by John Creasey
‘How long can you stay?’
‘For tonight, anyhow,’ said Mannering. ‘I’ve a room on the same floor. Number 39. Ask for Mr. Browning.’
‘John, the risk!’
‘Well, show me a way to avoid any, and I’ll take it,’ said Mannering. He took out cigarettes, and they lit up. He saw the half-empty whisky bottle and three glasses on a table near the chair. ‘Which is your glass?’ he asked, and Lorna touched one. Leaning forward, he poured himself out a whisky and soda. ‘If I need this, what are my stooges feeling like?’
‘John, please don’t take this lightly!’
‘Now look here, it will work out – it will be worked out. At a rough guess, I’d say that the situation can only get worse if Bristow puts the darbies on me, but he isn’t going to do that for a bit. And, as they say, his suspicions are aroused.’
Aroused!’
Against the real villains, I mean.’
‘I wonder if you know just how bad things are,’ Lorna said quietly. ‘I’ve just seen Chittering—and young Galliard. And –’
‘Tell me,’ said Mannering.
So he learned what Lark had ‘confessed’; and what the police had told Galliard and Chittering. He smoked two cigarettes while Lorna talked; now and again he smiled; and occasionally he frowned. When she finished, he stood up, walked to the fireplace and turned to face her. Lorna continued to sit on the arm of her easy chair.
There was no pretence of light-heartedness about Mannering now.
‘We ought to be grateful to Chittering,’ Mannering said. ‘He’s right, of course – Bristow told him, hoping he would tell you; it’s an invitation to me to give myself up. But the answer’s no. Not yet. Bellamy hasn’t just been snatching any chance which offered, you know. He’s had this worked out. When I escaped, it jolted him, but he must have laid similar plans beforehand. I think I was lucky, sweetheart. I don’t think he meant me to leave that house alive – and free. Deep-laid plot. Get me there, kill me there or make it seem that I killed someone. The problem is—why? Not because I was after him; until I advertised for the emeralds I’d never heard of him. He deliberately tried to get me down here. But—why?’
‘Does it matter now?’ asked Lorna. ‘Cause isn’t important, but the effect—’
‘If we could find out why it was started, we’d probably know what their object is, and get at their weak spot. Still, no use spending too much time thinking about that now. What to do?’ He looked at her with a gleaming smile. ‘We could go to bed.’
‘Oh, you’re hopeless!’
‘Just in love. Get one or two things clear, sweet. Lark told the police a little, so as to help himself, but didn’t tell them all. Had he done, they’d know just what I look like, and would have arrested me hours ago. Lark’s dependable. So are his friends, although the shooting will have depressed them. Still, I don’t think we need worry overmuch about Lark. There are two main questions – first, Galliard? What’s he doing? Is he what he seems? Second – why did Stella tell the police that she was on that house-boat of her own free will? I was there, you know.’
Lorna drew in her breath.
And feeling cock-a-hoop,’ Mannering confessed. ‘Houseboat, Harrison, the evil housekeeper and the two lovely sisters, all in one fell swoop. If Stella had been there alone, I’d have expected her to lie to the police to save her sister. But both were there, as large as life, and Stella caved in at a scowl from Harrison.’
Lorna said: ‘Have the girls fooled you, John?’
‘Girls having the habit! No, darling, Stella’s scared.’
‘But if she and her sister could have escaped and didn’t—’
‘She’s scared of something else.’
He was sure that was true. And Lorna, doubtful at first, saw how convinced he was, and accepted it. They sat silently for a while. Suddenly: ‘What will happen to Lark?’ asked Lorna.
He put his head back and looked at her through his lashes.
‘Who else would have thought of little Lark just now?’ he murmured. ‘Bless you, my sweet! And I wish I knew the answer. The police might be holding him on a technicality, and I doubt if he’d have anything at his house to put himself in bad. He’s a smart little beggar.’
And he could have damned you.’
‘I know. Not to be forgotten. And before it’s over, I’ll see him through.’ He shrugged, as if to drive away thought of what might happen before all danger was gone, and asked abruptly: ‘What did Galliard have to say about himself? About his inheritance, chiefly.’
She went over the story carefully; of Galliard’s death, the legacy to cousin Charles, Charles’s sale of the house and contents to Bellamy for a song; and his sudden death.
‘It’s almost too complicated not to be true,’ Mannering said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder how much of this Galliard told the police? If he’s also scared of something we don’t know about, he may have told half a story. Have you passed it all on to Bristow?’
‘No.’
‘You’d better, I think. Bristow will check up if there’s any discrepancy between Galliard’s story to you and to him. If there isn’t, he’ll go into the case history. The answer to the puzzle’s in that history somewhere, and the deeper Bristow has to look the better my chance in the long run. Still – it isn’t reassuring. Candidate for the gallows! A rope for the Baron! But we aren’t seriously worried about that, are we?’
‘I think I have been.’
‘No need. I hope! But there’s plenty to worry about. The police will have to dig very deep if they arrest and charge me, so they’ll dig out the truth about this job and save my neck. In doing so they might disinter the Baron. That’s why I must keep away from Bristow for a bit. No charge, no digging, no digging, no ghost.’
‘The ghost is always there,’ said Lorna.
At least the damned thing doesn’t always clank around like this.’
She laughed, then pushed him away.
‘John, no! Darling, what are you going to do?’
‘Exercise stern self-control and go to my own lonely bed. Think. And evolve a way of finding out why Stella’s still so scared. I can’t have hysterical young women chasing my ghost around. Darling, did I ever tell you that when you look like that, you’re the most desirable woman in the world?’
Mannering lay in bed in his dark room, only vaguely aware of sounds in the yard, of voices, of a car moving off, suggesting that the police were back. If they hadn’t caught their man, they might conclude that Mannering had planned the disturbance as a distraction, and search the hotel. But they would also assume that he had gone again, so he felt secure. Could that be because his mind had slowed down? Was there danger which might close in at any moment? Was this temporary safety an illusion? Was he so preoccupied with the other problems that he could not see this situation clearly?
Forget all that! Back to the major question: why had the girl lied?
What gave Bellamy and Harrison their hold over her? Now facts which had to be faced.
He could never prove that he had left Hallen House before Holmes had died. No one had seen him, except Holmes himself. Other questions; one in particular.
Why had Lark told Bristow about the emeralds but not the rest of the story? Had the little crook some ulterior motive? Did Lark want the police chasing him, Mannering? Had it suited Lark’s own purpose to set him free? What had the little man really thought when he had pulled those cracksman’s tools out of his pockets? Had he suspected the whole truth – the Baron? Did he think that there was a way of escaping from the consequences of his own crimes? Was Lark, in fact, working with Bellamy and Harrison?
And why had Galliard turned up at the crucial moment?
Chittering, a shrewd judge of human nature, had doubts about Galliard.
There were footsteps along the passage; tapping at a door; voices.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you so late, Mrs. Mannering.’
Bristow!
Mannering sat up, groped for the light, but did
not switch it on.
Bristow was in Lorna’s room for a long time; questioning, probing, and yet frustrated; he’d get nowhere with Lorna, she was proof against all his tricks.
What did Bristow believe?
Did it matter?
At last he heard the Yard man’s quiet: ‘Good night.’ The door closed and the hotel settled down to its nightly stillness. But Mannering was a long time getting to sleep.
Chapter Eighteen
Visitor to the Cottage
Superintendents Dando and Bristow were not in the best of moods when they met in Dando’s office the next morning. Up to a point, things had gone well; when there had been a report of a man trying to get into the King’s Head, Bristow had thought: ‘We’ve got him!’ If he had mixed feelings, he concealed that well. But they had not caught anyone.
And Bristow couldn’t make up his mind whether Mannering had fooled them, or whether someone else had caused that alarm.
Dando was angry because of the failure of his own men. What an example of inefficiency! Bristow had been decent about it, but the two men at the King’s Head ought to have been caught. Their escape created new problems. Whereabouts in or near Corwellin could thieves hide with impunity?
In fact, Dando had an uneasy conscience.
There had been rumours of extensive smuggling in the locality, but he had never been able to put a finger on the trouble. As the reports were only rumours, he had made tentative inquiries, no more. Now he was worried lest Mannering was connected with smugglers, who would certainly have hiding places. How extensive was the organisation, if it really existed? Was it centred in Corwellin?
There was Dando’s real sense of guilt; he was not sure what was going on in his own district. But Corwellin was such a quiet spot; serious crime was almost unknown; the smugglers – if they existed – he kept repeating that, as if to reassure himself had kept very quiet. Possibly some contraband was landed on the nearby coast and taken straight to Bristol or London; it certainly wasn’t distributed from Corwellin; he would have known about that.
Mannering, a dealer in jewels and antiques, might easily be one of the leaders of a smuggling organisation; so might Bellamy. The more he thought of it, the more it seemed to Dando that this was a case of thieves falling out. Perhaps Mannering and Bellamy had quarrelled over the spoils?
Should he confide in Bristow?
He decided to ease his mind; Bristow had a way of encouraging confidences, and this morning his looks were at their best, in spite of his own worries, his kindliness glowed. So Dando found it easy to talk.
He exaggerated the attempts which he had made to find out if the rumours were true, and Bristow appeared to be properly impressed.
‘Of course, this may be a false trail,’ Dando finished. ‘Would Mannering touch smuggled jewels, d’you think?’ Bristow looked like a wise old owl.
‘You can never tell with dealers. But his reputation is so good, I shouldn’t have thought he would take a chance.’ He lit a cigarette from the stub of one in his hand. ‘Smuggling – it might be part of the solution. Your men Bellamy and Harrison apparently use the river a lot, and the stuff could be brought up river. They want watching closely, but I don’t see that we’ve any excuse for concentrating too much on Bellamy. Better have Hallen House and the house-boat watched, though.’
‘I’ve already arranged that.’
‘Good. Er—’ Bristow looked grave. ‘Sorry to say this, but Whittaker isn’t one of the best—’
‘Don’t talk to me about Whittaker! Always liable to do something daft. I’m keeping him here, reliable men will do the watching. But you’re right, we can’t afford to concentrate too much on Bellamy and Harrison. Mannering now – don’t you think he left the district?’
Dando sounded almost hopeful, Bristow casual.
‘Could be. We’ll pick him up sooner or later. I think we ought to keep an eye on Grey, the innkeeper of the place where Lark was staying. You might get a line on Grey’s friends, too. I’ve a feeling that I’ve seen Grey in London, and men like Lark usually mix with their own kind.’
He touched Dando on a tender spot.
‘I know. Er—but are we justified in holding Lark any longer?’
‘We could charge him with helping Mannering to escape, but whether we should is a different matter,’ Bristow said. ‘Better release him and his friend, and watch them. Whether it’s smuggling or not, there’s something very odd going on here. The murder of Holmes is only a part of it. And if Mannering is in the district, he’ll have to get in touch with someone sooner or later. It might be Lark or his friends; it might be his wife; it might be Galliard – and it might even be Chittering of the Gazette.’
‘We can’t watch them all,’ complained Dando.
Mannering left the King’s Head just after ten o’clock, when the two Superintendents were discussing him. He walked past a policeman who was standing opposite the hotel, and went to Andrews Garage. The same plump man greeted him genially. Yes, of course, he could have the car whenever he wanted it. The garage owner winked. Just as well to have a good fast car sometimes, wasn’t it? What with taxes where they were and things in such short supply, he didn’t blame anyone who managed to get some stuff into the country without visiting the Customs Shed. He wished any such people good luck!
Mannering left Corwellin at half-past ten with plenty of petrol in the tank.
He reached Bristol before one o’clock, went immediately to the G.P.O., bought a letter-card, and wrote a brief note:
‘My dear Bill,
I didn’t kill him, you know. I hope you realise it. If I come into the open just yet I shall spoil as nice a little plot as I’ve ever come across. Be patient; be careful; and get ready to say ‘thanks’ when I hand you the case on a plate!
You might tell Lorna that I’m still alive. I’m afraid she might worry in case I’ve shared Holmes’s fate.’
He read it over; about right, he decided; sufficient to imply that he’d not been at Corwellin the previous night; to say he wasn’t worried about his own position. But it wanted rounding off.
He added another sentence.
‘You might ask Dando if he’s ever heard of smuggling in this part of the world.
John M.’
He addressed the letter-card in block lettering, so that Bristow would not immediately recognise the handwriting, marked it Personal and Private, and posted it just before he left Bristol, at four o’clock that afternoon. He did not return to Corwellin, although his room was still reserved at the King’s Head. He stopped at a hotel near the river for an early dinner and, when darkness was beginning to fall, drove towards the riverside cottage. Lights from several windows were glowing. A pity, for he had hoped that the house would be deserted.
He left the Lancia near the quarry, and walked to the river.
Harrison would certainly not recognise him in this disguise. Should he go boldly to the front door, knock, force his way in and …
Nonsense!
But the notion amused him.
He went straight to the landing. The motor-boat was tied up securely. The strains of radio music were coming from the cottage; slow, sonorous, operatic, Wagnerian, heavy on the crisp night air; so whoever was inside was settled for the evening, one didn’t take Wagner in snatches. He approached a lighted window, the one through which he had looked the previous night.
Stella and her sister were inside; no one else was in the room.
He went to the back, seeing no one in the kitchen, although the light was on.
In another ground-floor room Foss was sitting in an easy chair, near a radio-phonograph. He had taken off his coat, and loosened his collar and tie. His shoes were in the fireplace, and he wore a pair of carpet slippers. A large cigar jutted out from his lips.
Only the lights Mannering had seen were on; Foss and the girls were probably on their own.
If he acted quickly, he could get results.
He hurried back to the quarry, and drove down to the brid
ge, leaving the car where he had left it the night before. Indoors, the music boomed out, and the girls were still in the lounge, both reading.
He approached the window of a darkened room and examined the catch with his fingers, relying only on sense of touch. Then he took out the thin screwdriver, pushed it between the two halves of the windows, and pressed lightly against the catch. It moved. He increased his pressure slightly; the latch went back with a sharp click!
The music would drown that sound.
He pushed up the window, and the music welled out, spreading into the night. He climbed inside.
Enough light came from beneath the door to show that this room was a dining-room. He stepped to the door, opened it, narrowing his eyes against the glare from the light in the passage.
The girls were in a room immediately opposite him; Foss was in a small room next to this.
He crossed to Foss’s door, put his right hand into his pocket, and pushed the screwdriver against it so that it would look like a gun. Then he opened the door with his left hand. The music swelled out, loud and deafening, a depressing medley of strings and drum and trumpets.
Foss, sitting with his back to him, was nodding his head up and down to the rhythm of the music.
Mannering stepped closer.
He was a yard away when Foss swung round!
Foss got to his feet in a flash, backed towards the window and snatched a gun from his hip pocket; the movements were almost simultaneous, he must have had some warning. His face twisted in mingled fear and determination, and the light glinted on the grey gun.
Mannering leapt before the gun was levelled, and hit him on the side of the face. The blow pushed Foss back, he tripped over a stool and crashed down. The music boomed out to a wild climax. The gun, loose in Foss’s hand, was touching the floor. Mannering saw the hand move and kicked out. He caught Foss on the wrist; the gun slithered a couple of feet, without going off, but Foss jumped up and dived for it. Mannering caught him by the arm, swung him round, and drove his fist into his face. Foss’s eyes rolled, he caught his breath and slumped down.