by John Creasey
Boom!
The music stopped after a crash of drums. The silence seemed deadly.
Foss lay inert on the floor between the stool and a chair. Mannering looked round for a cloth to bind the man, saw nothing, took Foss’s handkerchief from his pocket and rammed it into his mouth. Foss’s breath whistled noisily through his nostrils.
Mannering turned off the radio, picked Foss up, slung him over his shoulder, peered along the passage to make sure no one was coming, then carried the man up the stairs. An open doorway let into a bedroom. He carried Foss in, and switched on the light with his elbow. He dropped the man on a single bed in a poorly furnished room, then turned down the clothes, took the pillow-case off the pillow and tore it into strips.
Soon Foss was trussed up, and tied to the bed; no danger there, now.
Mannering took the bulb out of the lamp, plunging the room into darkness, and then went out and closed the door, glad of Foss’s gun in his pocket. But he wanted something else, and went into a larger bedroom and looked through the drawers of the dressing-table. He found a pair of thin leather gloves, the next best thing to the cotton gloves Lark hadn’t been able to find. He drew them on, wriggled his fingers about, and turned to the door.
He went downstairs, reached the hall and moved towards the girls’ door.
He was two yards away when the door opened and Stella appeared.
She did not see him at first, but came sideways into the hall, looking at her sister. ‘I won’t be long, Kath.’
She turned round, caught sight of Mannering – and screamed!
Chapter Nineteen
Talk With Stella
‘What is it?’ cried Kathleen. ‘What is it?’
She appeared behind her sister, who had uttered that one piercing scream, and now stood with a hand at her mouth, gasping for breath.
Mannering said quietly, in his assumed voice: ‘I’ve come to help. Don’t worry about Foss, he’s having a rest.’
‘Rest!’ gasped Stella.
‘Go inside,’ Mannering ordered; and they backed into the room. Magazines lay on the floor, and open on a table between two armchairs was a box of chocolates.
Stella put out her hand to touch her sister. Kathleen’s face was chalk white.
‘Who—are you?’
‘A friend of Mannering.’
‘A friend of—’
‘I hope you remember him. He wants to see you.’
‘Yes, I remember Mannering,’ said Stella, in a strained voice. ‘He killed Holmes, the only friend we had at Hallen House. It’s no use saying he didn’t!’ Her voice rose almost to a scream, she was as bad as her sister. ‘He’s a murderer; he killed my friend!’
‘He risked his life getting out of Hallen House to help you, and he didn’t kill Holmes.’
‘But the newspapers—’ Stella was fighting to speak calmly.
‘The newspapers got their information from Bellamy. If you’re going to believe your uncle, we’ll never get out of this jam. Stella, why did you lie to the police when they came to see you on the house-boat? Your sister could have been rescued with you – at the house, you told Mannering that you were frightened for her, only for her.’
‘How—how do you know all this?’
‘I’ve seen Mannering. He can’t come out of hiding, so I’m doing his job for him, and I’m going to save him from the gallows.’ He saw the girl flinch. ‘You didn’t mean Mannering harm, or you wouldn’t have warned him not to go to Hallen House. What’s made you change your mind?’
‘Oh, stop!’ cried Kathleen. ‘Stop talking like that!’
Mannering said roughly: ‘Mannering tried to help you without going to the police because you were so scared about your sister. Mannering put his neck in a noose for your sake. Now you’re going to tell me what your game is.’
Stella did not speak.
Kathleen dropped into a chair and closed her eyes.
Mannering went on: ‘You were frightened then, and you’re still frightened. Your uncle has you in his power and every time you throw away a chance of escaping, you’re making your own position worse. Either you were lying to Mannering, or—’
‘I wasn’t lying!’
‘Then what is the truth?’
Stella said slowly, desperately: ‘I daren’t tell you. I daren’t!’
‘You’d rather live like this – frightened of every sound, every movement, in deadly fear of Bellamy and Harrison, of the police. You’d rather see Mannering die—hanged—murdered. You’d rather let the real murderer of Holmes get away scot free, because you daren’t tell me the truth.’
‘I—I can’t help myself!’
‘You’re going to help yourself. If you’re frightened of what Harrison or Bellamy might do to you, come away with me. I’ve a car outside. I can take you to a safe hiding-place. And—’
‘No!’ gasped Stella. ‘No, we can’t!’
‘So your uncle—’
‘He’s not my uncle!’ cried Stella.
Bellamy wasn’t her uncle. What crazy business was this?
‘We can’t leave here,’ gabbled Stella. ‘Not now. Please go away. You can’t help. No one can help.’ She talked like someone who was beyond all hope. ‘Please go away. If—if Mannering is in danger, I’m sorry. I warned him not to go to Hallen House; he wouldn’t listen to me.’
‘So Bellamy isn’t your uncle? Then who is he? Your name is Bellamy. Isn’t it?’
‘Go away; I can’t tell you anything more.’
Understanding dawned. ‘So you’re frightened for your uncle.’
She drew in a hissing breath.
‘No, no! No, it isn’t true, it isn’t true!’
All right,’ Mannering said into a long pause. ‘The best thing I can do is take you to the police. They’ll probe deep; they won’t be influenced by danger to you or your uncle. All they’ll want is the truth, and they’ll find it.’
He turned on his heel.
‘Don’t go!’ cried Stella. She ran forward, gripped his hands, hers were hot and clammy. ‘You mustn’t tell the police; they’d go to see Bellamy, if they did—’
‘Your uncle will be killed. Is that it?’
‘Yes!’ cried Stella. ‘They’ll kill him!’
So he’d won that round!
‘Where is your uncle?’
Kathleen opened her eyes.
‘Stella, don’t—’
‘It’s no use,’ said Stella in a flat voice. ‘We’ll have to tell him now.’ She released Mannering’s hand. ‘He—he’s at Hallen House. I don’t know where. It’s so big—so rambling—it’s full of secret rooms, secret panels, hidden passages. He’s somewhere there. I didn’t know until Harrison told me. I looked everywhere. I couldn’t tell the police the truth – until I could be sure he was all right.’
Now she talked freely; eagerly; all the barriers were down.
Their real name was Ashton.
Their uncle had brought them up from childhood; been mother and father, a man they loved; adored. That came out clearly in broken words and phrases; so did the fact that they must help him, and why. Kathleen kept bursting into tears; recalling all that had been good, and showing how the horror had come swiftly, shatteringly upon them.
Ashton was a dealer in antiques and precious stones. Mannering knew him …
He had first met Bellamy when in America. They made a business deal through a friend; and her uncle was commissioned to sell a big collection. Bellamy had wanted to buy, but not to pay the full price. Something – the girls didn’t know what it was – had forced her uncle to accept ruinous prices for some of the jewels. From then on, her uncle had changed. Back in England, he was nervous, irritable, sick.
Stella had guessed that he was being blackmailed by Bellamy.
One morning, months ago, he had been ordered to go to Hallen House. He hadn’t wanted to go, but had not dared to disobey. The sisters had stayed in their London flat, Kathleen in poor health, a constant anxiety. Soon afterwards, their uncle ha
d written to them. They were to join him in Cornshire; all was well, there was no need to worry.
They went by train, and Harrison met them at the station.
Their uncle didn’t appear.
Bellamy did.
Bellamy in his suave, cruel way had hinted at dark horrors.
They must stay at Hallen House; obey orders; submit to his commands; and one day they might see Ashton. Stella had revolted.
And Kathleen, sick, frightened, had been shut away in her room, lost to Stella. Why was it done? They didn’t know.
Stella knew that a man had come to the house, and stayed a few days; and been hurled to his death from a window. Later, another man; Galliard, who had tried to help her, but to whom she had dared not talk. Then she had heard Bellamy and Harrison talking about Mannering’s visit; he was to value the jewels, but not be set free. Murder had leapt to her mind, in panic she had fled, to warn him.
Rundle had tried, too.
Rundle and Holmes had been the only people at Hallen House with a kindly word for Stella; Holmes had brought reports of Kathleen’s progress – but none about her uncle.
Yet Bellamy kept telling her that Ashton was at the house.
The two people whom she cared for were completely in Bellamy’s power.
And even now, she didn’t know why.
She pressed her hands against her forehead as she drew towards the end of her strange story. ‘Now I’ve told you, what can we do?’
Mannering said: ‘Find your uncle.’
‘I lived there for six months – and couldn’t find him.’
‘If he’s there, Mannering will.’
‘It’s impossible!’
‘It was impossible for Mannering to get away from Hallen House; but he’s free.’
Stella said slowly: ‘Yes—yes, that’s true.’
‘And you can help. There must be something to give you some hint, some clue.’
‘Nothing!’
‘Think,’ said Mannering.
Stella’s eyes were glassy, red-rimmed; she was tormented. Kathleen got up and came to her side, gripping her arm. ‘Stella, think.’
‘Kath, please—’
‘You must!’
‘There was—one strange thing,’ said Stella, and her voice was hushed. ‘They would never let me into the Great Hall. They had some secret there.
‘One night when I couldn’t sleep, I saw them go into the Great Hall. All the lights went out—everything. Harrison had a candle. I remember how ghostly it looked. And—’
‘Yes?’
‘There were other nights when the lights went out.’
‘Did you see them go into the Great Hall again?’
‘No. After that night, they locked me in.’ She stopped.
And, stopping, she looked past Mannering and in a flash he knew that the fear which leapt to her eyes was not born out of memory; and a cold draught swept into the room.
‘We ought to have cut your throat,’ said Harrison.
He came in, with a Luger in his hand.
Chapter Twenty
Present for the Police?
Another man was behind him; one of the gardeners from Hallen House. Stella covered her face in her hands; all colour had gone from her sister’s face.
‘So you’re a friend of Mannering’s,’ Harrison rasped.
Mannering did not speak.
‘The police ought to be very interested in a friend of Mannering’s. What a pretty present you would make for Dando and Bristow.’ Harrison gave that odd, unfinished laugh. ‘Ha! Didn’t your friend Mannering warn you that you were dealing with clever men? And didn’t you realise we could see you from outside?’
The other man came into the room and stood behind Mannering. Harrison’s hand flashed out, knuckles smashed into Mannering’s mouth.
‘Talk, damn you!’
Mannering said through the salt blood: ‘I’ll talk—in good time.’
‘You’ll talk now. Where is Mannering?’
No answer – and another smashing blow followed the first; a third; a fourth.
The gardener held Mannering tightly.
‘Don’t!’ cried Stella. ‘Don’t!’
Harrison growled: ‘You keep quiet, I’ll deal with you later. Come on, smart guy, where’s Mannering?’
‘Yes. You need to know. You will—when he gets you.’
Harrison struck out again, and Mannering let his knees bend under him. The gardener pulled him up, Harrison’s fist loomed up, red with Mannering’s blood.
‘Don’t!’ screamed Kathleen.
Mannering’s head jarred back under the next blow. Mists blinded him; rage shook him to the madness of steeling himself to go berserk; and then he saw Stella, a wild fury of arms and legs, kicking and striking and clawing at Harrison.
The gardener’s grip relaxed.
Mannering back-heeled; his heel caught a shin, the grip fell away. Mannering swung round, and hit out; the man reeled back.
The gun dropped from Harrison’s hand.
Mannering took his from his pocket.
He used the butt; once on the gardener; twice on a swearing, sweating Harrison. After they had fallen, only the heavy breathing of the two girls broke the quiet. Blood filled Mannering’s mouth, trickled down his chin. He hardly noticed it.
‘Get your coats on,’ he said.
‘Stella, Stella, Stella!’ sobbed Kathleen.
Stella was standing close to Harrison. Her lips were swollen, and a tiny trickle of blood was running down her chin. She brushed hair out of her eyes, and put out her hand to her sister.
‘It’s all right, Kathie; it’s all right.’ She paused for breath. ‘Go—go upstairs and get—get our things.’
‘But, Stella!’
‘Just pack one case, for the night.’
Kathleen still hesitated; Stella pushed her towards the door. Kathleen went out, and Stella said to Mannering: ‘Your face.’
He fingered his mouth, then caught sight of himself in a mirror on the wall. His lips were pulp. Blood had spread over his chin and nose and was dripping on to his shirt.
‘You must clean up.’
‘Yes. Later. Go and help your sister.’
She left him.
He pressed his hands against his spinning head and knelt unsteadily by Harrison’s side. The man had been badly bruised, but was breathing regularly. Slowly and laboriously, Mannering went through his pockets, took his wallet, found nothing else that might be helpful except a bunch of keys. He pocketed these, and straightened up. He felt sick. But he had to go through Foss’s pockets, and ought to search the house. He went out of the lounge and into the room where Foss had been sitting. There were some books in open book-cases; Foss had a Rabelaisian taste and a liking for pornography. Mannering pulled the books out, dropped them to the floor one by one, made sure there was no secret hiding-place behind the shelves, and turned to a small, modern pedestal desk. It was locked; forcing it took him several minutes, but when he had one drawer open, the rest unlocked.
A quick glance through the papers there showed nothing of interest. He needed more time – much more; but he daren’t take it.
He opened a slim account book. The entries in the first pages looked innocent enough. At the top of one page were the items:
10 bales S.
£595
12 Gross W.
£2456
21 cases C – one damaged
£750
Sundries
£9125
Sundries – nearly three times as much as the rest put together!
He tucked the book into the top of his trousers.
The two girls were coming down the stairs. He went to the door, and Kathleen looked at him over the banisters.
She clapped her hand to her mouth.
‘You must do something to your face!’ Stella cried.
‘Switch off the lights, and go out. I’ll follow you.’
Both girls were wearing overcoats and small, tight-fitting hats;
Stella was carrying a suitcase. She put out the hall light, pushed past her sister and opened the front door. Soon all three were hurrying towards the bridge, Mannering just behind the girls, telling them where to go. When they reached the Lancia the sisters got into the back and Mannering took the wheel.
The cold night air stung his lips, and the pain was getting worse. Forget it! What should he do with the girls? Where could he take them?
Are you taking us to Mr. Mannering?’ Stella asked.
‘No, to a friend. Do you mind not talking?’
The evening yawned in front of Lorna. She could not go out, because there might be a message. She couldn’t settle to a book. Every time footsteps sounded in the passage, she turned her head sharply. Despair and confidence in John clashed all the time.
Someone was approaching now.
There was a tap at the door.
She jumped up from her chair. ‘Come in!’
‘Evening, lady,’ said Chittering, pushing the door wide and slouching in with one hand in his pocket. ‘Only your little newshound.’ He pushed the door to and stood looking at her with a twisted smile. ‘Is it tough?’
‘Yes, it’s tough,’ she admitted.
‘Must be. Only a hard-bitten thug like me would wonder. Still, while there’s life, you know.’ He took his hand out of his raincoat pocket, and tossed a letter on to the table near her. ‘For you.’
‘Who from?’ Lorna asked eagerly.
‘I wouldn’t know. I thought it was for me. It came to my hotel. Hope deferred. Inside the envelope addressed to me was another addressed to you. I’m slipping,’ he declared. ‘I can’t guess who sent it. The point is, I shall be imbibing bad liquor in the bar if you want me. ‘Bye, lady!’ Lorna did not see him leave.
She tore open the letter, and the familiar handwriting leapt from the page. It was a dirty piece of paper; there were brownish stains all over it.
‘Bit rushed, darling. Ask Chittering to take Galliard to Crossford Arms, pub on Bristol Road, to pick up Stella B. and sister. Don’t send Galliard alone. Don’t go yourself. Stella is scared of police but will tell them the truth if strongly advised to when the time comes for that. I’ll send word. Meanwhile if police question her again, she’s to stick to original story. Forgive rush.