by John Creasey
Mannering felt disappointed but not dissatisfied. He’d wanted to check on these things, no one need know that he had ever been here. In an hour’s time, he could be back in London.
He went through the house again, lingering only at the door of Celia’s room. He left all the doors as he had found them, and then did the same downstairs. He would leave by the back door, locking it behind him. Professionally he had done a good job, even if the results were negative.
The deep burr of a car engine broke the silence.
He was in the kitchen when he heard the car draw up outside.
21: Night Visit
He heard the slam of the car door as he was about to escape.
If he went out now, he would have no time to refix the lock; if the house were found unlocked, an alarm would immediately be raised. He closed the door and started to work on it. The scraping of metal on metal seemed loud. He wasn’t sure whether the caller was coming at the front or the back of the house, but as yet had heard no sound of the front door opening.
Footsteps approached.
The lock turned.
Mannering switched off his torch and backed towards a recess under the stairs, filled with hanging coats. It was the only hiding place. He pulled a coat in front of him as he heard the key scraping in the lock. The door opened, and a man stepped in. A light went on, shining brightly into the hall passage. Mannering, pressed into the corner, was unlikely to be seen at a casual glance. A shadow appeared, followed by a tall man, who was past Mannering in a flash; Mannering had an impression of an attractive face and a hat on the back of a young, fair head.
A door opened and another light went on; the man knew his way about. Glass clinked; so he was pouring himself out a drink.
There were other sounds, faintly blurred, as if he were sitting down. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning, most men would make straight for bed, if they lived there; but this man didn’t. Fleming had been definite that the house had been shut up. Mannering moved from his hiding place. The light was on in the front room, the door ajar. He stepped cautiously towards it, and was able to see through the crack between door and wall. The man was sitting back in an easy chair, as if he was thoroughly at home, and the drink was by his side. His expression was contented, almost smiling; it was hard to believe that he didn’t belong here.
Then he took something out of his pocket. It caught the light, and Mannering saw that it was a key. The man bent over the side of the chair and picked up a small briefcase. He unlocked this, and took out a wad of one pound notes. Slapping the notes against his palm, in a gesture of self-congratulation he laid them on the arm of his chair, and drew out two further packs; Mannering judged that there were two hundred and fifty notes in each. Two more followed. Voluptuously the man drew others from the briefcase. There were eight packets in all; two thousand pounds, if Mannering’s guess was right.
“That ought to do,” he said.
He sipped his drink.
“It will have to do.” His voice was rougher, bravado touched with uneasiness, as if an ugly thought had entered his mind. Then he fell silent Unmoving, Mannering studied him carefully. He was in the early thirties, attractive, in a boyish, untidy way. He didn’t look like either of the Fleming’s, but his photograph was on the piano. He picked up the notes and began to put them back in the briefcase,
He stopped abruptly, and raised his head. For a moment it looked as if he were staring straight at Mannering. Mannering backed with infinite caution – then heard what had made the other glance up; it was the throb of a car engine.
The sound became louder. There was now no doubt that the car was coming along this road.
The man put the notes away hurriedly, locked the briefcase, stood up and walked across the room. Without waiting to see where he put the notes, Mannering back swiftly to his hiding place beneath the stairs.
The car drew up, a door slammed, and footsteps sounded on the front drive. Another light came on, that at the front door. The young man’s shadow appeared again, but he didn’t come towards Mannering.
There was a ring at the front door bell; next moment, the door opened.
Mannering heard nothing for the next two seconds, but could imagine two men standing and staring at each other. Then one of them spoke.
“Well, George, aren’t you going to ask me in?”
The second arrival was Smith.
There were footsteps, and the door closed. The man called George hadn’t yet spoken. A sound that might have been a subdued laugh, from Smith, travelled along the hallway. Then the men went into the front room.
“Well, well, whisky already poured out,” Smith said. “You must have expected me.”
“I didn’t.” George’s voice was hard; he was no longer contented and self-congratulatory. “What the hell do you want?”
“Strange question to ask,” said Smith smoothly. “May I help myself, it’s a cold night?”
“Do what you damned well like.”
“That,” said Smith, “is exactly what I propose to do. I haven’t changed.” There was a pause, and then he went on: “The Major keeps the right stuff. Well, George, where is she?”
George didn’t answer.
“You mustn’t try to fool me, you know,” Smith said, and although his voice was light, there was a touch of menace. “I’m wide, George. I know you’ve got Celia. Where is she?”
“You must be crazy!”
“Oh, no.” The note of menace was more pronounced now. “I’m not crazy, George, but you are. What made you think that a lounge lizard like Mannering could get the better of me? Where is she?”
“Don’t you know?” asked George. He sounded bemused.
“No,” said Smith, “I do not, but I soon shall.” He laughed; and there was another sound, a gasp, and then a thud; as if a chair had fallen. In the following silence, Smith laughed again. “Did that hurt? Nothing like so much as the next one will, if you don’t tell me where you’ve taken Celia.”
“I don’t know anything about Celia!”
“That’s what Mannering told you to say,” said Smith. “I’m not green. Fleming persuaded Mannering to help him; Mannering got this bright idea, which coincided with yours. As you’re back in England, you certainly know all about it.”
“I don’t even know who you are talking about!”
“Don’t you?” asked Smith. “You’ll learn.”
There was a pause; Mannering could imagine a blow being driven into George’s face. He heard a scuffle but no gasp; the scuffling went on. Mannering groped among the coats, found a big raincoat and put it on over his own, pulled a Trilby hat over his forehead, wound his scarf round his mouth and nose, and went forward. The men were by the piano, struggling, pressed close to each other. Smith’s back was to Mannering. He also saw George’s hands gripping Smith’s neck. The fingers were tight at first, then gradually relaxed. Suddenly Smith brought up his right knee. George gasped with pain and banged back, against the piano; it gave out a clanging discord, which hung lingeringly on the air.
Smith backed away; and Mannering saw a gun in his right hand.
“See this?” asked Smith, in that mock friendly voice. George tightened his lips.
“It is a lethal weapon.” Smith said. “It belongs to the Major. Aren’t I careful? It has his finger prints on, too. At least, it hasn’t got mine, and as I had it stolen from him this afternoon, presumably he’s handled it lately. Any idea how long prints last on the handle of a gun, George?”
George muttered: “Get to hell out of here.”
“But you don’t understand,” said Smith. “Either you will tell me where to find Celia, or I shall shoot you. It’s a lonely country house, no one is likely to hear the shot, and it’s the Major’s gun. He will be in a spot then, won’t he? Especially as I telephoned him, a couple of hours ago, and arranged to meet him. If you’re found killed with his gun, the police might just manage to make four out of two and two, don’t you think?”
George did
n’t speak.
Smith said softly: “I’m not going to waste time, George. Where is Celia?”
His body hid George from Mannering’s sight. He was quite confident that the house was empty, and didn’t trouble to look round. He held the gun in front of him, and Mannering couldn’t see that either; but he was sure that Smith meant to carry out his threat.
“Where is Celia?” Smith asked, still softly. “If you don’t tell me – out you go.”
George stood up. Mannering could just see his face. He was still pale, but there was no desperation in his eyes.
“You can do what you like; I can’t tell you what I do not know. Who’s this Mannering, by the way?”
“You know very well. I’ll give you one more chance, George. Remember I don’t particularly want you alive. You’re a serious distraction. You and Muriel were always fools. And when you fell in love with Celia you made yourself more of a nuisance than ever. You’re a menace to me, too – you could give too much away. Hurry, George. Where’s Celia?”
Mannering took out his cigarette case, and stepped forward. There was tense silence in the other room. George believed that he would be shot, but was too far away to get the gun out of the other’s hand.
Mannering reached the doorway, crouching, hidden from George. He raised the case, and then tossed it – not viciously but casually. It rose just above Smith’s head, and
George must have seen it, for he exclaimed. Smith didn’t move.
“You can’t fool –” he began.
The cigarette case dropped on to his head. He staggered, taken completely by surprise. All Mannering saw next was a flurry of movement from George, and then he heard the impact of a fist on Smith’s face.
The gun fell.
George leapt at Smith, and there was murder in his eyes. He smashed at the man’s face. He smashed again, and as Smith tried to fend him off, gripped his neck and began to squeeze. Mannering watched, seeing the fear of death come into Smith’s eyes, and Smith’s mouth gradually opening.
Mannering picked up the gun, held it by the barrel, and struck George on the temple. The blow was sharp enough to make him relax his grip, and sway to one side.
George muttered: “Who –”
Mannering went forward, gripped Smith’s coat by the lapels and dragged him to his feet; all Smith could see was the scarf and the Trilby hat. Mannering spun him round, and struck him, much harder than he had struck George. Smith’s knees bent beneath him, and he fell. There was no pretence, he was knocked cold.
Mannering picked up his case.
“Who are you?” breathed George.
“You know he would have shot you, don’t you?”
George nodded, dazed by the march of events.
“That’s one life you owe me. Don’t ask questions, just answer them. You’re Muriel Lee’s brother and you’re fond of Celia Fleming. Right?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been trying to get Celia away from Smith.”
“It’s all I care about, nothing else matters.”
“Was your sister beginning to turn against Smith?”
“Why should I tell –?”
“That life, remember? Was she?”
George Lee said: “Yes, she’s been turning against him for some time. He had a hell of an influence over her, but some of the things he’s done upset her. We knew that if we could get Celia away for a few months, she’d probably snap back to normal.”
“And you were going to take her away?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Everything was fixed to get her out of the country. Muriel was going to tell Celia that Smith was in France, and had sent for her to join him. We’ve rented a little villa in Italy, Celia loves the Italian Riviera. We believed we could persuade her to stay, once she was there. Getting her away was the trouble.”
“And Smith discovered this?”
“I didn’t realise it –”
“Where have you been?”
“I’ve just come back from Italy.”
“Where did you get the money?”
“From Major Fleming.”
“So he’s in this plot?”
“He doesn’t know what we’re going to do, only knows we’re going to try something.”
“When did you get the money?”
“I – how the devil do you know about it?”
“I’ve been here for some time,” said Mannering, dryly.
Smith stirred. Mannering turned towards him and studied him dispassionately. He was still unconscious, but would soon come round. Mannering picked him up bodily and carried him through the hall into the kitchen. George Lee followed, dazed and uncertain.
“Get some cord or rope,” Mannering said briskly.
Lee obviously knew the place well, and found a knot of cord in a drawer. Mannering tied Smith’s hands and feet, then sat him on a kitchen chair. Smith head was lolling to and fro, but his eyes were beginning to flicker. Mannering turned and led the way out. His scarf slipped a little and he adjusted it; it muffled his voice and was hot and uncomfortable, but he had no wish that George should see him clearly.
George said: “Who are you?”
“I work for a man called Mannering. Forget it. Where did you get two thousand pounds? When did Fleming give it to you?”
“It was in an old tool box in the garage – he used it as a safe,” said Lee.
“Why do you need two thousand pounds?”
“I’ve made arrangements for plenty of money to be placed at my disposal in France and Italy. I’m to pay this into my friend’s account over here, he stipulated that it should be in cash.” George was anxious to talk freely and to convince. “Look here, who are you? Does this Mannering know anything about Celia? Has she disappeared?”
“Yes,” said Mannering. “She’s all right.”
“You mean –”
“I mean that someone else had the bright idea that it might be a good thing to separate her from Smith,” said Mannering. “She won’t come to any harm. She probably knew that Muriel was planning something against Smith, didn’t she?”
“She – she might have done.”
‘That would explain it,” said Mannering, and smiled behind the scarf. It explained why Celia had been amenable, if she knew what Muriel had been planning, she would more readily believe that Smith had killed the girl. The murder of Muriel and Celia’s behaviour were easy to understand now.
Lee said sharply: “What do you mean? Explain what?”
“Why Muriel was murdered,” Mannering said.
Lee cried: “Murdered!” The word shrilled through the house, not loud, but vibrant with emotion. Before Mannering realised what he was going to do, Lee rushed forward, thrust him aside and pounded towards the kitchen like an avenging fury.
22: Man Alive
Mannering reached the kitchen as Lee picked up a chair and raised it high above his head. There was murder in his face as he rushed at Smith. Smith’s eyes were open, and he saw what was coming. He couldn’t move his hands, couldn’t do anything to save himself. The chair smashed downward as Mannering flung himself at Lee. They fell together and as Mannering, momentarily stunned, struggled to get up, he saw Lee standing behind Smith, with his hands round the man’s neck.
Smith was straining forward in the chair, and his eyes were flaming with fear.
Mannering grabbed the chair; there wasn’t a moment to lose. He banged Lee over the back of the shoulders. Lee didn’t release his grip. Mannering struck him again, then gripped his wrists until Lee at last let go.
Mannering watched the younger man as Lee breathed gaspingly. It was easy to see that he wasn’t for the moment, sane, but he made no further attack, and Mannering relaxed.
He put his hand up to his scarf, which in the scuffle had dropped. Smith was looking at him, with dazed recognition. There was nothing Mannering could do about that now. He took off his hat and tossed it to a chair. Both Smith and Lee followed its flight, as if it had some hi
dden significance. He lit a cigarette, took it across and placed it between Smith’s lips.
Lee was also lighting a cigarette, with trembling hands.
“That’s two lives you owe me,” Mannering said. “Two each. Enjoying yourself, Smith?”
Smith didn’t answer.
“I’ve been here some time,” Mannering said. “I followed Lee. He was silly enough to leave the back door unlocked.” That wasn’t true, but Lee didn’t deny it, and it might satisfy Smith about the ease with which he had got in. If Smith knew he had forced a lock, he would probably start thinking, and soon reach the mysterious Mr. Brown. He might be there already.
Smith grunted.
“And I heard an interesting conversation. I now know why you killed Muriel.”
“I agree as to the interest,” said Smith, “but if you are taking up eavesdropping as a profession, it is unwise to believe all you hear.”
“You fixed it.” Mannering said steadily. “Lee, I’m the Mannering Smith spoke about who is helping Major Fleming. I know where Celia is.”
“So you managed that one all by yourself,” said Smith, in mock admiration. “One day, if you keep trying, you might think up something that’s really original.”
“Such as what to do with a man who starts to kill another, with a third party’s gun,” suggested Mannering.
“You might get away with framing Fleming on one job, you wouldn’t succeed with two.”
“Wouldn’t I? Nevertheless there’s a certain opulence, a lack of niggardliness, about two that appeals to me. If I wanted to frame Fleming, I couldn’t think of a better way than killing the Lees. The Flemings blame the Lees for Celia’s fall from grace. Don’t they think she’s grown up yet?”
“They think she’s had a bad break,” Mannering said.
Lee ground a half-smoked cigarette into an ashtray. His voice was husky.
“What happened to Muriel?”
“She was killed in Fleming’s hotel room, last night.”
“I’ll get you for it, if it’s the last thing I do,” Lee said, and his eyes were smouldering as he looked at Smith.