Nest-Egg for the Baron

by John Creasey

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Fenn said, holding the telephone mouthpiece against his chest. “Won’t be long.”

  “It’s all right,” said Mannering.

  He waited.

  Lorna hadn’t noticed the taxi which followed her, hadn’t noticed Wainwright, she was preoccupied only with the girl at her side. It was nerve-racking simply having her there, sitting so still, staring ahead with those lovely eyes. She could understand why John had been put off his stroke; why Sylvester had been so troubled. The worst thing was that she couldn’t see any way of helping.

  She left the car outside the house, one of a small terrace of three-storey houses which had been badly damaged by bombing; only half of the terrace remained. The Mannerings were in the middle of these. Lorna glanced up at the window, noticed nothing unusual, and led the way into the house. Wainwright’s taxi passed the end of the street. The girl just followed obediently; too docile by far. Lorna put a hand on her arm; the girl didn’t resist. They went up, the girl moving so smoothly and gracefully. They reached the top landing, and Lorna took out her key, then rang the bell to let Ethel know she was coming in.

  She opened the door, and led the girl inside.

  Ethel didn’t come hurrying from the kitchen. No one but these two women moved.

  “We’ll go to my bedroom,” Lorna said, “I think you’ll be better resting.”

  That didn’t convey anything to Miranda.

  Lorna led the way, and they went into the bedroom, which overlooked narrow back gardens, the backs of houses, and, if one looked right, the Embankment and the rippling Thames. Chelsea was quiet. The evening air was very warm, and Lorna went across and opened a window wide. She was puzzled because she couldn’t hear Ethel.

  She pointed to the bed.

  Miranda Smith shook her head, and went to a chair; she couldn’t have made it clearer that she did not want to lie down. Lorna looked into the girl’s face and said with very careful enunciation:

  “Wait—here. I—will—soon—be—back.”

  The girl looked blank.

  Lorna pointed to the door, then went to it. As she reached the hall, a man appeared from the study, carrying a gun.

  The man’s face was hidden by a scarf, which covered his nose, mouth, and chin. Only his eyes showed, small, glinting. He had come so suddenly that he brought terror with the speed of lightning. Lorna’s heart jumped wildly; then she screamed: “Miranda!”

  She hadn’t a chance to move before the man thrust the gun at her breast. Above her own fear there was a realisation touched with horror.

  Miranda could not hear that cry of warning.

  Chapter Five

  Fenn

  Chief Inspector Fenn put down the receiver at last, moved round his desk, and offered his hand. He had an unusually broad hand with a quick, powerful grip.

  “Sorry to keep you so long, Mr. Mannering, but you know how it is.” His dark eyes held a suggestion of a twinkle. “Sorry Bill Bristow’s not here—and I expect you are, too.”

  Mannering found it easy to grin.

  “All I need is help, from Bill or from the up-and-coming stars doesn’t much matter.”

  Fenn chuckled. Mannering thought, “We’ll get along.” He had a feeling that Fenn thought much the same thing, too.

  “Don’t say you’re changing roles,” Fenn said, “usually you hand help out, don’t ask for it.”

  “Someone’s been misleading you! Seriously—” Mannering leaned back in his chair, Fenn sat on the corner of his desk, swinging one long leg. “I’ve an odd story and a missing man.” He spent five minutes on the story and didn’t think that he’d missed out many pertinent points. With some men, he would have doubted whether all the points had been taken in; it didn’t occur to him to doubt Fenn’s quick grasp.

  “… I know what you and the Press will say,” Mannering finished, “the old man wished the girl and the nest-egg on to me, leaving me holding the baby. All right, I was fooled. But—”

  “A man would have to trust you a long way before he’d leave a fortune in your lap,” Fenn said dryly. “You had plenty or reason to believe that he was coming back.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Delighted! I’ll see if anything’s known about this chap,” Fenn said. He leaned forward for the telephone. Everything he did was smooth and leisurely; he had an air of confidence and competence. “Hallo, give me Grimble—Hallo, Grimble? Anything odd turned up today? … H’m, no, that wouldn’t be it. I’m interested in an old man, very ugly, hunched back, almost a dwarf … Just check, will you?” He put the receiver down and said to Mannering, “And the only clue is that he asked the taxi-driver to take him to the Bank.”

  “Yes.”

  “We can pick up that cab, anyhow,” said Fenn.

  He pressed a bell. He wasn’t going to let any grass grow under his feet, yet didn’t give an impression of haste.

  The door opened on a tap, and a large and comfortable-looking man came in, a Sergeant Day.

  “Oh, sergeant, you know Mr. Mannering, don’t you? … A black taxi, fairly modern, picked up a passenger in Hart Row this afternoon, at about half-past two, and was asked to take him to the Bank of England. The passenger was old, very ugly, almost a dwarf. Check on the cabbies, will you, and step on it.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  The door closed on Day.

  “Good of you to get moving so quickly,” said Mannering.

  “Wouldn’t expect you to come here with a fairy story,” said Fenn, “and the quicker we move now, the better later on. Where’s the girl now?”

  “At my flat.”

  “With your wife?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Not worried?”

  Mannering said, “I sent one of my assistants after them.”

  He didn’t go on. He hadn’t said much about being worried, but he had drawn a picture of the girl’s fear; and Fenn had picked that up quickly. If the girl who could not talk were so frightened, it might be because she was fearful of an attack; and if she were with Mannering’s wife, then both of them might be in danger. That was good reasoning.

  “Tried sign language?” asked Fenn. “I can lend you a chap who knows the deaf-and-dumb alphabet backwards.”

  “She doesn’t seem to know it. We’ve tried everything. She doesn’t seem to understand the simplest phrases, even when written down for her.”

  “Hmm,” grunted Fenn.

  “Psychiatrist’s job, but Richardson will know.”

  “Yes. I don’t know how long it will be before we’ve some news,” Fenn added. “I’ll be in the office for a couple of hours yet. Shall I ring you at Chelsea?”

  “I’ll be grateful. And will you—?”

  “Put a couple of men in Hart Row? Yes!”

  The telephone bell cut across Fenn’s words and Mannering’s grin. Mannering was feeling more at ease than he had for some time. Fenn had that kind of effect.

  Mannering stood up.

  “Oh, yes,” said Fenn. “He’s here.” He held the telephone out. “It’s your man Sylvester.”

  “Thanks,” said Mannering.

  He put the receiver to his ear, and waited, nameless fears crowding back. That was the strangest and the worst part of this; the way fears built up out of nothing. It was because of the girl, of course, and that infectious fear which was so deep in her that it soon caught others.

  “Hallo, Sylvester.”

  “Hallo, sir,” said Sylvester, primly. “The insurance assessor has been, and says that provided proper precautions are taken he will be quite happy to leave the—ah—nest-egg in our strong-room. He would like the police to watch, in view of the obvious possibility of trouble.”

  “That’s been arranged.”

  “Then I don’t think there’s anything else to worry about, sir. Unless you—”

  “What made you call me here?” interrupted Mannering.

  “There wasn’t any reply from your flat,” Sylvester told him.r />
  Mannering didn’t respond to that at once; didn’t move. He saw Fenn get up, as if the Yard man were affected by the sudden change in his visitor’s manner. Fenn moved round, so as to see Mannering better in the light from the window.

  “Are you there, sir?” Sylvester sounded alarmed.

  “Yes,” said Mannering, very softly. “How often did you ring the flat?”

  “Three times, sir, the last just before I called Scotland Yard.”

  “Has Wainwright telephoned a message?”

  “No, sir. Surely—” Sylvester caught his breath.

  “You forget it,” Mannering said. “Go home. Goodbye.” He put down the receiver, and found himself looking into Fenn’s eyes. A moment of silence seemed to last for an age, before he said, “The maid was at the flat. My wife and Miranda Smith should have been there half an hour ago or more. I don’t like it.”

  “Got your car here?” Fenn asked.

  “No.”’

  “I’ll send you round in a Squad car,” said Fenn, “and have a patrol car alerted.” His finger was stabbing the bell-push. “Unless you’d rather go by taxi and have a Squad car and a patrol standing by, one at each end of the street, say.”

  A bleak smile tightened Mannering’s lips.

  “You’re good, and very good,” he said. “Thanks. Yes. I’ll keep the Squad car in sight until I get to Green Street.” He was already moving towards the door. “It may be a false alarm, but I don’t understand it.”

  “Take it easy,” Fenn urged.

  Mannering’s heart was pounding.

  He paid the taxi off at the end of Green Street, nodded to the driver of a Squad car to whom he had spoken at Scotland Yard, then turned into the street. This was fairly wide, and most of the tall, narrow houses on both sides had been bomb-damaged. At the far end, which ran into the Embankment, there was a large, empty site. A policeman stood near the end house, and Mannering knew that a patrol car was round the corner, probably parked on the empty site; the men would be ready at any alarm.

  Mannering reached his house.

  The front door was open. Would Lorna leave it like that? She might, if she were preoccupied, and a new tenant of the groundfloor flat had an absent mind and a scoffing attitude towards all who locked their doors. “I’ve never locked my front door, and I’ve never had anything stolen.” Mannering thought of her fleetingly as he went up the stairs. He walked quickly, making no attempt to hide himself. He knew that the stairs might be watched, a stealthy approach would give its own warning.

  He reached his landing.

  The door was closed; the fanlight over it was open a few inches. That was unusual. He thought that he heard a movement on the other side of the fanlight. He hesitated, then took his keys out of his pocket. He began to whistle. He could hear no sound now – but that was normal enough, the only thing that worried him was the sound he’d heard. Then he saw a shadow thrown towards him – the kind of shadow there would be if someone were standing on a chair to look into the landing and on to the staircase.

  Mannering put his key in the lock, and turned it, taking his time. His heart pounded more violently as he pushed the door back. He looked along the wall, where an assailant would be likely to lurk, but no one was there. A man might be behind the door; if he flung the door back, it would probably catch the man out. He didn’t. He went forward, leaving the door ajar, his manner as natural and casual as he could make it.

  “Hallo, darling!” he called.

  There was no answer.

  He still felt very close to panic.

  Lorna would have come straight here; Mannering was convinced beyond all doubt now that she had run into serious trouble. He looked about the square hall, trying to appear natural. The kitchen door and the bedroom door were ajar, the others were closed.

  “Lorna!” he called more sharply.

  There was no answer; no sound; no movement.

  “Where the blazes has she gone?” he said, sotto voce, and went straight for the bedroom door. He looked right and left, but still saw no one, no lurking figure, no shadow. It was possible that a man had been waiting here, attacked Ethel, attacked Lorna, attacked Miranda Smith.

  He thrust the bedroom door wider.

  Lorna lay on the bed, trussed hand and foot and gagged; but conscious. Her eyes seemed to glare. He took a long stride forward, warning himself that whoever had done this might still be here, lying in wait.

  Then he saw Miranda, trussed like Lorna, sitting on a chair.

  Mannering caught his breath.

  Suddenly he heard a movement at the door. Lorna’s eyes told him that she was trying to flash a message; she could not guess that he had deliberately walked into this trap. He pretended not to hear the sound or to notice Lorna’s signal; it wasn’t until the man spoke that he spun round. “Don’t move.” The voice was muffled, unhurried. “What—” began Mannering, and was round in a flash.

  A man, wearing a brown-linen scarf to hide most of his face, covered him with an automatic pistol held in a small, pale hand, which was quite steady. A peaked cloth cap was pulled low over his eyes, it was impossible even to guess what his face was like.

  “Don’t move,” he repeated more sharply.

  Mannering stood very still, then began to raise his hands.

  The Squad-car sergeant would be coming up the stairs by now, but he would take his time. Lorna wasn’t badly hurt, the girl’s eyes were open, Mannering could concentrate on trying to find out what it was all about.

  He knew something else.

  The automatic pistol pointed steadily at his stomach. He could just see the glitter of the man’s eyes. He had a feeling that it wouldn’t take this man long to shoot; and he could empty the gun into him, Mannering, before the police could open the door.

  The man said, “I want those eggs, Mannering, and I want them quick.” He thrust the gun forward. “Where are they? Don’t stall, talk.”

  Chapter Six

  Sharp Shooting

  Lorna could not move. The dumb girl could only stare at the two men, with fear mirrored in her eyes. The man, shorter than Mannering by half a head, stood two yards away with the gun thrust forward and his muffled voice carrying its own message; he spoke with the voice of desperation.

  Mannering moistened his lips.

  “What—what good are you going—?”

  “I said don’t stall. I mean business. I don’t care who gets hurt. I want old Smith’s nest-egg, and I’m going to get it. Make up your mind whether I’m going to get it without a lot of trouble, or whether I have to shoot you up first, take your keys, and go and break into Quinns. I don’t care.”

  There was a sneer in the voice; there was also that edge of desperation. The man couldn’t stop his hand from trembling a little, and that was ominous in itself.

  Mannering said, “How do you know I’ve got it?”

  He saw the trigger finger move, and stood motionless. Behind the man, he saw Lorna flinch; the terror in her eyes was as great as the girl’s. The shot snapped out, just a loud crack. The bullet went a yard wide and smacked into the wall.

  “Talk, Mannering, or next time I’ll put it in your guts.”

  He was still trying to quieten his own nerves. Mannering saw that, and made a swift decision.

  “Get to hell out of here!” he roared. “What makes you think I’m scared by a little runt like you?”

  He didn’t move.

  He was telling the Squad man not to move yet, either.

  Lorna was writhing on the bed, her eyes pleading, he could read the message: ‘Don’t do it,’ she begged, ‘don’t make him angry, he’ll shoot you next time.’ Mannering couldn’t even try to reassure her.

  The man with the gun said more tautly, “You keep quiet. Where are those eggs? Don’t—don’t make any mistake. I mean business. Do you want to stay married, or would you rather be a widower? Because I can shoot your wife as easily as I can shoot you. Where’s that gold?”

  He was still two yards away.
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  His hand was still unsteady, and if his nerve broke he might do what he threatened.

  There was a slight smell of cordite in the air; and behind Mannering powdery chippings from the wall dusted the fitted carpet.

  “I mean business,” the man repeated. “If you don’t think I do—”

  “All right,” Mannering growled, “all right.” He saw Lorna’s body go limp with relief, but the man with the gun didn’t relax, just kept his distance and kept Mannering covered. “It’s all at Quinns.”

  “You’re telling me! Strong-room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” said the man with the gun, “we’re going to the shop. You’re going to let us in, you’re going to open the strong-room, and you’re going to help me get away with the eggs. Understand that, and don’t make any mistake. If you try any tricks, I’ll shoot you. And I’ll tell you something else that won’t make you jump for joy.”

  Mannering said thinly, “Listen, my wife—”

  “Never mind your wife and never mind Miranda Smith. I was going to tell you something. I’m on the wanted list, for murder. If the police catch up with me, I’ll be strung up. You know the old saving—might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. See what I’m driving at?”

  The muffled voice made the words, the implied threat, and the menace sound very great. And the man had beaten his attack of nerves.

  Mannering said, “No, I—”

  “Well, sharpen your wits.” That was a sneer. “Someone told me you were good. I’m beginning to doubt it. I’ll tell you what I’m driving at. I can’t be any worse off, even if I kill you. And I’ll shoot to kill if you don’t do exactly what I tell you.”

  Mannering shifted his position.

  “I—I’ll take you to Quinns.”

  “Just to make you want to do the job properly, get this into your head. If I have to shoot you, I’ll come back here and finish the job. I’ve a pal outside, and this is how it will work. You’ll go downstairs just in front of me, and I’ll have the gun in my pocket. You do just what I tell you until my pal shows up. Clear?”