by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
Into The Trap
First published in 1957
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1957-2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2015 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
0755135849 9780755135844 Print
0755139186 9780755139187 Kindle
0755140176 9780755140176 Epub
0755155017 9780755155019 Epdf
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.
Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.
Chapter One
Nervous Caller
The Mannerings were having an evening at home, together and alone. It was a rare occasion; almost as rare as the incidence of happily married couples in their immediate circle. They looked contented. John Mannering leaned back in an easy chair, his eyes closed, his pipe between his lips, a glass of whisky at his side. Lorna, his wife, sat upright, putting the finishing touches to a delicate piece of embroidery. Occasionally, she paused to thread a new silk; as often, she stopped working, looked across at Mannering, and smiled.
The Brahms concerto to which they were listening came to an end. The radiogram gave a persistent whirring sound. Mannering opened his eyes.
“Pity,” he said lazily.
“I’ll see to it,” said Lorna, putting down her needle.
“My turn,” Mannering stood up, proving that he hadn’t been asleep or anything like it. “What next? Wagner, Grieg, Strauss, or a soupçon of heartier fare?”
“No heartiness, darling, I’d rather have nothing.”
Mannering opened the top of the radiogram, and at that moment the telephone rang.
“Pity,” he said again. “Why don’t we live on a desert island?”
“Because you’re too fond of the fleshpots.” Lorna, nearer the telephone, lifted the receiver. “Hallo … Yes, who is that?” She frowned slightly and held it towards Mannering. “For you. He won’t give his name.”
“Hallo …”
Mannering saw Lorna’s frown and understood it. Anyone who refused to give his name spelt “business” on one form or another. It was nearly ten o’clock in the evening, when any intrusion was unwanted.
“Is that Mr. Mannering?” a man’s voice asked.
“Yes.”
“Mr. John Mannering?” The caller sounded agitated; Lorna must have recognised that agitation.
“Certainly. Who is that?”
“You buy jewels, don’t you?” The voice was deliberately low, as if the speaker were afraid of being overheard.
“Sometimes,” countered Mannering, “but not at this time of night. I shall be at my shop, Quinn’s, in the morning, and—”
“I can’t wait until morning!” There was alarm, as well as youthfulness in the voice. “I just can’t wait, I—I must see you. Show them to you. They’re good, you’ll want them, but—”
He stopped speaking.
Mannering said curtly: “Yes?”
There was no answer, although the receiver was still off at the other end.
“Are you there?” asked Mannering sharply. “Are you there?”
Lorna stood up, restlessly. The silence at the other end of the line persisted, and Mannering didn’t speak again. There was quiet in the room; and tension, too, between the Mannerings, and between Mannering and the unknown caller.
Lorna said: “John, need you—”
He raised his hand for greater silence as he listened. A faint sound came to him over the wire, followed by deadness. He put down the receiver.
Lorna said: “Did you find out who he was?”
“No. I didn’t find out who replaced the receiver, either, but someone did.” Mannering drew Lorna towards him, and kissed her. “I love you.”
“Then forget that anyone called,” said Lorna.
Mannering said: “I may have to, my sweet. I can’t trace the call, and he may not come through again. Odd business. What troubled you?”
“Darling, no woman likes being forgotten.”
Mannering didn’t speak.
Lorna looked at him with a smile half-sad, half-amused.
“Could you be honest for twenty seconds?”
“It’ll be a strain, but I’ll try.” Mannering smiled at her. “Don’t ask too much of me.”
“Well then, what did you think about when you were listening?”
“Hmm. It wasn’t so much conscious thought as reflection,” said Mannering. “An agitated young man speaks in a whispering voice, makes sure I’m John Mannering, makes sure that I buy jewels, says that he can’t wait until the morning before showing something to me, and then—stops. Just like that. He didn’t drop the telephone, he must have put it down quietly. I heard very little. Then there was silence; no confused sounds, as there would have been had the man been interrupted or someone started to talk to him; or even bludgeoned him. He could have held the receiver close to his chest, and muffled any sound. On the other hand, why should he put the receiver down so cautiously? I didn’t really hear it go down, but knew that it went. Did he do it? Look at all the possibilities.”
Lorna said: “Odd things can happen without being sinister.”
“My mind runs on sinister trails.”
“That’s the trouble,” said Lorna. “Well, go on.”
“There isn’t much more. I should say that he was scared because he was being watched, or at least anxious not to be seen talking to anyone on the telephone. That he has some jewels he can’t sell easily and wants to. From there, if we have to go anywhere, we could say that he may have st
olen them, or—”
The front door bell rang.
“There he is!” exclaimed Lorna.
Mannering slid his arm round her waist.
“When dark suspicion catches you, you stop being logical, my sweet. A hundred to one that the ringing of the door bell has nothing to do with our telephone caller.”
“Evens that it’s connected with him,” said Lorna decisively.
The bell rang again.
They were alone in the small flat. They had only one servant who lived in, and she was out for the evening, and had a key. Mannering went into the hall and switched on a light. The bell rang a third time.
Mannering reflected that Lorna’s hunches were often right. Sixth sense? He smiled to himself and opened the door.
The light shone on a woman.
She was quite lovely.
Her beauty, Mannering could see, was of the kind that owed little to soft lighting, or good clothes – although these were of perfect cut and admirable line. She did not speak immediately; it was as if she were finding out, in some mysterious way of her own, what he was like; when she knew, she would speak.
“Are you Mr. John Mannering?” Her voice, when it came, was all he had expected.
“Yes.” Mannering stood aside and she came into the hall. She kept her gaze fixed steadfastly on him. Lorna, he knew, was standing behind the drawing-room door; from there she could see the caller without being seen.
“You may be able to help me,” said the woman quietly. “Can you spare the time to consider doing that?”
“I think so,” said Mannering. He led her to his study, and waited until she was seated. Her movements were graceful, there wasn’t a false note – in her body or her voice. Her mind? Her heart? “I won’t keep you waiting more than two minutes,” he said.
“Thank you.” She didn’t smile.
He went into the drawing-room. Lorna was back in her chair, with the needlework in her hand. She bent over it.
“I’ll still bet you that it’s connected with the telephone call,” she said.
“What are the stakes?”
“Two weeks holiday on a desert island,” offered Lorna. “Be careful, darling, she’s lovely but she could be bad. She has a wonderful technique! When a woman like that asks a man to help her, she’s halfway to getting what she wants.”
“And you’re worried about what she wants?” Mannering grinned. “Coming to size her up while she tells me her life story?”
“She won’t tell you her life story, she’ll tell you exactly as much as she wants to, and it won’t be everything you need to know. I’ll listen at the keyhole.”
“Do better,” said Mannering. “I’ve put her close to this wall, and I’ll sit by it, too.” He stretched up and moved a piece of the picture rail to one side; it covered a small slot, a hole between this room and the next. He kissed her hair and went out – and then forgot her, as she knew he would.
Chapter Two
Lady In Distress?
“My name is Courtney, Mr. Mannering – Mrs. Richard Courtney. I have come to you because I know that you are a collector of precious stones, that you are a—detective, and because I have been assured that you are completely reliable and trustworthy.”
She had paused slightly before using the word “detective”, as if reluctant to use it.
Mannering smiled. “An embracing reference. Who gave it?”
“A friend of mine.”
“From now on he’s also a friend of mine. Will you have a drink?”
“No, thank you. I have been robbed, Mr. Mannering, and there are urgent reasons, beyond that of their considerable value, why I should recover the jewels. There are also reasons why I should not go to the police. It is not a matter which I care to refer to a private inquiry agent, and—well, you are probably the only man in London who can help me. You have a knowledge of precious stones, you know something about police methods and—but I need hardly labour that point.”
“What is their value?” asked Mannering.
“I cannot quote an exact figure. They are insured for at least forty thousand pounds.”
“When were they stolen?”
“Yesterday.”
“From where?”
“From my apartment. They were all there yesterday morning. I discovered the loss late last night. I know of two people who may have been concerned in the theft.”
“Whom do you suspect?”
“My maid and my stepson.”
“I see.” Mannering offered her cigarettes; she took one, and he leaned forward to light it for her. Her eyes were grey, and in some way unlike any eyes he’d ever seen. It was impossible to guess what thoughts were hidden behind that clear, calm, unfathomable gaze. She sat within two feet of the wall, almost immediately beneath the slot. “Maid first suspect, stepson second?” Mannering suggested.
“That is what I want you to find out.”
“And the reason for keeping away from the police is that your stepson may be guilty and, if so, you want to get the jewels back without a scandal?”
“Yes.”
“Is your husband in England?”
“No. He is on board the Queen Elizabeth, which left New York yesterday evening and is due at Southampton on Monday morning. That means there is a little more than four days in which to work, Mr. Mannering.”
“Your stepson lives with you?”
“He has a flat of his own, in Chelsea – not far from here. I don’t propose to tell you anything about him, beyond the fact that he had the opportunity to steal the jewels and, I think, probably needs the money. I have no wish to prejudice you against him.”
“Indeed?” Mannering thought drily. Aloud, he said: “How many other people know of the missing jewels?”
“Unless the maid stole them, she doesn’t know. Unless Nigel – my stepson – stole them, he doesn’t know. Only two people, close personal friends, have any idea of it, and they have not been fully informed. If the jewels are recovered, my husband need know nothing about the loss – so I want to keep it as secret as possible. If they’re not recovered”—she smiled for the first time—“then he will have to know; but at least I shall have done everything I can to spare him.” She tapped the ash off her cigarette, and invested even that trifling movement with compelling grace. “I hope you will help me, Mr. Mannering.”
“With nothing else to work on?”
“I can give you a description of the jewels,” said Mrs. Courtney. “Details were prepared at the time of the insurance and I have a copy with me. The missing jewels are marked.” She fingered her large leather handbag but did not open it, showing no sign of tension, eagerness or pleading.
“Supposing I decide that I am too busy?” Mannering asked.
“I should not believe you, of course, merely assuming that you weren’t impressed with my reasons for wanting to keep the matter secret, or else you felt that a domestic trifle is no concern of yours. I can’t promise you the excitement which, I’ve been told, will often induce you to act. In fact there is very little indeed that I can promise you, but—” She paused and smiled.
Mannering was neither prude nor prig, and there were many who said that he was as tough as men came. But he wasn’t proof against that smile; not wholly proof, because in spite of himself he felt his pulses quickening. She contrived to make herself desirable. Perhaps only his own wishful thinking hinted that she was attainable. Yet there was no word, no gesture, no definable expression on her face, to justify the thought.
“Four days isn’t long,” Mannering murmured.
“It might prove long enough.”
Mannering, stubbing out his cigarette, looked as if he were trying to make up his mind. Mrs. Courtney continued to look at him, unimpressed by the byplay.
“Yes, it might. Let me have the details of the gems, Mrs. Courtney, and the night to think it over. I will telephone you first thing in the morning, one way or the other.”
“Very well.” She opened her handbag, took out
a foolscap envelope, handed it to him, and stood up. Her bag closed with a snap. “That is all the information I can give you. You could meet both my stepson and my maid by calling on me in any guise you like, except the true one.” She smiled again, so quickly and fleetingly that it was easy to believe that he had imagined it, and turned to the door.
He led her across the hall.
“Thank you for letting me have so much of your time,” she said. “Goodnight.”
Her handshake was like her smile, a promise – well, a half promise. It carried a touch of intimacy and yet, that could be nonsense, like the rest of his thoughts.
He waited, as she descended the stairs, to light her down the first flight. Then he closed the door slowly. He stood looking at it for a few seconds, hands thrust deep into his pockets, face set; and when Lorna spoke, he started violently.
“No!” said Lorna abruptly.
He grinned. She had come from the drawing-room unobserved, and was smiling derisively. She looked delightful, but the vision of the other woman was vivid in his mind. Lorna was beautiful with a warm and human loveliness, touched by imperfection which made her real. Her dark hair was swept back in waves off her broad, pale forehead from a centre parting; there was a furrow between her thick brows – she could easily look sullen, and those who didn’t know her well called her aloof. There was beauty in the lift of her head, her short nose, her full lips, in her poise. After a few seconds the smile became set.
“Well?” she said in a strained voice.
“A most persuasive creature.”
“I mean, how do I compare?”
“Now, my sweet, take it easy. Comparisons are—”
“Listen, darling,” said Lorna, and slid her arm into his and drew him to the far side of the hall. She switched on a light above a picture. It was of Mannering, and she had painted it. She had caught him in a moment when he had been smiling, but thoughtful; a hint of absentmindedness was also there. It depicted a man, darkly handsome; a man with a mind. “See him?” murmured Lorna. “I’ve lived, eaten, laughed, slept, worked and played with him for over twelve years. I know a little about him. How do I compare?”