by John Creasey
He inserted his knife and pressed down the catch. It squeaked. He pushed the door gently, heart thumping. If the door were locked, it would increase the risks; every moment he stood here the danger grew.
The door opened.
He felt a wave of relief, almost of elation, and stopped pushing. He relaxed for a moment, and only then did he realise how tense he had been. He drew out his whisky flask and took a sip, screwed the cap on quickly, grinned to himself in the darkness, and then pushed the door wider open. It made no sound.
He stepped into the room, took out his pencil torch and switched it on. A beam of light shot out and struck a wall not a few feet ahead of him; he swivelled it round, slowly. Light reflected from the glass of pictures, then from polished furniture. This wasn’t a bedroom.
No one was here.
He found the door and stepped into the passage. The floorboards creaked. He stood quite still, shining the torch along. First there was the handrail of the banisters, then a turn at the landing, next the stairs. On the other side of the passage were two doors; another door was straight ahead of him.
If Lorna were at this house, she would probably be on this floor.
Mannering approached the first door, turned the handle and found it unlocked. The trouble now was that he would have to do the same thing at every room; to exert the same caution all the time. Any single moment could be disastrous.
The first room was a bathroom.
The second was an empty bedroom.
The third was a box-room, filled with cases, trunks, crates, old pictures, oddments which probably had no use at all. So there was no one on this floor.
Mannering turned to the head of the stairs.
The boards creaked; once there was a sharp report, so loud that he stopped quite still; his heart hammered. No one stirred. He reached the next landing, and used the torch to reconnoitre again. This floor also had four rooms, like the one above.
The first was an empty bedroom. He could smell camphor, and saw dustsheets spread over the bed and the furniture. He moved away, closing the door behind him, and then opened the next.
He heard the sound of breathing.
Now he stood very still in the darkness, listening. Someone was asleep in here, but the door had been unlocked; if Lorna were here she would be locked in.
He judged the position of the bed, then went slowly towards it, careful at every step in case he kicked against a chair. Soon, he switched on the torch. It shone on the gleaming auburn of Lucille’s hair, on to the honey glow of her forehead.
He turned the torch away from her, and murmured softly: “Clear conscience, Lucille?”
He made sure that no one else was in the room, then went out. The key was in the inside of the lock; he took it, locked Lucille in, and pocketed the key.
Everywhere was silent.
As he opened the next door, he felt disappointment which was taking the edge off his excitement. He wanted a locked door, but he had to be sure who was in each room. He listened, but heard no sound of breathing. That wasn’t conclusive proof that no one was there. He stepped inside and shone the torch. A made bed was opposite the window. Oddments of women’s clothing were flung across this. He swivelled the torch round, and light was reflected from the mirror of a dressing-table. He switched it off quickly; if the man outside saw that, he might begin to wonder.
As the light went out, Mannering caught sight of something which made him stop moving.
He held his breath as he shone the torch again, risking the brightness of the reflection from the mirror.
On the dressing-table was a handbag; Lorna’s beyond any doubt. This was the bag he had given her just before he had left her at the car and started for the Villa Chalon.
Mannering went slowly across the room towards the window. He didn’t look out, but stretched up and pulled the curtains. He made more noise than was necessary; his first careless moment. He turned and stepped quickly towards the door, switched on the main light, and then closed the door.
Yes, it was Lorna’s bag. He went across the opened it. Her fountain pen – the one she had used when writing the note – powder compact, lipstick, note-case and purse; all the familiar things were there. The note-case was full of francs, they hadn’t robbed her.
Nothing else of hers was here.
Where had they taken her?
Mannering put out the light and stepped into the passage. Lucille would know, and it should be easier to make Lucille talk than any of the others. He had to know.
Was it worth looking in the other rooms? There were two more on this floor, others on the floors below; each one might be used as a cell for Lorna. But if she were in another room, why was her handbag here?
He turned to the rooms he had not yet visited; the first was unlocked. He heard the sound of breathing inside. The torch light shone on two beds and an elderly couple, facing each other. Mannering locked them in.
He had to find Philippe.
The next door was locked.
He stood very still, fingers clutching the handle, making sure that it wasn’t just jammed. He knew that it was not. He drew back, listened intently, hearing no sound from above or below. Hope flared back, driving away that feeling of disaster. If he had found her, he must make sure he couldn’t have victory turned into defeat; he must find the men.
He turned away abruptly, and went downstairs. The floorboards here were sturdier and he made hardly a sound. On the landing, the carpet was thicker, silence was easy. The passages were wider, too. Mannering used the torch freely, and found three rooms instead of four; the first was a library, the second empty, the third a bedroom with Philippe Bidot asleep in the large double bed.
Mannering switched the torch off as soon as he recognised Philippe, who turned in his sleep. There was a momentary break in his even breathing. Mannering went nearer the bed.
Philippe was dangerous and might be deadly; remember that.
Close to the bed Mannering shone the torch again, to make sure that he could judge the distance properly. Then, in the darkness, he curled his fingers and gripped Philippe’s neck.
For a moment there was no movement, no hint of resistance; then he felt the man take in a sharp breath. Philippe’s body stiffened, then moved in one convulsive effort to get free. Fingers clutched at Mannering’s wrists, fastening round them like claws.
Mannering’s hands were tight about the man’s throat.
Philippe’s legs thrashed the bedclothes, he tried to tear himself free, his fingers clawed – but that was only for a few moments. His struggles slackened.
Mannering eased the pressure slightly, and Philippe made another convulsive effort to free himself, but hadn’t a chance.
He became slack; unconscious.
Mannering shone the torch round the room. Heavy curtains were drawn, if he switched on the light it wasn’t likely to be seen from outside. He switched it on, then turned to the unconscious Frenchman. Lying with his head on one side and his lips slack, the swarthy handsomeness of the man still showed. His dark hair curled a little, and his black lashes swept his cheeks.
Mannering tore strips off a linen sheet, bound Philippe’s wrists, then flung back the sheet and bound his ankles. He pulled the blankets up, tucked them in firmly and tied the rest of the sheet across Philippe’s chest and round under the bed. Philippe was stirring; before long he would come round. Mannering gagged him, next, and then went quickly through the pockets of his clothes, which hung on a stand by the foot of the bed – coat on a padded hanger, trousers stretched to ensure a perfect crease. He found the automatic pistol in the pocket of the coat and a bunch of keys. Then he searched the room swiftly, but found nothing else that he thought might help, except for a door-key which was lying on the dressing-table.
By then Philippe was conscious, and staring at him.
Mannering w
orked without saying a word. Philippe’s gaze followed him everywhere. Deliberately, and in spite of the urgent summons from the locked room upstairs, Mannering stayed longer than was necessary. Then he turned and looked into the dark bright eyes of the man on the bed.
He took the pistol from his pocket, watching Philippe closely. The bold eyes narrowed, but Philippe made no attempt to speak through the gag.
Mannering went out, switching off the light as he went. The torchlight showed him the way upstairs. He was satisfied that no one else was in the house – except in that locked room.
Philippe’s keys jangled. Mannering reached the locked door, took out the key which he had found on Philippe’s dressing-table and slipped it into the lock. Had he guessed right? Was it the key of this door? His hand shook so that he could scarcely turn it, but it did turn.
He thrust the door open and stepped into the room.
16
Failure
The beam of the torch shone straight towards the bed in a corner of the room, and fell upon Lorna’s face.
Relief was like a flood; mental and physical, relief which killed all other thought and feeling.
Mannering stood with the torch shaking a little, but the beam still showed every feature, and Lorna’s dark hair, She was asleep. She did not seem to be in any pain, and her arms appeared to be free.
Mannering closed the door behind him and moved across the room. Then he had to go back, to switch on the light. The shutters were closed at the window, no one outside would know that the light had gone on. It was dim, but good enough for him to see more clearly.
Lorna lay in bed, turned towards Mannering and the door, one arm beneath her, the other, bare to the shoulder, hanging over the side of the bed. For the first time, Mannering thought that she was lying awkwardly.
Her hair was untidy and she had on no make-up; she looked peaceful; too peaceful?
“All right, my darling,” he said, and reached her.
Then he saw why she lay like that. There was an iron bracelet round her left wrist, and the bracelet was chained to the post at the foot of the bed. She had some freedom of movement, but couldn’t get free. Mannering felt his teeth grating as he went down on one knee.
“Lorna,” he whispered, “wake up.”
She didn’t stir. “Wake up, my sweet.” He kissed her cheek and gripped her wrist – the wrist which was free from the bracelet and the chain.
“Lorna!” he said, and his voice broke.
Swift, dark fear attacked him, but she was breathing; he could see movement at her lips and at her breast. The frilly lace of her brassiere showed, but her arms and shoulders were bare. He gripped her shoulders and shook her, suddenly fierce.
“Lorna!”
She did not stir.
Mannering drew back, then raised one eyelid gently. The pupil of the eye was just a tiny pin-point, hardly visible. She had been drugged, probably with morphia, and from the look of her she would be unconscious for hours.
It was useless to try to wake her.
He took Philippe’s keys out of his pocket, selected a small one which might fit the bracelet, and turned it in the lock. That fell off her wrist. There were only slight marks on the flesh; nothing suggested that she had been ill-treated.
He moved her so that she was lying on her back, both arms quite free. He pulled down the sheet and light blanket. She wore just a brassiere, a pair of panties and a suspender-belt. He glanced round; the dress she had been wearing when they had gone together to the Villa Chalon was draped over the back of a chair, her shoes were on the floor. He picked up the dress; it buttoned all down the front, so he was able to get her into it. He put on her shoes and then he left her lying on the bed, looking peaceful and comfortable.
He waited for a moment on the landing and took another sip of whisky, then lit a cigarette and went down to Philippe’s room.
The man’s eyes widened as he went in, and Mannering guessed something of his tension.
He drew deeply at the cigarette, and went across the room. He kept his eyes narrowed; he was quite sure that the disguise was good enough to fool anyone, especially in this light. He drew at the cigarette until it burned very red, then, by the side of the bed, took it out and looked at the glowing tip.
“This can burn,” he said, in thick guttural French. He put the cigarette to his lips again, and then took out his knife. The sharp blade flashed.
Philippe did not flinch even when the knife drooped towards his face.
Mannering cut the gag free; it fell to one side. Deep marks showed on either side of Philippe’s lips, but they were not angry or painful. His eyes looked their questions, seemed to ask: “Who are you?”
Mannering said: “Where did you stab Stella Bidot?” He moved the knife, point downwards, and pricked Philippe on the chest; then he took the knife higher. Philippe’s eyes followed it until the point and the blade were out of his sight, hidden by his own chin.
Mannering pressed the back of the blade sharply against the man’s skin. It did not cut; it could not have hurt, but Philippe started violently.
“That’s right,” Mannering said. “Only when you cut her throat, you didn’t tell her what you were going to do, did you?”
“I did not kill!”
“You killed her,” Mannering said, “and the police know you did. Shall I send for them? Or would you rather they didn’t come in and find Mannering’s wife a prisoner?”
Philippe somehow found his voice.
“Who—are you?”
“Mannering’s quite a person,” Mannering went on, and his voice was very harsh. “He gets mad at times. If he knew where his wife was, he’d get mad at you. Why did you kidnap her?”
Philippe didn’t speak.
“You’ll have to find the answers,” Mannering said. He didn’t grin, didn’t gloat. His face was blank most of the time and when he spoke his lips hardly moved. It would all heighten the effect, increase the other’s fear. “Why did you kidnap her? What’s Mannering done to you?”
“He—he robbed—Villa Chalon.” Philippe tried to move; it was almost pathetic. “You’re wrong. I didn’t kill Stella. Mannering killed her.”
Mannering didn’t speak.
“I tell you he killed her!” Philippe said hoarsely.
He stopped abruptly. His eyes darted to and fro, as if quite suddenly he was desperately afraid to meet Mannering’s eyes. He moistened his lips. “It was not I. Mannering broke into the Villa Chalon, he—”
Mannering grinned. The light showed the silvered stopping of the fake teeth, gave him a dark and sinister look; one of sly menace.
The knife seemed to slip; it nicked the side of the Frenchman’s neck. Philippe winced, and tried to see it, as if his eyes could keep it away.
Mannering gave another sneering grin.
“I want two answers. Why did you kill Stella Bidot, and why did you take Mannering’s wife away? The answers had better be good. Don’t take me wrong,” Mannering went on, and looked again at the glowing end of the cigarette. “I don’t mind you killing Stella. I just want to know what made it worth your while. And what have you got against Mannering? Tell me, Bidot. I’ve been wanting to cut Mannering’s throat for a long time, perhaps I can fix him now.” He paused, then added softly: “Perhaps you’d even swear to the police that Mannering raided the villa. That would finish him. Will you do that?”
If he convinced Bidot that he and Mannering were two different people, and that ‘he’ wanted to see Mannering dead, the man might talk.
He had to talk . . .
Mannering moved the knife in front of Philippe’s eyes.
“Will you tell the police about the burglary?”
Philippe didn’t answer, and it was easy to understand why. If he told the police that, he would be telling them about the
hoard of stolen goods still at the villa.
Mannering said viciously: “So you won’t. You’re afraid of the police discovering the strong-room. Before you can risk that, you must empty the room, and you can’t do that until the police clear out. You’ve been too clever, Bidot. I’ll tell you something else. I could whisper about the strong-room to the police. Flambaud is looking for something like that. What I don’t understand is why you killed your sister-in-law . . .” he switched to that abruptly.
Philippe’s expression changed. Fear faded into astonishment – then into amusement. Mannering knew that he had got something wrong – so wrong that Philippe was so relieved that he could smile.
“You fool,” Philippe said. “You can guess what you like, but—”
He stopped abruptly. A sharp, buzzing sound cut across his words, coming from the wall near the bed. Alarm drove the fierce gleam out of his eyes.
“What’s that?” Mannering asked sharply.
“An alarm bell,” Philippe said promptly. “I have guards outside, one is raising the alarm. It may be the police.”
Or it might be that a guard had discovered that Mannering was in the house.
Mannering turned round abruptly, and hurried to the door. He heard footsteps as he stood by it, covering Philippe with the Frenchman’s own gun.
“Quiet!”
The footsteps drew nearer.
Mannering opened the door, and called sharply: “What is it?”
“The police, m’sieu,” the man gasped as he reached the landing. “They are watching, one has gone to the back and taken Marcel away. I was not seen. Now, the house is watched, back and front.”
He reached the room.
Mannering smashed a blow on to the back of his head. He fell, with hardly a sound.
17
Lucille Obeys
Mannering went out on to the landing. Behind him both men were bound and gagged; helpless. The house was silent. He made his way to Lucille’s door and listened, then unlocked the door and went in: Lucille was still sleeping, on her side, face towards him. He put on a light, sat down on the side of the bed and placed his left hand over her mouth.