by John Creasey
Marion’s eyes questioned him; he smiled and looked at Shayne, nodding.
On the way to their room, Lorna said: “Were we wrong about Marion?”
“It’s beginning to look as if you were.”
“Thank you, darling. Do you know what it’s all about?”
He opened the door of their room, went across to his bed, and sat down. Lorna took off her shoes, and lay down on hers, drawing her legs up beneath her dress.
“Speak, sphinx.”
He told her everything, slowly, deliberately; and showed her the diamonds. After he finished. Lorna leaned forward and held up the diamonds; the red tint glowed.
“Blood of the starving,” she said. Mannering made no comment. “Darling, you want to go on, don’t you?”
“Yes. I think Shayne was telling the truth. I wish I could be sure.”
“If Marion confirms it, can you doubt? She certainly doesn’t need money.”
“The piece of logic I’ve been waiting for. But—how will this square with Bristow? I can string along with both for a bit, but not indefinitely.”
“Need you worry about that, yet? If Shayne’s told the truth, you know what answer to give Bristow: it’s not worth being anxious about. If you catch Shayne out in a lie, or find something deeper behind it, you can tell Bristow. For once, you need have nothing on your conscience. If it weren’t for O’Malley, I’d feel quite happy about it.”
“O’Malley makes me happier!” Mannering laughed. “He’s the physical evidence that Shayne has this mortal enemy. Come to think, the enemy might be the man Bristow is after, and you don’t have to think very deep. I fancy this will go deep before it’s over. You’re going to sleep alone part of the night. I’ve an appointment with a bald head. I wonder if the telephone wires have been repaired.” He went to the telephone and lifted it … “It’s working. I’ll call Bristow, tell him Shayne’s jittery and wants me as a bodyguard. It’ll keep Bristow quiet, at least.” He put in the call.
Lorna said, “Must you go out tonight?”
“I might never set eyes on O’Malley again. I … hallo is Mr. Bristow there? … Oh, I see … Tell him Mannering called, will you? Thank you. Goodbye.” He put the receiver on its cradle. “Well, at least I tried.” He went across to her, and pulled her ear. “Go to bed, I’m going a-bur-glaring.”
“Bold bad Baron – how you love it. And how you’ll love walking to Brockenhurst!”
“I thought I’d borrow a bicycle.”
“There’s an autocycle in the garage,” Lorna said. “You know, one of those horrors that sound like a flying bomb and go along at fifteen miles an hour. Marion says Bob loves it, and it does about a hundred miles to the gallon.”
She took his hands and held them tightly, and said in a muffled voice, “Go on. Hurry. When you’re going out on a job like this I always feel like bursting into tears. It’s better when you’re gone.”
He changed into a lounge suit, slipped his knife and a torch into his pocket, with a pair of blue cotton gloves and a large blue scarf.
It was after midnight, and the house was quiet, when he went downstairs and left by a side door. The wind was cold; he shivered, in spite of his heavy coat.
The garage loomed up. He shone his torch on the door, and a black padlock glistened. He took out his knife opened a blade which served as a skeleton key. As metal touched metal, a quiver of excitement went through him, like an electric shock. It was like sliding back into the well-remembered past; into youth with all its zest for adventure, its disregard of danger.
The lock turned, and the torch beam cast a pale glow about the garage. Two large cars stood side by side, a smaller one behind them; there was ample room to move between them.
Against the wall, stood the autocycle.
He checked the petrol, there was plenty. He touched the gears, brakes, and throttle. He wheeled it out of the garage, refastened the padlock, and without using the engine cycled down the drive and along the road. Then he started the engine.
All about him, darkness hung heavy as a blanket.
Now one hedge loomed up, now another; after a mile or two a house loomed up, then another; he bumped over the railroad crossing and pulled up near the hotel, resting the machine against the hedge alongside.
Then he heard footsteps.
He took the autocycle and pushed it into a gateway. A policeman came plodding along, swinging his torch right and left. Mannering crouched behind the hedge near enough to stretch out and touch the man. The torch shone on leaves and branches, caught the handlebars and made them glisten. Mannering held his breath, but the policeman walked on until his footsteps were swallowed up in a howl of wind.
Mannering gave the man time to get well away, then wheeled the machine to the hotel and into the parking place at the side. He rested the machine against a wall, then began to survey the building.
At the back door was a narrow porch, sufficient to hide him from any casual glance of a passer-by; the policeman had put him on his guard, for the man would probably come back soon. Why was he out at night? After poachers? Or had local burglars been busy? It would be bad luck to be caught or prevented from working.
If the police caught him, they’d simply catch a burglar. They would probe until they knew they’d caught John Mannering, might go on until they had proved him to be the Baron and justified Lorna’s dread.
The back-door lock was old-fashioned and much more complicated than he had expected. He examined it carefully in the light of his torch. He could force it without making too much noise. He went back for the autocycle and placed it by a shed. It couldn’t be seen at a glance, and he could mount swiftly and be off at the first sign of danger.
He used the long thin blade of the knife on the door. In lulls, the click of metal on metal sounded clearly, but was drowned when the wind howled. The gusts also drowned any sound of approach, and so increased the danger. That prowling policeman was on his mind. Twice he stopped, and went to peer through a blustery gloom which was relieved only by the stars.
He was slow, his fingers were cold, the lock was stubborn. When he tried to hurry, the blade slipped. He swore at it – and suddenly, the lock clicked back.
He waited for a lull in the wild wind, crept to the road, and heard nothing. He turned on his heel – then thought he heard a footstep.
A tall helmet and big shoulders loomed out of the night.
If he went to the side door and tried the handle – finis. Mannering felt his heart thump heavily, bent down, and groped for a twig, then pushed it between door and frame, near the bottom. He forced it home with his knife, then put another halfway between the lock and the top of the door; when he pushed, the door held fast.
The policeman was within a few yards of the entrance to the yard. Mannering peered out of the porch, and saw the torchlight shining on the door of the garage.
Mannering crept out of the porch, and squeezed into the corner that it made with the wall. He put the scarf over his face, leaving only his eyes free.
A flurry of wind drowned the policeman’s footsteps, but Mannering heard him step onto the porch. His heart stumped. A scratching, squeaking sound came as if the door was being opened. Mannering judged the distance between the porch and the autocycle. If it came to flight, he’d have to bowl the policeman over before he had a chance.
A light flickered from the porch, and he grinned broadly; the policeman was lighting a cigarette!
When the man came out, the red tip of the cigarette glowed against his face. He did not glance towards Mannering, but plodded steadily past, out onto the road.
Mannering pulled out the twigs and opened the door.
He stepped into a dark passage, closed the door and stood motionless until his eyes were accustomed to the pitch darkness. At last, he made out the shape of a door which was painted white. He switched on his torch, opened the door, and found himself in the front entrance hall. Now he knew his way about. He went to the stairs, tied the scarf round the lower half of his fac
e, and put on the gloves.
The staircase creaked as he went up. The torch shone on shiny banisters.
He paused on the landing, until he saw a door, marked 1. Halfway along a passage, he found Room 3. He stood outside it, hearing only the moaning of the wind, picturing O’Malley inside and fast asleep.
He turned the handle and pushed. The door opened, squeaking noisily. He held his breath and waited, peering into the darkness. He heard no sound now. He crept into the room, every nerve aquiver, ears strained; he could not even hear the sound of a man’s breathing. He crept further in and, from the door, shone the torch towards the wall.
No one hid behind the door.
Then he slewed the beam around until it shone on an unoccupied bed.
So O’Malley wasn’t here.
He closed the door and switched on the light. On the threadbare carpet were muddy footprints; on the dressing table, a large glass ashtray was littered with cigarette butts and spent matches. The bed was turned down, but not slept in, there were no suitcases or clothes in sight. The wardrobe and the drawers of the dressing table were empty.
No, there was no O’Malley, and the visit was a flop – but O’Malley might have moved to another room.
He stood in the middle of the room, then began to look round. A letter, even an envelope thrown away, might help him to trace O’Malley. In the dust under the bed was a piece of paper. He went down on his stomach and groped for it. Dust rose, and he sneezed, stifled it, and held his breath. It was an empty cigarette packet.
He finished the search, turned to leave, and saw something white in the fireplace. It was a cardboard cylinder, the kind of thing you might buy aspirins in, with a metal screw-cap. It was about four inches long and half an inch in diameter. He unscrewed the cap and saw traces of a white powder inside. A discarded tablet holder; this might interest the police, for prints, but was no use to him.
He put it back, then crossed the room and switched off the light. And as he opened the door, he heard a whisper: “I tell you it’s empty!”
His heart turned over; the woman who spoke was not two yards away. A man rasped: “We haven’t got an empty room in the house, don’t talk silly.”
“Carter paid his bill and went off after dinner. How often have I got to tell you?” It was the sour-faced woman he’d seen downstairs. “I told you, Perce. He wanted to know if anyone had been asking for him. I told him about that chap who said he was looking for a bald-headed man. Don’t stand there like a frightened rabbit, go and see who’s in that room!”
Mannering closed the door, hardly daring to breathe. He shot a bolt, stealthily, fancied he heard the man approach as he switched on his torch and crossed to the window where heavy blackout curtains hung. He drew them back softly, as the door handle rattled.
“It’s locked!” exclaimed the man.
The woman gasped.
“Perce, ring up the police. Hurry, we’ve got burglars!”
No need, now, for silence. Mannering flung his leg out of the window. His overcoat was bulky and slowed him down. He heard the door handle rattle, and the voices came much louder, anxious, urgent. He lowered himself until he hung at arm’s length from the window, then dropped.
It wasn’t far. He kept his balance and ran to the shed.
A light went on upstairs, the woman appeared, the curtain was drawn over hastily. He wheeled the cycle out of the yard at a run, swung his leg over as soon as he reached the road, and began to pedal furiously towards the Grange. The night seemed filled with moving shadows. He saw a door open at a house, light streamed out again, and a policeman appeared, putting on his coat. The man didn’t notice Mannering.
Half a mile along the road, Mannering switched on the engine.
Lorna sat up and switched on the bedside light as Mannering opened the door.
“All safe?” she whispered.
“All safe, no alarms, and a wasted journey.” This was a time for lies. “Mr. O’Malley decided to take flight.”
“Look at this,” said Lorna. She picked up a book from the bedside table. “Marion came in just after you’d gone. I said you were in the bathroom. She left this – as evidence.”
Mannering opened the book at random – and saw two grinning, skeleton faces leering up at him. Old faces, as of wizened ancients, heads perched on matchlike necks, ribs sticking out of narrow chests, stomachs blown out like balloons. Beneath was a caption: Two 12-year-old boys at Wachau. He felt cold as he turned the pages, to other photographs of human misery; men, women, children, each face death’s head, each sunken eye lost to everything except despair.
The sea smashed against the coast of England, waves roared and tumbled, showering the watchers of the night with spray. All along this southern coast, the men of England stood on duty by night, eyes and ears strained to catch sounds of approach by air or sea. Barbed wire, concrete blocks, pillboxes, and iron staves made a line of defence. Here the Home Guard, who worked by day and watched by night, made a citizen army.
On the Kent coast, far from Hadley Grange, two patrols met at a lonely point where groynes stretched out into the seething Channel.
“Bit rough,” one man sniffed. “Might as well ‘ave some shut-eye.”
“Not getting much sleep over there,” the other said.
‘Over there’ searchlights carved out lines from the darkness, flashes lit up the night in the sky, and a great fire glowed red, too far away for them to see the flames. But they knew that hell raged there; houses crumpled up like toy models as high explosives crashed and fire spread by incendiaries licked spitefully from roof to roof. Men and women fought the terror, to save their town, their homes, their children.
An airplane droned overhead, now loud in a lull, now lost in the wind. Water splashed up to their heavily shod feet, something hit the top of the groyne with a thud.
“See that?”
“What?”
“That there.” The speaker flashed his torch. “Careful with that light—might be a ruddy Nazi over’ead.” But the light shone out on the dark, sullen waves and showed a face …
The body taken from the sea lay on a cold slab in a police-station mortuary. Bristow entered the chilly room, with a sergeant and a man in plain-clothes, the local Superintendent.
He pulled a sheet back from the corpse and saw a skeleton face, grinning in death; a fleshless body. He put the sheet back quickly.
“French, judging from his clothes,” said the Superintendent. “Had a medical report yet?”
“Yes. Poisoned – the surgeon’s going to do a post-mortem in the morning. We found this in his pocket. That’s why I phoned you.”
This’ was a cardboard cylinder with a metal cap, pulpy from the water. Inside was a wet, doughy white substance.
“The surgeon thinks that’s the poison. Can’t be sure, of course. Mean much to you?”
Bristow said, “We’ve had a dozen bodies washed up like that, looking the same, all poisoned. This is the second container we’ve come across. I’ll look after it, thanks. And get the body to London. We’ll do the post-mortem there.”
Chapter Nine
The room was dark except for a faint glow at the window and the slight rustle of moving curtains, when Mannering woke. He lay still, thinking sourly that the curtains had blown inward noisily, and that had wakened him. But gradually he grew aware of another sound, near the door; a rustling, stealthy sound. He could see nothing there – but heard the creak of a floorboard beneath the thick carpet. He pushed back the bedclothes.
Lorna breathed softly and evenly, not disturbed. The rustling came clearly from the door. The bed squeaked faintly as Mannering moved his legs. He kept his head on the pillow, and grunted, as if in his sleep, to reassure whoever was there.
Was the intruder coming? Or leaving?
Coming; he could make out a head and shoulders, someone wearing a coat and hat – and approaching slowly. He tensed himself for a sudden spring – and a torch shone out.
The bright beam struck Mann
ering’s face and open eyes. The intruder gasped; the light went out. Mannering sprang put, caught his leg in a sheet, and was dragged back. Footsteps thudded, the door slammed.
Lorna cried out. “John! John, did you hear—”
“Take it easy.” He pulled his leg free and went to the door, opened it cautiously, and looked out. Just outside was a lighting switch, and he pushed it down.
There was silence – and then what sounded like a door closing softly. He went along the passage, but no light shone under any door.
When he reached the room again, Lorna said: “Find anyone?”
“No. I took too long to wake up.” Mannering stared at the wardrobe, lit a cigarette, then crossed the room.
“The diamonds!” cried Lorna, and joined him urgently.
“This is the night of lost opportunity. Too late at Brockennurst, too slow here, and now if those sparklers have gone—”
“Here, let me see!” She pushed past him, went down on her knees, and groped inside. She touched the cotton-wool and felt it. “Safe!” she cried.
Mannering unfolded the wool and the diamonds winked up at him.
“Who knew they were here?” asked Lorna.
“Shayne. Meyer. Possible Ferris, whom I haven’t seen since he arrived. Marion, too. Plenty of suspects, and we’re not even sure our burglar came for these. But he came from the house, which has its interest. Nice, aren’t they?”
He held up the diamonds.
“Put them away. Your eyes go green with envy when you see them.”
“I—oh, damn!” He looked blankly at Lorna. “Kick me.”
“Yes, dear. Why?”
“In O’Malley’s room I found a little container; well, not so very little. I threw it away. It could be a container for jewels. They’re sometimes packed in boracic powder, to prevent rattling, and – yes, the night of lost opportunities. I think I’ll say no to Marcus, send regrets to Bristow, and go humbly back to my desk. It’s about all I’m good for. I’ll take these sparklers back to Marcus and find out if he and Meyer are early risers.”
“Are you going to tell them about the burglary?”