by John Creasey
It stood on the top of a gentle rise, surrounded by sweeping parkland, but the park was smaller; the drive, a dim ribbon some two hundred yards from the belt of trees where Mannering sat on the horse, was much shorter. The house was Georgian; square, simple, stately. Tall trees, elms he fancied, grew near the house, but the thing which made his eyes glisten was an oak tree which spread its branches almost to the first-floor windows.
Halsted was in there – and Halsted’s host.
Mannering pictured Fenner reeling back against the mantelpiece and striking out at him; Fenner, and the men in the doorway, firing at him and trying to get the door down. He remembered the wild leap from the window to a safety which had seemed a long way off, Derek Peacock and his mother—
There should be some of Gadden’s men nearby, but he had seen and heard nothing of them. He waited for a while to let any watcher reveal himself; none did.
“We’ll get a bit nearer,” he said to the grey, and pressed his knees gently into its sides. They brushed small bushes and twigs aside, making a rustling sound as they approached the house, which was in darkness. Two oak trees, not far from the one near the window, had hidden a garage and some outbuildings, which gradually loomed up against the sky.
One of the oaks was only a dozen yards from the garage.
“That’ll do,” whispered Mannering.
He slipped from the saddle, knotted up the reins, tied the rope from the halter – which he had left on under the bridle – to a convenient branch, smoothed the horse’s flanks, and let him nibble at two lumps of sugar from the palm of his hand. Then he hung the haversacks on a branch, and approached the side of the house near the garage. The windows were shuttered. He walked to the back, where an ornamental garden lay bright under the moon, which was reflected in the pool of water in the middle. As at Lithom Hall, there was a paved terrace along which he could walk softly.
All the windows were shuttered.
He tried the shutters. They were of heavy wood, fastened on the inside, and secured to the wall so as to defy any burglar unless he had strong tools. Mannering made a complete circuit of the house before admitting that he would have to try to force entry by one of the first-floor windows.
The glass up there also reflected the moon.
He stood beneath the oak tree, studying its long branches. One almost brushed the side of the house, the end a yard or more from the window. He saw something jutting out near the glass, but couldn’t be sure what it was. He put on the cotton gloves and the scarf-mask.
He swung himself on to a lower branch, hoisted himself into the tree, then stood in the fork, breathing heavily, acutely aware of the noise of the rustling leaves. Old, nostalgic sensations came back. A nervous excitement which made his forehead and the back of his neck cold; the palms of his hands were clammy. That phase would soon pass.
But the excitement would remain, with a tension which he knew so well. It was as if some power, always in him, took possession of his mind and body, giving him a sixth sense and a supreme confidence.
He waited, listening, unable to see much because of the foliage.
He heard nothing; Gadden’s detectives were not about, or else were very canny.
He stretched up to the branch above him; it gave more freely than the first, groaning and creaking when all his weight was on it. But it held; he had no fear of it giving way. Soon he was standing halfway along it, on a level with the window. Holding on to a branch higher still, he edged farther along. The branch swayed gently up and down, making foothold precarious. He broke off small twigs which clutched at his face, then stood, with the foliage parted, staring at the window. The ‘something’ was a fitting where there had once been shutters. It jutted out three inches from the grey wall.
He edged farther still, the bough giving all the time.
If the window was out of reach, he would have to go higher.
He stretched out his right hand, clutching the tree with his left, and was able to touch the fitting.
There was also a narrow window-ledge.
He measured the distance, decided that he could get a firm enough hold, and stood balancing himself on the branch, without support. The coldness had gone and his palms were dry. The calculation of danger faded; only the task mattered.
He leaned forward, touching the ledge with one hand and the fitting with the other. He gripped tightly, and swung himself from the branch. He bumped against the wall and his right hand slipped, but he held fast with his left. Gradually he found a grip with his other hand, first on the fitting, then on the ledge. He hung down, his feet touching the shutter of the window immediately below – it gave him a little support.
He hauled himself up.
Soon he crouched on the window-ledge.
The window was closed.
He took out his knife, while examining the catch and trying to see into the room beyond. The curtains were drawn back and he could make out the shape of a bed. He couldn’t see anyone in it, and looked for clothes on the end of the bed or on chairs.
Nothing was visible.
He opened a thin knife-blade.
The catch was old-fashioned, but not of the screw type; he would be able to force it back without much trouble, although it might hit the glass noisily. He worked at it gently. It had been oiled recently, and moved without much trouble. He pushed it farther and farther back, pressing close against the window all the time. The stone ledge hurt his knees; he kept easing them.
If he slipped, he would crash thirty feet to the ground.
When he judged that the catch was about to spring open, he pressed his left hand against the glass, then exerted a little extra pressure with the knife. The catch sprang back, but because he was pressing the glass, the noise was slight.
He waited for a few seconds; patience was all-important.
Nothing stirred.
He took out the jemmy, forced the chisel edge between the window and the frame, and levered it up gently. The chisel made a dent in the wood at first, but did not move the window. It wasn’t easy to exert the necessary pressure, but when he tried again the window opened a quarter of an inch. Soon it was wide enough for him to get his fingers beneath it. He shifted his position, so that he could push halfway along the window and distribute the pressure evenly. The window opened without much noise.
When it was open nearly eighteen inches, he stopped pushing upwards.
He rested again.
Then he peered at the bed, but could see no sign of anyone lying in it. He put one leg into the room …
He stood by the window, still staring at the bed. Then he stepped forward, and peered closer; yes, it was empty.
One danger averted.
He turned and looked into the grounds. Waiting and watching irked him; but he had to bear them. If Gadden’s men had seen him, they would show themselves soon. But they could do little more than report to Gadden; they could hardly warn the man they were secretly watching.
He went to the door.
The room opened on to a wide passage, off which led several other rooms. If the doors were locked, forcing them would take precious time. He opened the nearest door without trouble, and peered in. There were twin beds, and a young couple occupied them, both facing the window; their faces were lit up by the moonlight.
He closed the door softly.
Then he tried the next, which was also unlocked. He stepped inside, glad of the carpet; there had been carpets in all the rooms and in the passage, helping him to keep quiet.
In the double bed here, lay one man.
The face was in shadows.
Mannering went forward, treading lightly. The man’s face was turned away from the window, and there was no light from the door, but the diffused light of the moon would service his purpose.
He reached the bed, and bent over the sleeping man – a fat man.
It was Wilfrid Fenner.
Chapter Fourteen
Old Books
Fenner slept peacefully, his breathing so
ft and even. The bedclothes were pulled up round his neck, so that only his face and head showed. As Mannering became accustomed to the soft light, he saw the grizzled hair and the full, almost negroid lips.
Fenner did not stir.
Mannering turned away from the bed and went to the open window. He looked out and down, and saw another window immediately beneath it, with a ledge on which he could stand if he wanted to go out that way. He left the window as it was, and turned to the dressing-table. Now the light was good enough for him to see everything he needed to, without switching on his torch. He made no sound. There were all the usual oddments – hair-brushes, combs, a silver stud-box, as well as a neat pile of copper and silver, a small bunch of keys and a pen-knife. He took the keys and slipped them into his pocket. They chinked a little, and he turned and looked at the bed, but Fenner hadn’t moved.
The man’s clothes were folded over a chair at the foot of the bed. Mannering ran through the pockets, but they were empty.
The man’s wallet must be somewhere in the room, as well as some papers. Mannering peered at the bedside cabinet, had another look at the dressing-table, but could not see what he wanted. He might wake Fenner, and spoil his chance of searching the house, if he stayed too long.
He stood by the door, looking intently at the sleeping man, and listening for any change in his breathing to indicate that he was awake. Then he went outside and pulled the door to, but did not latch it. If Fenner were awake, he would make some move now that the intruder was out of the room.
No; no sound.
Mannering turned, passed the room through which he had entered, and reached a square landing. The walls and the paintwork were light in colour, and there were huge landing windows; moonlight streamed in. He could see the hall, the staircase with its one half-landing, and the furniture, although the light was ghostly and the silence profound. Every nerve in his body was alert; he would be aware of the slightest sound, the faintest hint of danger.
He walked quietly down the carpeted stairs, past pictures – all landscapes; no ancestral portraits, as at Lithom Hall. This hall was square, and from it led a wide passage, which ran alongside the stairs. There were five tall dark doors, and one would lead to the domestic quarters.
He tried two; they were locked, and it wasn’t likely that Fenner would trouble to lock the door leading to the kitchen. The third door, a few feet away from the foot of the stairs, on his left, was unlocked.
As he opened it, he saw a glow of light.
He stood with his fingers on the handle, peering along a narrow passage. A light might have been left on, but more likely Fenner had a night-watchman. He went into the passage and closed the door gently behind him, then tip-toed towards the light. It came from another door, which stood ajar. There was hair-carpet on the floor, not so soft as that in the rest of the house, but it deadened his footsteps.
He heard a chink – glass against glass.
A queer sound followed: what was it?
A man, yawning!
It was loud and prolonged, and followed by a faint but unmistakable belch. Then a match scraped, and tobacco smoke reminded Mannering of Fenner’s cigar.
He was near the door.
It opened inwards, and all he could see was a cream-washed wall, a coloured print and a chair. He peered through the crack between the door and the frame, but it was so narrow that he could see only the curtains at the window and the corner of a table. Something rustled – like paper.
The man was reading a newspaper or a book.
He wasn’t likely to be looking at the door.
Mannering pushed the door gently. If it squeaked, he would have to move fast. It didn’t squeak; soon he was able to see the back of a man sitting at the table, and a corner of a newspaper.
He stepped inside. There was hair-carpet on this floor too; no risk of his shoes squeaking on polished linoleum.
The man read on.
Mannering crept forward.
It was a large, bright room, with a glass-fronted dresser, a big refrigerator, a small table on which stood a bowl of flowers, and a large Aga cooker, deep-cream in colour.
Only a yard separated him from the man.
The fellow yawned again, took his cigarette from his lips and tapped the ash on to the floor, folded the paper over to the back page, where Mannering could read the headlines: Firefly Should Win Today. The night watchman began to read all about Firefly and his chances.
Mannering positioned himself carefully and gripped the man round the neck.
“Wha-aach!”
The man tried to twist round, caught sight of the masked figure – then thudded back against the chair as Mannering jerked him savagely. The man’s eyes rolled, the chair shifted noisily, one foot came down on Mannering’s toe.
The man fought desperately and swung his arm round, hoping to land a back-hander. He missed, then grabbed at a heavy cup, failed to get a hold on it but swept it from the table. Dregs sprayed the Aga and the cup crashed against it; the noise was like a thunderclap.
Mannering pressed more tightly.
His victim couldn’t get up, his struggles gradually grew weaker. At last he slumped back in his chair, eyes half-open and glazed. Mannering took his hands away, and let the fellow fall forward against the table.
He was still breathing heavily, and his pulse was good.
Mannering took a handkerchief from the man’s pocket and tied it round his mouth to gag him; then took some cord from his own pocket and tied him to the chair, arms behind it, legs to the chair legs. For every second of the three minutes he was on edge; the crash of the breaking cup might have been heard.
No sound; no alarm.
His victim’s eyelids were flickering.
Mannering ran through his pockets, found a bunch of keys and put them with the one which he had taken from Fenner’s dressing-table. Then he turned towards the door. He opened it wider, and stood listening. There was a loud ticking – the heavy, metallic sound of a grandfather clock which needed oiling. That was all.
He stepped into the passage, turning left.
Something jabbed into his back, and a man said: “Don’t move.”
The words were uttered softly, the jab was firm but not painful. Coming out of the gloom of the passage and the silence, they made Mannering’s heart give a sickening thump. He shivered involuntarily, and then recovered enough to face up to his plight. This had been cunningly and cleverly done.
Was anyone else here? Or were just the two of them standing in the passage?
“Move a step forward,” the man ordered.
It wasn’t Fenner; it was a young, cultured voice.
Mannering kept still.
“Move a step forward or I’ll shoot you,” said the man behind him.
Had he a gun? Or was he bluffing?
It would pay to assume that he wasn’t bluffing; Fenner’s men had no scruples.
Mannering shuffled forward a few paces – and then back-heeled.
There was a gasp as his heel struck the man’s shin. Mannering whirled round while the other was backing away, his mouth wide open because of the pain. Something waved wildly in his right hand – not a gun but an electric torch. Mannering twisted the man’s wrist until the torch dropped, and then backed away and showed his automatic. Scared eyes turned towards it. The other had recovered his balance and was standing on one leg, as if the pain from the kick was still acute. He drew in short, gasping breaths; noisy breaths.
“Go into the kitchen,” Mannering ordered.
The other hobbled in, obediently.
Mannering stood by the door, listening, tense, but all was silent. Had anyone else been roused, they would have shown up by now.
The man here was young – probably in the early twenties, blue eyes narrowed in a pale but healthy face. The smooth, hairless skin of his chest showed where his dressing-gown gaped.
He limped to the table and leaned against it, raised his right leg and hoisted the leg of his pyjamas; a blue leather s
lipper fell off.
The kick had broken the skin, and blood was oozing up gently from the shin.
He muttered: “I’ll make you pay for that.”
Mannering’s voice was harsh: not a voice even Lorna would recognize.
“Who are you?”
“What the hell does that matter to you? Clout me and be done with it.”
“I’ll fix you when I’m ready. Who are you?”
The pyjama leg drooped slowly downwards; so did the man’s resistance.
“If you must know, I’m Charles Kenley.”
“Son of Wilfrid?”
“His nephew, as a matter of fact, but—”
“Just answer my questions.” Mannering moved the gun an inch or two. “Were you upstairs in the room with twin beds?”
“Any objection to me sleeping with my wife?”
“None at all,” said Mannering, “but I might be sorry for your wife.”
“I don’t want any damned cheek from you,” muttered Charles Kenley. “Hell of a queer burglar, aren’t you?”
“Very. What woke you up?”
“I heard something down here, and came to investigate.”
“Why didn’t you bring a gun?”
“Because I’m not used to keeping guns now that I’m a civilian again,” said Kenley. “I suppose you know you’ll get ten years for breaking into a house and using a gun.”
“If you’re not careful, I’ll get a life sentence,” Mannering said.
He spoke absently, thinking fast. This wasn’t what he expected; he rather liked young Kenley, the answers appeared to come spontaneously, truthfully; if they did, then Kenley was not one of Fenner’s ruthless gang.
Kenley began: “Look here, I—”
Mannering waved him to silence. “Is your wife awake?”
“No,” said Kenley. There was a change in his expression, it became anxious, almost pleading. “Look here, give her a break. We’re expecting a baby in the next week or two. If you give her a shock, she might have a premature, or harm the kid or something.”
“Oh,” said Mannering blankly.
“I’m not spinning a yarn, it’s true,” said Charles Kenley, wiping his forehead, which glistened with sweat. He still sounded truthful. “She had to take some sleeping tablets tonight, she hasn’t been asleep long.”