by John Creasey
“I think it’s enough.” It seemed to bear out her story. “Get home, old chap.”
Mannering went downstairs and looked up and down the street. There was no one there. He walked quickly towards his garage conscious of a rising sense of exaltation. Unlocking the garage door, he waited cautiously, but nothing happened. He drove out, returning to relock the door.
A couple passed, arm in arm.
He drove towards Hammersmith, crossed the Broadway into Brook Green, where in a side street he kept a lock-up garage for just this sort of emergency. There he parked the Talbot and walked to an all-night service garage on the other side of the Broadway. He knew the garage well.
As the Baron, he had been here many times.
He recognised the night-foreman; the foreman recognised him, but not as Mannering, and knew the value of the twenty-five pounds in notes which changed hands.
Ten minutes afterwards Mannering drove off in a powerful Humber. Under the seat was a small set of burglar’s tools. On the back seat was a one-man oxy-acetylene outfit.
He drove to a side street near Hammersmith Broadway, parked the car and walked away. No one showed any interest in it or him.
A woman passed the station entrance wearing slacks and a short navy-blue coat. Her dark hair was swept up and flattened to the top of her head.
As she passed, she gave him an imperceptible nod. He grinned back. She stopped and turned towards him.
“Fine.” He took her arm. A policeman’s glance swept over them indifferently, as they ambled towards the Humber.
They sat in silence as he drove fast, but within the speed limit. Through the suburbs, and on into the country. Now and again they passed heavy lorries and milk transports; headlights lit up the way ahead with a pale, ghostly glow. They had been travelling for an hour when Lorna said: “You’re on top of the world, aren’t you?”
“Well, it’s the first time we’ve started out together on a job like this.”
“Before the night’s out, my darling you’re going to wish you hadn’t brought me – wish you’d slunk away and done all this on your own and sneaked back tomorrow, looking guilty and expecting a tirade. You brought me because you were afraid that if you didn’t I’d find a way to stop you from coming.”
Her hand closed on his, on the wheel.
“You just can’t help yourself,” she said. “The real you is the Baron and always was.” She caught her breath. “I’ve often wanted to be with you from the beginning of a raid. Let us hope I won’t bring you bad luck.”
“You could throw some salt over your left shoulder,” said Mannering.
“Don’t be flippant.” The pressure of her hand tightened. “Am I going to be a help?”
“Yes. Watch-dog.”
“I shall probably be so nervous that I’ll scream at a cat.”
“That’s why I thought it was such a good notion to bring you. From what Nigel said, once we’re in the vaults we can be taken by surprise quite easily.”
She took her hand away and crammed a trilby hat over her hair. She was smiling, and he knew that she was glad to be with him, knew that she felt something of the magnetic power which drew him towards the Grange. He smiled back at her.
Soon they came to the side turning. A little later they passed the iron gates, which stood wide open.
Chapter Fifteen
The Baron At Work
It had been a mistake to bring Lorna.
Mannering knew that as they walked quietly together across the meadow which bordered the great garden. He knew it because he had two things to think about: Lorna, and the heavy task ahead. As the Baron, he needed to concentrate on only one thing, and she weakened his power of concentration. She was excited, too; she had never been with him at the beginning of a raid, although she had often come at the last minute, bringing needed help.
They came to a high wall, and a closed gate. He pushed it and found it locked. It would take him only a few seconds to get over the wall; for Lorna, he needed to force the catch. He drew on a pair of cotton gloves and took out his penknife, one blade of which served as a skeleton key.
Lorna said: “Need you do that? It’s probably bolted anyway.”
Meekly he made a step for her with his hands. She trod lightly, reached the top of the wall and hauled herself over. Next moment he heard a bolt being drawn back at the door. It opened and he stepped through.
The house stood, an enormous grey pile against the dark gardens, some two hundred yards away. A line of intense darkness showed a hedge; here there would be a path. They walked along the grass verge making no sound. The path ended near the west wing of the Grange; the vaults were beneath this wing.
Mannering pressed Lorna’s hand and whispered: “Wait.” He took out a small, hooded torch, and studied the side door. It was of oak, iron-studded and formidable. He examined the lock; it was heavy but old-fashioned. If that were the only problem, the task would be easy; but Nigel had boasted about a foolproof electric burglar alarm.
Mannering turned to the nearest window; it was heavily shuttered, and there was no lock fitting on the outside.
He stood back. Above his head the glass of a small window reflected the stars. Looking to the left he could see, not far away, the blurred outline of a garden seat. He stepped towards it and lifted one end; it was heavy, but movable. Once on top he would be able to get at a first-floor window.
They lifted the seat together. Fear that she might strain herself nagged at him. When the seat stood up-ended, beneath the window’s ledge, they backed away. By using the struts as footholds he would be able to reach the top. He began to climb. The seat swayed, the oxy-acetylene burner he was carrying seemed much heavier. Lorna used all her weight to balance the impromptu ladder.
It had been folly to bring her.
Inch by inch he reached the ledge and with his greater freedom of movement, opened his coat to get at his tool belt. He took out a folded square of paper, pressing the gummed face against the window. He pressed firmly, then took a small hammer from the tool kit and struck the paper with a sharp tap.
He thought he heard Lorna catch her breath, and looked down at her. She was gazing into the darkness of the garden. He turned away, and pulled at an edge of the paper. It came away easily, and two splinters of glass stuck to it. He pulled again, folding the paper so that the splinters were inside, and soon he had a hole large enough for his hand to go through.
For the first time since he had been up here he shone his torch. The glow showed him the thick cable of the burglar alarm system, which ran across the centre of the sash window. He enlarged the hole, and put his head through. It wasn’t easy to look upwards and shine the light, but he managed to do so, and saw the heavy staples which fastened the cable to the wall. If he could prise out one staple the cable would drop loosely; then he could move it aside without making it taut enough to sound an alarm, open the window and climb in. He judged the position of the staple and drew his head out again.
Lorna was staring up at him now.
He fitted two extra pieces to a long screwdriver and put his arm through the glass, managed to get one shoulder and put his head through also. He lodged the torch so that it shone upon the staple, and pushed the end of the screwdriver against the staple. It was cleated to prevent doing too much damage to the wall. He levered, and felt the screwdriver hold. Little pieces of plaster dropped on to his face.
The staple was already loose. The strain on his wrist and arm was almost unbearable, but a few seconds might see this job over. He felt the staple moving freely; then a little shower of plaster fell on to his forehead, and the staple dropped to the floor with a faint sound.
He drew back, easing his neck and shoulders.
Lorna was looking away, again; and she didn’t speak.
He shone the torch on to the window and saw the cable, where it hung loose. He pushed the window up gently until he was able to grip the cable and place it carefully, giving him room to climb in without jerking it. The window s
queaked; the sound seemed loud in the stillness.
The window was open wide enough for him to climb through.
The garden seat rocked a little as he went over, but in a few seconds he was inside the room and leaning out. Lorna’s face was turned towards him.
Yes, it had been folly to bring her. There was so much danger, and it was hers as much as his. He had to walk through this silent house and open the door for her; and worry, every waiting moment, whether she would be seen; worry about whether her nerve would stand the strain of the next two or three hours. He couldn’t concentrate on examining this room.
He stood near the window, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. It was a small room, the door a dark outline against a pale wall. Without using his torch, he opened it. Beyond, there was pitch darkness. He slipped out, leaving the door ajar. He listened, nerves strained for the slightest sound. Satisfied that he was alone, he switched on his torch. It shone on a panelled wall; intricately carved. He turned left. The glow preceded him, showing the dark wall and white doors, until suddenly it became diffused; he was on a landing.
He knew exactly where he was now, and knew the room in which he had first seen Allingham. He went to the head of the stairs, turned, and looked about him, to judge his position accurately. The west wing door, where Lorna was waiting, would be at the end of the passage which ran from the long hall, which he well remembered.
He walked down the carpeted stairs without light, keeping a hand on the banister. The length of the hall seemed interminable; would he never get to the end of it? He switched on his torch again. He was a few yards from the door which, Nigel had told him, led to the passage connecting the west wing with the main building; he turned the handle.
Once inside, he switched on a house light for the first time. The brightness hit against his eyes. He was in a long, windowless passage; Nigel had told him about that, without realising what he was doing. There was no need to fear that the light might be seen from outside. He judged the length of the passage, put out the light and walked briskly along the carpeted floor, keeping his torch on. He would have been thoroughly at ease but for Lorna.
Passing the entrance to the cellars and vaults, he reached the side door. It was chained and bolted, the alarm cable stretched across it. Straining upward, he pushed the hanging cable above the lintel and made sure that it wouldn’t fall. He drew the bolts and opened the door, his heart pounding.
Lorna stood a few yards away.
He whispered: “All safe.”
She didn’t move.
“It’s all safe.”
She looked pale, but that may have been because of the dim light.
“Did you have any trouble?”
“Not much.” The question was irritating and unlike her; she would not have asked it had her nerve been really steady. “Come on.”
He moved silently to the low door, which led to the vaults. The long, wide, carpeted passage was stone walled. There were some chairs, and two pictures on either side – one above the door to the cellars. Why put it in that small space when there was so much room elsewhere? He shifted a chair nearer to the door.
He put a police whistle in her hand.
“That’s a police whistle, and I’ll hear it wherever I am. For real alarm, one blast. And when you’ve blown, run – don’t worry about me. Run to the car and get away. It probably won’t be necessary, but—”
She nodded.
He stood on the chair and examined the picture. Depicting a middle eighteenth-century scene, it had no particular merit. He shone the light on it carefully. Then he took the screwdriver and touched the frame, nothing happened. He touched it at several other points. Behind this innocent front there might be a trick; any part of the picture and the door might be charged with electricity. He studied the wall, and saw a slight mark in the plaster. The mark ran from the right-hand corner of the picture to the lintel of the doorway; such a mark would be left if the wall had been chiselled out for a cable or wire to be put inside. It might be simply part of the electrical wiring of the house, but more likely it was part of the precautions against burglary.
Lorna would be wondering what he was waiting for.
He put the screwdriver away and touched the picture at the bottom corner with both hands. Then he took its weight and lifted it a fraction of an inch. Nothing happened. The picture hung on a hook which was out of sight. He shone the torch behind it, saw the chain and the hook – and also something dark. This was a circle in the wall immediately beneath the hook. He lifted the picture higher and shook the chain free; all was well.
He whispered: “Take this.”
Lorna raised her arms, and he lowered the picture gently. She put it against the wall. Then he saw the circle of steel which the picture had hidden. It was undoubtedly a combination lock.
He slung the burner over his shoulder, like a bandolier. Then he fiddled with the switch until it was ready, turning the burner-cutter on to the circle of steel. The gas was in a cylinder attached to it; all was made of a light alloy, yet the whole now seemed heavy as lead. He put on dark glasses from his waistband kit.
“Don’t look up,” he said.
He pressed the switch. Through the dark lens he saw a pencil of sparkling blue light. The machine gave a small hissing sound. He saw a line appearing in the steel surface. After thirty unbearable seconds he switched it off, lowered the burner and took off the glasses.
He had cut a hole in the steel as easily as he could cut a hole in paper with a pair of scissors. He used a pair of thick rubber gloves in case it was charged with live electric current, and pressed it down.
Nothing happened.
He said: “Put on these gloves and try the door.” He handed the gloves to Lorna. She obeyed, and the door opened.
“Not bad,” said Mannering, and grinned. “Simple electric control; we couldn’t have opened it without that cutter, my sweet. The omens are good.”
Lorna gave a small, expressive sniff.
Mannering got down from the chair.
“Time for routine. I’m going to look outside.” He walked quickly to the west door, opened it, stepped on to the path and looked about him. Somewhere a long way off an owl hooted.
He returned, took the rubber gloves from Lorna and put them on.
“You know what to do.” She nodded.
He turned on his torch, went through the doorway and found himself in another, narrower passage, at the end of which was a door. This was locked. There was no sign of electric control. He tested the steel of the lock with a thin piece of wire, found no reaction, and set to work with his picklock. The door soon opened. It led to a short passage and a flight of stone steps. At the foot was a third door. He switched on a light, which proved to be clear and blue; a ‘daylight’ lamp.
By the side of this door was a circular piece of steel, with a round combination disc in the middle like the other.
He cut through it, found another switch, pressed it down and was able to open the door at a touch. Beyond were more steps. The next door was also controlled, with its own separate switch.
He had been in the house exactly twenty minutes when he found himself looking into the vaults.
The lights came on automatically.
He had expected nothing like this, encountered nothing like it before. He looked at a huge cage, surrounded by a thick steel grille supported by tubular steel uprights and cross-pieces. A passage about a foot wide ran round the whole of this square cage. The only door in the grille was immediately opposite him. One step forward and he would be able to start work.
It was too easy, too simple.
The floor of the cage itself was cement or concrete.
The passage surface was smooth and looked like rubber. He peered at it for some seconds, then took a piece of test-wire from his kit and dropped it onto the passage floor.
There was a vivid blue flash, bright enough to make him jump. The floor itself was charged with high voltage electric current.
The Vaults
Sweat broke out on Mannering’s forehead as he stared at the passage floor. The flash had been over in an instance; a tiny charred strip, like a burnt-out match, was all that remained of the test-wire. He had drawn back several paces. Ahead, the iron grille and the tubular framework looked like a prison cell. Behind the grille were the steel safes, eight of them, all massive.
He wiped his forehead.
If Lorna knew this—
Forget it!
The burglar-proof measures at the vaults could hardly be bettered. Cutting off the current at source wasn’t likely to help; this would have an independent supply, probably a small transformer inside the cage. The height of cunning lay in that dull, harmless-looking floor; anyone who had got so far might be expected to step across to the grille door, which was so temptingly near.
Although the main supply was probably out of reach, the switch controlling the floor-current must be outside. He looked round for one of the steel discs. The light was good, and he scanned the walls for a hiding-place. It wasn’t likely to be beneath the wall; Courtney would hardly have a system by which he had to damage the wall in order to get into the vaults. But the thoroughness of the arrangements suggested that the main control for the floor-current might be some way off – perhaps not in the west wing at all.
He walked back, scanning the walls on each side, and finding nothing. At the first staircase, he examined every tread. His footsteps made no sound; the hush was breathless. He reached the second flight, and went up quickly, through the next door and into the last passage. Lorna stood opposite him.
Her body seemed to quiver when she saw him and then the strain on her face eased out. She moved forward and whispered: “Finished?”
“One more river to cross.”
Disappointment brought her tautness back, but she forced a smile.
“It’s well protected, then?”
“As good as I’ve met. Electric control, though, none of your infra red.” It would be pointless to ask if all were well up here. “Cold?”