by John Creasey
Stella gasped.
Harrison gripped her arm; twisted.
Mannering turned away; and in that moment he knew that Stella would lie to the police, she would obey orders.
The light from the approaching launch was much nearer. He slipped to that part of the deck where his rope was tied – and saw a car coming between trees, towards the river!
He swung himself across the gap to the bank, took out his knife and slashed at the rope. It was tarred and thick; the small blade had little effect as he cut furiously. The headlights of the approaching car drew rapidly nearer, and the river near the house-boat was clearly visible in the light from the launch.
The rope parted! He heard it flop against the side.
He did not wait to unfasten the piece round the tree. It might not be noticed in the general commotion. He coiled the rope swiftly and hooped it over a branch, then made off along the path. The trees which grew close to the river’s edge were showing clearly in the beams from the approaching car. He was soon out of their reach, and only a few yards from the small boat in which he had crossed the river. He stood by a big tree, watching.
Yes, more policemen had come in the car. Two or three jumped out and approached the house-boat, but made no attempt to get on board. The motor-launch was very near now, and someone was hailing from it. A door nearby opened and a bright light shone out. Mannering thought he could hear Harrison’s voice.
The wind was freshening, and it was getting very cold. Mannering began to move about, stamping his feet, beating his arms across his chest. There was too much noise near the houseboat for that to be noticed. The minutes dragged past. Muttered voices floated along the river.
Ten minutes passed; twenty.
Half an hour.
A man appeared on the deck opposite the policemen on the bank, and, in the light from the police car, Mannering saw Bristow. Dando stood beside him.
‘It’s all right,’ Dando called: ‘you can go back.’
Any luck?’ That was Whittaker.
‘I’ll see you later,’ said Dando.
He could not have said more clearly that he had not found what he had sought. So Stella had obeyed Harrison. Why?
Both she and her sister would have been safe with the police. Had Bellamy some other hold on her? Or had Harrison?
Mannering had to find the reason for that fear of Bellamy before he could get either girl to tell the police the truth – before he could be free from danger and from probings into the past.
Just after nine o’clock that night, Mannering went to the Corwellin Arms, asked for the use of a private room, and gave his name as Browning. He was soon visited by a short, breezy man, who declared himself to be a friend of Perce Grey.
Mannering told him what he wanted, and the man’s eyes rounded in astonishment.
Lorna sat on her bed, her knees tucked beneath her, a newspaper open by her side; but she wasn’t reading: she was listening.
A clock struck ten.
She got off the bed, glanced into the mirror, tucked a strand of hair into position – and then a swift gleam shone in her eyes and she turned to the door.
A man was approaching.
He stopped; and knocked.
Her heart was beating so fast that she could hardly speak, but she called: ‘Come in.’
Victor Galliard entered.
Lorna backed against her chair, tripped, and saved herself from falling by putting a hand on a table. The table rocked, an ash-tray fell to the floor. Shock, disappointment, and relief, all mingled as Galliard closed the door behind him and approached her.
He looked concerned. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I tripped over the mat,’ said Lorna. ‘Yes, of course I’m all right. What do you want?’
The light shone on Galliard’s wavy, auburn hair, and into his clear grey eyes, showing the anger and frustration in them.
‘Well, I hardly know! It doesn’t make sense.’
‘What doesn’t?’
‘I’ve just seen the police.’
‘Will – you – tell – me – why – you’ve – come – here!’ This affected John; it must affect him; and Galliard was standing as if he were tongue-tied, afraid to break bad news. He threw up his hands.
‘They say that she—she told them she’s staying with Bellamy of her own free will. But it’s damned silly! They found her on a houseboat down river. Dando says he spoke to her himself, and she told him that I’d been talking a lot of drivel. And yet, I could have sworn—’
He went on talking, explaining.
Lorna was seeing Mannering’s face in her mind’s eye; and seeing the situation starkly; as he had seen it.
Everything—everything depended on the evidence of the girl Stella; and she had lied.
Galliard kept talking, bewildered and hurt. He gave her a cigarette and lit his own, forgetting hers. On and on he talked, about how incomprehensible it was, how certain he was that Bellamy was frightening the girl.
Lorna looked past him towards the door.
It was opening.
She dropped the cigarette and took a quick step forward. She must send John away, he mustn’t be seen by Galliard.
Galliard swung round towards the door.
An untidy man with a lock of fair hair dropping into his eyes, an old raincoat hanging open, a white shirt, a hideous tie and a pair of baggy flannel trousers, stood before them. He carried a battered trilby hat in his hand.
‘I hope I’m not butting in,’ said Chittering of the Gazette.
Galliard snapped: ‘Who the devil are you?’
‘You wouldn’t know, but Mrs. Mannering does. I’m from the Gazette.’ When Galliard looked blank, he went on in a careless, easy voice: ‘You know – a reporter. On a newspaper. Specialist in crime. I think I should like a little chat with Galliard, V.C
‘You can go to hell!’ roared Galliard.
‘Unkind chap. Nasty place to be consigned to.’ Chittering closed the door. ‘Hope I’m not unwelcome, Mrs. Mannering. I heard odds and ends of what Galliard said.’
‘Mrs. Mannering—’ Galliard’s voice was thick with unreasoning anger.
‘It’s all right, we’re old friends. Come in and sit down, Mr. Chittering.’ Ldrna pressed a bell. ‘I’ll send for some drinks. And sit down, Mr. Galliard. You still believe that Stella Bellamy is in trouble, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. But I don’t see how publicity—’
‘Wonderful thing, in regulated doses,’ said Chittering. ‘You’d be surprised. Cure for many ailments. Shyness goes in a flash! Policemen get more careful when the newspapers say the public’s not satisfied. The beneficial effect of one censorious leading article is astonishing. Especially in a matter of a miscarriage of justice. Also when the police are duped. I—’
Someone tapped on the door; a floor waiter.
‘Now if there could be a bottle.’ Chittering perched himself on the arm of a chair. ‘My poison’s whisky.’
In the next hour, Galliard was won completely round.
Chittering knew as much as Lorna; as the police; as the young man. They all came to the same conclusion; pressure had been brought to bear on Stella. And they asked the same question: how could they remove it?
They couldn’t.
But at least talking with Chittering and being sure of his understanding, helped Lorna, and she felt better when they left; but on edge, because John was an hour late. She didn’t want him to come, the risk was too great, and yet if only she could be sure that he was safe.
Outside, a cold wind blew down the High Street.
‘Where are you staying?’ Chittering asked Galliard.
‘With some friends, in Church Street. Can I give you a lift?’
‘I’m only a step along,’ said Chittering. ‘Good night.’
He stood and watched the Bentley move off, and waited until it had turned the corner. Then he returned to the hotel and hurried up to Lorna’s room, tapped lightly, and went straight in. Lorna was standing b
y the window, and obviously not surprised to see him back. She looked sombre; austere; afraid.
Chittering picked up a half-empty bottle.
‘We’ve been too sober,’ he remarked. ‘Known Galliard for long?’
‘I hardly know him at all.’
‘Earnest young man, with a fondness for jumping to conclusions, or else for pitching a tall story. When you first heard it, I expect it sounded okey-doke. In the light of after events – some doubt, don’t you think? Mr. Galliard might be at his own particular game. He is not’—Chittering paused, and went on carefully as he poured himself out another drink—‘he is not a fool. He likes to create the impression that he is. You haven’t been foolish enough to tell him where your husband is, have you?’
Lorna said: ‘I don’t know where John is.’
Chittering grinned and drank.
‘To your discretion! You aren’t going to be foolish enough to tell me either.’ When he saw her wince, he crossed to her side. ‘Sorry. I want to help, you know. I did not believe young Galliard, but one never knows. He may be a simple romantic. I imagine that John is always suspicious of romantics.’
‘Must you talk like this?’
‘You know me. Trying to get the old thoughts clear. Difficult on three doubles.’ He finished his drink, but did not pour himself out another. ‘What’s your chief worry, Mrs. Mannering?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘No help from Stella Bellamy? Was John relying on her story to corroborate part of his own?’ Lorna didn’t answer. ‘So he was, eh? The obvious, when all’s said and done. And now Stella is either scared out of her wits and won’t allow herself to be rescued or she’s been leading John up the garden path. It would have to be a long, winding path to take him as far as this, wouldn’t it?’
Lorna moved to a chair and sat down.
‘Will you be serious?’
‘Yes,’ promised Chittering.
‘If that girl won’t give evidence – is there any chance for John? Are you sure about the—the finger-prints?’
Chittering pushed the lock of hair out of his eyes.
‘Yes. Sorry. Had an interview with Bristow earlier in the evening. Most garrulous mood. I’ve no doubt he told me most of it so that I could pass it on to you. Crafty bloke, our William. On the other hand, he seemed to have everything at his fingertips. He let me see photographs of the prints. Showed me the scarf.’ Chittering paused. ‘Can you take it?’
‘Go on.’
‘The police made an arrest this afternoon. Man named Lark. Believed to be the next best screwsman to a merchant who once operated as the Baron.’ Chittering did not alter the tone of his voice as he said that, and Lorna kept her face absolutely blank. One couldn’t trust – not wholly trust – even Chittering. ‘The police have never been able to pin anything on Lark, but apparently they scared him. Accused him of busting open that jewel-room. Lark couldn’t stand it. Made a statement.’
Lorna gripped the arms of her chair.
All this, you understand, was off the record.’ Chittering went on. And I’ll keep it there, of course. Can’t do the dirty on the dicks. But this story of Lark’s does the dirty on John. He told a queer story, of John fetching up at his house, near Bellamy’s. Breaking in. Holding them up – but Lark wasn’t alone, and overpowered John. John had the emeralds.’
Lorna closed her eyes.
‘Only hearsay, but when you take it in conjunction with the rest of the story, it makes you think,’ said Chittering. ‘I repeat – I think Bristow told me this so that I could pass it on to you. Thinks you will be a good girl if you know that the situation is really black. Probably expects John to get in touch with you, and wants this passed on to him. I wouldn’t know. The ways of the police are weird and wonderful. The one outstanding and unalterable fact is that John is in a very bad spot indeed. I think probably Bristow was getting at this: when you see John, tell him he can’t expect help from anyone, and that surrender is his only wise course. Every hour he keeps away from the police strengthens suspicion against him. Mind you, that was before Bristow knew Galliard’s story was phon—no, I won’t say phoney … that it just won’t stand up.’
He poured a little whisky into Lorna’s glass, and took it to her.
She drank it eagerly.
Another thing. I went downstairs with Galliard just now. There’s a bright young detective named Whittaker on the other side of the road. When I first came in, I saw a watcher at the back door. I think Bristow has this place so closely watched that John can’t get in, even if he can out-Lark Lark, as one might say. Even if he did get in, he couldn’t get out. Now, understand me – I don’t want anything, Mrs. Mannering. I only say that if you can get a message to John to stay away until he’s decided what to do, you’d be wise.’
‘But—I can’t!’
Chittering’s eyes rounded. ‘So you really can’t? That’s bad. I hope—’
A shout from outside cut across his words; a man bellowed: ‘There’s someone there!’
The man seemed to be standing immediately beneath Lorna’s window.
Chapter Seventeen
Mannering Looks In
Mannering stood in a dark corner of the King’s Head yard. Above him, a creeper which grew across an archway dangled close to his head. He pressed tightly against the weather-worn red brick of the stables. Bright lights flashed from torches and from windows. A tall man, who had been halfway up the wall, near Lorna Mannering’s window, was climbing down a rope which danced wildly near the groin. The policeman who had first seen him was struggling with another man in the shadow of the great arch which led from the High Street. Two hotel residents, standing at open windows, were shouting advice. Heavy footsteps from the front of the inn told of more policemen approaching.
The man on the rope dropped the last few yards. He stood poised for a moment; and a vivid yellow flash against a lighted window was followed by the report of a shot. The bullet smacked into the flagstones.
The cat-burglar raced for the darkness at the side of the hotel, then towards the garden at the back. Two policemen hurtled through the main archway, and Mannering was close enough to hear their heavy breathing. The man struggling with a policeman near the inn broke away, and raced after the first fugitive.
Lights were going on all over the inn; the yard was now brightly lit. The detective who had fired at the burglar climbed out of a first-floor window, lowered himself, and dropped to the ground.
It was Whittaker. He rushed in pursuit of the two men.
Mannering continued to stand quietly in the shadows.
A door opened, and Bristow and Dando appeared. Neither was really hurrying as they went towards the back garden.
A hotel resident shouted: ‘What’s up?’ and Bristow called back: ‘It’s all right now.’
Mannering’s lips curved.
But there was not much cause for amusement; the police were seldom prepared to shoot on sight, nothing else could have told him so clearly that they meant to get results, at once. Absurd thought; of course they did; but the English police used only guns when a criminal was dangerous.
The Baron had never been dubbed violent.
He saw a figure appear at a second-floor window; a woman’s head and shoulders were outlined against a yellow blind. The window opened, and Lorna looked out. He could not see her clearly enough to judge her expression.
Mannering slipped across the yard to the doorway through which Bristow and Dando had come, and went inside. No one was in the narrow passage which led to one of the lounges.
He reached the lounge, and heard voices. A porter and a man in pyjamas with his overcoat thrown over them, were talking excitedly. The word ‘police’ kept cropping up; and the word ‘murderer.’ They were standing near the reception desk, and the staircase lay between them and him. He went forward quickly but quietly, and up the stairs. A young woman, looking nervously out of her room, bobbed inside and shut the door sharply. Two men were talking across the first-floor la
nding, and one of them called out to him.
‘What’s the matter, d’you know?’
‘They think Mannering was staying here,’ said Mannering gruffly.
‘The Devil was!’
No one was in sight at the next floor, and all the doors were closed. He saw a light under Lorna’s door. He glanced right and left before he turned the handle and slipped inside, moving so silently that she did not hear him. He closed and locked the door, the click of the key turning attracted her attention, and she swung round.
‘Jo—’
‘Hush!’
She stood with her hands at her breast, staring incredulously at him.
Mannering smiled gently as he went forward, hands outstretched. Next moment she was in his arms, and he could feel the wild beating of her heart. Her face was pressed tightly against his shoulder. He knew she was clenching her teeth; trying hard not to break down. She had keyed herself up to face the worst. Now – he was standing here, in the flesh; alive and free.
He stood smoothing the dark gloss of her hair.
She lifted her head suddenly, and her radiance made him catch his breath. She was transformed; not merely beautiful, not merely lovely, but lit up with happiness.
‘Oh, darling,’ she said in a shaky voice, ‘I thought they’d shot you.’
‘Not yet, by a long way,’ said Mannering. He put his arm round her shoulders and led her to a chair. He sat down, and she sat on the arm, leaning against him. ‘I wish they hadn’t started popping lead, though. My friends won’t think much of it, and might refuse to help.’
‘Friends?’
They were both speaking in whispers.
‘Friends. I don’t know just what’s going on down here, but there’s a little group of rascals’—he used the word deliberately, lightly—‘who first wanted to hand me over to the police and then decided to help. My powers of persuasion haven’t wilted entirely. One of them made a stab at your window, his pal stayed downstairs to cause a distraction, and I slipped in when they’d drawn all the police off. Even Bristow won’t expect to find me here just yet.’