not Tubs. He proved it when, not long after he had taken up his position there, George walked from the street and was followed by a C.I.D. man. Mannering walked the length of the street, to find out whether the house was still being watched; a policeman patrolled the pavement opposite. It was a man of the uniformed branch who would not be used in trailing, so if Tubs came out, he was not likely to be followed. Mannering went back to his car, lit a cigarette, ate half a bar of chocolate and waited.
Soon Tubs left the house, and wasn’t followed.
He walked briskly, showing no sign of looking for a taxi.
Mannering started the car and drove past him. A little further along the road he slowed down. Tubs passed, but did not go much farther. He turned into a side street and Mannering got out and watched from the corner. A street lamp shone on the doors of some lock-up garages. Tubs opened the door of one, and soon backed a car into the street.
Mannering went back to his car.
Tubs looked about him, as if to find out whether he was being followed, then drove past Victoria station, towards Sloane Square. Several cars were in a line, and Mannering did not feel conspicuous at the wheel. Tubs drove at moderate speed, keeping just within the speed limit along Fulham Road. At Fulham Palace Road, which he reached after some twenty minutes’ driving, he turned right.
“Hammersmith,” murmured Mannering, “and he’s driving a Railton.”
He felt strangely relaxed, while watching the red light of Tubs’ car, in this big shopping centre and residential area of Victorian London. Tubs had known that he would be calling on Swanmore about the time that he did; Tubs had access to the house; Tubs was in love with Patricia. It was quite possible that he had reason to hate Swanmore.
They continued to drive towards the west.
At Hammersmith Broadway, Tubs turned into King Street, heading for Chiswick and the new building estates of Brentford – and Hounslow, a dormitory suburb, twelve miles from the West End. Patricia’s letter had been posted from there.
Mannering kept a sharp look-out behind him, but his was the last of four cars. If the police had any reason to suspect him, a check on his movements would be kept by radio patrol cars, and they could pounce whenever they wanted.
He felt safe enough for the time being.
The danger was that Tubs might have been cunningly watched. Tubs turned into the Great West Road, and now there were only Mannering’s car and another behind. Mannering trod on the accelerator. His borrowed car shot forward, passed the two in front and snorted towards Isleworth and Heston. He was forced to slow down at traffic lights, as he’d known. He crashed his gears badly, and allowed Tubs to get away from the traffic lights first. He waited until Tubs was some distance ahead, then put on another burst of speed, but—
He didn’t catch Tubs up, for Tubs had vanished.
Mannering scanned the road ahead, and could see no red light, nothing to indicate that Tubs had suddenly put his foot down and raced away. Mannering went on for two miles, then decided that Tubs had left the main road. He swung into the other carriageway and drove back towards Brentford, now badly worried. He had not seen Tubs’ car turn right, no car had turned right; so Tubs had gone left. He remembered a car turning left but couldn’t recall exactly where. He passed a large hotel, the Osterley, and knew that the factory estates were not far ahead, and he had just passed out of the factory area when he had lost Tubs. So his quarry had turned off to the left not far from here.
Mannering turned down the road opposite the hotel.
There was a district of narrow streets, with small detached houses that looked pleasant and charming in the lights of his car. Hedges loomed out of the darkness, the light was reflected from curtained windows, trees and lamp-posts rose out of the pavement. It was a maze of twists and turns, and there was a level-crossing near the end of one of the roads. Mannering weaved this way and that, but began to give up hope. If Tubs owned one of these small suburban houses, he would have put the car away; there was not the remotest chance of discovering where he had gone.
Mannering turned into a wider road, past a large house which stood in its own grounds, and saw a car parked a little way down a street which led to the left. At the end of this street traffic passed frequently along a main road. Mannering reached the car, and saw that it was a small Morris, not Tubs’ Railton.
“That’s that,” muttered Mannering aloud.
He passed the open drive-gates of a large house which stood back from the road, and saw a car with its lights out standing at the front door. He went a little farther down the road, pulled his car into the kerb, got out and hurried back to the drive-gates. They led to a much larger house than those past which he had driven. There was a dim light at the front door, and a brighter one in an upstairs room.
Mannering stepped on to the grass verge, and approached the door softly. Another car swept down the street, and Mannering darted into the shadows, until it had passed. His heart was thumping, he felt a brittle tension. Anyone might park a car in front of their house like this, and yet—
He stepped softly on to the gravel, and touched the radiator; it was warm.
&nbs
p; It was the Railton.
Chapter Nineteen
Discoveries
The Baron stood in the shadow of the side of the house, listening intently for sounds from inside and outside. Breaking-in would be comparatively easy; making sure that he did not fall into a trap was another matter. He no longer felt sure that Tubs had been neglected by the police. There had been no indication of a watch in London or on the road, but that wasn’t conclusive. Tubs was a close friend of George, Bristow wouldn’t give him too much rope. Radio-cars could have reported his progress, as well as where it had stopped. If so, the local police would search for the car. As soon as it was traced, local men would watch the house and the Yard would send a squad.
He had been here for twenty minutes; long, weary minutes. A few people had walked along the street and there was a constant rumble of traffic from the main road and from a railway, near by.
Another man approached, with firm, heavy footsteps. The Baron could tell a policeman’s tread in a flash; this was a policeman. He went forward, still in the shadow of trees and bushes, and waited for the man to draw nearer. If he showed any interest in the Railton—
The policeman walked past.
The Baron turned back to the house. He tried the handle of the front door, but it was tightly closed. He went round to the side, examining the windows in the faint light from a near-by street lamp. All were closed and latched. He reached the back door and, using his torch for the first time, he inspected it closely. The lock was an easy one to pick. He took out the skeleton key, inserted it, and began to twist and turn.
A few seconds should be enough to force it.
Minutes passed; this lock wasn’t so simple.
The Baron withdrew the skeleton key, and became much more wary. If the owners of the house had taken any precautions, they might have made a job of it, rigged up all manner of booby-traps for the unwary burglar. He looked at a window next to the front door and tapped the glass. It did not give the hollow, tinny sound of ordinary window glass: it was plate-glass, probably toughened.
It wouldn’t break easily.
The Baron drew back.
Patricia had written from Hounslow; this was near Hounslow. So Patricia might be here; Clara Harris, too. And if a house were well protected, it was usually worth burgling.
He went to another window, it was made of plate-glass. He could give the ground floor up as hopeless.
He went to the garage, at the side of the house. The lock here was simple to pick, and he opened the door and stepped inside, closed the door behind him and flashed his torch. A long ladder was hanging on nails on the wall. He found some rags, and tied them round the top of the ladder. Next, he switched off the torch, opened the doors wide and, judging the middle of the ladder, to balance it more easily, carried it out. It swayed up and down, awkwardly. He poked one end against a tree; when he moved back to avoid it, touched the corner of the garage with the other end. The noise seemed loud. He stood quite still, but no one appeared, no alarm was raised. He went on, rested the top of the ladder against the wall between two windows, and gradually pushed it higher. Although the rags muffled most of the sound, a scratching noise grated on his straining ears.
At last, the ladder was securely in position near one window.
He took a scarf from his pocket and tied it loosely round his neck.
A tall tree, a beech with great spreading branches, hid this side of the house from the street, and he would not be seen at a casual glance. He went up the ladder quietly. Once it gave a little, and his heart leapt; it steadied, and he went on to one of the windows. For the first time he saw that it was open a little at the top. He leaned forward and pushed against the glass lightly. This was ordinary sheet glass; no precautions had been taken up here.
Leaning sideways, he was able to push a stout screw-driver between the window and the frame, and levered it open a little at the bottom. Then he got his fingers into the gap, and eased the window up. It squeaked, but not loudly. Soon it was open nearly two feet.
He couldn’t climb into the room without shifting the ladder.
He went down, moved it along and went up again. Everything he did was quick and decisive, now.
He widened the opening and climbed in. Then he drew the curtains; if someone entered this room while he was in the house, they would not see the ladder; he might need that as a means of escape.
He stood with his back to the window, until his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. The room wasn’t pitch-dark, there was a little light at the door. He opened the door an inch, peering into a narrow passage. The light was at the end of the passage, presumably on the landing.
He could hear nothing.
He pulled the scarf up round his mouth and nose, and stepped forward.
If he found the two girls, he might beat that damning evidence in Bristow’s room. If he found only Tubs Maudsley—
A door opened, footsteps sounded on the landing, and Mannering darted back into the room.
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Tubs. “I can’t promise anything, but—”
“Please try,” said a girl.
That was Patricia.
Tubs closed the door but did not go straight downstairs. There was a click, as of a lighter being thumbed. Then Tubs moved from the landing and Mannering heard him going slowly down the stairs. Mannering reached the landing as Tubs entered the hall. The landing was large and square, with several doors opening from it, the staircase was wide and sweeping, the hall large. Heavy oil paintings hung on the walls, there were some big pieces of Victorian furniture. The carpet on the stairs had threadbare patches. Tubs nearly stumbled over a skin rug, which he kicked into position.
Mannering couldn’t see his expression, but he had one hand in his pocket, his shoulders were hunched, and he looked thoroughly miserable.
He had been able to come straight to this house, and obviously he had been here before, or he would not have found the way so easily.
Tubs opened a door which Mannering could just see, and stepped inside a lighted room.
The door closed.
The Baron stepped towards the room, but did not open the door at once. It wasn’t locked; and even if Tubs had turned the key, it was in the door and he would have no difficulty in getting in, but – what line should he take with Patricia? Should he let her know that he was Mannering, or should he behave as if he were a stranger? He didn’t think she would recognise him.
“Please try,” she had said, as if she believed that Tubs would try to help her.
Thoughts flashed swiftly through his mind. Should he see Patricia or go downstairs?
He went downstairs quickly, stepped over the skin rug and the grinning head of a tiger, and reached the door. He heard a murmur of voices.
A woman was speaking; he couldn’t catch the words.
He turned the handle and opened the door a fraction, and the words came clearly.
“… be a fool,” Clara Harris was saying. “If you want to save yourself and her a lot of trouble, you clear out. If he catches you here, you’ll know all about it.”
Tubs said: “Look here, Clara—”
“Don’t stand there arguing!” snapped Clara. “You were crazy to come here—why, you fool, if he knew that I ever let on about this house, he’d cut my throat as lief as look at me. Haven’t you the sense to realise that?” Her words came quickly, she sounded as if she were really alarmed. “I told you I’d do all I could to help her,” Clara went on, “and I will—but if you stay any longer, no one will have a chance to help anyone. Get that into your thick head, and clear out.”
Tubs was obstinate.
“It’s not good enough, Clara. Why don’t you tell me who he is? You’ll only get yourself hanged, going on like this. He’s a murderer and you know it, you’re helping him, and—”
“I’m staying here because I’ve got to,” Clara spat. “I wouldn’t squeal on Bud if you offered me a million pounds, he’s too smart. He’d get me before the police got him,
and he’ll get you if you don’t get out of here. You’ve been here too long. I’ve let you make sure that the kid’s okay—she is, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” muttered Tubs. “All the same—”
“Get out!” screamed Clara.
“Now look here,” said Tubs stubbornly, “you’ve got this all wrong. I didn’t come here just to see that Tricia was all right—I meant to make sure of that first, but it’s only part of the job. This business can’t go on. Swanmore’s been murdered.”
There was a tense silence; then: “No!” cried Clara.
“You didn’t expect that, did you?” asked Tubs. “Yes, he was murdered tonight. I was there just afterwards. That’s the fourth murder, and I’m not going to take any risks with Tricia. I’m going to take her away with me. Before I go, I want a bit of information from you.”
“You—you mustn’t take her!” gasped Clara. “It’s no use, Bud will get you. He’s too clever for the police, too clever for you. You don’t know him, if you did you’d realise it. If you took Tricia away from here, he’d come after you and kill you both, he—”
“Now be yourself,” said Tubs evenly. “He isn’t such a big shot as all that. He’s human, Clara. It’s time you realised that he’s no use to you. He’ll let you down, the same as he’s betrayed everyone else. You know that’s true—why don’t you stop stalling?”
“You’re mad,” said Clara in a sobbing voice. “You just don’t know him, if you did you wouldn’t stay here another minute. He might be outside the door now, listening to what you’re saying. You can never tell where he’ll be next, when he might turn up. Sometimes I’ve thought him a hundred miles away, and he’s walked into my flat. He’s uncanny, and—”
Tubs said stubbornly: “He killed those two thieves, didn’t he? He killed that policeman in Aldgate, and he killed Swanmore. He’ll get hanged. The police are bound to catch him, they’ve a pretty good idea who he is already. If you’ve got any sense, you’ll clear out of here with Tricia and me, and let them get him. Once he’s caught, you can give evidence against him. That’ll save you. I’ve thought this all out. It won’t do you any harm, and nothing you can do with Bud will do you any good. Let’s have the truth. He’s Mannering, isn’t he?”