Shadow The Baron (22 page)

“The Boss wants them, that’s good enough for you.”

Mannering said: “Kidnapping’s a serious charge.”

“You didn’t snatch her, did you?”

“I’m mixed up in it.” He kept the whining note in his voice. “I won’t stand for murder – understand?”

“You won’t have to.” Mick gave the little self-satisfied laugh that betrayed a criminal’s vanity. “We’ve got it all laid on.”

They reached King’s Road, and turned into River Walk. Bristow’s man did not show up in the doorway opposite; the time he was wanted most – forget it.

Mick knew where Lorna was, and the two women were probably together. Smith wasn’t likely to keep them in Buckley Street. They might be at the garage – might have been there when he had arrived.

The taxi pulled up at the end of the street.

“Back way, said Mick.”I’ve had a good look round this place, and it’s easy. There are some staples in the wall leading to Mannering’s window. It’s in a dark spot, too, you won’t be seen.”

“We ought to try the front door, if it’s a flat.”

“Maybe you’re right at that,” Mick said, slowly.

They went into the house, unobserved. Lights were on at the downstairs flat, but none on the next floor. He picked the lock of his own door, and for the first time that night, his hands were unsteady. He pushed the door open cautiously, and crept in. Mick followed him, and immediately put on the light.

Mannering hissed: “Put that off! There might be a servant.”

“She’s up in the loft, tied up. Smith didn’t like her.” Mick sniggered. “You’re too nervous, that’s your trouble.”

“I could do with a drink,” said Mannering hoarsely.

“Not a bad idea.” Mick was unexpectedly affable. “I’ll find where he keeps it, you look for the safe.”

The only safe in the flat was inside an old oak settle, in the study. It had a false seat, and a steel, electrically protected safe inside. It was one of the last places he would be expected to look. He went through the study, tapping the floorboards and the walls, pulling up corners of the carpet. Mike came in with a bottle of Johnnie Walker, a syphon and two glasses. He put them down and rubbed his hands together vigorously.

“Pity to burn this stuff up.”

“You’ve left another of those things?”

“That’s right,” Mick said. “Mannering’s going to be sorry he got in Smith’s way.” He poured out two drinks, tossed his own down, and then scowled. “Haven’t you found the safe?”

“Not yet. There may only be the one at Quinns.”

“Don’t be a fool. Where’ve you looked?”

Mannering pointed, and sipped his drink.

Mick kicked the end of the settle.

“Well, try this.”

Mannering said: “It’s no use looking there,” but went across.

There were few jewels in the settle safe; most of his stock was at Quinns, They took out some of Lorna’s jewellery, and Mick dropped it into his pocket He poured himself out another drink, and swore at Mannering – the “absent” Mannering – for failing to keep the papers here. Then he started to search the flat, ripping out drawers, taking down pictures, looking for another hiding place. Mannering poured him out a third whisky; it seemed to have little more effect on him than water.

“He’ll be roaring mad,” Mick said. “Roaring mad. He was sure we’d find it.”

“I’ve done my best.”

“I’ll say that for you.” Mick dropped his hand to his pocket, and Mannering knew that it was closing about his gun. “I’d better give him a ring.”

Mannering didn’t protest.

Mick dialled; Mannering refilled his glass, and the man hardly seemed to notice. He stood with the receiver at his ear for a long time. At last he said; “We’re at the flat. They’re not here.”

Mannering muttered: “I’ll go over the other room again.” He went out, slipping into the bedroom; there was an extension telephone on the bedside table. He picked it up, and heard Smith’s voice. It was damning Mick, “Brown” and everyone who failed to do his job properly, He sounded at a high pitch of nervous tension.

“Brown still with you?”

“Sure. You said I wasn’t to finish him until I’d found the books. He’s good, I’ll say that for him, never seen anyone pick a lock like he can. We might find him useful.”

“Those things must be at the flat or Quinns.”

“But they’re not!”

There was a pause; then Smith said: “Did you leave the tins?”

“Sure. And I want to be away before two o’clock.”

“You’d better come here,” Smith said. “What else did you pick up?”

“Plenty, especially from Q.”

“It will be a help,” Smith said. “We’ll have to clear out. I’ve got the tickets, we can leave tonight. Mannering won’t do anything while we’ve got his wife, we’ll have time. You haven’t run into him, have you?”

“No, neither place.”

“He’s probably with Fleming,” Smith said. “I’ll talk to him. You come straight here.”

“With Brown?”

Smith swore at him.

“Okay, okay, I’ll leave him to roast,” Mick said.

He put down the telephone. So did Mannering. Mick called out: “Where the hell are you?” and came out of the study. He saw the light on in the bedroom. “What are you wasting time in here for?”

Mannering said: “I think I’ve found something.”

“What?” Mick came almost excitedly into the room, his right hand snatched from his pocket. Mannering was behind the door, on one knee, reaching under the bed. Mick bent down and lifted the bedspread. Mannering, straightening up, caught the man under the chin with the back of his head Mick’s teeth snapped together and he jolted back. Mannering thrust his hand swiftly into his pocket, and whipped out the gun. He was covering Mick as the man fell against the bed, so shocked by this development that he almost forgot the pain.

Mannering said: “So you were going to kill me.” Mick put up his hands, as if to fend him off. “Well, you’ve got another think coming. So has Smith. Where is Smith?”

“Put – put that gun down!”

Mannering raised the gun, covering Mick’s face. The man had drunk too much whisky, and the effect was beginning to show. His hands shook, his legs were unsteady.

“Tell me where Smith is, or I’ll blow your brains out.”

“Get away!” screeched Mick. “Get away! He’s at Leven Street, Victoria, 9 Leven Street. Get away!”

“You got a key?”

“No! No, he wouldn’t let me have one.” Mick gasped despairingly, seeing Mannering loom over him. “Get away. I haven’t got a key. I have to go to the back door, there’s a bell under the knocker, a special bell. Get away!”

Mannering’s fist crashed into his chin. As he slumped over the bed, Mannering hit him on the right temple with the butt of his gun, then picking him up bodily, carried him into the kitchen. He bound his wrists and ankles with cord from a drawer, forcing himself to do everything carefully; if he lost his head he would lose valuable time. He pushed Mick into the larder and locked the door on him, then went into the drawing room. He stood looking round; nothing seemed to be disturbed. He went across to the piano; the canister wasn’t there. He found it beneath the writing desk near the window, and dropped it into his pocket.

He hadn’t much time.

He went into the bedroom, and began wiping the greasepaint off his face. “Brown” faded into the past. He had to be thorough. He rubbed his face with spirit and examined it carefully. Changing quickly into one of his own suits, be put the canister into one pocket, Mick’s gun in another, then bundled the clothes up into a parcel, which he tied with string.

Then he went upstairs.

Hetty, bound and gagged, lay in a corner, unconscious. He cut the cords, and took the gag away, and left her. Downstairs, he put the bundle over his shoulder and went to the door. Before he reached it, he heard someone approaching. Bristow?

He dropped the bundle behind a hall chair, and the canister on top of it. The front door bell rang. He lit a cigarette before he opened the door, fully expecting to see Bristow.

Fleming stood there.

“Hallo, Mannering.” Fleming came in briskly. “I’m glad I’ve caught you. Do you know that Smith has taken Celia back?”

“Yes,” said Mannering. “She isn’t alone. My wife’s with her.”

Fleming said: “Your wife!” He looked dumbfounded. “Do you mean to say that . . .?”

“He’s played himself into my hands, and this is his way of getting out again,” Mannering said. “I think he’s planning a getaway, and he’ll probably take Celia with him. He won’t want to be handicapped with my wife.” The words sounded as bleak as he felt. “I’m going to his place, now. I shall leave a message for the police to raid it soon afterwards. Final showdown with Mr. Smith! If you want to come with me, meet me at Victoria Station in half an hour.”

Mannering waved him away, then locked the door and returned to the kitchen. There was no sound from Mick. He opened the window and climbed out, with the bundle slung over his shoulder. Only a few lighted windows broke the darkness. He hurried to the middle of the patch of waste land near the houses, and placed the bundle, with the canister in the middle, where it could do little harm.

Then he made for the main road. He saw the Austin parked at the corner, and Larraby standing in shadows, watching the taxi which was drawn up outside Mannering’s front door.

Mannering whispered: “Josh.”

Larraby started, and turned.

“Josh, listen to me.” Mannering rested his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “I’ve an urgent job. Mrs. Mannering is with Smith. Never mind the details. They’re at 9 Leven Street, Victoria. I want half an hour’s grace, then telephone Bristow.”

“Very good, sir.” Larraby’s soft voice was itself a reassurance.

“When you’ve done that, go to your hotel and collect the parcel of books and papers which you’ll find addressed to you. Take it to the Palling garage and leave it there, preferably in Smith’s room. I don’t think you’ll find anyone at the garage. If you do, drop the stuff and then call the police. After that, go to the shop. There’s a tin in the middle drawer of the office desk – highly inflammable. Get rid of it. All clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“Is there anything else to report?” Mannering asked.

“A man just called at your house, sir, driving a Humber.”

“Fleming, that’s all right. Get another car, I need this one.”

Larraby nodded. Mannering climbed into the Austin and turned towards Victoria. He reached the station in ten minutes, pulled up outside it, and went to look for Fleming. There was no sign of the man. He waited for five minutes, and then inquired of a taxi driver, for Leven Street. It was nearby, and Number 9 was one of a terrace of tall narrow houses, served by a service alley. It was in one of the backwaters of London, a Georgian house with an iron balcony and a fine wrought iron gate.

He went round to the back.

As he reached the gateway leading to a small, narrow garden, he thought he heard a sound, as of a door opening. He stood quite still, and then tried the handle of the gate it moved at a touch. He looked through, and saw a faint forward, seeing the man disappearing into the house. Mannering gave him a few seconds to get through the room, and then tried the handle of the door. It had been forced swiftly and expertly.

Mannering opened it just wide enough to get through. He saw the final shadow of a man’s figure advancing along a narrow passage. The door of this room, a kitchen, was ajar, and the light came from the front hall.

The man reached the foot of a flight of stairs, and when he turned, the light fell on his face. Mannering, pressed tightly against the wall, his presence unsuspected, recognised Fleming.

Fleming had forced the lock of the gate and of the back door. Both locks would defeat any but a first class cracksman.

Was Fleming the Shadow?

Mannering kept close to the staircase, as Fleming went up. There was no sound in the house. Mannering stayed by the wall, straining his ears. Fleming moved silent as a wraith. There was a long, tense pause. A car travelled along the street, its engine sounding loud; but when it faded, there was a silence so full that Mannering could hear his own breathing and the beating of his heart.

Then upstairs a door crashed back.

Fleming said: “Don’t move!”

Mannering reached the end of the passage. The light was brighter now, coming from a room on the landing. There was no sound of any answering voice. Mannering crept stealthily up the stairs. Halfway up, he could see Fleming standing in a doorway with his back towards him. He could see, also, the gun in Fleming’s hand. He couldn’t see Smith.

There was a squat cupboard on the landing. Mannering quickened his pace. He caught a glimpse of Smith’s face, set in a stare of frigid surprise as it glared at Fleming.

Mannering reached the cover of the cupboard. He could see part of Fleming’s back and a corner of the room; and could hear everything, even the long, slow intake of breath as Smith began to speak.

“So Major Fleming has finally come out in his true colours!”

“Move back,” Fleming said.

“Major Fleming alias the Shadow. You haven’t forgotten that little fact, have you? You haven’t forgotten that I’ve proof against you which will be handed to the police whether I live or die?”

“Move back,” Fleming said. Smith apparently obeyed, for Fleming edged forward. “I have forgotten nothing.”

“Nothing except a few little things which seem to have slipped an accommodating memory. Put that gun away, Shadow. It won’t help you.”

“It’ll help,” Fleming said. “I’m still a good shot, and before I leave here you’ll be a dead man. You’ve had it coming for a long time, Smith. You’ve blackmailed me for six years, and it’s all over.”

“Of course I’ve blackmailed you. You were a sitting pigeon. An ex-Army officer with a distinguished record couldn’t allow it to be suspected that he was a cracksman, could he? In plainer words; a thief. I advise you to drop that gun, Fleming.”

“Keep where you are,” Fleming answered. His voice was steady. “You’ve had a long run. You started turning the screw on my wife. I had to give way. I couldn’t satisfy you, and I turned to burglary. You discovered it. You had me where you wanted me, and made Celia’s life a hell. But then you went too far.”