by John Creasey
Both women watched him, but neither asked a question: that in itself was remarkable. Lucille had moved and was standing by Lorna, as if she needed her protection. Should he tell them the truth? No, he couldn’t.
He said simply: “More threats.”
“What about?” asked Lorna.
“Threats to kill.”
“But why should they want to kill you and Josh? Why—” She turned to Lucille and demanded furiously: “Do you know? If you have any idea at all you must tell us. It could make the difference between life and death.”
“No,” replied Lucille, without hesitation. “Only one thing can make that difference now. John, it is no use being obstinate. You must let me go to them and tell them I will agree, and you must let them have the Collection. Everything else is dangerous and useless.” When he made no comment she turned, not on him but on Lorna. “Don’t you understand! I will do not do this, they will kill him! Don’t you care enough for him to sacrifice me – a bad woman, a scarlet woman, a whore. Please,” she begged. “There is nothing more to do.”
Mannering said: “You really want to go away from here, now?”
“Yes. And I want you to stop—”
“Do you know who that was on the telephone just now?
“Perhaps, one of my step-sons.”
“Let me tell you exactly what he said,” said Mannering, changing his mind with great deliberation. “He said that if you didn’t come out of here in the next half-hour he and his friends would come and get you. He—”
“Then I must go!” cried Lucille. She broke free of Lorna and rushed across the room but Mannering caught her. She struggled furiously. “Let me go, it is madness to keep me here! They will do terrible things!”
“Oh, I am going to let you go,” Mannering said. “But not quite in the way they expect.” Holding her firmly with one arm he moved to the telephone, and with the other lifted the receiver and then dialled a number: Quinn’s number. Bristow answered almost at once, and Mannering said quietly: “Bill, I’ve Lucille Peek at the flat. I think she is playing a part in a conspiracy to defraud, and I think she should be charged and taken into custody. She seems to think that she might be in some danger herself, so I should say three police cars, for safety’s sake. Do you think your influence at the Yard is strong enough to make them act quickly?”
“They won’t lose a second. Do you seriously think—oh, later!” Bristow banged down the receiver, while Lucille tried again to free herself, though less vigorously. Mannering said gently: “I still don’t know what it’s all about, Lucille, but I’m sure you’ll be safer in a prison cell for a few hours than you will anywhere else in London. It is the one place where they cannot possibly do you any harm.”
As if helplessly, Lucille said: “You are making a terrible mistake. Terrible! You will never be able to say that I did not warn you.” She sniffed back tears. “Please,” she said. “I need a handkerchief.”
Mannering let her go, and she moved across to her bag, which was on a chair, took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. There were moments when she could look like a small, dispirited child, and this was one of them. She turned towards Lorna, going behind Mannering, and appealed: “Cannot you make him see? Don’t you care if—”
Without a second’s warning she kicked him in the back of his right knee, and his leg doubled up beneath him. He pitched forward over Lorna, and the chaise longue, while Lucille rushed through the door, slamming it behind her. A second afterwards came the boom of the hall door closing. Mannering, afraid of hurting Lorna, his knee painful, and feeling an utter fool, seemed to take an age to get up. He moved towards the door but stopped, as Lorna said: “She’ll be in the street by now – you won’t catch her, darling.”
“I’m not sure I want to,” he said ruefully. He reached a window in time to see Lucille getting into the red M.G. He might stop her by shouting down to the police, but he was genuinely not sure what to do.
Five minutes later, when two policemen arrived from the Division, he said: “The moment she knew what I planned, she panicked. And all I wanted was her own safety.
On the whole the police, including the Divisional superintendent to whom he spoke on the telephone, took the situation well.
“What are you going to do now?” Lorna asked.
“Just as soon as I can I’m going to see George Peek,” answered Mannering. “I don’t think there is any other way of finding out what it’s all about.”
Lorna said drily: “Well, one thing is certain. She seems very devoted to you.”
“Well, if she is, I wish she weren’t.”
“You shouldn’t wish that,” Lorna said, with more than a shade of amusement. “I quite like her.”
He didn’t speak.
“There is a kind of honesty about her—”
“Honesty? Perhaps so, and perhaps not, but if so, after what she has told us, it’s certainly a peculiar variety,” said Mannering. “I wish I knew for certain whose side she’s on and just what she’s up to. I wish I knew whether she ran away for my sweet sake or whether she was terrified of going to prison. She may be honest in one sense – even criminals can be that – but whether she’s honest as the law understands honesty I wouldn’t like to say.”
“I think she’s prepared to make any sacrifice for you,” Lorna said, as if everything could be forgiven for that.
“Possibly,” Mannering said, “but I had to make sure she couldn’t. I would hate to think she had been martyred trying to save my life.”
“Well, what are you going to do?” Lorna asked.
“First, ask the police to send a policewoman here to look after you. Second, change my appearance somewhat. Three, visit this George Peek on his home ground.”
He stretched out his hands to help her to her feet, and as she started to get up the telephone bell rang. He thought: that man’s ringing again, let him wait. He helped Lorna to a chair, and then lifted the receiver.
“Mannering,” he said crisply.
“Mr. Mannering,” a woman said briskly. “Mr. Stephens of St. George’s Hospital would like a word with you.”
“I’ll hold on,” Mannering said, and covering the mouthpiece whispered to Lorna: “It’s news of Josh.”
News, beyond doubt; it was agony waiting to find out whether it was good or bad. And the waiting dragged on for a long time, until suddenly a man spoke briskly: “Mr. Mannering … I promised to let you know how Mr. Larraby came through the operation. I’m happy to say he came through very well, and while there are obvious dangers to a man of his age, there is no damage to the brain tissues and given average luck he will pull through … By all means call whenever you wish, and ask for Surgical B. Goodbye.” He rang off before Mannering could say another word.
Lorna, seeing his face, cried happily: “He will be all right!”
“He came through well,” Mannering said. “Very well.” He replaced the receiver slowly as he went on: “I wonder if the same will be said of Lucille.”
Lorna’s smile faded. “And you,” she said, “You could be in danger too.”
“Ah,” breathed Mannering, very softly. “But I’m going to disappear.”
He meant just that. He would go upstairs to the attic, and by the use of some highly specialised disguise techniques within half-anhour no one would recognise him. He would go from this house across the roof to the house next door and leave from there; no one would give him a second thought. For years he had practised this disguise, until by now it was near perfection. She was quite sure that when he came down to say goodbye it would be like looking at a stranger.
It was.
He wore different clothes, looked fatter because of the bulky inner-lining of the suit, had clipped his hair making his face look plumper. He had even managed to change the size of his eyes by glueing them at the corners; altered the shape of his nose by using wax, put lines on his face.
She knew what he was carrying round his waist, too; a complete set of burglar’s tools, some ny
lon rope, a kind of grappling iron, another, larger tear-gas pistol and a small automatic which would kill at thirty yards. She did not make a fuss when he left, after asking for police protection here, but she watched from the big room window and saw him walking towards King’s Road. None of the police appeared to take more than a casual notice of him.
He turned the corner …
Even before then he had become a different man; not only different in appearance but in outlook. It was back in the days, long ago, when he had pitted his wits against the police and public over and over again; when he had trained himself to force any lock, break into any strong-room, escape from anywhere which threatened him.
He had been so much younger then, but he had a much greater purpose, now.
Apart from Lorna the only person who even suspected what he planned to do was Bristow and Bristow was glad that he only suspected and could not prove that John Mannering, alias Jonathan Mason would break into George Peek’s Ealing house before the day was out.
16
The House At Ealing
Mannering needed a little time to ‘live’ the part.
He reached a bus stop on the other side of King’s Road, waited in the cold, clear evening for ten minutes, until a bus came along, like a huge red monster. It was half-empty, and a Pakistani conductor was sitting on one of the seats near the door.
“You go top deck, sir?”
“No. Inside,” Mannering said.
“Where you go, sir?”
“Putney Bridge,” Mannering said, and paid his fare. The Pakistani clanged the ticket machine like a child playing with a new toy, smiling broadly as he did so. Mannering accepted the ticket absent-mindedly, still going over the events of the day, and still asking the key question: could Lucille be trusted? The sudden warmth in the relationship between her and Lorna was astonishing, and yet, was anything a woman did astonishing?
Had Lucille really run away to ‘save’ him?
Or was she playing some deep game which so far he had not begun to understand? If so, the inconsistencies in what she had said and done were easier to explain; but then, extreme nervous tension could explain the inconsistencies, too. If he had to bet he would bet on her goodwill, but if he had to stake his life that would be a hundred times more difficult to decide.
He got off the bus at the stop before the bridge, near a side street which led to a line of small factories and garages. Under the name, and in the character of Mason, he rented a garage on the premises of one of the factories, and it opened straight onto the street. He had rented similar garages within easy reach of Green Street, but had been forced to change them several times.
This one had cement block walls and a metal rollover doorway, and was well-lit with fluorescent lighting. He unlocked and pushed up the door; there was a small, dilapidated Morris inside, the kind of car no one would notice. He switched on the light, checked the car, and his make-up, then switched off the light and drove out, closing the door before he started back along New King’s Road.
He parked the car under a group of trees near Parsons Green, and walked across the road to a pub which had been there for as long as he could remember. Only half-a-dozen or so people were in it. Propped up in the bar was a chalked notice: Tonight: Special: Cottage Pie, 2 Veg, Ginger Pudding. He ordered a meal, and sat at a table with half-a-pint of bitter until it was ready. He knew the food here well, and considered it to be as good, if not better, than nine out often that he would get in a West End restaurant.
It was after seven o’clock when he had finished.
He drove away, first to Hammersmith and then to Chiswick. At the traffic circle approaching the M4 and the Great West Road he turned towards Hanger Lane, and soon found himself at Ealing Common. He pulled in, off the main road, and studied a map of London he kept in the car. In a few moments he had pinpointed Cirencester Street. He was within half-a-mile of it, had only to drive across the Common and turn along one of the many streets of residential houses.
What had Norman Harcourt wanted to tell him?
Had his heart attack been induced? And if it had, and could be proved that it had, then the odds on Ezra Peek having been murdered were much higher. He drove on, and as he reached the cross-roads a patch of mist appeared, causing drivers to jam on their brakes.
He stopped.
In one way fog would help him; in another it could hinder a quick getaway.
He decided that on the whole it would help, because he had not come to take anything from here, only to find out what he could. Unless he found Lucille …
His heart began to beat faster.
The traffic eased forward as the fog thinned, but now all the distant lights were misted; one side of the Common was crystal clear, at the other, driving was a tricky business. At least he knew exactly where he wanted to go, took the turnings shown on the map and then ran into a thick patch of fog. Hearing people walking by, he pulled down the far side window and called: “Can you help me, please?”
A pair of youths loomed out of the fog.
“I’m looking for Cirencester Street, I wonder if you know—”
“You’re practically in Cirencester Street,” one of the youths said. “Keep close to this kerb and when it swings left that’s the beginning.”
“Thank you.” Mannering spoke in the manner of a fussy old man. “Thank you indeed.”
A few yards along the night was clearer and he saw a sign on the fence outside a house, reading Cirencester Street and just beyond, the numeral 2. So he was on the right side of the road; everything so far was going his way. A few cars were parked, but their red lamps were easily seen. He found Number 20, pulled in behind a larger car, and got out. It was misty here, and on foot the night seemed strangely eerie. The stars were hidden, there was huge haloes round the tall, old-fashioned street lamps. He was between two of these when he came to The Elms. The gate stood wide open. Lights shone from the front door, through glass panels, and at two upstairs windows. Fearful of making too much sound, he stepped from the gravel driveway on to the grass. Moisture from shrubbery brushed his arm as he passed.
The driveway led off at the left-hand side of the house, and a white sports car was parked at one side.
He walked round it to the back door – and saw the shape of garages beyond; there were three. He went closer. All three doors were open and in each garage was a car. He felt the radiators. Two were warm, the third was cold enough to show that one car at least hadn’t been used for some time.
He went out again and made a complete circuit of the house. All the ground floor windows were shut, but two on the first floor were open, one of them close to the back porch. He would have no difficulty getting in. He went round again, making himself familiar with the windows and doors. On the far side heavy curtains blotted out light except in a pale glow at the edges, and he judged this to be near the kitchen, which was brightly lit although Venetian blinds were down. The curtained room was probably the dining-room.
He began to feel cold in the night air.
Just for a moment, he hesitated; John Mannering of today took over from the Baron of the past: that Baron would not have hesitated for a second. He overcame the hesitation and moved to the back porch. There were ledges in the wall in the corner, many of these Victorian houses might have been made for burglars.
He worked on thin cotton gloves to give himself a grip, then pulled himself up to the porch. He made hardly a sound although he was breathing heavily when he reached the top, and paused to get his breath back.
The open window was on the right, and within hand’s reach. There was a ledge above and below it, and he pressed close to the wall until he could stand on the lower ledge and grab the top one. Slowly, he shifted his weight from the porch to the ledge, and soon he was crouching on it, one arm inside the room. He pressed down slightly and the window moved easily and without noise. There was enough light to show that only a small table stood by the window, and he could haul himself up on the top ledge, thrust his legs t
hrough the open space, turn, and simply step down into the room.
Very carefully, he did all of these things. Soon, he was standing inside the house.
He heard no sound; he made no sound, except for heavy breathing. He must wait here until he was able to breathe silently. The outline of a door showed against a lighted passage beyond, and gradually he made out the shape of a bed, a wardrobe, oddments of furniture. Slowly, he crossed the room until he reached the door, groped for the handle, and gripped it. He turned it slowly and pulled, a brighter light slowly infiltrating from the passage.
The door was now open enough for him to slip through, and he studied the layout of the first floor.
A narrow staircase to the right was obviously for the use of the staff. The landing itself extended through an archway to the main staircase. There were doors on either side, all shut.
A whirring sound broke the silence, making Mannering’s heart jump; a moment later a grandfather clock struck below, eight lingering strokes. As the echoes faded the silence seemed more intense. He turned from the main landing and went up the stairs leading to the servants’ quarters; above was a narrow passage, lit from a single electric lamp. In all there were four doors and a loft ladder, leading to what he was sure would be the attic. He went up this quickly, pushed up the hatch cover, and listened; there was no sound. He took a pencil torch from his pocket and shone it about until he found two electric switches. He pressed one down, and a light came on, a naked bulb hanging from a beam. Another light on the other side came on when he touched the second switch.
The air was clean and fresh, showing that the place was well ventilated, and probably used.
He moved towards a gabled window. By now he had lost his sense of direction but when he reached it he saw the street lamps, evidence that it overlooked the front of the house. Outside the fog had thickened, the light through it diffused and ghostly. He tried out the window a fraction: it worked on a hinge and opened upwards. He went back, fully satisfied. One way of escape was assured.