by John Creasey
‘I—I think this will do now, sir.’
‘Hold one end, and pull hard,’ said Mannering.
They gripped the sheets near the knots, and pulled as if in a tug-o’-war. The knot tightened and did not give.
‘That’s all right,’ whispered Mannering. ‘Now go to the landing, and whistle softly if you see anyone coming upstairs.’
‘You—you’ll never get away, sir!’
And when I’ve gone, get back to your own room and undress. You don’t want to be caught.’
Holmes made no further comment. He went to the door, stopped on the threshold, muttered: ‘Good luck, sir,’ and disappeared. Mannering gave him time to reach the landing before going to the open window.
Harrison gone; the girls gone; and the guards were watching for him.
He tied one end of the sheet to a bracket in the wall, tucked the other end into his trousers, and, with the sheets making a big loop which touched the floor, climbed up to the window. He crouched, peering into the grounds. He could hear nothing. This window looked on to a group of thick holly trees which stood between it and the path; even if one of the guards passed along, Mannering wouldn’t be seen.
He dropped the end of the sheet, turned and faced the house and then, gripping the sheet tightly with both hands, began to lower himself. The drop at the bottom was less than a yard. He bent his knees to take the impact, and landed softly.
The white sheets hung down, a clear streak against the dark wall.
He should have told Holmes to pull them up; Holmes wouldn’t think of it, in his present frantic state.
He walked round the house, keeping to the muffling grass. It was a clear, still night, and stars were shimmering and giving a welcome, pale light. The huge pile of the house towered above him. As he reached the corner, he heard a man speak, but couldn’t catch the words. On again. The garage, a long, low building, showed up clearly against the sky. As he drew nearer, he saw two men standing near the doors. A pale red tip glowed in the darkness; one was smoking. He preferred to tackle one at a time.
The cigarette curved in a red arc, and sparks flew when it hit the ground.
‘It’s damned cold,’ one of the men muttered. ‘Let’s get a move on.’
They walked from the doors towards the corner of the garage nearest Mannering. Would his face show up against the wall? They moved slowly, one of them beating his arms across his chest.
Mannering held his breath as they reached the corner and turned back.
No chance of overpowering them one at a time.
Mannering stepped from his hiding-place and went forward on his toes. He made a faint sound on the smooth asphalt, but the footsteps of the men drowned it. He passed the doors when the men were only ten yards ahead. They would turn when they reached the far corner, and a single shout would put an end to his hopes.
He took the revolver from his pocket.
At the corner they paused.
‘Wonder how long Harrison will be,’ one man remarked. ‘Asking for trouble, I reckon.’
Mannering held the gun by the barrel as he crept closer. One man was hatless, the other wore a cloth cap. Both were big, powerful fellows.
‘The old man—’ began the one with the cap.
Mannering brought the butt of the gun down on his head; he gasped and slumped down. The other swung round, mouth wide open to shout, and Mannering’s fist smashed into his face, Mannering followed with a punch to the stomach and, as the chin jutted forward, shot home an uppercut; the man’s teeth snapped together as he went down.
Mannering snatched a handkerchief from his pocket, and stuffed it into one man’s mouth. He gagged the other with his own handkerchief. He could count on a few minutes’ grace.
He grabbed them by their coat collars and pulled them along the ground, their heels dragging noisily on the asphalt. At the door – one of three – he dropped them and took the torch and skeleton key out of his pocket. He shone his torch on the lock; it was a simple one, large and old-fashioned.
Metal scraped against metal; he couldn’t afford the caution of silence now.
One of the men stirred, but didn’t try to get up.
The door yielded, and Mannering pulled it open and switched on the garage light. Let the world see him!
The motor-cycle was near the wall, almost within arm’s reach.
A man stirred again.
Should he drag them into the garage and lock them in? No, the din of the motor-cycle engine would arouse the rest, anyhow; only speed mattered.
It was years since he had been on a motor-cycle. It might be wiser to use one of the cars, but he would have to open another door to get it out.
He grabbed the handle-bars of the motor-cycle, swung it round and pushed it into the yard, within a foot of one man’s head. A light glowed in a downstairs room, but the only sounds were the creaking of the machine.
He examined it quickly, found the throttle and the starter, and wheeled it towards the drive. He passed the cedar tree, and still all was quiet.
Should he push it a little further? Or—
‘What’s that?’ a man called sharply.
Mannering straddled the machine and kicked the starter. The engine spluttered and faded. He moved the throttle and trod heavily again. He could hear someone hurrying forward; any moment he expected a shot.
The engine roared!
He eased off the brake, swayed, felt himself falling; but the machine righted itself and leapt forward; he had started off too fast.
A flash stabbed the darkness on his right, and the report rang out loudly, but the roar of the engine drowned all other noise. The drive gates loomed up in front of him. Would they be open or closed? Was there a man on guard there?
One gate was open.
Crack! The same man fired at him.
He was through the gateway! The pale, wavering line of the road stretched in front of him – the path to escape. He was already two hundred yards away from the gates, the machine went like the wind: he would be a couple of miles away before they could get a car out.
He had to go in the opposite direction to that from which he had come.
He hadn’t seen the road clearly because of the rain!
He remembered a fork and a turning towards the house, but had he turned right or left? Right or left? Right or left? He had come from the south, followed Harrison, reached the fork and turned – right, yes, that was it, he had turned right; so at the fork he would have to turn left.
He reached the fork and turned slowly, taking too wide an arc. The wheels left the road and bumped over rough moorland, he was nearly thrown off; one hand was jolted off the handlebars. He clutched the grip again, steadied, and got back on to the road.
A house with a telephone was near the road, just past a bridge.
The rutted track made high speed impossible now; dark holes and shining puddles showed up in the bright beam of the headlamp. He bumped and rattled along at no more than twenty miles an hour. Once or twice he looked over his shoulder. There were other lights on at the house, but he could not see the glow of headlights.
How far away was the bridge?
Something flew into his eye, hurting him; he closed it spasmodically and nearly lost control again. His eye began to water and the pain made him grit his teeth. He couldn’t see clearly, and the machine was wobbling dangerously. Must keep going.
It was no use, his eye was getting worse, he would have to stop. He took one hand away and rubbed it, trying to get relief from the sharp, stinging pain.
That eased, but both eyes were watering freely; he couldn’t—
There was the bridge!
The road was wider just there, and he could see the stone parapet and make out the line of the river, shimmering beneath the stars. There was a sharp incline before the bridge. He felt the machine slacken speed, opened the throttle, and next moment struck something in the road. The motor-cycle skidded, the front wheel crashed into the parapet and he was flung violently off.
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He fell on his side, and on a knee, but he saved his head. He lay gasping for breath, then slowly picked himself up and wiped his eye with his finger.
In the distance he could see the pale glow of car headlights; he would be overtaken in a few minutes if he tried to ride again.
He picked up the machine, wincing with the pain in his knee.
He wheeled the machine towards the far side of the bridge. It nearly ran away with him, but he kept it back, reached the bottom of the incline and turned round. He pushed the machine down the river bank, while the distant sky was brightened by the glow from a car’s headlights.
Near him was the lapping of water; in the distance, the throb of the car engine.
He let the machine fall, turned back, and approached the bridge, and crouched out of sight behind the parapet. The pain in his knee was agonising, and he pressed it gingerly; it was already swelling. But the house with a telephone couldn’t be far away.
The bridge showed up vividly in the powerful beams of the car as it sped past.
‘May you crash,’ Mannering said fervently.
There was no point in going back for the motor-cycle; he wouldn’t trust himself on it again. And Holmes wouldn’t have been mistaken, the house couldn’t be far away. But what did ‘near the road’ mean? Ten yards? Fifty? A hundred? He stood still, resting his injured leg. Not far away he thought he saw a shape blotting out the stars. He limped towards it, his knee gradually becoming less painful, but warm and glowing.
Yes, it was the house! He could pick out the fence which surrounded it.
The house was small and square, and in darkness – that was to be expected. He opened a small gate and went towards the front door.
He could make out the telephone wires above his head.
Holmes would have warned him had there been danger here. As he put out his hand to grope for the bell, he felt dizzy; he paused, leaning against the door. He must be ready to talk intelligently when he went in.
What should he say? Tell the blunt truth?
He heard movements inside the hall, although he hadn’t rung the bell. Suddenly a light showed behind frosted glass, and as the door opened, fell on to his face.
‘Who—’ a man began.
The light hurt Mannering’s eyes as he peered through his lashes at a perky, little fellow, hair on end, dressing-gown clutched round his waist.
The bottom fell out of Mannering’s hopes.
‘Why, it’s Mannering!’ exclaimed Mr. Lark in a squeaky voice. ‘Come in, Mr. Mannering.’
And Lark took a gun from his pocket.
Another figure appeared at the foot of the stairs, a big, hulking lump of a man.
The hefty man pushed past Lark, took Mannering’s arm, and pulled him over die threshold. Mannering winced from the pain in his knee.
Lark slammed the door.
‘Now don’t be ‘ard on him, Jackie,’ he said, ‘you can see he’s had a rough time.’ The little thief stepped to Mannering’s side and slipped a hand into his pockets, with the practised speed of an expert. He took out the Luger, and tossed it to his companion, who caught it neatly. ‘I ‘ope you’ve got a licence for that gun, mister,’ Lark said virtuously. ‘Arf a mo’, Jackie; he’s got something else.’
He took out the skeleton key.
Jackie’s eyes rounded. Lark shot Mannering a quick, wary glance. The spurious geniality faded and Lark became deadly serious. He looked closely at the skeleton key, then dropped it on a table and dived his hand into Mannering’s pocket again. This time he found the small file.
‘Strewth!’ gasped Jackie.
‘You shut up,’ said Lark in a strained voice. Delving once more, he produced the knife and the screwdriver, and a moment later the glass-cutter. The tension increased with the appearance of each tool. Huge, shapeless Jackie stared goggle-eyed at the growing pile, and Lark’s breath was hissing through his nostrils.
He found the cord, tossed it on to the table, then tapped Mannering about the chest. He took a wallet and the small case containing the Lake Emeralds. Jackie’s eyes bulged. Lark’s fingers were unsteady as he picked at the case and opened it. The glowing green gems lay on the black velvet.
Lark looked at Mannering through his lashes. Jackie breathed: ‘Gor blimey!’ but Lark silenced him with a wave of his hand.
These tools were the stock-in-trade of the cracksman – their stock-in-trade. Mannering was one of the mugs; a man to be robbed; in his way famous; a connoisseur and collector whose reputation was irreproachable. But the tools and the emeralds gave the lie to that.
And there was honour among thieves.
Chapter Nine
Lark Listens
Lark’s whistling breath was the only sound in the room. Jackie seemed dumbfounded, a mountainous, silent block of a man.
Mannering put all his weight on his right leg, to ease the pain in his knee.
Slowly, Lark stretched out his hand and picked up the Luger. He gripped it firmly, and jabbed it into Mannering’s side.
‘We’re going to have a little talk, Mister Mannering. Go in that room there. Lights, Jackie.’
Jackie drew a gargantuan breath, lumbered across to an open door, groped for the switch and pressed it down. With the barrel of the gun poking between his ribs, Mannering limped into a small, crowded room. A round table stood in the middle; nearly every inch of floor space was taken up with hideous Victorian chairs, upholstered in mauve plush, with small tables, an ornate sideboard, rococo bric-a-brac of every description. Here and there, gaudy striped wallpaper showed between sepia-coloured photographs, cheap prints, and oleographs. The light was reddened by a silk shade with a long fringe which hung down to shoulder-height.
‘Siddown,’ ordered Lark.
Mannering sat in a winged arm-chair, leaned forward and pushed a stool into position and, with a grunt, raised his left leg.
‘S’matter with your leg?’
‘I’ve twisted the knee,’ said Mannering.
‘S’ave a look.’
Mannering pulled up the leg of his trousers. At least he had time to think – but he would have to think fast to outwit little Lark. What was the best line to take?
He looked at his swollen, discoloured knee, with a sharp sense of dismay. The gravel had cut through the cloth, the flesh was badly grazed, and blood was oozing out. Better that than a sprain, perhaps – but never mind his knee, how should he deal with Lark?
Lark shot Jackie a quick, meaning glance.
‘Get some water. Get everything. Come back – in five minutes. Got me?’
‘Okay,’ said Jackie in a strained voice, and lurched out of the room.
Lark closed the door and turned, still covering Mannering with the Luger. He put his left hand into his pocket, drew out a packet of cigarettes, deftly extracted two, and tossed one of them to Mannering. He lit his own cigarette with a lighter, then threw the lighter on to Mannering’s lap.
‘Thanks,’ said Mannering. He lit the cigarette and threw the lighter back. Lark caught it neatly.
‘How long you been in the game?’ Lark demanded abruptly.
‘I’ve never been in the game.’
‘Just picked them play-things up at a pawnshop. I suppose. Quit lying, Mannering. I know a screwsman when I see him. Didn’t think you—’ He broke off; there was a glint in his eye; perhaps of admiration. ‘You did a swell job! Not many men could get into the jewel-room – and get out. How’d you manage it?’
‘I bought those emeralds,’ Mannering said.
‘I told you to stop lying,’ Lark growled. ‘Bellamy wouldn’t sell any of his stuff. I know Bellamy. Rather lose his right ‘and than sell the smallest sparkler he’s got up there. Jackie’s not here now – he won’t talk anyway. But—’
‘I’ve told you the truth.’
Lark thrust his head forward. His grip tightened on the gun, but his forefinger was not on the trigger. His eyes were narrowed to tiny slits.
‘Listen, Mannering, I know what you are. Ma
ybe you know what I am. Maybe we could do business. I said maybe. I’ve got a lot of stuff I can lay my ‘ands on. You’ve got Quinn’s. Gawd, what a cover!’ Yes, a glint of admiration showed through the tension and the menace in his manner. ‘But don’t make any mistake, Mannering, it’s only maybe. I can work two ways. Keep you safe or turn you over to Bellamy. I sell a lot o’ stuff to Bellamy, but I don’t like the covs. Don’t like ‘Arrison, neither. They’re mean. You and me might be able to do a lot o’ business together, if you’ll talk.’
Mannering drew on his cigarette.
‘Lark,’ he said.
‘Make it snappy!’
‘Ever been held on a murder rap?’
The little crook straightened up and let the Luger droop towards the ground. Mannering continued to draw at his cigarette. There were sounds in the house, of Jackie gathering the first-aid equipment for Mannering’s knee, but the uncouth man wouldn’t come in until he was called: Lark was boss here.
‘Don’t try any tricks on me,’ Lark said. The question puzzled him, he was stalling now. ‘I’m not a murderer.’
‘You’ll be mixed up in one if you don’t keep clear of Bellamy.’
‘I don’t get you, and we ain’t talking about murder. I asked you—’
‘A man fell out of a window at Hallen House and broke his neck,’ said Mannering. ‘That’s Bellamy’s story, and he got away with it, but two people saw what happened – the man was pushed. And another, named Rundle, died on the moor last night. They said it was from exposure, but he was a prisoner at the house and escaped. He came to warn me not to go to see Bellamy; he said that there was death at Hallen House. There is death – for anyone who works with Bellamy. Death at the end of a rope, death after the eight o’clock walk, death—’
‘Shut up!’ Lark’s voice was strangled.