by John Creasey
He dropped his right hand to the prisoner’s wrist, and twisted. The prisoner screamed. His whole body seemed to writhe as he reared up from the ground.
“Don’t, you’ll break my arm! Don’t—”
“Brash and who else?”
“You’re breaking my arm! I can’t—”
“Who sent you?”
“Oh, gawd,” gasped the little man, and then screeched as Mannering twisted that little more, not enough to break, but enough to bring sweat to the man’s forehead, another groan from his lips. “Lemme go, lemme go, I’ll tell you.”
Mannering eased his grip, slowly, and let the man relax on to the ground. Wainwright was breathing hissingly through his nostrils, as if he had found that as much as he could bear.
“Let’s have it, quickly,” Mannering growled.
“It was Brash and Crummy Day,” the little man muttered. “Crummy Day, you know, the pawn-broker, Aldgate High Street, that’s who.” He spoke hoarsely, fearfully. “Don’t do any more, my arm’s gone dead. I can’t feel it, I just can’t—”
“Get up.”
“You—you won’t—”
“Help him up, Ned,” Mannering said.
Wainwright moved forward, but the prisoner got to his feet, without help. It was hard to tell who was breathing more wheezily, Wainwright or the prisoner.
“Hold his arms behind him,” Mannering ordered. “This way.” He demonstrated. Wainwright took the prisoner’s arms and held them back, so that his chest was thrust forward, and he couldn’t move. “Hold him tight.”
The little man was moaning, but it wasn’t all in pain. Mannering dipped into his pockets, and took out everything there; including a leather cosh. He slipped that into his own pocket.
“I ought to use it on you.”
“My arm—”
“Just keep still.” Mannering used the torch, shining it straight into the prisoner’s face. It wasn’t a sight for anyone to see, a small, pallid face, eyes closed tightly against the glare, mouth set too, a small button of a nose, ears which stuck out, low, wrinkled forehead. As he got used to the glare, his eyes opened a little and Mannering had a good look at him. “I’ll recognise you again,” he said ominously. “Keep him there, Ned.”
“Okay.”
Mannering knelt down, spread out the contents of the prisoner’s pockets, and scanned them in the light of the torch. The only thing of real interest was a letter, addressed to:
M. Dibben,
17 Penn Street,
Whitechapel, E.
There were the usual oddments, a few pounds in cash, a railway ticket to Waterloo from Horsham, several keys, a comb that felt sticky with grease, two handkerchiefs, a couple of snapshots of “M. Dibben” disporting himself on the sea-front, probably at Southend.
Mannering kept the cosh and the keys, which might one day be useful. He stuffed the rest back into Dibben’s pockets.
“All right,” he said, “let him go.”
“You—you’re going to let him off?” gasped Wainwright.
“I think he told the truth, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“A bargain’s a bargain,” Mannering said, “so we’ll let him go. He’ll probably have to walk to Horsham, that’ll teach him. I’ve got his name and address,” Mannering went on, “and if he tries any monkey business with the car the police will be calling on him tomorrow morning and he’ll be on the wanted list. Scram.”
“He—he’s still holding me,” gasped the prisoner.
Wainwright let him go.
“Listen, Mannering,” Dibben said, with a catch in his voice, “I’ll remember this, don’t make any mistake, I’ll remember.”
He turned and started to run down the drive, but couldn’t keep up the pace. He walked quickly. His right arm was limp by his side, he didn’t seem to turn round, but disappeared into the darkness. It was some time before his footsteps faded.
Wainwright said as if amazed, “You can’t rely on a crook. There’s no honour—”
“It’s worth the chance,” Mannering said briskly, “and he certainly won’t do any more harm tonight. Have you heard of Crummy Day?”
“Well, vaguely. Larraby seems to have mentioned him.”
“We could use Larraby here, but it would be a pity to spoil his holiday.” Mannering chuckled. “You aren’t doing so badly! Game to try the house?”
“You mean—break in?”
“If we catch Brash red-handed it would do a lot of good. I think,” went on Mannering, straight-faced, “that if we stated in court that we’d seen a man break in, and though it our duty to follow, we would probably be forgiven if we were found on enclosed property.”
Wainwright welcomed that point of view very seriously.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, and squared his shoulders. “All right, I’m game.”
They moved towards the house.
They walked on the grass verge, making little sound; most was from Wainwright. Mannering wished that he were on his own. Wainwright’s breathing, loud and uneven, could be heard some distance away. It might be drowning sounds that Mannering wanted to hear: sounds of Dibben and Dibben’s accomplice coming back, for instance.
He heard nothing.
They neared the house.
“It was a window on this side,” whispered Wainwright.
“Let’s make it.”
They had to walk on gravel, here. Wainwright, obviously doing his damnedest to walk quietly, made twice as much noise as Mannering. He kept muttering imprecations against himself. They reached another grass patch, near the house. The stars seemed brighter. Mannering could see the tall windows on the ground floor, the Window-ledges and the windows above, too.
Then he saw a light inside.
His hand closed round Wainwright’s forearm, and Wainwright went as stiff as a board.
“Wha—?”
“Quiet.”
Mannering let the youngster go, and watched the light intently. It was visible through a window, and seemed to be moving. A man with a torch?
The light disappeared.
“Did you—did you see that?” breathed Wainwright.
“Brash, probably. Wait here. Don’t climb in until I call you.” Mannering went slowly towards the window, and found it open nearly two feet at the bottom; obviously Brash had left it open.
Mannering bent down, and climbed in. Once he was inside the room, the silence seemed more profound. He could not hear the soft noises of the night, or Wainwright’s breathing; or any sound at all.
Then he heard soft footsteps.
A light appeared, very dim but getting gradually stronger.
The door of the room led into a passage, and someone was coming along the passage, making as much noise as a man wearing rubber soles might make.
Mannering moved slowly to one side, then towards the door. Behind the door he wouldn’t be noticed.
If this were Brash—
Suddenly, a brighter light flashed on, the man in the passage exclaimed in swift alarm. Then came the roar of a shot, deafening, threatening, deadly.
Chapter Eleven
The “Museum” by Night
The door of the room crashed back. In the brighter light that flooded in, a man rushed from the passage. Mannering saw him clearly, and recognised Brash.
Brash made a rush for the open window, but turned round and looked over his shoulder. Another man appeared at the doorway. Mannering saw his dark shape, short and stunted, and felt sure that it was Pendexter Smith. He saw the gun in the man’s hands, a rifle or a carbine; it might be a blunderbuss for all Mannering could tell.
“Stop there, you rogue!” roared the man with the gun.
Brash grabbed something from a table, and hurled it as he reached the window. His luck was as good as his aim. Whatever it was caught the barrel of the gun, and twisted it out of the little man’s grasp. It clattered to the floor, but didn’t go off. Brash hurled himself at the window, which rattled and boomed as he c
limbed through.
Wainwright could cope outside.
Mannering heard a shout out there, but the sound was drowned as the man in the room swore volubly, snatched up the gun and rushed at the window, feet clumping. Outside, the only sound was of thudding feet.
Wainwright wouldn’t run, so Brash had got away.
The little man was in the grounds, now. The beam of a torch stabbed through the darkness. Mannering, near the window, saw Wainwright picking himself up, then saw the little man’s legs moving like pistons as he ran after Brash. There was a moment’s lull; and then a flash and the roar of another shot from the rifle.
Into the silence which followed, Mannering called softly, “All right, Ned?”
“I—yes, sure, I’m all right. Got a split lip, but I’m all right,” Wainwright mumbled. He came up to the window, dabbing at a blood-stained lip with the back of his hand. “Wasn’t—wasn’t that the man who came to the shop this afternoon? The dwarf?”
“I think so. I’d like a chat with him, too.”
“And—it’s really his place,” Wainwright muttered. “He’s bound to send for the police, isn’t he?”
“Probably. You nip down to the end of the drive, find my car and make sure no one slashes the tyres or lets the air out,” Mannering said. “I won’t be long here. If anyone questions you, just say you’re waiting for me, but you don’t know where I’ve gone.”
“But—”
“Carry on, Ned.” Mannering was brusque.
“If you think I’m going to let you see this thing out by yourself you’re damned well mistaken!” snapped Wainwright angrily.
Mannering found himself grinning.
A car engine started a long way off: probably Brash’s.
They went together into the house. There was no sound. A light was on in the hall, another in the passage outside, ceiling-lamps which hung on pendants, and had big, white shades which reflected the light downwards but didn’t protect the eyes from dazzle.
Wainwright had started off with an attack of nerves which didn’t last long. Mannering took one glance round the hall, and stood quite still; startled, almost stupefied.
Under the bright light, in that one spot, was the most astonishing collection of museum pieces he was ever likely to see together. It was so bizarre that it didn’t seem true. By the front door, one on either side, was a suit of mediaeval armour, dull and tarnished, and a carved, life-size model of a Zulu warrior, complete with warmask, painted body, leopard-skin shield, assegai, and all. Over the door, tied with pieces of rope, was the stuffed body of a wild-cat. Standing round the walls, every foot of space being crammed, were trophies of a hundred hunts from a dozen countries. Parrots, crocodiles, peacocks, native carvings, snakes – Indian ivory, Chinese lacquered vases, huge chests of beaten brass from the Middle East, a mummy lying in its coffin, a bust of an American Indian complete with colourful feathered headdress, a totem pole – all these and a hundred other oddities were gathered together.
Everything looked freshly cleaned and dusted.
“Good gracious me!” exclaimed Wainwright, inanely.
That broke the spell, and did Mannering good. He grinned.
“I agree. But don’t speak loudly.”
Wainwright coloured furiously.
“Well, it is about the craziest conglomeration of old junk I’ve ever seen. Look at that.” He pointed to the shrivelled head of a South American Indian. “And look, there are some Malayan blow-pipes, hill tribe stuff, and …” His whisper trailed off.
“Let’s have a look round before Pendexter Smith comes back,” said Mannering softly.
That seemed to jolt Wainwright out of his mood. He looked sharply at the closed front door. The windows were all curtained, the door tightly closed, so that no one could see in. He listened intently; but heard nothing.
“Where shall we go?”
“Downstairs first.”
Mannering thrust open the double doors of a room opposite the side of the big, wide, shiny mahogany staircase, then stopped abruptly. For light from the hall shone into this room, and it looked empty.
A second glance showed a grand piano, several old-fashioned armchairs, a huge red-plush Victorian sofa, and two or three mahogany tables, all pushed in one corner, behind the door. The rest of the room was empty. The huge carpet was rolled up along one wall. Several floorboards were up, a screwdriver, claw hammer, and some nails were near the holes which this made in the floor.
Mannering went over and looked into the hole, saw nothing, knelt down, and explored. There were dusty joists, cobwebs, and plaster; nothing else.
“It’s just a mad-house,” Wainwright said, and then added in a different voice, his grown-up voice: “And to think she lives in this hole!”
“I wonder what they’re looking for, or what they’re hiding?” Mannering mused. “Come on.”
The other rooms downstairs seemed to be in their normal condition – dining-room, morning-room and a small library. The furniture was old-fashioned, big, usually ugly, although there were a few nice pieces. Wherever there was a square foot of wall space, some kind of picture adorned it, often hideously bad, although here and there one looked interesting. In smaller spaces colourful stuffed birds, their glass eyes very bright, were stuck on to the wall. The four corners of the earth had been combed to bring something into nearly every room. A silver table from Italy looked incongruous against some huge Turkish poufs, a hookah, and a sedan chair which might well have been made in England two hundred and fifty years ago. Swords, mostly sheathed, filled the whole of one library wall – from the ugly Ghurka knife to Toledo swords of fine Spanish steel, Italian jewelled daggers, some African spears, a bayonet from the Second World War.
“What a collector’s nightmare,” Wainwright muttered.
“With here and there a dream,” said Mannering. “We’ll have the light off.”
“Why, did you hear—?”
“I think so. Stand still.”
He was by the door of the library when he switched off the light. That wasn’t until he’d seen Wainwright’s worried glance into the passage. It would have been ten times better if Wainwright had gone to watch the car.
Footsteps sounded clearly. A window closed with a bang. The footsteps sounded again, quick and light, those of a small, agile man. Obviously he was making a tour of the house.
Mannering and Wainwright stood in the shadows, but the man didn’t come near them, just peered in their direction. Mannering didn’t move. He had seen the figure of the near dwarf rushing after Brash, and it might have been Pendexter Smith – but could that old man have moved so briskly? Certainly he couldn’t if he were as old and as stiff as he had seemed to be when he had been to Hart Row.
The movements were very brisk now.
Would the man go to the police?
Was there a telephone here?
Mannering remembered seeing one in the hall, close to a fist of tarnished mail. Would the man use it to call the police? Mannering listened for the ting of it being lifted, but heard nothing.
The footsteps now seemed to be farther away; they were on bare boards.
“He’s gone into the big room,” whispered Wainwright. “Shall we sneak out?”
“We’ll make sure who he is,” Mannering whispered back.
“All right with me,” hissed Wainwright.
They heard the man walking about the boards of the huge, almost empty room. Then they heard him speak, as if to himself; next, he laughed. Then he began to hum.
“Take it easy,” Mannering whispered.
He stepped into the hall. The light was still on, and the door of the big room was ajar. He beckoned to Wainwright, who drew nearer. The hall carpet muffled their footsteps.
“We’ll go out the back way,” Mannering whispered again.
“Okay.”
Mannering kept close to the wall as he drew near the door. The man inside was humming under his breath. He hadn’t telephoned the police, and he had no help – would o
ne man be in this great barn of a house alone?
Mannering peered round the door.
A small man with a humped back, not Pendexter Smith, but someone much younger, was putting the floorboards back into position, and humming an air from Gilbert and Sullivan. By his side was the gun. He was side-on to the door, solitary and, apparently, quite unafraid.
Wainwright was breathing into Mannering’s ear.
“That’s not the chap Smith.”
Mannering didn’t answer. He couldn’t stay and search the house while the man here was awake and alert. And he did not want Wainwright with him when he searched. It would be better to leave, and to come back alone.
Wainwright started violently.
Something whirred—
A clock struck a booming note from the other side of the hall. It was three o’clock. The little misshapen man in the big room was still humming and swaying, the notes of the clock were loud and slightly out of tune; their echo seemed to hum.
“All right,” Mannering said. “Let’s go.”
They reached a passage which led to the kitchen. Using the light of the torch, they went through the kitchen window, closing it from the outside.
They hurried round the house. Heavy curtains hid most of the light from them, but they could see bright slivers at the sides and the tops of the windows. The stars seemed duller now. They reached the drive, and hurried down towards the car.
They got in.
“I don’t mind admitting I’m glad we’re out of that,” said Wainwright. “Would you—er—would you mind if I had a cigarette?”
“Like a tot of whisky?”
“Wouldn’t I just!”
Mannering produced a flask, and Wainwright took a generous swig, lit a cigarette, and soon afterwards became garrulous; nervous reaction, Mannering decided. He said all the obvious things. They ought to tell the police about Brash, and this Crummy Day – everything. And Pendexter Smith wasn’t back, after all. Listening it seemed to Mannering that Wainwright was very young indeed. He was pleased with himself, too; he had booked two rooms at the Horsebox, one for Mr. Mannering, said he’d be in late, so had a key. He’d been right about Brash, too. The only thing that shadowed his pleasure was Brash’s escape. He’d been a bit too close, and Brash had crashed a fist into his mouth.