Taking the Blame

by John Creasey

  He took the packet and went out.

  He walked along the corridors, hardly able to think clearly, treading as if on air. When he bumped into a man who came unexpectedly out of a doorway, he realised that he was asking for trouble. He walked more slowly, forcing himself to come down to earth. He hadn’t finished yet. There was more stuff in Bristow’s office, and he had been at the Yard for the better part of half an hour. Lorna might not be able to keep Bristow for half an hour; even if she did, Bristow could be back at the Yard in less than a quarter of an hour after leaving the flat.

  Mannering reached the office.

  There was no light under the door. The passages were empty and he could hear no one approaching. He tapped; there was no answer. He turned the handle and pushed at the door, but it did not open.

  It was locked.

  His hand dropped to his pocket, and he played with the skeleton key. The office was near the landing, and people coming from several directions would be able to see him if he stood there. Anyone approaching along these stone corridors would make a good deal of noise, and he could hear no one about. The lighting was adequate but not bright. He heard voices in a near-by office, and could see the light under that door.

  He pushed the pick-lock into the keyhole.

  He twisted right and left, swiftly, nervously; the key scraped loudly against the metal of the lock. He had missed his chance, for footsteps rang out. He took the key away and turned his back on Bristow’s door, then walked along the passage. A man ran downstairs, reached this landing, and went straight down the next flight. Mannering’s heart was thumping so violently, he couldn’t be sure whether there was silence anywhere. He went back to the door and tried again. He must keep his hands steady. The lock looked simple, extreme precautions would hardly be taken against burglary here, and—

  The lock clicked back.

  He felt sick with excitement, and stood quite still.

  A door opened not far away.

  “I’m going to get some shut-eye,” a man said.

  Mannering went round the corner and turned into the cloakroom. There seemed not one, but a dozen people walking about. A car swung into the yard, and he heard men get out and car doors slam. Was it Bristow? There wasn’t a chance of finding out. He opened the door of the cloak-room, and a burly man came into it, knocking his arm. “Sorry,” the man grunted. Mannering couldn’t go back now, he had to go on to the landing. He heard two or three men hurrying up the stairs. One set of footsteps sounded like Bristow’s. He was guessing wildly, he couldn’t recognise Bristow’s footsteps here.

  He pushed open Bristow’s door and darted inside.

  He stood behind the door, his mouth open, his hands raised a little, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

  The hurrying men went past.

  The Baron put on his gloves, switched on the light, and put the packet on the corner of the desk. The old gloves and the case were on the desk, with a file of papers, including photographs. The Baron bent down by the fire-place, took the records packet, opened it and crumpled up papers. There were his finger-prints, the Yard’s whole dossier. He dropped them into the grate, and took out his matches. The head of the first match broke. The second flared up, he pushed it beneath the papers, and they blazed quickly.

  The flame soothed his nerves.

  He stood up, took the file from the corner of the desk and glanced through it quickly. Everything there referred to him. There were photographs of himself, of Lorna and of the gloves. He tossed the photographs on to the burning paper; and they caught suddenly, with a fierce crackling. He tossed the gloves on to the flames, then threw on the other papers, which covered his movements during the past two days. Next, he picked up the make-up case and rubbed it hard and briskly with his handkerchief; no finger-prints would last, after that.

  He looked through the other papers on the desk. There were dossiers on George Swanmore, on Clara and on Tubs Maudsley, and papers which referred to Swanmore as well as the murdered thieves, but there was nothing else about him. His name might be mentioned in the reports, but there was no time to read them, not even time to skim them through; he could only afford to look at the summary, attached to each sheet.

  The fire was burning low; only a little of the gloves remained unburnt. He stirred it with his foot, and the paper and photographs broke up into tiny, charred fragments. He searched the desk again; nothing else which referred to him.

  He’d won.

  Bristow’s likely reaction to this began to seep into his mind. A searing anger, which might bring charge and arrest without asking questions, or waiting to make sure he could make the charge stick. Bristow could rage like an angry bull, but it was done. All the records which the Yard had about John Mannering were destroyed. Everything. The assurance of the Records Office custodian rang in his ears.

  He stirred the papers again, to make sure no fragments could still be used against him, then went to the door. As he switched off the light he heard footsteps. He put his fingers on the handle of the door until the men were past.

  They didn’t pass.

  They stopped outside. A key was thrust into the lock and turned. It met no resistance.

  “Hallo,” said Bristow in a tone of surprise, “I could have sworn I’d locked it”

  Mannering pressed against the wall, as Bristow thrust the door open and groped for the light switch.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Fury

  Mannering’s eyes were half-closed against the coming glare. Bristow and the man with him hadn’t protected themselves against it, for a split second both were dazzled. Mannering lunged forward, pushed Bristow into the room and the other man – Gordon – flying into the passage. He took to his heels and ran towards the stairs. He heard Bristow shout in pain and alarm. He gripped the banister of the staircase and jumped down, holding lightly to the banister for balance. He landed safely on the half-landing below, repeated the jump, and reached the ground floor.

  By then Bristow was bellowing: “Watch all doors! Watch all doors!”

  No one was approaching this landing, which was some distance from the front entrance, but the words would carry to the sergeant on duty. He didn’t go towards the exit, but to a door opposite him. It wasn’t locked. He went into the room, closed the door, and banged his leg against a desk. He winced, and limped towards the window; he could see its oblong outline clearly. He picked out the catch as he drew nearer, pushed it back and flung the window up. It ran smoothly. He climbed out, into the narrow space between the wall of the building itself and the big wall surrounding the grounds. A car was parked a little way along. Men were shouting, telephones were ringing, hurrying footsteps thumped inside the building. Lights blazed out from the windows. Mannering climbed on to the running-board of the car, then on to the roof. He reached up, touched the top of the wall, and hauled himself up. He sat astride for a moment, then dropped down. A tram was clattering on the other side of the road, but no one appeared on this side. He kept close to the shadow of the wall, and walked smartly towards Charing Cross, and soon he turned into the deserted riverside gardens. A car roared, and headlights shone along the Embankment. Mannering stood behind a tree for cover. The light shone on a man stretched out on one of the garden seats; a tramp. His eyes were open; he stared at Mannering.

  The car passed. Mannering went on, and the tramp neither moved nor spoke.

  Mannering slipped up the first street and walked towards the Strand, hired a taxi, and went to Waterloo.

  A quarter of an hour after Bristow’s arrival the ground floor window was found open, and the police knew how the burglar had escaped. Bristow, sitting at his desk with the ash from the burned evidence on a huge sheet of white paper in front of him, took the message from a pale-faced sergeant who had just come into the office, and growled: “All right, clear out.”

  The sergeant went out hurriedly.

  Gordon stood by the window.

  Bristow said in a harsh voice: “Of course it was Mannering.
No one else would have the nerve, and no one else would destroy his dossier and nothing else. It’s the end. I’ll get him if it’s the last job I do. I’ll make him pay for this, I’ll—my God, it’s the most damnable piece of villainy I’ve ever come across! It’s fantastic. And—and he was allowed to come in. He made free of the Yard. He went to Records and took his own file away. He—when I get my hands on Mannering, he’ll know all about it. I’ve warned him, how I’ve warned him! and now this, Gordon. What the hell are you doing standing there? I thought I told you to get to Mannering’s flat. He’s bound to return there—he must go there, and we’ll pick him up. Never mind what he says, you needn’t even charge him, just bring him along. And now I want to see that addled oaf who’s in charge of Records. I want to—”

  Gordon said: “I’m just going, sir, but you won’t forget—”

  “I won’t forget anything. I’ll break Mannering—”

  “Yes, of course,” said Gordon hurriedly, “but there’s one point you may have overlooked, sir.” His ‘sirs’ were unusual and Bristow glared. “The chief evidence against Mannering has gone, and if he’s charged without direct evidence—”

  “He was at Swanmore’s house, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Gordon hastily. “But the point I’m trying to make is this, we ought to be careful how we deal with Mannering and this job, because if this once gets into the newspapers—”

  “Don’t be a fool! It mustn’t!”

  “Well, Mannering’s pretty friendly with Chittering. It’s just possible that Chittering might pick up a rumour. Everyone who’s in the building now knows what’s happened, and if we’re not careful, something will leak out. Before I did anything else, I’d tell everyone here to keep their mouths shut, if I were you. Now I’ll go to Chelsea. I—”

  He broke off.

  A man outside said: “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Someone else said: “I was just going to see Superintendent Bristow.”

  Bristow strode across the office and pulled open the door. Chittering of The Record stood smiling into the face of an Inspector. He now beamed at Bristow. Bristow swallowed his words, touched Chittering’s arm, took a hold on himself and then said: “What are you doing here? Answer me, damn you, you’ve no right to be wandering about Scotland Yard without permission. I’ll clap you in—”

  “Oi, steady,” protested Chittering, in mock alarm; he grinned cheerfully. “The situation’s bad enough as it is, without asking for trouble by arresting a reporter on one of the dailies, isn’t it? I mean, you don’t have a burglary at Scotland Yard every day.”

  “How did you know about that?” demanded Bristow in a grating voice.

  “As a matter of fact, I happened to be with the Back Room Inspector,” said Chittering smoothly. “He was giving me the usual hand-out when a sergeant popped in and told him about the other. So I came to see you. If you’d care to make a statement, old chap—” he broke off hopefully.

  “If you write a line about this, you’ll never get any information from here again.”

  “Hang it,” protested Chittering, “this is a scoop. Biggest one I’ve ever handled. Pretty daring chap who broke in—any idea who it was?”

  Bristow spent two vitriolic minutes telling Chittering the dire consequences of publishing the story. Chittering beamed, throughout this tirade. In spite of his chubby looks and his general air of innocence and frailty, Chittering was a newspaperman first, last, and all the time. He made one concession; that he would report to the Chief Editor, and not push it through the Night Desk.

  Bristow wasn’t satisfied, but knew the weakness of his position. First Gordon and then Chittering had reminded him, as if he needed reminding, that publicity would give the Yard a blow that would sink its prestige to the lowest level. Getting Mannering now took second place to trying to escape publicity. As nearly as he could, he panicked. He telephoned Anderson-Kerr, fetching the A.C. out of bed, and pleaded with him to make urgent approach to pundits at the Home Office; if a few strings were pulled—

  Anderson-Kerr’s response was like a douche of cold water.

  “We can’t do that, and you know it. We’re in the Editor’s hand. Don’t say a word. Don’t try to use any kind of pull, just hope he’ll see the sense of keeping quiet. Does Chittering know you suspect Mannering?”

  “He was outside the office when I was talking to Gordon.”

  “If he mentions or even implies Mannering, the Record will be in for libel in a big way,” said Anderson-Kerr. “That should make them careful. Listen, Bill, you aren’t responsible for this, don’t blame yourself—and don’t do anything silly because you’re mad.”

  Bristow said slowly: “I suppose you’re right. I hope you are. But I’ll get Mannering, whatever—”

  He broke off, and did a strange thing; he laughed.

  From any other man that would have seemed like breaking nerve. From Bristow it signalled a return to normal. His saving grace of humour made him the man he was.

  Anderson-Kerr said: “That’s better.”

  “I’ll still get Mannering,” Bristow said.

  Chittering drove from Scotland Yard to Fleet Street at a speed calculated to break every clause in the Highway Code. He ignored traffic lights and cross-roads, but avoided disaster. Nearly an hour had passed since he had gone to Bristow’s office, an hour and a half since Mannering had left the Yard. Chittering felt sure that the visitor had been Mannering. The daring was fantastic! But would it save him?

  He left the car outside the Record building and rushed in.

  A man rose from a seat in the hall.

  “In a hurry?” he asked, cheerfully.

  “M-M-Mannering!” Even Chittering stammered. He backed a pace, and his eyes became round pools of astonishment, while Mannering smiled blandly. “It—it can’t be you! You—” Chittering’s voice faded out.

  “My dear chap, why not?” asked Mannering. “I always told you I’d give you a story, didn’t I?”

  “Story?” echoed Chittering. “You—you’ve got a story for me?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” demanded Mannering. “Aren’t you well?”

  “Er—yes, yes, I’m all right,” said Chittering. “I’m fine. I didn’t expect to see you, that’s all. What’s the story about?”

  “Big stuff, out at Hounslow,” said Mannering. “Somewhere near there. There was quite a shindy, but Patricia Swanmore’s safe. She was being kept a prisoner. Tubs Maudsley was hurt, presumably by the murderer who’s been so busy lately. That’s all by the way. I expect the other papers will have it, they’ve probably got the story up in the news-room. The juicy bit is that I can name our killer.”

  “Oh,” breathed Chittering. “Really?”

  “Don’t be so enthusiastic, and be prepared for a shock. It’s George Swanmore. He’s had help from Clara Harris; you’ve heard of the floosie. Clara’s back at her flat, and if you went along and had a cosy word, you might get more than you expect.”

  “Oh, yes,” babbled Chittering. “I see. Who? George Swanmore!” He sprang to horrified life. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

  Mannering took out cigarettes.

  “I’ve been keeping a close eye on George all the evening. He was at this house near Hounslow, but escaped with Clara before the police arrived. You’ll find that he went straight home, a pretty sick man. You’ll probably find the stuff which was taken from Quinns, in his flat. It was at Hounslow. If you care to tip Bristow off about this, you’ll sweeten him, too.”

  Chittering said slowly: “It will take a lot to sweeten Bristow tonight, but—”

  “After all, everything else is trivial if I’m right about this, isn’t it?” asked Mannering. “You may have another story, but you’d want to kill it and run this one. If I know your Chief, he’ll hold the last editions up long enough to check.”

  “So I’d want to kill any other story, would I?” asked Chittering, and licked his lips. “Well, yes, perhaps you’re rig
ht.”

  “I thought you’d see it my way,” said Mannering, poker-faced. “Don’t tell Bristow who told you.”

  Chittering said: “John, you’re the craftiest old devil this side of the Styx. Come with me.” He led the way to the first floor, into a deserted office, and picked up the receiver. He asked for Whitehall 1212, then for Bristow. When Bristow came on the line, he said: “Bristow, I’ve another story and I think it’s big. I’ve decided that I shouldn’t have wandered about the Yard tonight, and—well, no point in making difficulties. If this new stuff is right, anyhow, you’re all wrong about one of the people concerned, and you couldn’t pin anything on him. All set to listen?”

  Bristow was.

  Mannering heard the door open before he was half-way up the stairs at the Chelsea flat. Lorna didn’t come down, but waited in the doorway; beauty itself. Mannering smiled and went to her, and said: “You’re too good for me, my darling, but you’ll have to put up with me for a bit longer.”

  She didn’t speak; there were tears in her eyes.

  Bristow and Gordon went to George’s flat, with Chittering in close attendance. The jewels stolen from Quinns were found under a floor-board in George’s bedroom. He was dazed but defiant, probably suffering from concussion; obviously he’d had some heavy blows over the head and on the nape of the neck that night. He was taken away to Cannon Row by two Yard men, while Bristow and Gordon visited Clara. Clara began by naming Mannering, but broke down under Bristow’s questioning. Her statement, and the discovery of the jewels would hang George Swanmore.

  Bristow did not once ask Chittering where he had obtained his information. Otherwise, he was talkative, off the record; until after the trial. Among other things, Clara had said that George had lost all his money years ago, before she had first met him. She claimed that he was in love with her, although it was obvious that she was afraid of him. She had jumped at his smallest command. She knew that he had been blackmailing his father for years; recently she had been the intermediary.

  His hold over his father was simple: Swanmore had murdered his wife. Only George had been able to prove the truth about her death.