by John Creasey
Mannering muttered, “All right.”
It wasn’t as good as it had been, by a long way. The man’s finger was loose on the trigger, his words betrayed his edginess. It wouldn’t take much to make him shoot. Mannering was being forced out of the flat, but the Yard men outside wouldn’t dare to let this crook get away with it. Probably be allowed to start going down the stairs.
His gun would be close to Mannering’s back all the time.
Mannering felt the sickness of fear.
“What’s the matter, tired?” the man sneered.
Mannering turned slowly round. He looked at Lorna, tried to convince her that he wasn’t worried, actually fluttered an eyelid in a wink. She wouldn’t take any notice, she would guess how he really felt. But she didn’t know about those waiting police.
Mannering crossed the hall. There was no sound outside, except from a long way off: the wail of a car’s horn. The man with the gun was a yard behind him. A back-heel, a sudden lunge to one side, might see him through; but the risk was too great.
He opened the door wider.
“Listen,” he said, “keep that gun out of my ribs.” At least the Squad men would know what was happening.
“Just keep moving,” the man ordered.
Mannering opened the door wide. He stepped into the hall, without glancing right or left. He didn’t see the Squad man, but caught sight of something disappearing down the second flight of stairs. The gunman came behind him, still a yard away. He slammed the door.
Lorna was back there, with her fears and her awful helplessness.
Mannering started down the stairs.
“Don’t make any mistake,” the gunman said, “and remember I can only be strung up once.” He gave a little, muffled laugh, then jabbed Mannering in the back. The jab hurt. “Faster.”
“You can’t get away with—” began Mannering.
“You try and stop me!”
Mannering went on. He didn’t see anyone on the next landing, on the stairs, anywhere. The Squad men must be lying in wait; but where? They knew the risk, obviously they were trying to minimise it. But the gun was very close, and pulling the trigger would be almost a reflex action.
Mannering felt cold sweat on his forehead. His nerves were steady enough, but he was icy cold. He reached the landing, one above the empty hall. The street door was ajar. He passed the front door of the flat beneath his; it was closed. He went past and reached the head of the next flight of steps.
“Stop there,” the man ordered.
Mannering stopped.
He looked round, heart still thumping.
The man in the mask was looking at the closed door of the flat. He backed towards it. That flat was the most likely place for the police to be hiding; perhaps he had heard a sound or noticed a movement. Although he moved towards the door, he kept Mannering covered. The only place for Mannering to run was up or down the stairs, either way he would be a clear target. If he had to take his life in his hands, he could wait for it.
The stranger pressed against the door. It didn’t move. He seemed satisfied, drew nearer Mannering, and ordered: “Get moving.”
Mannering went down the stairs one at a time, slowly and deliberately. It was tense enough for him; what was it for the man with the gun? He could hear soft, sibilant breathing, as if the man were frightened of making any sound. They neared the next landing – the hall. Here there were two locked doors. The man seemed to hesitate, as if he were going through the same precautions again. Instead, he growled: “Hurry!”
Mannering stretched out a hand to open the front door wider. He heard nothing, until the man behind him gasped. He spun round. The man was staggering, his gun waving. He squeezed the trigger, a bullet spat out and smashed into the floor. He pirouetted round, the gun dropped, and he fell against the wall and then slithered down.
Chief Inspector Fenn in person came rushing down the stairs. A round glass ball, a paper-weight, rolled to the side of the hall, and lay still.
“Only thing I could do was to throw that at him,” Fenn said, “I was afraid he’d shoot you in the back. Feeling all right?”
“Just—mildly terrified,” Mannering confessed.
Fenn wiped his forehead and his neck, and loosened his collar.
“If this is the kind of job you get yourself mixed up in, I can understand why Bristow used to tremble at the sound of your name! Sure you’re—?”
“I’m fine,” said Mannering; and then moved.
He saw other men coming down the stairs, knew that more were hurrying from the street. One was actually on his knees beside the prisoner, taking off the scarf. People from the other flats were coming out, nervously. Mannering waited for nothing, but raced up the stairs, pushed past two Yard men, and flung himself at his own door. He remembered that the fanlight was open, and shouted: “It’s all over, darling, all over! He’s caught, I’m fine, fine! It’s all over.”
He put the key in the lock and thrust the door open.
Then he remembered Ethel.
He hadn’t seen the maid, and she might not be alive. He went swiftly to the kitchen, calling to Lorna, flung the door back, and saw Ethel sitting in an upright chair, trussed like the other two, and with her eyes wide open. All of them were safe, all could be free in a few minutes.
He waved weakly to Ethel, said, “Won’t be two jiffs,” and went swiftly to see Lorna. At the bedroom doorway he staggered; that was reaction from fierce nervous tension.
“Easy there.” Fenn was coming in briskly.
“I’m all right,” Mannering said, and straightened up with an effort. “Er—come in and meet my wife.” He gulped, went forward, saw Lorna lying there helplessly, imagined again the fear which must have tormented her.
Then he turned towards the corner.
Miranda sat, eyes wide open, staring at the window, victim of dreadful fears. And to add a touch of horror was a fact which Mannering had only just noticed. Lorna was gagged. Ethel was gagged. But the man had not troubled to gag Miranda.
Not far away, in the garden of an empty house, the police found Wainwright, with a lump on the back of his head and bloodshot eyes, but not badly hurt.
All he remembered, he said, was walking past Mannering’s house, after paying off his cab; and being hit on the back of the head as he passed the corner by the empty site.
“What had we better do with her?” Lorna asked, helplessly.
Mannering said, “She probably needs hospital treatment or a nursing home, or—”
“That might scare her even more,” reasoned Fenn. He was proving very human as well as capable. “Why not let her stay here for a day or two? I’ll make sure that your flat’s watched back and front, You say you’ll ask Richardson to come, and he’s as good as any for a start. Let her stay for the night, anyhow.”
Mannering looked at Lorna.
“Up to you,” he said.
“I think it would be better to have her here,” Lorna agreed.
She spoke slowly, and her lips were red and puffy where the gag had been. When she walked it was awkwardly, because the circulation hadn’t come back to her legs properly. But she was in much better shape than Ethel, who was on a couch, lying down, shivering violently and very close to tears.
Miranda, freed now, had walked slowly and with difficulty, just staring about her with her secret fears.
Fenn had brought a sergeant who flicked his fingers at her in the deaf-and-dumb alphabet, but she hadn’t responded. He hadn’t done more, wouldn’t until a doctor saw her.
“I’m very grateful, Mrs. Mannering,” Fenn said. “I must get back to the Yard. The prisoner will be there by now, and there might be news of Smith. You say you hadn’t seen him before, Mannering?”
Mannering recalled the face of the man whose mask had been stripped off; a thin face with deep-set eyes and a broad nose; the face of an ugly man whom he hadn’t seen before.
“No.”
“Care to come with me, and see if we can’t find out more abou
t him? You’ll spare him, Mrs. Mannering, won’t you?” Fenn was almost too amiable; was this an iron hand in a kid glove?
Lorna looked searchingly at the Yard man, then gave a quick smile. Fenn didn’t know it, but that smile was a rare one; and it meant that she accepted him. And his own smile was disarming, he had a natural, likable manner.
“Not for too long,” Lorna said, “I need a lot of consolation.”
“We won’t be long,” Fenn assured her. “I think—”
He stopped abruptly, for a man outside raised his voice, in exasperation if not in anger. There was a little scuffle in the hall, and then a young man came striding in, a stranger to the Mannerings, and apparently a stranger to the police.
He said, “Which of you is Mr. John Mannering?”
“I am,” Mannering began. “What—?”
“Do you know where Miranda is?” the young man demanded roughly; and it was obvious to all who watched that he was restraining himself with a great effort, that he was almost quivering with anxiety.
And rage?
Chapter Seven
William Brash
The young man was wholesome-looking, probably in the middle-twenties, nice-featured in a homely way, dressed in a Harris-tweed jacket and flannel trousers, with bright-brown shoes. Having made sure who Mannering was, he ignored Fenn and a police-sergeant; he wasn’t far from glaring.
Mannering didn’t answer.
The young man took a step forward, and demanded, “Do you know where she is?”
“If I do,” said Mannering, mildly, “can you give me one good reason why I should tell you?”
That put a spark to the fire, as was meant. The caller’s eyes flashed furiously, his hands clenched, his cheeks turned bright red.
“I mean to know where she is, understand? Come on, tell me, or—”
Then he made his great mistake; he shot out a hand and gripped Mannering’s forearm. He was two inches shorter than Mannering, but broader across the shoulders, and he looked powerful and fit. None of that availed him. Mannering twisted his own forearm, gripped the young man’s, twisted again and pushed – and the visitor went staggering back, out of the doorway and towards the head of the stairs. He couldn’t stop himself, and the sergeant grabbed him.
Rescued from a headlong flight down the stairs, the newcomer looked both badly shaken and bewildered. His face was now a bright red, the red that a coy young maiden might turn if she were deeply embarrassed, but the rage had died from his bright-blue eyes; bewilderment replaced it. He rubbed his right wrist, as if wondering if it had really happened, or whether this were part of a dream.
Mannering beamed at him.
“Goodevening,” he said. “Can I help you?”
Fenn made a smothered noise behind his hand; the sergeant, who knew Mannering far better than did Fenn, hid a grin. The young man noticed neither of these things, just looked uncertainly at Mannering. He moistened his lips. His colour began to recede; even when the flush had gone, he had a fair, pink-cheeked face.
“Because I will gladly help,” went on Mannering, “if I can. You were inquiring about—” He paused, invitingly.
The young man gulped.
“Miranda. Miranda—Smith. Is she—is she here?”
“May I know who wants to know?” asked Mannering, with the most genial of smiles.
“Er—” began the young man, and then seemed to shake his head. “Er—my name is Brash. William Brash. Er—Bill Brash,” he added emphatically, as if that would convey a great deal. “I—er—I’m a friend of Miranda Smith. It’s very important that I should know where she is.”
“Why?” Mannering’s voice was honey-sweet.
“Well—”
“Supposing you come in,” said Mannering, “and tell us all about it there.”
He stood aside. The young man who called himself Bill Brash followed, and Fenn brought up the rear. The sergeant looked regretful because the show was over too quickly.
Mannering closed the hall door and led the way to his study. Bill Brash was still bewildered and a little out of his depth, but Fenn seemed fascinated. A different Mannering had come upon the scene, a man in a guise he had heard about but hadn’t seen before. He could imagine any man who crossed Mannering being scared of him. He could begin to understand the reputation which he had built up, even at Scotland Yard; and the awe in which some policemen seemed to stand of him.
Yet Mannering looked the same—
The change was in his smile, just a quirk of his well-shaped lips; in a kind of courtliness; the lift of his head; a manner that was almost impudent – a step farther, and it would have become arrogance. He not only looked different and spoke in a softer yet clear-cut voice, but he also moved differently. He was on the attack. It wasn’t a very strong attack, and the opposition wasn’t likely to be powerful, but that was the big difference; he had taken the initiative completely. Fenn felt oddly sorry for Bill Brash.
The study was a small room with one large window overlooking distant houses, the Embankment, and the Thames; a familiar scene and welcome on that warm evening. The furniture was obviously antique; Fenn recognised two William and Mary slung leather chairs and a carved-oak settle which must be at least four hundred years old. Yet it didn’t strike one as being old-fashioned. It had an atmosphere which was peculiarly its own; and Fenn, his mind very alert, decided that it suited Mannering.
“Sit down, Mr. Brash,” invited Mannering, and pulled up a chair. “And you, Mr. Fenn.” Not Chief Inspector. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a drink. Whisky? Gin? Sherry—?”
“Er—no, thanks,” said Brash, blankly.
“Lemonade?”
With the nuance in a word Mannering could drip sarcasm.
“Well, yes, please,” said Bill Brash.
Mannering was startled, and Fenn gulped. There was a short pause. Mannering, knowing full well that Fenn was summing him up and not missing a trick, began to wonder what Bill Brash was really up to. Was he deeper than he seemed?
“And you?” Mannering asked Fenn, gravely.
“Whisky-and-soda, if I may.”
“Gladly,” said Mannering, and poured out. He had a whisky-and-soda himself. “Mr. Brash,” he said, as he thrust the lemonade into the young man’s hand, “Miss Miranda Smith and Pendexter Smith were at my shop this afternoon, but—”
Brash flashed, “Isn’t she here?”
“I want to know why you think she might be?”
“She went off with your wife,” Brash declared. “I know, a girl at a shop opposite Quinns told me. I came here just as soon as I could, because I must see Miranda. Look, Mr. Mannering—” He got up and moved forward, his voice and his expression alike appealing. “Is she all right?”
“Yes,” said Mannering.
Relief sprang into the young man’s eyes. It was impossible to guess the real cause of it, but it affected him swiftly, almost physically. He backed to his chair, and dropped into it. Lemonade, still effervescing, spilled over the side of his glass, and he looked at it quickly but without real comprehension.
“Thank God for that,” he breathed.
“What did you think might have happened to her?”
“Anything! She was with her Uncle, he’s hardly responsible for his actions, you can never tell what he’s going to do next. I’d heard him say he was going to see you, that’s why I went to Quinns. Lucky thing that girl was at the shop across the road.” Brash sipped his lemonade, then put it on a small table, next took out a silk handkerchief and dabbed his forehead and his neck. “Is he here, too?”
“No.”
“May I see Miranda?”
He hadn’t been told positively that Miranda was here. It was possible that he was trying a trick question, but he looked far too naïve for any such cunning; in fact, he looked almost too simple and straightforward to be true. But there seemed no point in further evasion; he was as likely to talk after seeing Miranda as he was now – more likely, perhaps.
“No,” s
aid Mannering. “Pendexter Smith went off on his own. Miranda’s here, but not too well.”
Brash flashed, “Why not? Is she hurt?”
“Why—?”
“For the love of Mike tell me the truth, don’t stand there vacillating!” roared Brash, and his face turned as red as a turkey cock. “Where is she?”
He jumped up and strode to the door, pulled it open, and rushed into the hall. Fenn, startled, was a yard behind Mannering as Mannering followed. Brash made for the kitchen door, not knowing what it was, thrust the door open and strode in.
Ethel, now sitting and fanning herself out of her fears, was by the window. Young Wainwright was standing near her, with a pewter tankard of beer in his right hand. Wainwright looked startled. It was an odd moment for Mannering to realise that he hadn’t really seen Wainwright before, except as a mild-mannered, competent, and hard-working young man with a sound knowledge of antiques and objets d’art. He was learning fast about precious stones, too. Now, still in his black coat and striped grey trousers, he looked different; the tankard caused that. It made him more human, less a stuffed dummy.
Brash swung round.
“Where is she? Come on, it’s time—”
“You like trouble, don’t you?” asked Mannering, very softly. “But I’ll forgive you, this time. I’ll find out if Miranda wants to see you. Chief Inspector—”
“I’ll stay here,” offered Fenn.
“You’re very good.”
“Of course she’ll want to see me,” Brash cried. “There isn’t any need—”
Mannering looked at him from narrowed eyes. He stopped. It was another example of the way Mannering could change. Fenn could even understand what had made Brash break off and gulp.
Wainwright came from the kitchen.
Mannering went into the bedroom. Lorna was at the dressingtable, doing nothing except looking at the girl. Miranda was sitting in exactly the same position, hands in lap, blue eyes wide open, seeing things which weren’t there, because nothing in sight need frighten her. The impression of fresh, lovely youth was very strong – and when he contrasted that with her affliction, Mannering felt a sharp twinge of almost physical pain.