Shadow The Baron (7 page)

“What have you done to him?”

“Never you mind, dearie. Just put that gun down, and be sensible. Then you won’t get hurt.”

“I won’t get hurt”

“That so? What about my pals, outside?”

Her head moved, upwards; but she stopped herself from looking round, robbing him of the chance of striking the gun aside. He needed only a split second, but she wasn’t easy to fool.

“There aren’t any,” she said. “I don’t think you understand. If I shoot you, it’ll be quite safe. I shall tell the police that I caught you in here, and you tried to attack me. Where is Paul?” She didn’t seem to realise that she had said “Paul”, not Smith.

“Where would you expect him to be?” Mannering asked.

“Don’t be clever. Remember that it will hurt if I shoot you.” She lowered the gun and now it covered his stomach. “I’ll aim where it hurts most.” The words took on even more sinister meaning coming so calmly, and in that pleasant voice. “I mean what I say.”

“It would be your big mistake,” Mannering said.

He was only just out of reach of the gun. If the girl took one step nearer, he could knock it aside. But if he jumped she would shoot. Her forefinger was steady on the trigger, and he didn’t like the expression in her eyes. It had been a mistake to tell her that he had injured her Paul. He felt the slow drops of sweat beading his forehead. He’d been in jams where the danger was more real but none where it was greater. The beauty in her eyes was superseded by the smouldering hatred in them – outwardly, she was calm; inwardly she was afire, and it was the inward fire which might make her decide to shoot

She said: “If you don’t tell me where Paul is, I shall shoot you in the guts.”

“Your insistence leaves me little choice. I left him at the garage. He was smart, but not quite so smart as he thought he was.”

“You couldn’t have fooled Paul.” Fanatical belief in Smith was in her voice.

“Thank so?” Feigning an ease he was far from feeling,

Mannering sat down on the arm of a chair. It worked, as far as the fact that the girl visibly relaxed; but the gun stayed unmoving. “Neither of you is as clever as you think you are, honey. You and your shadow!” He flung the word out again, but the reaction, or lack of it, was the same. It was obvious that she was thinking of Smith and the possibility that he was lying badly hurt. Mannering leaned back and grinned, and it wasn’t a leer this time. “You needn’t worry,” he said. “We had an argument, and I came out on the winning side, that’s all. He’s not hurt. We parted almost good friends; he thinks he might have a job for me, later on. He wasn’t sure I was expert enough at breaking into places, and I thought I’d demonstrate. He won’t argue about that in future.” Mannering actually laughed, and moved his hand towards his pocket.

“Keep your hands in sight,” she said. “Paul wouldn’t work with anyone else. You’re lying.”

“All right, I’m lying. You don’t have to believe me.” Mannering yawned. Suddenly, and for the first time, tension went out of her; the gun sagged, pointing at his feet.

He slid forward, propelling himself with his arms, and knocked against her with such force that the gun went off. He seized her arm and the weapon dropped to the floor. When he released her, she was limp and breathless. He pushed her off, snatched up the gun and slipped it into his own pocket, then moved away. She lay on the floor, still breathless but beginning to recover, her expression was baleful.

“Sorry I had to be rough,” said Mannering. “I may have to be rougher. Remember I can put the cops on to your pal Paul any time I want to. If you kick up a shindig, you’ll bring them in and I’ll give Paul away.” He bent down and lifted her bodily. She struck him across the face, and then drew back as his grip tightened. He carried her to the bathroom, stood her down, and went out, locking the door behind him.

He dragged a big settee across the door, and then went back to the study. He examined the lock in the top of the desk, and tested it with a pick-lock. Short of shooting the lock, there was no other way to get at it. He might cut out a piece of the wood, but the top was probably steel lined and he couldn’t do anything about steel without an oxy-acetylene cutter. If he were to break through here, he would have to use the pick-lock.

He went out to the front door, and left it wide open.

There was a risk that the older woman would turn up; he had to take that. But he had to make sure that he couldn’t be caught unawares. He pushed the outer door to, and placed a chair across it so that it couldn’t be moved without making a noise. Then he went into the kitchen. A fire escape led to a tiny back garden. Leaving that door open also, he returned to the desk and set to work with the pick-lock.

Five minutes convinced him that he hadn’t a hope this way.

He went back to the kitchen, pulling open every drawer until he came to a small one, fitted out like a tool chest; there was a chisel. He hesitated, and then opened a cupboard beneath the dresser. Then he laughed spontaneously, for there was an oxy-acetylene burner, a small cylinder and a pair of goggles.

The Shadow’s equipment?

It was a light model, but still fairly weighty, and he grunted as he carried it to the study. There was no sound from the bathroom or from outside. He used a chisel on the unpolished wood, chipping it away round the keyhole. The noise was loud, but he hadn’t time to be quiet. Soon, the bare steel round the keyhole lay revealed. He would have known after using the pick-lock if it was electrified, but he checked it carefully first, touching it lightly with the blade of his knife which had an insulated handle. There was no spark.

He hadn’t used a cutter for a long time. . . .

He had been in the flat at least an hour and a half, but he forced himself to work carefully, and without panic. Through the dark goggles he saw the flame, cutting through the steel like a hot knife through butter. He cut out a square, then put the burner down, and prized the square out. After that, it was simply a matter of lifting back the top of the desk on its hinges.

It was empty; a big empty space, the shape of a coffin.

He stood looking into the emptiness. If there were any valuables, or anything which Smith wanted to hide here, they would have been in the desk safe. There was nothing, he had wasted his time. He smiled wryly, feeling uneasy and frustrated. He could try to make the girl talk, but he didn’t think she would be easily persuaded. He stood back and surveyed the ruin of the safe, picked up the chisel, and put it down again. He might as well get out, while the going was good.

But he couldn’t assume that this was the only hiding place.

There might be others in the warehouse, or in one of the rooms; possibly in the flat across the landing.

He heard a clock strike twelve.

He moved into the hall. There was silence, everywhere. He walked across to the front door, paused to listen, heard nothing, and moved the chair aside. As he did so, he heard a creak. He stared tensely towards the door. It was open an inch, but he couldn’t see the landing or the staircase, only a blank wall.

There was a shadow on the wall. It was not the shape of a man’s head, but the shape of a policeman’s helmet.

Another creaking sound came, but the shadow remained stationary; so someone else was there.

He put the chair back carefully, and then moved silently across the room to the kitchen. He heard a sound, as if the door had been pushed against the chair. He could imagine the man outside trying to get an arm through so as to push the chair to one side. He stepped out into the cold night. Two or three lights showed at windows, and he could see the outline of the fire escape. It was impossible to go down without making some sound on the iron rungs.

He leaned forward, and held the rail and a faint clang came up to him.

He drew back, close against the wall, and waited. It was impossible to be sure how many men were on the fire escape. There were no sounds from inside the flat; the police were probably still trying to shift the chair without giving themselves away. He didn’t move. He didn’t ask himself what had brought the police. He felt his nerves quivering. He was sandwiched between two groups, and there would almost certainly be others, waiting below.

He saw the shape of a head appear on the landing then the head and shoulders of another. Pressed against the wall, he merged against the darkness. He held his breath as a man stepped into the kitchen. If the light were put on he would be seen.

The second man followed him; both were now inside the kitchen. Mannering heard them groping and saw the eerie beam of a torch light moving about. He stepped forward, groped for the first step, and started to go down. A policeman would probably be on guard, at the foot; he dare not make too much noise or lose too much time.

He reached the first landing, without raising an alarm. At the second, he could see the pale colour of the concrete in the back yard, and the dark shape of a policeman standing on it; the helmet was unmistakable. It was hard to believe that the man had neither seen or heard him. He went down the next few steps cautiously – and then the guard exclaimed: “Here!”

Mannering said mildly: “Hallo.”

The shadowy shape moved and Mannering jumped forward. The first shrill note of a whistle sounded. Next moment Mannering was on the man, smashing right and left at his stomach and face. The constable reeled back, and went sprawling. Mannering turned towards the dim shape of the wall; there was a lighter patch, where a door was open. He stepped through as the whistle shrilled out in earnest. He raced towards a street to which a narrow alley led. Another blast from the whistle cut the air; lights went up in several windows.

He heard pounding footsteps in close pursuit, and others coming towards him. Then the nearer man swung round the corner. Mannering shot out a foot and tripped him up, jumped past, and found himself near the steps which led to the lower level. The Buick was parked in the other direction. The headlights of two cars flared suddenly, and he was caught in a tunnel of light.

“There he is!” a man bellowed.

Mannering raced to the steps and leapt down, making for Villiers Street and the Underground Station. As unobtrusively as he could, he merged with several hurrying people, trying to breathe evenly, and behave as the average passenger obsessed with time. He forced himself to go at walking pace, reached the station and took a sixpenny ticket from the automatic machines. He was half way down the steps leading to the track before he heard a police whistle, so loud that he knew the police were in the station. A train came rumbling in. He reached the platform as it stopped, and stepped inside, then sat facing the platform. He saw two policemen hurrying down the steps as the train moved out, but the automatic closing doors were jammed tightly before they arrived.

They would be at the next station, Westminster, before the police could get there. He was at the doors before the train stopped, slipped out quickly, and hurried up to street level. He came out facing Big Ben, turned right, and reached the corner of Whitehall as a bus loomed up. He sprang onto the platform, clattered upstairs, and then looked out of the window. He could see the people on the pavement, including two constables, but no one appeared to be in a hurry. He went as far as Victoria, changed buses, and booked to Marble Arch. By that time he felt safe, although the sight of a constable in uniform set his heart beating faster. For the first time, he had time to think; and he didn’t want to think, that call had been too close. He went into the Cumberland Hotel, went to the main cloakroom, and shut himself into a W.C. He worked at his greasepaint with the rag and the little bottle of spirit. There was no mirror, he had to manage. He took the rubber off his teeth and the pads out of his cheeks, and then he went out, took off his coat, and began to wash. Two other men were present, and neither noticed him.

The attendant came in, whistling off key.

Mannering washed vigorously, and then examined himself in the mirror. There were traces of the grease paint, but not sufficient to give him away. Even an accurate description wouldn’t help the police, but he’d feel happier when he was back at Chelsea, and out of these clothes.

He took a taxi to Victoria, and then changed on to a bus; he couldn’t cover his traces too thoroughly. From King’s Road he walked briskly towards River Walk. A cold wind was blowing off the Thames, invigorating and welcome. Now that the crisis was past, he could begin to examine it. Why the police had decided to raid Buckley Street.

Had they been watching the house, and seen what had happened earlier?

He didn’t think that was the answer, or they would have acted sooner.

It was more likely that the shot had been heard, or that a patrol constable had found the door forced, and sent for a raiding party. The cause didn’t greatly matter, and there was little risk of being discovered. No one that night had seen him as he really was, no one would recognise him if they saw him now. Yet he was uneasy.

As he neared the house, he saw a man in a doorway on the other side of the road.

It was a favourite point of vantage, for those who thought it worth watching him; Bristow’s men particularly. He fought down a flare of alarm. Although he could be heard, he couldn’t be seen definitely enough to be recognised. He walked past the doorway of his house, towards the Embankment. He stopped at the first corner, and glanced round; there was no sign of the watching man. He waited for a few minutes, and the man didn’t emerge from his hiding place. The sense of acute danger faded. Mannering made his way towards the back of the house. It was an easy climb up to a window of his flat; he’d made it easy, with iron brackets, because in the past he’d often found it useful.

Hetty, the maid, was probably asleep; in any case, there was no light in her room. He climbed cautiously through the window, but didn’t breathe really freely until he reached his own bedroom.

Then he began to laugh. It was crazy laughter, and he couldn’t stop himself. As he took off the clothes and hung them up at the back of the wardrobe, he was still chuckling. He went to the bathroom and ran the bath water hot, finishing off with a cold shower. He didn’t go to bed, but switched on the electric fire in the study, and sat looking into it. Every now and again, he chuckled again. After a while, he poured himself out a strong whisky and soda, and it was then that he saw the telephone note propped on an ashtray. He read: