Help From The Baron (21 page)

“No,” said Mannering.

“You’d better be right. Let’s go in here.”

Scoby didn’t have to open a door, for a man whom Mannering hadn’t seen before was standing by it, and opened it for him. It was almost opposite the foot of the stairs. A long passage led alongside the stairs, and there was a light at the far end. There was a light at the landing, too. Another man stood up there, looking down. He didn’t speak. Scoby had studied the psychology of nervous pressure and had this all nicely planned. Mannering, whose nerve was as strong as the next man’s, could not keep down the pounding at his heart.

“So if the police turn up, they get the news about Quinns,” Scoby went on. “You want to know something, Mannering?”

He pushed the door wider open. The watching man just stood and stared at Mannering, balefully. He looked like a cretin, and carried a hammer. He didn’t say a word. Mannering went in - and it was like walking into a brick wall in the darkness.

Simon Lessing was in here.

It had been possible from the beginning to sense the evil in these men; to know, from the moment when Francesca’s body had been found floating sluggishly in a foot of water, that they were deadly.

Simon was stripped to the waist. There were at least three burn scars on his chest, and a smear of blood on his shoulders. He was sitting on an upright chair, with rope round his waist and ankles, and his arms tied behind him. Sweat glistened on his forehead. His crisp brown hair looked as if someone had pulled him along the ground by it. But he was breathing evenly, and there was defiance in his eyes.

Mannering realised then how well Susan knew Simon Lessing.

The room was long and narrow, had a table and several upright chairs, two easy-chairs, and in the far corner, a window shuttered from the inside with wooden boards.

Scoby grinned one-sidedly.

“I don’t think you could take what Lessing’s taken,” he said, “but maybe you’ll have the sense not to make us find out.” He made one of those deliberate pauses. Then: “I want you to understand one thing. I’m going all the way. I’m not interested in half-measures. I had those Fioras for four years, and I hadn’t been able to cash in on them yet. I killed the old fool who had them to sell, and I’ve killed and will kill again to make sure I get them back. If I lose, I lose. I know what the stakes are. I knew there was a risk that you’d bring the police tonight, but I’m a gambler, Mannering, and I gambled that you wouldn’t. You’re a sentimental fool over women. I’ve been studying you and your record ever since I knew that Lisle was working with you.”

Mannering said: “You tried to scare me by putting the police on to me. Where do you think that could get you?”

“So you don’t know.” The handsome face was set in a sneer. “I know your kind, Mannering. You’ve got the Fioras. With the police after you, you have to get rid of them quick. And you will. I’ve got your signature on that receipt, and it isn’t forged.” The sneer became a grin. “You gave a pal of mine a signature on a statement he’d made, days ago. The statement was written in ink that faded, and the details of the Fioras were written in afterwards. I cover everything, don’t I?”

Mannering said: “You’re still wrong. I haven’t the Fioras. What makes you think I have?”

“You have them,” Scoby said roughly. “I’ll tell you something, Mannering. It might help you to grasp the hard facts. I haven’t any future in this country. I’ve got to vanish. It’s all laid on. I’ve been building up another identity in another place, and everything’s fixed - except the money. I need the money, and I’ve a market for the Fioras, cash down. You’re in this deal for what you can get out of it, and I’m not a cheap swindler and I’m not a chiseller. I’ve offered you ten thousand quid, and it’s money for old rope. You’d better accept.”

He gave that time to sink in, too.

Simon Lessing said: “If I ever get at you, Mannering . . .”

“Shut up,” Scoby said viciously. “Or I’ll shut you up. There’s just one thing more I want out of you, and when I’ve got that - les rideaux!” It was an odd quirk to drop in the words of French, and his eyes actually smiled. “Listen to the rest, Mannering. I’ll pay you a thousand pounds down, to show earnest. If you welsh, I’d smash your head in the way I had Lisle’s smashed. The other nine thousand will be handed over in exchange for the Fioras. You can have Lessing’s sister at the same time, but you can’t have Lessing. He’s fixed for les rideaux! Only get it clear in your head, it’s got to be a quick deal. If you don’t come across - okay, Bristow will have the receipt for the Fioras, he’ll find the hot stuff at Quinns, and sooner or later he’ll find your body. In this job I win or I lose, and there’s no halfway stop.”

He meant it.

The man who had followed them in was leaning against the wall, watching.

Lessing gave the impression that he would kill anyone he could reach.

The quiet lasted for a long time before Mannering moved, glanced at Lessing, and then said to Scoby “Where’s his sister?”

“Upstairs. She’s okay.”

“When I’ve seen her I’ll believe it.”

“Come along up,” Scoby said. “Open the door, Mick.” The cretin obeyed as if Scoby had control of his reflexes. Scoby gave Lessing another careless glance; but perhaps it was not so careless as it seemed.

“Just think about that one thing, Lessing - did Francesca Lisle tell you anything about this, and how much did she tell you? Don’t hold out any longer. Next time you’ll really get hurt.”

He went out.

The door closed and the cretinous-looking man stood at the foot of the stairs, another on the landing, as Mannering and Scoby went up. Scoby was rubbing his chin; the stubble looked more black than blue.

“I could use a man like Lessing,” he said, “but he’s too righteous.” His grin was sardonic but regretful. “You can pick the honest ones out. But can he take it!” He whistled. “The only thing that made him whimper was a threat to his kid sister, but I don’t want to spoil her face for the sake of it. If he won’t tell me what Francesca told him, how much she knows, then I’ll have to work on little Joy.” He talked to Mannering as if to a partner in crime; as if it didn’t occur to him that Mannering would gladly have broken his neck.

He stopped at a door. It was locked, and the key was in the outside. Mannering didn’t see him signal, but was quite sure that one was given. The man at the head of the stairs moved, slapped Mannering’s pockets, felt the automatic and slipped it out as if the pocket were in his own jacket. He slapped Mannering’s waist.

“What’n hell . . .?”

His hands moved swiftly, expertly. He found the clip of the tool-kit, pulled the kit away and held it up. A glint of envy showed in his eyes.

Scoby said: “Mannering, you really do a job, don’t you?”

Mannering didn’t speak.

The other man slapped his pockets, actually took out the lighter, and dropped it back.

“Okay,” he said, “he’s harmless now.”

“How did you train your experts?” Mannering asked.

“I selected them after they’d been trained,” Scoby said. “I got two English, a French, a Pole and an American. They went on the run just before the war ended. If the authorities got them they’d be hanged or shot, so they’re glad to work for me. They know this is the last job, and they know they’re going to get a big rake-off, so they feel the same as I do about it.”

He flung open the door of the room, and strode inside. He didn’t get far, but stopped so sharply that Mannering banged into him. Mannering heard a hiss of breath from behind him, the man on the landing saw what had happened. It was glaringly obvious.

The window was wide open, the room was empty. On the floor were some pieces of blind cord, obviously cut.

“It isn’t possible,” Scoby muttered. “It isn’t . . .” He broke off and swore. Then: “One of you let her go. I’ll have his . . .”

Revelation and opportunity came to Mannering in that moment.

He stepped behind Scoby with a swift, swaying motion, put both hands on his waist, swivelled round with Scoby’s feet just off the floor, and pushed him into the man on the landing. The man there tried to dodge, missed a step, then staggered under the full force of Scoby’s body.

Mannering didn’t wait to see the two men fall, but raced down the stairs.

The cretinous creature crouching at the foot of the stairs, hammer in hand, suddenly became deadly.

In that moment Mannering knew who had smashed Lisle’s skull.

The man crouched, big and powerful, with the hammer raised. He was just the right distance from the bottom tread, too far away for Mannering to jump on to him. Mannering took his hand out of his pocket. Fear was driving him, something that lifted him above the immediate danger from the man waiting here.

His cigarette-lighter flashed.

A tiny bullet caught the cretin on the side of the forehead. It knocked him back. Mannering didn’t know whether it went right home or struck a glancing blow. He jumped, and the man reeled back, fingers still clinging to the handle of the hammer. Mannering struck him beneath the chin, heard his teeth snap, knew that he would be out for several minutes.

At least two men were outside in the street.

Two others were upstairs, too, and they wouldn’t be there for long.

There might be others in the house.

Mannering flung back the door of Simon Lessing’s room Lessing wrenched at his cords so violently that he dragged the chair inches from the floor and actually stood crouching with the chair jutting out from behind him.

“Joy’s gone,” Mannering said, and Lessing almost choked. Mannering slammed the door, turned the key in it, grabbed an upright chair and jammed it beneath the handle. He did everything with great precision, hardly looked as if he were in a hurry; the nearness of death calmed instead of panicking him. He took out his knife and cut at Lessing’s bonds; only those at the wrists took time. As the rope fell away, Mannering looked at the boarded window.

“Try to move around,” he said.

He heard footsteps on the stairs; one set pounding, one set staggering. A shoulder hit the outside of the door, and a man grunted. The handle rattled. Mannering reached the boarded window, and pulled a board away. They fitted into slots.

“They’ll kill as like as look at us,” he said. “Can you move?” He didn’t look round.

“Ye - yes,” Lessing gasped. “Sure!”

There was a shot, obviously aimed at the door; and the door sagged. The chair wouldn’t hold it for long against the fury of Scoby and his men.

There were those in the street too, remember.

A light flashed in the garden beyond the window. He saw that, then saw another door open at the back of the house. A shadow appeared. Mannering didn’t hear anything said and hardly needed to; they were blocking that way out.

He slammed the board back into position.

Lessing was leaning against a table; he was trying with all his strength, but the blood beginning to circulate through his legs and feet was bringing excruciating pain. He couldn’t stand properly, there had never been a chance that he could walk out either at the back or the front.

A telephone stood on a wall-bracket near the door.

The door was shivering under the impact of at least two men, and suddenly a different sound came, of a hammer being used against the wooden panels - thick, oak panels. Mannering lifted the receiver, and the buzzing sound came promptly, the line was in order. He dialled, his fingers still and cold.

Outside, Scoby shouted: “Cut that telephone cable!”

“Nine-nine-nine,” Mannering muttered. It was like an invocation to some god of numbers. There was silence outside, as men stopped hammering at the door; but someone started on the window, and glass smashed beyond the boards.

“There it is!” roared Scoby.

“Information Room, Scotland Yard.”

“Ninety-three Forth Road, St. John’s Wood, armed raiders.”

Mannering spoke with controlled swiftness. “Can you . . .?.

A shot sounded in the hall, loud in the narrow confines - and the line went dead.

Mannering couldn’t be sure whether the Yard had received the message, whether “93 Forth Road” had registered? They were bound to realise which Forth Road.

More glass smashed.

A bullet came through the boards at the window, and the hammering started again at the door.

“Go buy me a gun,” Simon Lessing mouthed. He tried to grin. He was actually standing now, but it was obvious that he couldn’t take half a dozen steps without falling. “Or a shroud. What does . . .?”

The door bulged, near the handle and at one panel. They couldn’t see through either hole, but it wouldn’t be long before they would be able to and before Scoby would shoot. Scoby had meant what he said, he would shoot to kill. He’d played for high stakes, and he meant to exact the full price for his failure.

He would lose, wouldn’t he?

Mannering slid his hand into his waist, took out a small phial, and moved towards the door.

“Want to - get it over quick?” Simon gasped. “Gimme - time to apologise.”

Mannering said: “Accepted.” He reached the door. The head of the hammer leapt in sight as the panel splintered; it was only a matter, of seconds now. He held the phial close to the hole; if they fired, he would lose his hand. He flicked the phial through, then jumped away.

There was silence at the window.

From outside, there came a startled, choking cry.

“What the hell . . .?”

Two men began to splutter.

Simon Lessing listened and watched Mannering intently. He looked as if he had been dragged through a water-mill, then across a spiked board. But there was a light in his eyes and a triumphant grin on his face.

“John Mannering,” he said. “You’re good. You’re so . . .

He stopped.

Mannering spun round towards the window.

A police whistle sounded, and it wasn’t far away. Lessing raised his hands, the fingers clenched in a kind of supplication; as if hope, which had been taken away from him, had miraculously been brought back.

“We’ll find her,” he said, fiercely, “they’ll never find her now, thank God, thank - ”

Outside in the hall, men were coughing and spluttering and staggering away from the door. Outside in the garden, men were shooting; another police whistle sounded.