Into the Trap

by John Creasey

  Mannering went to a telephone kiosk and dialled the Record. Rachel Smart was in the News Room.

  “Mannering here. Don’t print what you’d love to print. I am not under arrest. Anxious to help?”

  “I’m single-mindedly anxious to get the best story I can.”

  “Same thing. What can you tell me about the murder at Courtney Grange?”

  “It wasn’t nice,” said Rachel. “There were two people, according to Pratt, the butler. It was he who discovered the body. He says he saw them. A man and a woman. I’ve a good description, and it will be in the next edition. Allingham was bound hand and foot – that was done before he was murdered, according to the latest medical report.”

  Mannering said: “When did you first hear about it?”

  “Quite early.”

  “Was it so detailed?”

  “No – just that Allingham had been strangled. There’s a story about a mysterious message received by the Swindon police. We’re not printing that yet on a police request. We don’t, so far, know what’s missing. Mrs. Courtney is going down there today. Her husband has been cabled; he’s aboard the Queen Elizabeth.”

  “Have you been to see Nigel Courtney?”

  “He slammed the door in my face.”

  Mannering chuckled. “Sorry. He’s worth following up, all the same. Goodbye.”

  He stepped out of the kiosk and let two empty taxis pass him, then hailed a third. “Bingham Street, Chelsea,” he said. Watching, he saw no sign of being followed. The early editions of the evening papers were already out. A news-vendor, bawling at a corner where the cab was stopped by traffic lights, shouted: “Big Country House Robbery.” Mannering bought a paper as his cab moved off; there were only the barest details.

  Bingham Street had once been a good class residential quarter. The terraced houses were tall, stately and late Regency. Mannering paid off his cab. He recognised a figure standing in a nearby porch, as one of Bristow’s men.

  The front door of the house Mannering was seeking, was open. He looked at the name-plates. Nigel Courtney was on the top floor and there was no lift. The stairs were solid and creaked very little.

  He rang the bell.

  There were sounds inside the flat, but the door remained closed until he rang again. He stood at one side. It wasn’t wise to be too sure; Nigel might have had unwelcome visitors.

  But Nigel opened the door. His voice came harshly: “Who’s that?” Mannering said: “Friend,” and stepped into sight.

  “Mannering!”

  Last night Nigel had looked more handsome than petulant, had shown a hint of latent strength. That had vanished. He seemed as if he had been up most of the night; the knot of his tie was halfway round his neck, his collar unfastened, and he hadn’t shaved.

  Mannering went in and closed the door.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “It’s Alicia!” gasped Nigel. “I had a message early this morning; it’s driving me crazy!”

  “It’s easy to drive you crazy. What was the message?”

  “They’ve got Alicia!”

  “We knew something about that.”

  “Indeed?” said Nigel. “The knowledge doesn’t seem to have done her much good. They’ve got her prisoner. I called Smith, told him I’d the money, and he laughed at me. He said he wants the real diamonds, and he also wants the plans of the Grange vaults. If I don’t give them to him, Alicia—”

  Nigel broke off.

  “Well, what about Alicia?”

  “They’ll kill her!”

  “Killing isn’t so easy,” said Mannering, “and real bad men don’t like doing it, because it gets them hanged. Don’t work yourself up.”

  “It’s all very well for you. You’re not in any danger; nor do you care a hoot for her.”

  “Even so, I assure you they won’t hurt Alicia just yet. Did Smith say where you were to meet him?”

  “No. He’ll ring again, and make an appointment. But it’s no use, Mannering. I haven’t got the diamonds. I can’t give them what I haven’t got.”

  “If you had them—”

  “I’d do anything to save Alicia.”

  Mannering said slowly: “I’m inclined to believe you. But they’ll be satisfied with your ten thousand pounds and the plans of the Grange. Can you provide those plans?”

  “Well—”

  “Can you?” Mannering’s voice was sharp.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I can” said Nigel sullenly. “The Grange is a fine old building, and I once had copies of the plans drawn. I’m interested in old buildings. I have them in the flat. But why do they want—”

  “They want to break into the place and get the Carla pearls. Alicia’s worth a few trifling pearls, isn’t she?”

  Nigel said stubbornly. “I’ll do anything to save Alicia. She’s in this trouble through me; it’s up to me to get her out.”

  Mannering said: “I see. Well, try. The next step will be this: ‘Hand over the plans, and wait’. You’ll be told not to go to the police, not to report what’s happened, because if you do Alicia will still suffer. They’ll want to break into the Grange before they release her. That’s pretty evident. What about it – are you prepared to take the risk?”

  Nigel set his lips, and muttered: “Damn you, yes. It’s up to me to see Alicia through.”

  “An admirable sentiment,” said Mannering, “if a little late in flowering. Still, I’m willing to play your game. Do you know when Smith will telephone?”

  “Some time this morning.”

  “I’ll wait until he comes through, and I’ll talk to him myself. Then—”

  “You’re crazy! He’ll know your voice. He’ll know it’s not mine, anyhow.”

  Mannering slipped an arm through Nigel’s.

  “Take it easier, Nigel. Get a shave. Make a cup of tea; you always forget to eat and drink – it’s a bad habit. I’ll answer the telephone, and if you’re worried when I’ve done that you can take over.”

  “You’re a damned queer customer.”

  “There are a lot about,” said Mannering.

  Nigel was away for twenty minutes. When he returned he had shaved, brushed his hair and straightened his tie. His gaze darted towards the telephone.

  It rang before he had closed the door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Conversation

  Nigel swung round towards the telephone, hand stretched out to grab it. Mannering reached him, pushed him aside, and stood with his back to the instrument. The bell kept ringing.

  “If you’ve any sense at all, keep quiet.” Mannering put a hand on the receiver and watched Nigel out of the corner of his eye. The youth’s lips were set tightly and his hands clenched at his side.

  Mannering lifted the telephone.

  “Hallo, who’s that?”

  It did not sound like his voice, but like Nigel’s. The impersonation was almost uncanny. Mannering guessed the caller would be the man who had telephoned on the night this affair had started.

  He was right.

  “You’re in a better mood, I hope,” the man said.

  “I wish to hell I could get my hands round your neck,” Mannering answered; the tension in his voice was an echo of Nigel’s. Voice mimicry was natural to him; he slipped easily into this one.

  “I have a very strong neck.” The other’s voice was cool, detached, almost indifferent. “Still fond of your sweet Alicia?”

  “You swine, if I could—”

  “But you can’t, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Don’t waste time, Courtney. Alicia’s doing all right at the moment. She won’t be, if some of my friends have their way; but I’ll look after her if you’ll do what you’re told. Understand?”

  Mannering caught his breath, as Nigel might.

  “If you do anything to Alicia—”

  “Maybe she would get to like it,” sneered the man at the other end of the line. “Now, listen. Have you got those sparklers?”

  “You know damned well I h
aven’t!”

  “Well, you’d better get a move on. What about the plans?” Mannering didn’t speak.

  The other’s voice sharpened: “Come on! What about them?”

  “I—I’ve got them.”

  “Why, that’s fine,” said the caller softly. “They’d better be right. I—just a moment. Hold on.” There was silence.

  Nigel stood two yards away from Mannering, still bewildered. The silence lengthened. Nigel shifted his feet, and muttered: “What—”

  “Quiet!”

  Nigel looked away, rebelliously.

  A sound came, as if the telephone at the other end were being lifted.

  A woman said: “Nigel, oh, Nigel!”

  Mannering stiffened. The voice was soft and clear, and carried a hint of despair and of fear; and it was Alicia Hill’s.

  If Nigel knew who was on the line he wouldn’t be able to keep away from the telephone, he’d come rushing across and snatch the receiver; the plot would be smashed before it had really started.

  “Darling, I’m so frightened,” Alicia cried. “These men, they—get me away, Nigel! Get me away. They’re—” she broke off with a catch in her breath, and next moment the voice seemed firmer. “I’m crazy! You must do what you think is right, but—”

  She gasped.

  The man’s voice came on the line.

  “Get the idea?” he said. “Do those plans up tightly, so that they can’t get lost, and bring them to me. Don’t send anyone else and – don’t tell Mannering. Hear that?”

  “I—I won’t tell him.” Mannering sounded as desperate as Alicia had done.

  “You’ll get a shock if you do, and so will your dear Alicia. Bring them to the entrance – inside – of the Grand Palace Hotel. Know the big cameo brooch Alicia wears?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “A man will come up to you with it in an envelope. He’ll give you the envelope. You’ll give him the plans. That’s all.”

  Mannering cried: “Wait a minute!”

  “Let’s hear what you’re bleating about now.”

  “I want Alicia back. I won’t give—”

  “You’ll do what you’re told. Alicia won’t be hurt, if those plans are right and provided you don’t tell Mannering or the police what you’ve done. Follow me?”

  “Be at the Grand Palace at one o’clock,” the man said, and rang off.

  Mannering put down the receiver slowly. Nigel rushed forward and grabbed his hand. His breath came in short, laboured gusts, there was no colour in his cheeks and his eyes were burning.

  “What is it? What have I to do?”

  “Take the plans to him,” said Mannering quietly. “You haven’t to tell me or anyone else – especially the police – about it. The plans are here, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he ask for details of the vaults?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s building up,” said Mannering. “I hope he doesn’t read an evening paper too soon.” He laughed. “Alicia’s all right. She spoke to me.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, it was her voice,” said Mannering, “and she’s anxious that you should go as far as you can with Mr. Smith. Her words were: ‘Get me away, but do what you think is right’.”

  “Where—where am I to meet Smith?”

  “Wait for it. And listen to me. So far you’ve put up a poor show. There isn’t a good word to be said for it. But you’ve a chance of proving that you’re not as weak-kneed as Thelma and a lot of other people think. If you do this job properly, you’ll be halfway towards making amends. A lot more than Alicia depends on how you do it. I doubt if you’ve got the nerve, but—”

  “I’ll be all right,” Nigel muttered. “I don’t know what you mean about more than Alicia being at stake, but—”

  “You’re grown up, aren’t you? You know why these people want plans of the Grange – so that they can get inside and take the Carla pearls. Your father mightn’t be happy about losing them. Remember him?”

  Nigel muttered: “If it weren’t for that she-devil he married he’d be all right, but—”

  “Get this into your head. Mr. Smith is not a nice man. He’s blackmailed you. He’s kidnapped Alicia. He has, to my knowledge, killed at least two people. He’ll kill again. That means he has to be caught pretty quickly. If you play the game the right way, you can help to catch him. Got it?”

  “Yes. Yes, I see.”

  “Good! You’re to pack those plans up and take them to the Palace Hotel, Piccadilly. A man will meet you in the entrance hall and show you Alicia’s cameo brooch in an envelope. You are to hand the plans over to him. You will not try to follow him; you won’t kick up a fuss; you won’t do anything to make a nuisance of yourself. Understand?”

  Nigel muttered: “Yes.”

  “See that you do it properly,” Mannering said. “There’s a policeman outside, who’ll follow you. Dodge him – it’s easy enough when you know you’re followed.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly twelve. Don’t arrive at the Grand Palace until ten minutes past one. Got that? Ten minutes past one. If the man asks you any questions, don’t answer, don’t say a word, just hand him the plans.”

  “All right.”

  Mannering said: “I’ll see you later.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Find out more about Mr. Smith,” said Mannering.

  Outside in the street one of Bristow’s men was watching him, at the wheel of an Austin. Mannering walked to Sloane Square underground station, crossed to Peter Jones, then doubled back to the station. The Yard man hadn’t a chance to park the Austin and follow, before a train came in. Mannering went to Brook Green and took out the Talbot, checked that the pearls were safe, and made sure he wasn’t observed.

  In the West End, Mannering turned off the main road near Oxford Street, drove to the back of Selfridge’s, parked the Talbot and hurried off on foot. In a side street off the Edgware Road he dived into a subdued little shop, in the window of which were several wigs and some theatrical make-up. As he entered, an old man emerged slowly from a room at the back.

  “Why, Mr. Mannering, what a pleasure!”

  “Hallo, Sol. I want to look like someone else, and I have to leave here in three-quarters of an hour.”

  “Always it is the same, always the impossible that you ask,” Sol grumbled, leading the way into the room from which he had come. “Well, well, I will try.”

  Big gilt-framed mirrors lined the walls. Hanging in glass cases were wigs and toupees, and all the impedimenta of make-up.

  “Sit down, sit down,” said Sol.

  “Just pop along and make sure no one saw me come in and is waiting, will you?”

  “So it is like that.” Old Sol leaned back. His wrinkled eyelids almost hid his eyes, his thin neck and hooked nose made him look like a scraggy bird. “Sometimes I think you are a very bad man, Mr. Mannering, a very bad man.” He smiled gently and ambled off.

  He was back in two minutes.

  “All is well,” he said. “Good, good, you have your collar and tie off; we can start to work.” He locked the door, went to a telephone and said: “If anyone comes, I am engaged, I cannot be disturbed.” He rang off. “Now!”

  Few had a greater reputation in the theatrical world for make-up; the shop was a Mecca for those who wanted to learn or benefit from the art. Many years before, Sol had become involved with the police, through a reckless son, and Mannering had helped to prove that son innocent of murder.

  Thereafter Sol had been prepared to do whatever Mannering wanted. Mannering trusted his integrity as deeply as he trusted his workmanship.

  In front of his own eyes Mannering changed.

  He grew older. There were grey touches at the temples and his forehead, his eyes looked narrow, his cheeks lean. Sol gave Mannering a rubber covering for his teeth, put the finishing touches to the make-up as Mannering worked the covering on, and then stood back.

  “Good?”

 
“You’re a genius, Sol.”

  The old man chuckled delightedly.

  “Get away with you, with such flattery. But it is not bad, no, it is not bad. Now – the clothes.” Sol went to the cupboards which lined one wall and opened a sliding door. “Old clothes?”

  “Worn, but not ragged.”

  “You do not often wear blue, do you, Mr. Mannering? Here is a suit that will serve you. It is a little tight, perhaps, but that can be let out.”

  “There isn’t time, Sol. I’ll try it on.”

  The suit was tight only under the armpits. Old Sol picked out a few stitches with a pair of scissors, and made it much easier. Mannering stretched and bent his arms, and walked about the room.

  “It’s fine.”

  “And is there anything else?”

  Mannering said: “Yes, Sol. The wooden box I left with you last time I was here.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Sol. “It is safe. I will get it for you.”

  He went mysteriously out of the room, returning with a box about twelve inches by six. As Mannering selected a key from his ring, Sol glided unostentatiously away.

  Mannering took two automatic pistols from their covering, made sure that both were fully loaded, and slipped one into each of his coat pockets.

  “All clear, Sol!”

  “Yes, yes,” said the old man. He came back slowly, his eyes clouded. “You will be careful what you do, Mr. Mannering, won’t you?”

  “Very careful,” said Mannering. “Thanks, Sol. I’ll be back in a day or two. Look after the box, won’t you?”

  The old Jew nodded.

  No one was outside in the street. No one followed the taxi Mannering took to the Grand Palace Hotel.

  It was three minutes to one. The entrance hall was crowded. Mannering stood near a square pillar from where he could see the newspapers on the stall, the headlines blazoning the Grange robbery. It would be strange if ‘Mr. Smith’ had not heard about it by now.

  Would he change his mind?

  Mannering lit a cigarette as he looked about him. He felt conspicuous although he knew that Sol had worked a miracle; the make-up was only evident at close quarters, and the cast of face that of a nonentity. He was halfway through the cigarette when Nigel arrived.

  The youth was nervous, scanning the fifty or sixty people there with flickering eyes. Beneath his arm he carried a thick roll, wrapped in brown paper and gummed with adhesive strips at each end. He walked the length of the hall. No one appeared to take any notice of him.