by John Creasey
‘You are sure you weren’t followed?’
‘I’ll lay me shirt on it,’ Smith said.
‘In view of your recent efforts,’ Gillison murmured silkily, ‘your shirt would hardly confirm your reliability to me. What made you lose your head?’
Smith licked his lips.
‘I thought it was all over bar the shouting – and I could do with the five hundred,’ he added. Gillison’s eyes were veiled.
‘That is another matter I must discuss with you. I pay you a fair, weekly wage, plus commission, yet you are always short of money. I’m told you gamble. Is that true?’
‘I ‘ave a little flutter now and then, but that’s all.’
‘I don’t want excuses. Look—’ Gillison pointed to the other’s coat-sleeve. ‘Frayed edges, patched shirts. You have received over a thousand pounds from me this year, and you dress like a tramp. You’ve only got to start drinking, my friend, and I shall no longer require your services. As it is, you will be relegated. All right, get out.’
Smith drew a deep breath.
‘’Alf a mo’. I need a pony quick, before the week’s out.’
Gillison stared into those light grey, desperate eyes, then he unlocked a drawer and pulled out four five-pound notes, and five ones. He pushed them across his desk.
‘I shall deduct it from your next commission, of course.’
‘Okay, Boss!’ Smith was breathing hard, as though after a long and hazardous journey. ‘So long.’
As his sharp footfalls echoed down the stairs, Gillison left his study – which was on the third floor – for his bedroom on the second. Here, consulting a small notebook taken from his waistcoat pocket, he opened a wall-safe, the combination of which was altered daily. He placed the Glorias in the safe, alongside several other cases, relocked the safe, and left the room.
An hour afterwards he was sitting opposite Matthew Mendleson; and no one who saw them together could have doubled that they were close relatives.
Mannering had no appointment for dinner, and he preferred to keep away from Fay until he had some definite news. Moreover he was to be busy that night, and he needed as much time as possible to prepare. Half of his preparations were complete: from Piccadilly he had gone to Fuller Mansions, a block of service flats in Park Lane, and rented a flat. He had paid a month’s rent in advance, and given his name as Moore. Before the deal he had worked on his rubber teeth covering, confident that the porter and clerk who attended him would never be able to identify him with John Mannering.
From the Piccadilly cloakroom he had collected three cases and left them at Park Lane. It was nearly seven o’clock before he had finished and, with a copy of all three evening papers, he went to Brook Street. Over a meal sent up from the restaurant he read a more detailed account of the death of Rose Sanders.
The girl’s body had been discovered in a deep, fast-running stream on the borders of the estate. It had been found that morning, just before midday, after the girl had been missing all night. She had last been seen at a dance in Beverley where, with most of the Towers servants, she had been from eight until twelve.
No one had thought anything odd about Rose Sanders leaving the hall with a stranger. Rose, it appeared, had been flighty, frequently changing her cavaliers. The description of the man who had left the village hall with her varied so much as to be useless.
Mannering was convinced, now, that Armstrong had been pushed over the quarry deliberately. The subsequent murder of the girl who might have helped to clear him made that virtually certain.
Mannering planned to be at Park Lane at nine o’clock, and to leave there disguised and with his kit, at half-past ten. An hour to get to Barnes, by devious routes, and then a start on the burglary soon after the last light went out.
He lay full-length on his bed after dinner, knowing that it might be twelve hours or more before he had another chance to rest. But his nap was disturbed by the sharp ring of the front door bell.
He straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, and opened the door, half-prepared to find Bristow. Instead he saw Errol, Sharron’s dismissed watchman.
Errol still had the stamp of the Yard about him. He had been a sergeant for twenty years, and a sergeant’s pension was not a large one. Mannering had an idea what he wanted.
‘Hallo, Errol, come in.’
‘Thanks, sir.’ Worried brown eyes regarded Mannering, as he stood awkwardly, hat in hand. ‘Sorry to call so late, sir, but I thought I’d more likely find you in.’
‘Sit down,’ said Mannering, and stepped to his cocktail cabinet. ‘A drink? Beer, or—’
‘I could do with a glass of beer,’ said Errol heavily. ‘Very good of you to see me, Mr. Mannering. I’m that worried. I don’t know what to do.’
He drank deeply, and put his tankard down with a sigh of partial satisfaction.
‘I don’t want to come worrying you, Mr. Mannering, only I was wondering if you could put in a word for me with his Lordship. I did all I could, and I got knocked about for my pains, and the sack at the end of it. He knows how I’m placed; I didn’t think him capable of it, I really didn’t.’
Mannering’s interest quickened. More evidence of the recent change in Sharron’s general demeanour might be useful.
‘He’s very upset, of course.’
‘As to that, he was upset before the robbery,’ Errol said with a flash of spirit. ‘We put it down to Mr. Armstrong and Miss Fay, his Lordship wanting to break the engagement. But he’s hardly treated me fair, sir. I’ve been with him for a year, I went straight from the Yard, and he promised me five years’ work. My wife’s got T.B., and with five youngsters, three at school, and one out of work, I needed the money. Well then,’ Errol went on with an effort, ‘I never expected to be kicked out without a reference!’
Mannering murmured sympathetically.
‘Mind you,’ Errol said with another flash of spirit, ‘I’m not begging, Mr. Mannering. If his Lordship will only give me a reference I’ll manage to get something. I tried Mr. Mendleson, but he wouldn’t even see me.’
Mannering frowned.
‘No. Difficult for him, of course, he’s a close friend of Lord Sharron.’
‘I don’t think it’s that, Mr. Mannering. As a matter of fact when I was at the Yard I had some work to do with Mr. Mendleson. He hasn’t forgotten it, and I don’t suppose he will.’
Mannering forced himself to show no elation, but his heart was thumping. Unexpectedly the watchman was bringing him word that he wanted to hear, word that Leverson was trying to get something which might suggest that Mendleson was not all that he seemed. Bristow, of course, would know it, but Bristow was keeping a lot to himself.
He emptied the rest of the beer into Errol’s tankard, offered cigarettes, and said casually: ‘Nothing serious, was it?’
Errol’s eyes smouldered.
‘You’d be surprised, Mr. Mannering, I wouldn’t trust Mendleson five minutes, him and that brother of his, Gillison, he calls himself—’
He broke off, for Mannering’s hand had jerked, and beer spilled over the side of his tankard.
Chapter Nine
Visit By Night
For years Mannering had schooled himself to show no surprise, no matter what startling news he received. But there were moments when the iron control broke: this was one of them. He looked down ruefully at the spilt beer.
‘I was born clumsy,’ he said. ‘What were we talking about?’
‘Mendleson,’ said Errol, obviously obsessed with his story. ‘It was over a bucket-shop case, Mr. Mannering, and that’s when we discovered that Mendleson had a brother who calls himself Gillison. He’s got a French wife, and she’s a little tartar.’
‘It didn’t get into the Press,’ said Mannering. ‘Or did I miss it?’
‘Oh, it didn’t get that far! Mendleson covered his brother well, but they were both in it all right.’ Mannering glanced at his watch.
‘What a memory you Yard chaps have! Well, I’ll certainly h
ave a word with Lord Sharron, and I may be able to help, now or a bit later. You’d no particular fear of a robbery, I suppose?’
Errol shrugged.
‘I advised his Lordship to get someone from Winchester, or even the Yard. It isn’t safe to have valuables like that lying about, as I told him.’
‘My view, too,’ said Mannering ruefully. ‘My own loss was pretty heavy, you know. What do you think are the chances of getting the stuff back?’
Errol shook his head.
‘I wouldn’t take ten to one on you seeing them again. All except the pearls will have been cut up by now. You’d be surprised—’ He went into a long description of the habits of jewel-thieves and fences, all of which were equally familiar to the Baron.
Errol left at half-past eight. As the door closed behind him, Mannering’s mind fastened on the one fact of great significance.
So Mendleson was Gillison’s brother.
Out of the welter of uncertainties a single vital point had emerged. Everything Mendleson had done came back vividly, vague suspicions crystallised.
Mendleson, then, was the Baron’s quarry, if the raid on Barnes failed.
At half-past nine, half an hour behind his schedule for the night, Mannering strolled briskly to Piccadilly Circus, and then across the Green Park. Tanker Tring was on duty, and followed at a discreet distance.
Inside again, Mannering allowed his shadow to be seen by Tring sinking into an easy chair. That fact well established he slipped beneath the window sill and crawled to his bedroom. Here he donned a black, lightweight mackintosh, and went out, this time through the door leading to the fire-escape.
No lights showed clearly enough to reveal him to any watcher, but it was possible that the police were at the back of the building as well as the front. Quietly, he went across the small courtyard to the tradesmen’s entrance. Without a sound he opened it, and stepped into the narrow alleyway beyond.
There was no sound, no sign of a watcher.
The dark coat and gloves merged in the blackness. For once there was no moon, and a high wind helped to deaden all sound of his movements. Immediately opposite him was a door to the next block’s domestic entrance, and Mannering stepped quickly to it.
He went through.
As he did so he saw the outline of a man’s head and shoulders, and he knew that Bristow was taking every precaution to prevent the Baron working undetected. Mannering kept the gate open, and watched that lone, cold figure. The man did not move for twenty seconds, and when he did it was with the slow, ponderous footsteps of the beat-policeman turned plain-clothes man. He made two turns along the alley before Mannering was satisfied he had noticed nothing.
Mannering stepped across the second courtyard, hurrying along the passage. He had to pass the end of Brook Street to get to Piccadilly, and he saw Tring moving up and down, flapping his arms.
He taxied to the end of Park Lane, and then walked to Fuller Mansions, keeping his head down and his chin tucked into his collar – reasonable enough on a night of such piercing cold. The night-porter at the Mansions grunted goodnight. Mannering hurried upstairs.
His disguise took him an hour.
Everything was done slowly, carefully. Until that day, it was some months since he had used a disguise, and he knew the danger of the slightest flaw. In front of the dressing-table glass his complexion changed from dark tan to a muddy pallor, his teeth, with the rubber covering, turned from white to yellow, his eyebrows grew thicker.
He used a white dye, easily removed with spirit, for his hair, and added a close-cropped moustache, flecked with grey. His face finished, he leaned back and studied the effect.
Satisfied, he dressed quickly, in evening dress made by an East End tailor. The clothes gave his shoulders an added slope, making him look leaner and lending him the appearance of a man dressed to kill.
Light shoes, soled and heeled with rubber, completed the outfit.
About his waist he fastened a tool-kit, containing all the implements he was likely to need, four small sticks of dynamite, two of gelignite, some stout celluloid and a folding jemmy made of high-tensile steel.
In his tail pockets he carried a small gas-pistol, loaded with ether gas, a wash-leather bag with a chloroform-soaked pad, a dark blue silk scarf and a pair of cotton gloves.
The Baron was ready.
He felt the old thrill as he went out of the room locking the door carefully behind him, the love of the chase, the familiar zest for adventure, for danger. The need for quick-wittedness, for making not a single mistake nor losing a precious moment, was with it. The years rolled by, he knew that at heart the Baron would never be finished, no matter how rigidly Mannering fought against him.
The porter was reading in the small office, and did not glance up. Mannering looked at his watch; although it was already half-past eleven, he decided not to take a cab. Changing buses at Hammersmith, he alighted near the cypress hedge.
Castelnau was almost deserted.
A few private cars, and no more than three pedestrians, were in sight. There was no sign of a policeman.
A few lights gleamed from the houses, but none from 31x.
He had been given no opportunity of reconnoitring the house of Cornelius Gillison, but that did not perturb him. As he stepped boldly into the house drive next to 31x and then across a small garden patch towards the cypress hedge, his pulse beat fast.
He was the Baron, about to break in.
The hedge stopped alongside the house, and there was a low wall dividing the two gardens. Lights on the back of the house next to 31x were shining, but Gillison’s house was in darkness, back and front.
It was half-past twelve when Mannering reached the back door. A piercing wind was blowing almost at gale strength. Mannering thrust his hands in his pockets, to lessen the stiffness of cold. Warmed, he tied the scarf about his face. Next door the light went out.
A bus rumbled by, and another gust of wind swept down, creating a dozen noises. It had the advantage of enabling Mannering to work unheard, though it also prevented him hearing anything that might portend danger.
His senses alert, he shone a pencil beam on the lock of the back door. It looked easy enough, but the door would probably be bolted.
He took skeleton keys from his pocket, and metal clicked on metal.
It seemed an age, but actually only thirty seconds passed before the lock clicked back. Mannering tried the handle, and pushed, but the door did not move.
He shone the torch again, spotting the gap between door and jamb. From his tool-kit he took a thin file, and pushed it through. He felt something give, knew that it was a felt runner to keep out draughts. The reverse edge of the file, knife sharp, pierced the felt and, very slowly, the Baron cut at it.
As the file reached the top he waited tensely. The blade touched the bolt.
He shone the torch again, revealing the slit felt, and the shining steel of a bolt a quarter of an inch thick. There was a thin wire running across it. His heart leapt. Any attempt to draw it with the wire there would have raised the alarm. Even to touch it might do so.
To work at it effectively the Baron needed something to stand on. He drew away carefully, and went alongside the house as the heavy tread of a patrol policeman came clearly. Mannering waited until the man passed, his helmet showing above the cypress hedge. A car hummed by.
Shining the torch towards the ground, Mannering found what he wanted – a thick log of wood, used for chopping slicks. He lifted it to the back porch, found that it was steady beneath his weight, and then took a pair of thin-mawed wire-cutters from his pocket.
It was a crucial moment.
A first-class wiring system would react at a touch; the less effective type needed pulling or jerking. He shone the light with his left hand, and opened the maws of the cutters to cut against the bolt.
The strong-levered handles pressed.
The maws bit into the wire, and the Baron’s pulse was racing, there was a loud humming in his ears. But h
e heard no jangling of bells.
The wire snapped.
There was a lull in the wind, and he heard the ends fall against the sides of the door. Breathlessly he waited, forcing himself to keep quiet for three minutes. There was no sound; the traffic had practically ceased, only in the distance could he hear a car engine.
Satisfied, he gripped the bolt between the maws of the cutter, and began to slide it slowly back. Two minutes of delicate handling, and the end of the bolt came in sight. He drew a deep breath as he stepped off the log, lifting it away before he started work on the second bolt.
In another three minutes that too was forced back.
As he tried the handle again he felt a stab of apprehension, the inevitable moment of nervousness. He opened the door.
Darkness and silence met him.
He stepped through, closing it gently behind him. For the first time he dared to move the beam of light so that he could see properly about the room. It was large, barely furnished, and modern. In a grey-enamelled range the embers of a fire glowed red.
Mannering stepped to it, seeing that practically all the coal had burned out, assuming that the staff had retired for at least an hour.
The far door was closed but not locked, and a narrow passage lay beyond.
He went along it carefully, reaching the front hall.
The risk of failing to check the servants had been unavoidable. A snap raid at a time when the Kallinovs were likely to be on the premises had been necessary. He wanted the gems for anything that would give him a direct line between Gillison and the theft, and between Gillison and Mendleson in the same connection.
It was difficult to believe that Gillison would keep many valuables here by night; he must have known his precautions would keep out only second-rate cracksmen.
The Baron looked into the four downstairs rooms, finding them empty. Before he went upstairs he located the battery-box of the telephone, and pulled out and cut one of the wires.
There would be no S.O.S. sent from the house that night. He went quickly but quietly up the carpeted stairs, hearing no sounds.
Pausing at the first landing he tried the handle of the door nearest to him. As it turned, he heard the heavy breathing of a man. An arc lamp outside shone into the room, and as the seconds passed he could distinguish the bed with its rumpled bedclothes.