Taking the Blame

by John Creasey

  Clara caught her breath.

  Mannering raised a hand slightly.

  There was silence in the room, broken only by Clara’s heavy breathing until Tubs spoke again, quite casually, as if he knew that he were in complete control of the situation.

  “He’s Mannering, isn’t he? Let’s have the truth.”

  Another pause, and then: “Yes!” cried Clara.

  Chapter Twenty

  Clara Accuses

  “Yes,” gasped Clara. “He’s Mannering! But you don’t know what you’re up against! He’s cold and callous and a killer, and uses a gang. He won’t let the police catch him, you needn’t think he will.”

  “Oh, they’ll get him all right,” said Tubs confidently. He laughed. “If you’d seen Mannering and Superintendent Bristow this morning, you’d know that the police have a pretty good idea. I couldn’t believe it at first, but when I reached Swanmore’s house tonight and discovered the old boy dead and Mannering flown—he’d just been to see Swanmore—I knew that the police were on the target. Clara, be yourself. Leave here and go to the police, tell them what you know. It’s the only way out for you. You’ve helped him too often, you’re in it up to the neck. My dear girl, you’ve said yourself that he’d kill you without a blink. Unlock Tricia from that bed—”

  Mannering grew tense.

  “I can’t!” cried Clara.

  “Don’t be silly! The key—”

  “He’s got the key!”

  “Oh,” said Tubs, as if that simple statement took the ground from under his feet. He whistled. “So we’ve got to wait until he gets back, have we? Oh, lord!”

  In the pause that followed, Mannering understood Tubs’ dejection when he had left Patricia. She was chained to a bed, or a key wouldn’t be necessary. Chained and padlocked.

  Clara went on urgently: “He always makes sure that nothing can go wrong. Mannering’s the smartest man I’ve ever met, there can’t be a cleverer.” How she lied! “He arranged the burglary at Quinns, he killed Jumpy Dale and Baldy because they recognised him. I expect he murdered Lord Swanmore because Swanmore discovered who he was. If you don’t go away, he’ll get you.”

  Tubs said: “Are there any tools in the house?”

  “Never mind tools!”

  “I think we could free Tricia if we could find the right tools,” Tubs went on simply. “We must get her away, you know. It’s no use sending for the police, Mannering might arrive before they get here. Where do you keep the tools?”

  “There aren’t any tools!”

  “All right, I’ll get what there are in the car,” said Tubs. “It’s no use, my pretty, I’m not going to leave this place until I can take Tricia with me. We might telephone the police first,” he added thoughtfully. “That would give us two chances.”

  “You mustn’t do it!” screeched Clara.

  Tubs said softly: “Oh, mustn’t I?” There was a pause, and Mannering sensed a change in the atmosphere. Clara gasped, and Tubs went on gently: “Clara, I don’t know that you’re at all a nice girl. If you did the wise thing, you’d help me, not keep stalling. In love with Mannering—is that it?”

  “I—” began Clara, and then her voice rose: “Get away! Get away from me!”

  “Sorry about this,” said Tubs.

  There was a sharp thud, followed by a scuffling noise. Clara didn’t speak again. Mannering peered through a crack in the door, and caught a glimpse of Tubs dragging her by the shoulders to a couch. He had difficulty in lifting her. When he had her there, he took off his tie, obviously to bind her wrists together.

  He believed Mannering to be ‘Bud.’ Who could blame him, after Clara’s wild lie?

  Clara had seen a chance of satisfying him, and taken it; no fool, Clara.

  What next? Tubs would telephone the police, tell them what he ‘knew,’ and go upstairs to try to free Patricia. Tubs wasn’t the knowledgeable young man he sometimes pretended. He didn’t appear to realise, for instance, that a police patrol car would be at the house within a few minutes; he had no need to worry, having found Patricia. Yet a man who owned part of a daily newspaper like the Cry should realise how the police worked. Was there something phoney about Tubs?

  Mannering closed the door silently, and stood in a recess beneath the stairs. It was useless to brood; Clara would almost certainly stick to her story if the police arrived, another nail in his coffin. The situation couldn’t be worse, but he was still free, and Bud was expected.

  The door opened and Tubs came out, a plump figure against the light in the room. He walked quickly to the hall and opened the front door. He pulled this to, but did not close it.

  Mannering heard his footsteps on the gravel, and went forward. The door was open wide enough for him to see Tubs pulling at the car door. Tubs stood back as the door opened, then bent forward.

  As he did so, a man moved out of the shadows of the house.

  Before Tubs suspected the newcomer’s presence, the man smashed a blow onto the back of his head. Mannering heard the thud. Tubs fell forward without a sound, his head and shoulders in the car, the rest of his body outside. His assailant lifted him into the car; that wasn’t easy.

  The Baron crept across the porch, and held the screw-driver by the blade, then jammed the handle into the small of the other man’s back.

  “Stand still!”

  The man tried to turn.

  He had a dark beard and wore glasses, which had slipped low on his nose. He struck out wildly. The Baron jabbed him on the nape of the neck, a rabbit punch which brought a gasp of pain and made the man slump down. Mannering raised the screwdriver and struck with the heavy handle.

  The bearded man lurched forward, unconscious.

  Mannering put his hands beneath his victim’s armpits and dragged him across the porch, pushed him behind the front door, and hurried back to the car. He shone his torch into Tubs’ face, and saw a gold tooth in the bottom jaw. Gently, Mannering turned his head. A nasty gash had bled freely, and the car seat was already smeared with blood. But Tubs’ pulse was fairly steady and he was breathing regularly, and the bleeding had slackened. Mannering took a folded handkerchief from Tubs’ breast pocket, folded it again into a wad, and pressed it onto the cut, to stop further bleeding. Then the brim of a hat showed up in the torchlight. Mannering put it on the injured man’s head lightly, to keep the wad in position. He drew back and closed the car door and went into the hall.

  The bearded man lay with one arm flung out, the other bent beneath his chest, his legs doubled up. He did not stir, and Mannering lifted him to a hall seat. He looked upstairs when he heard a faint sound, but saw nothing. He made a quick tour of the house, looked into every room except Patricia’s and Clara’s, and every one was empty.

  He shot the bolts at the front door, then turned his attention to the bearded man. He believed he knew who it was. The beard, the glasses, everything about him even to the old raglan-shaped raincoat was exactly the same, and he was of the same build and height as the man he had seen at Clara’s flat.

  Mannering pulled at the beard.

  It was stuck on tightly.

  He went into the dining-room, and found some brandy in a sideboard; the brandy would loosen the gum. He let the spirit soak in, then dabbed some cotton wool in it and wiped away some of the grease-paint from Bud’s face. Bud looked younger, now, and his real complexion, tanned and weather-beaten, began to show through the smothering coat of paint. Then he had another go at the beard, and it began to peel away.

  When Mannering held it in his hand, he looked down at George Swanmore.

  George had fitted neatly into the remaining gap in the jig-saw. George, pretending to be a frightened envoy of the murderer; giving jewels to Clara – a crazy thing, but so easy to do – George accusing him, wildly; George telephoning his father with a threat if he told the police what had been stolen. He had worked with a curious mixture of cunning and carelessness; characteristic of the amateur big shot.

  He had pretended to be frighten
ed into acting as errand-boy, and, the final touch, had sent a man to his flat to shoot at him. No wonder the bullet had missed!

  Why had he done it?

  George didn’t stir.

  The Baron knew exactly what to do now. Telephone the police, and get away before they arrived and before George came round. It would be easy to secure George, and make sure that he was waiting here for the police. The evidence of disguise should be enough to identify him as the policeman’s murderer.

  But would it?

  Was there anything else which the police could present in court as evidence? Mannering patted George’s pocket, and felt a gun. Using his handkerchief, he drew it out; it was a Webley .32; bullets from a gun of that calibre had been used for the murders. Mannering replaced the gun carefully. Should he search the place? Look for the rest of the jewels which had been stolen from Quinns?

  There was no great hurry, now.

  He was feeling the reaction, needed a drink. He went back into the dining-room, poured himself out a stiff whisky-and-soda, drank half and then looked round the room. It was dark and gloomy, with heavy, old-fashioned furniture, not a spark of taste. He inspected the windows; they were wired against burglary – curious that people who took such precautions downstairs were careless with the first floor. Then he saw that the precautionary measures were of comparatively recent installation; perhaps the work wasn’t finished. He found no safe or hiding place in the room, nothing to suggest that his jewels were here.

  He went out.

  George hadn’t stirred. Mannering took off his own tie and bound his wrists behind him.

  If he went to see Clara, he might frighten her into talking. Why not try? As he approached the door, doubts crowded on him. Why not make it simple, now? A telephone call to the police, a quick getaway, and then – well, Bristow couldn’t use the evidence against him once Bud was caught.

  Or could he?

  The prints remained.

  Better see Clara.

  He unlocked the door of the room and narrowed his eyes against the bright light. Clara lay on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, her wrists tied behind her back. He could see the end of Tubs’ gay tie poking from behind her back. A corner of a handkerchief stuck out of her mouth. There was a red bruise on her chin; Clara had been handled very roughly lately. He felt no sympathy for her as he approached, stretched out a hand and pulled the handkerchief out. She glared up at him, and wriggled a little.

  Mannering said roughly: “Keep still for a little while, my sweetie, I want to talk to you.”

  She muttered something unintelligible.

  “Can’t hear,” said Mannering. “What do you want …? Oh, water.” He glanced round; she might talk easier if she had a drink.

  With a sudden flurry Clara jumped from the couch. The tie fell away, and she pointed a gun at him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Clara and George

  “Stay there!” she cried.

  Mannering did not move.

  Clara backed farther away from the couch, obviously afraid that he might lunge forward. At a safe distance, she relaxed, but didn’t lower the gun.

  “Where’s Tubs?” Her voice was shrill.

  Mannering kept silent, while inwardly he cursed himself for folly. The silk neck-tie had worked loose, he knew how she had freed herself the moment he saw she was free; when it was too late.

  “You’d better open up,” said Clara. “If you don’t, I’ll shoot you.” She tried to sound convincing but didn’t; she wouldn’t shoot because she was afraid of making a noise. “Where’s Tubs?” she demanded, and the twist of her lips made her look ugly.

  “Why don’t you go and see?” demanded Mannering.

  She said: “Turn round.” When he didn’t obey, she screamed at him: “Do what you’re told, turn round!”

  Mannering laughed, softly.

  “Don’t get so worked up, duckie. You daren’t shoot because of the noise, and—”

  “This gun has a silencer,” said a man from the door.

  ‘Bud’ was free.

  First Clara, then Bud; and Bud was his own fault, he hadn’t made a good enough job of the knot. The silk had worked loose, like Clara’s.

  George spoke in a nasal voice, and smiled crookedly. His eyes were bloodshot, and he leaned against the doorway as if he hadn’t the strength to stand upright. The gun, with which he had killed so often, had a silencer attached. “George!” exclaimed Clara. “What happened, why—”

  “I’m fine,” said George. “This gent smacked me down, but he didn’t smack quite hard enough. I’ve seen him before some place.” He licked his lips. “I smell as if I’ve been soaking in brandy, but I haven’t got any inside me. Go and get me a drink, Clara.”

  “But, George!”

  George straightened up, so that there was room for her to pass.

  “Don’t argue. I’m thirsty.” He grinned at her as she obeyed, but kept Mannering covered all the time. Clara’s footsteps sounded loud, a door opened. Silence followed, while George’s bloodshot eyes searched Mannering’s face, as if he were trying to think where they had met before.

  He grinned.

  “Now I remember,” he said. “Same man—different disguise. You sold the collection for me, didn’t you? Neat job all round, you actually let me get out of that house without the collection but you knew the police were waiting for me round the corner. Got away with the jewels yourself, didn’t you—but you didn’t keep them long.” His ‘didn’t you’ sounded like an ugly refrain.

  Clara came back, carrying a glass.

  “Keep him covered,” George said. He took the whisky in his free hand, and gulped it down. “I needed that.” He finished the drink and tossed the glass onto a chair, then said: “Light me a cigarette, honey, I need that too. I’ll watch him.” Clara lit a cigarette, and stuck the end, red with lipstick, between his lips. George nodded. “Didn’t I see Tubs outside?”

  “He’s been here,” said Clara.

  “How’d he get here?”

  Clara hesitated.

  “Let’s have it all,” George said.

  She burst out: “It was my fault! I gave him this address before you and I paired up. I didn’t think he’d remember. He turned up a couple of hours ago, and—”

  “Okay,” said George. “Does he know who I am?”

  “No, I fooled him,” said Clara, and her eyes lit up. “He made it easy, he thinks you’re Mannering. I told him you were. The police think so, too. George, you can fasten all this on Mannering, if you’re smart.”

  George gave a twisted grin.

  “I’ve been trying hard enough,” he said. “Who do you think whispered his name to the police? Who sent Prideau to see him?” He gave a little, chokey laugh. He wasn’t quite himself; the whisky had gone to his head. “It came on me in a flash when I was at Quinns, honey. I’d fixed Dale and that other fool, and I was thinking I’d have to be smart to prevent the police suspecting me. I wondered who else they could start worrying about, and I thought—well, why not Mannering himself? The police nearly always suspect big dealers. And I knew what Quinns was like, I’d talked to the old man about it, he described it pretty well, I—”

  “George, you ought to sit down,” interrupted Clara. “You’re not well.”

  “I’m fine,” said George. “Fine! Don’t you worry, Clara, I’ve got it all sewn up. I can fix this, too—fix this on Mannering.” He gave the funny, little laugh again. “I found out that Mannering was going to call on the old man tonight. Tubs told me. So I framed Mannering for that one. He’s hiding from the police. Hand me it all on a plate, Clara, I’ve made Mannering cut and run for it, and if that don’t show the world he’s guilty, what will?”

  Clara said: “It’s wonderful, George! But you ought to have a little rest before you talk any more.”

  “I’m all right, I tell you,” George insisted. “I’ve got a head as strong as a horse, a crack or two won’t hurt me. I’ve got Mannering fixed. I’ve lost the collection
and I wouldn’t want to try to sell that stuff I took from Quinns, it’s not my game, but—I’m the old man’s heir. I get the collection the easy way! Pity I didn’t think of killing him before, but maybe mine was best this way. Had to kill him,” he added thickly. “He’d discovered what I was up to. Fact. Told me so. I went to see him, and told him I thought it was Mannering, and he turned round and said he knew it was me. Said he’d just discovered I’d been blackmailing him for years. Hit me between the eyes, that did! Said he’d suspected it for a long time, that was why he kicked me out. He wasn’t even sure that Tricia was out of the party, that’s why he discouraged her, but he’d come to the conclusion that Tricia knew nothing. Told me he was going to tell the police unless I released Tricia at once. He was going to tell them, anyhow, the minute he’d discovered where I’d kept Tricia.”

  George giggled: “That’s a fact, honey. He realised that I’d met Tricia. I met her on the way to Cherry’s and carried her off, only she didn’t know it was me. Oh, the old man had it all worked out! So I gave it to him. Timed it nicely, Mannering was due almost any time. I was still in the house. Waited for Mannering to come in and then fired a shot into the floor and covered the hole up with the carpet. Not much I don’t think of, is there? Then I scrammed. I’d entered by the back way, no one knew I was around. I’d dodged the policeman who was on my tail. Nice job—wasn’t it?”

  He snarled the question at Mannering, who was standing quite still.

  “You’ve got Mannering okay,” Mannering muttered.

  “I’ve got you, too,” sneered George. “You know I had some of the jewels, that I was a messenger—know why? I couldn’t use anyone else, I had to work on my own. So I became George, and as George I’m going to tell the police that Mannering made me act as a messenger. They’ll swallow it. And I’m very interested in finding out who you are. I’ve got an idea, too. Someone very interested in the collection and Quinns. Someone who’s been poking his nose in. You fooled me the first time, but you won’t this. You’re going to take that make-up off and let me have a good look at you. Take the cheek-pads out of your big mouth, too. I wonder what we’ll find?”