by John Creasey
The man was not a heavy-weight. Mannering hauled him over his shoulder and staggered to the door. He was gasping as he reached it, and there was a tight lump at the back of his throat.
Then Mannering caught a glimpse of Lake. He tried to gasp out words that refused to come, but Lake acted without prompting. He grabbed the inert body from Mannering’s shoulders, and hurried along the passage. Mannering followed unsteadily, in a daze. Lake stopped by a window and pushed it open, and the grey mass of Paddington Station was for once an inviting prospect. “Try—another room,” Mannering muttered. Lake propped the body of Halliwell against the wall, and Mannering managed to keep the man from falling. Lake opened a door without trouble, and swung back on his toes. “Empty—all right, I’ll take him.” Five minutes passed in confusion to Mannering, while Lake revealed unexpected qualities. He slung the pillows off the bed, stretched Halliwell across it, and then started to massage the abdomen and below the ribs, forcing the foul air out of the lungs and stomach. Mannering had closed the door, and only the faintest smell of gas was noticeable. A strong breeze was coming from the open window, and the chug-chug of a train was like distant thunder.
Mannering slipped a whisky flask from his pocket, took a swallow, and felt better for it.
“Whisky for him, Peter?”
“Toss it over.”
“You keep working, I’ll do this. We don’t want a doctor if we can help it.”
“Might have to,” Lake grunted.
“We’ll give him five minutes.” Mannering forced a spot or two of whisky between the grey lips, and watched Lake working methodically. Lake was talking all the time.
“Had a case of carbon monoxide in a garage last year. Pulled the fool round all right. Looks bad, eh? Suicide.”
“Possibly,” said Mannering.
“What?” Lake stopped for a moment. “You mean—”
“I’m not taking it for granted,” said Mannering, “but the odds look all for that theory. Can you manage alone for five minutes?”
“Yes, why?”
“I’d like to look at the other room.”
He went back to Halliwell’s room, steady on his legs now. The gas was stronger there but it did not worry him unduly, although he damped a handkerchief and tied it round his mouth and nose. The wind was coming in freely, and Mannering bent over the gas fire. The gas was full on. Mannering turned it off and straightened up.
Both the window and the door had been sealed with stout gummed paper, and the chimney had been blocked with a couple of towels and some newspapers. The key was on a threadbare carpet, a foot or so inside the room. Mannering bent over it, without picking it up. There were one or two scratches that looked newly-made on the barrel of the key. They might have been caused by Mannering’s nail-file. He doubted such an explanation, as he had pushed straight back. He might not have been the only visitor in the past few days who had wanted to force the door. Hotels of the Renman type sheltered a queer variety of stray callers, and nothing could be taken for granted.
He wished he could telephone Bristow, but he wanted to give Halliwell a chance of talking first. Bristow would probably be annoyed at delay, but Mannering had a reasonable excuse: the first task was to get Halliwell conscious – if possible – and Bristow would not be able to tell how long the job had taken.
Mannering stepped back into the passage and as he closed the door Lake came out of the next room. He was smiling cheerfully, cupping his hands and raising them above his head.
“Heil, Halliwell! He’s coming round, John!”
“Thank God for that,” said Mannering soberly. “Peter, I don’t like asking, but I’d like to make sure no one came up. If you stood at the head of the stairs, or outside the door—”
“I’ll take it,” said Peter cheerfully. “It’s your game, anyhow. Damned lucky you weren’t ten minutes later. All right if I smoke, do you think?”
“Better not chance a blow-up.”
“Perishing nuisance,” said Lake, but he went to the head of the stairs promptly, while Mannering entered the room.
Halliwell was breathing regularly, a little too deeply to be normal. Mannering closed the door, took the flask from the bed, and tried another spot or two of whisky. It made Halliwell gasp, and his eyes nickered open.
“You’re all right,” said Mannering quietly.
Halliwell stared blankly for a few seconds, and then he jerked up, his eyes widening with alarm. The effort made him cough and retch with sudden violence, and Mannering grabbed a bowl.
Lake looked in once or twice in the next ten minutes. No one seemed to be worrying about the third floor, and Halliwell was coming round nicely. He was deathly pale, but there was no danger now. Mannering fancied he would be able to talk soon.
He liked the look of Halliwell.
The youngster had a lot in common with Peter Lake. The same rather rugged face, curly instead of Lake’s cropped, straight hair, broad shoulders thickly packed. He was resting against the pillows and staring uncertainly at Mannering as the Baron said:
“Well, why do that?”
Halliwell gasped, and shook his head jerkily.
“I—didn’t—do anything. What happened—man?”
“Gas,” said Mannering simply.
“Gas!” Halliwell’s eyes widened, and Mannering knew in that moment that the youngster had not tried to commit suicide. No one could have acted as convincingly as that in the state Halliwell was in. “Good God, someone tried to—kill me.”
“It looks like it.” Mannering was as matter-of-fact as possible, and his easy manner steadied Halliwell. “Has anyone been to visit you here?”
“No-o. I—I didn’t get here until—twelve. I’d been—out all night. A—a friend gave me some—coffee. At—a coffee stall. Hadn’t eaten—’part from that. But good God, the police—”
“We’ll worry about them in a minute,” said Mannering. “First of all, a question. Did you kill Kingley last night?”
Halliwell looked wildly excited.
“No. I tell you I didn’t! I—”
“Right-ho,” said Mannering, “I’ll take your word for it. What happened after you left his house?”
“I—I went to—a pub. On the Great North Road. The Red Eagle. But I—”
“Who’d you meet there?”
“A—friend of mine. Man named Jackson. He’d heard about Kingley on the radio and—and I was pretty scared. I hid out in a barn most of the night. Jackson had to get away, but he came for me this morning. Brought me—over here. I—”
Mannering could see that the other could not keep going much longer. He would collapse again, and probably go light-headed, and he had talked enough for the moment about the mysterious friend Jackson. Mannering asked quietly:
“What’s Jackson’s address?”
Halliwell hesitated, and then burst out: “Look here, I promised I wouldn’t mention he’d helped me, and—I don’t want to let him in the cart. You’re not the police, are you?”
“I’m not,” said Mannering emphatically. “As a matter of fact, Marion Delray asked me to come. You can say I’m holding a brief for her.”
“Marion’s—sticking by me?” The words were whispered after a moment of silence.
“Good Lord, man, why shouldn’t she? Now, Jackson’s address?”
“Byways, Nelson Street—Bamet. But Jackson’s all right—”
“Thanks,” said Mannering, and he fancied it was safe to light a cigarette. Halliwell took one eagerly, and Mannering wondered whether it was wise to send for tea or coffee. Lake poked his head round the door at that moment, and promised to go downstairs and rummage around or bribe the porter. Halliwell recognised him, and Lake waved a ‘cheerio.’
Mannering sat down on a hard chair, legs stuck out in front and leaning back on the two rear legs.
“That’s good going, Halliwell. Well, you’re in a spot, as you know. Kingley was killed, and Jackson, I take it, pointed out you would be in a bad way. The morning papers confirmed
it?”
“That’s right. I—good God, I must get away! The police might—”
“Who put the damn-fool idea in your head that it’s a sensible thing to hide from the police?” demanded Mannering slowly. “Jackson?” He omitted to add that there had been no report on the wireless and Jackson had therefore lied.
“I—well, hardly. It’s obvious, I—”
“Marion’s prepared to take your word that you didn’t kill Kingley, and your father told me a few hours ago he’s prepared to spend every penny he’s got defending you. But every hour you’re missing from the police makes the case worse against you. Have some sense, man.”
Halliwell’s eyes were turning glassy.
“It’s easy for you to talk. You’re not—under suspicion. And I am. Damn it, they’ll hang me!”
“You’ve a twisted idea of justice and the law,” said Mannering sharply. “If you didn’t shoot Kingley they’ll find out who did, you needn’t worry about that. The thing looks black, but you might get clear quickly. This affair, for instance, will help. You didn’t turn on that gas?”
“No-o. But—did it look like suicide?”
“Damned realistically.”
“Well, isn’t that another—another bit of evidence? If they think I tried to kill myself, they’ll say it’s because I knew I couldn’t get away.”
“They will, and you’ll deny it. You’ve got nothing more to do, and they’ve got to prove to the satisfaction of twelve men that you actually committed murder. Look at it squarely, Halliwell. I’ll get you a good solicitor, and we’ll brief Hackett for you, if you’ll have the police over at once.”
“And then I’ll have to drag Jackson into it—”
Mannering had other ideas.
“Not unless things look bad. I’ll see him first. You needn’t tell the police about him yet.”
“No—I suppose not.” Halliwell drew a deep breath. “And I suppose you’re right. Who the devil are you, anyhow?”
“Mannering.”
“John Mannering?” Halliwell looked startled.
“That’s right. Wait a moment—Peter!”
Peter Lake had not yet returned, and in the interval Mannering told the other about the developments with Marion, and broke the news of the discoveries at the Maycourt Hotel. Halliwell declared stoutly that he had not been to the Maycourt on the previous night, after leaving for Kingley’s Hampstead house.
Mannering was convinced of the truth of the other’s story, and he felt relieved. He was glad he could tackle the mysterious Jackson for a start, and he was feeling more cheerful when Lake appeared with three cups of badly-made coffee on a tin tray.
“Drink yours fast if you can manage it,” said Mannering, “and then get on the phone to the Yard. Ask Chief-Inspector Bristow to come here, say I’ve sent for him, but don’t mention Halliwell or you’ll have the Press round.”
“Common sense winning, eh?” said Lake. “How’re you feeling, Brian?”
“Lousy,” said Halliwell frankly.
Now that the decision had been made he seemed to be prepared to face the coming ordeal without a fuss. Mannering admired his spirit, and fancied Halliwell was relieved that he had been persuaded to take the obvious course. He seemed fully satisfied about the good intentions of his friend Jackson. Mannering was content to let him think what he liked, but a visit to Byways, in Barnet, was the next item on the Baron’s agenda, after a few discreet inquiries.
Bristow took just twenty-five minutes to come, and he had Sergeant Tring with him. Lake met them in the hall, and noticed the alarm on the dejected porter’s face.
Bristow lost no time in getting upstairs, and Mannering met him on the threshold of the room.
“Well, what is it?” demanded Bristow. “If you’ve brought me over on a wild-goose chase, Mannering—”
“Easy goes,” said Mannering. “I’ve got Halliwell for you.”
He had never seen Bristow more completely taken aback, and in his smile there was a tinge of mockery, because of their encounter at the White Lion. Halliwell said little, and Bristow made no effort to browbeat him, behaving much as he had done with Rummell. He seemed anxious to get the youngster to the Yard, but Mannering told the story before they started, leaving out only a few unessentials, and any mention of Jackson.
Bristow made no comment, and appeared to take Halliwell’s word that he had not attempted suicide. He was a shrewd officer, but at least he relieved Halliwell. For the moment that was all Mannering wanted.
Two plain-clothes men were downstairs, and Bristow sent Halliwell on with them while Tanker Tring remained to search the bedroom, and to try the key and other articles for fingerprints. Lake offered to drive Mannering and Bristow where they wanted, but Bristow eyed the racer dubiously. Lake was to hurry with the news to Marion Delray, and Mannering arranged to meet him at Portland Place.
With Bristow, Mannering strolled round to the station approach for a cab. Bristow looked puzzled as they settled in the back. He was pleased with the Halliwell capture, but probably worried by Mannering’s part.
“Changing sides, Mannering?”
“I worked with you once before,” retorted Mannering, and Bristow, to do him justice, looked amused. There had been a time when he had asked John Mannering to help him catch the Baron, and the joke had not appealed to Bristow for a long time. “Well, Bill, the gas affair makes you think it looks blacker for Halliwell? “
“Yes, it does. Where was the key, d’you say?”
“In the door. Tring will find it, and the scratches. It could have been turned, with a pair of French pliers, from the outside. Someone could have drugged him, and left him to die. Suicide would have been a convenient way out.”
“Ye-es.” Bristow pulled at his moustache. “But all in all I think we’ve got the right man. We’ll see. By the way,” he added with a burst of confidence inspired by gratitude, “we’re on the trail of one of Kingley’s rubies.”
“The devil you are! Quick work, Bill, but I suppose I mustn’t ask where?”
“A regular named Barkas, Micky the Wisk in the trade, tried to pass it at a pawnbroker’s. They all fall for the old mistakes—excepting the Baron,” Bristow added ruefully. “Barkas won’t talk, though.”
“Like your friend Loffatt of the Elan?”
Bristow scowled.
“They’ll talk before I’ve finished with them. I’m not too happy though, Mannering. It looks like organised jewel robbery, and I don’t like it. Halliwell might have been working in the same ring, but got caught up. I suppose you don’t know anything about the series?”
“Meaning the Baron doesn’t know?” murmured Mannering. “Bill, I’m sure the Baron finished six months ago. He knows how long to play his luck. By the way, I’m asking Toby Plender” – Mannering mentioned one of the younger defence-specialist solicitors of note, who had been through college with him – “to look after Halliwell’s interests, and if I were you I’d wait until he arrives before worrying Halliwell too much. Ask the driver to take me to Portland Place, will you?”
Chapter Ten
‘Friend’ Jackson
Some three hundred yards, and three turnings, before reaching Portland Place, Mannering’s cabby had to slow down to avoid a crowd of people hurrying across the road. Among them were two or three policemen, and Mannering watched with a mild curiosity until the taxi turned, and he saw Lake’s silver Talbot racer.
It was across the pavement, with its nose in the area of a private house. The railings were torn down and the bricks and mortar strewn about the pavement. The two front windows of the house were broken inwards, and a lamp-post was leaning drunkenly against the wall, its glass smashed to smithereens.
It came on Mannering so suddenly that he hardly saw its significance until the cabby had negotiated the crowd and was treading on his accelerator to get through. Mannering tapped sharply on the panel, and the brakes were jammed on.
The driver slid open the partition, performing a minor contortion to d
o it, and leaned backwards.
“Pull in,” said Mannering sharply.
It may have been that he had taken in too much gas to be good for him, affecting his usual self-control, but his hands were trembling as he jumped out of the cab. He had not seen Lake, and he was worried by the size of the crowd. People didn’t gather in such numbers unless for a serious smash.
He pushed his way through the fringe of people, until a constable turned round stolidly.
“Now, please—oh, good evening, sir. Nasty mess, isn’t it?”
“Looks it.” Mannering smiled, relieved that the policeman was the patrolman of Portland Place, and no stranger. “The driver’s a friend of mine. I hope—”
Then he saw Peter Lake, who was no longer smiling. Mannering had seen a similar expression on the man’s face when he had been taking the curves at Brooklands on two wheels. Now he was talking to a police-sergeant, his words sharp and incisive.
“The child ran straight out, Sergeant; it was the wall or her. Damned criminal to let them run loose. I—hallo, John.” He lifted a hand, but didn’t smile. He looked savagely angry.
Sitting on a cushion from the Talbot’s seat was a girl of three or four, in a torn green frock; she was sobbing bitterly. A nurse and a middle-aged woman were bending over her, and a policeman stepped from her towards the sergeant and Lake.
“Only scared and scratched,” he said. “Lucky for her, sir. But you were travelling some, weren’t you?” He eyed Lake frankly.
Lake looked as though he would start an argument, and then shrugged his shoulders. His anger seemed appeased.