Chapter Five

The Noose Again

Mannering was smiling faintly to himself, yet was half-frowning, too. It was one thing to be amused by the old man’s obvious conviction that all hippies were potential murderers, but his complaint about the quarrels wasn’t funny. Why should he lie? And if he told the truth, how often and how violent were the quarrels?

Mannering went back to the front room.

Julie was on her side, knees drawn up, looking towards him. Her face had an elfin look, but her eyes were heavy and shadowed.

“How are you?” Mannering asked.

“I’ve a terrible headache,” she answered. “I got out of bed just now and took some aspirins, so I’ll be all right soon. What did Mrs. Paget say?”

“I told them Tom had fallen down from the attic,” Mannering answered, “and that you both needed an early night. They promised not to bother you but said you’re to go to them if you need help.”

“And I will,” Julie promised. “They’re really very nice.”

“Sure you won’t mind being left alone here?”

“Of course not!” she rallied to a scornful smile. “I’m often alone all night.” She stretched out a hand pleadingly. “You will help Tom, won’t you?”

“If he’ll help himself, yes,” Mannering promised. “Now, I’m off!” He stepped to the door, and opened it wider, then on impulse looked down at her and asked: “Do you mind if I go up into the attic?”

“Go where you like,” she said, without hesitation.

“I won’t disturb you again,” Mannering said. “But I’ll look round about eleven o’clock.”

“Oh, you needn’t—” she began, but he went out and closed the door firmly.

There was no sound in the house and only a few street noises, while not far off a baby was crying; it couldn’t be the Paget’s could it? He stepped into the bathroom and the crying sounded louder; the crying baby was in one of the nearby houses. He looked up at the hole in the ceiling, and was startled when he saw that the noose was missing. Julie must have taken it down or pushed it up into the attic. It made little difference, he could get a grip on the sides of the hole, and haul himself up. It was harder than he had expected, and he strained his muscles, staring up to the softer light of the attic. At last his head and shoulders were above the level of the attic floor.

God!

A man crouched on one side, the rope in his hands, the noose raised. And before he could let go and drop to the floor, it dropped about his neck.

And it tightened.

In that awful moment he did not know what to do, although thoughts flashed through his mind with panic swiftness. If he let go his full weight would drop on to the rope and on to his neck, he could easily break his neck. He must not let go. He moved his legs, groping desperately for the bath or the pedestal, touched the bath which gave out a hollow boom, took a little of his weight on his left foot, and on the instant felt searing pain in the fingers of his left hand. A man was stamping on them. He let go, hanging on now by one hand, groping for a better hold with his feet and groping with his free hand for the rope above the noose.

The man up there trod on his right hand.

If he let go, the jolt on his neck would be so severe that it might break.

He made a great effort and got both feet on the bath and gripped the rope so that the whole of his weight was off his neck and the noose for a split-second; and in that split-second he swept his left hand into the attic, felt and grabbed the man’s ankles, and pulled savagely.

The man crashed down, inside the attic, at the very moment when Mannering’s feet slipped off the edge of the bath. In a despairing grab he clutched the edge of the hole, getting grip enough to break his fall.

Now, he had only one hope: to pull himself up into the attic while the man was off his balance.

His neck felt as if it were being stretched, his eyes burned and there was great pressure against them. His tongue hurt, his jaws ached, his shoulders felt as if he were bearing a ton weight. He knew all of these things as he drew a deep breath, tensed the muscles of his arms and shoulders, and hauled himself up.

And as he went into the attic, Julie cried out, a kind of muted scream: “Oh, no, no, no!”

Mannering got a knee over the side, saw an upright beam and managed to grip it, felt sharp pain as a splinter went into the ball of a middle finger, then pulled himself into the attic, first on his knees, then on his feet, crouching; for the beams and the roof were low.

“What’s happening? What’s happening?” Julie’s voice, still sounding far away, was filled as if with terror.

The man was at the skylight, pushing at it, Mannering could just make out the stocking mask over his face, the black jacket, the jeans. Rafters between them slowed Mannering down. The man was half-turned towards him, working desperately at a catch on the window. He was within a hand’s reach of the bottles, grabbed one and hurled it at Mannering, who dodged and banged his head on a beam hard enough to make him gasp. The bottle dropped but did not break. Mannering caught a glimpse of Julie’s upturned face and burning eyes as he straddled a rafter.

The rooflight opened. The man pushed harder and it lodged into an upright position. The man clutched the edges and hauled himself through. He had on a pair of pale brown suede ankle shoes, that was all Mannering could see as he drew himself out to the roof.

“Are you all right?” Julie screamed.

Mannering called in a voice which reverberated among the rafters and the pictures: “Yes, don’t worry.” He hoisted himself through the rooflight in one swift movement: went out of the attic and on to the slate roof.

And with the movement, there was a metamorphosis; it was as if the years rolled away and as he stood here, balanced precariously against a chimney stack and the slates, he was the other self that he had been long, long ago.

He was the Baron.

He was the man of his youth, daring, dazzling; taking risks which would have cowed most men; sometimes giving chase to criminals, as he was now, sometimes on the run from the police who had often been close on his heels. Then he had been jewel-thief extraordinary, cracksman, and also a kind of Robin Hood, robbing the rich to help the poor. Further back, long years further back, he had been a thief both for the thrill and for the gain, robbing only the wealthy and yet on the wrong side of the law and for a few brief years, making his living from his daring thefts.

It was like a vivid series of flashbacks. The excitement and the danger had brought them to him; if he slipped he would roll down the roof and crash, breaking bones even if he did not kill himself.

All these flashes took only swift moments of time; and while the cloak of the past spread over him, he scanned the roof – and caught sight of the man who had so nearly hanged him. The man was peering behind a chimney stack amid that forest of small red chimneys, two or three sending smoke drifting lazily towards the cloudless sky. The roofs of this row of houses were continuous, and there was a flat ridge running across the top, broken by chimney stacks each of which obviously served two houses. He was breathing easily now and felt completely poised and confident, in spite of soreness of his fingers, grazed where the man had stamped on them. He walked along one section of the ledge to the next chimney stack, actually pulling the splinter out of his finger. He reached the stack and peered round, then saw something dark hurtling towards him, twisting and turning.

It was a slate off the roof. If it struck him, it could lay his cheek open to the bone.

He ducked.

It passed a few inches above his head, and crashed on to the roof behind him. He made a swift movement towards the next chimney stack but when he was halfway between the two, another slate came skimming through the air, about chin high. He could not go either right or left, all he could do was bend his knees and crouch down.

The slate missed; he did not know by how much.

He heard it crash with deafening noise, and almost immediately heard someone shouting down in the street.

“Look out!”

“Careful!”

A woman screamed: “Mind, Georgey!”

Another slate came hurtling while others, loosened, began to slither down.

Mannering, crouching, reached the next chimney stack, heart in mouth. No more slates were in the air, but how could he tell when another might come? There were more cries from below but nothing to suggest that anyone had been hurt. It was surprising how clearly the voices sounded.

“There’s someone up there.”

“Bloody lunatic.”

“We ought to send for the police.”

“That’s right – police!”

Mannering held his breath as he ventured on the ledge towards the next stack, and as he did so, caught a glimpse of the stockinged face. His assailant was several houses along, lowering himself over the edge to a back garden.

So there would be no more danger from slates, and Mannering quickened his pace, watching the other all the time.

The head disappeared, but he was still holding on to the guttering by his hands. Mannering tried to quicken his pace, but a slate moved under his feet, slowed him down. Turning his back on the spot where the man had disappeared, he spread-eagled himself face downwards, and, clutching the rough edges of the slates, lowered himself until his feet lodged against the guttering. This was the spot where the man had gone over, if there were a chance to catch him it was by dropping over the edge.

A woman shouted from the back garden.

A child cried out: “Look, Mummy!”

Then the guttering gave way under Mannering’s weight, and he went hurtling down.

For the first moment, he thought he would go all the way to the ground, and could not avoid injury, but suddenly his feet jolted against a hard, unyielding drain pipe and his ankles and knees were shot with pain. Next moment he was on his hands and knees on top of a pebbly roof, the blood rushing to his head.

The child was screaming: “Mummy, Mummy!”

A woman shouted: “Benny! Benny, come here!” Mannering got unsteadily to his knees, and it placed him so that he could see into the back garden. The fugitive was opening a small gate which led into an alleyway between two rows of garden walls. A child of four or five years was standing and shouting, red apple of a face glistening. A woman in her thirties was running towards him, and as the gate slammed she snatched him to her.

“It’s all right, Benny, it’s all right!” she gasped, as footsteps sounded in the alley.

Mannering eased his position until he was sitting down, and then began to feel his knees, hands and elbows gingerly. There was a graze on the ball of his left thumb, his fingers were sore and his knees were tender, and one of his ankles was painful, but he did not think any bones were broken. The sound of footsteps faded, and he knew that his assailant had escaped.

But someone might have stopped him at the end of the alley.

He peered along, seeing no one and no sign of movement until suddenly the small boy pointed and said again: “Look, Mummy!”

The woman stared up, aghast.

“I’m really not a thief,” Mannering assured her, in his most pleasant voice. “I was chasing a bad man. Sorry if I scared you.” He waited for a few moments, seeing suspicion and doubt chase each other in the woman’s eyes, and curiosity shine in the child’s. The woman had an untidy mop of gingerish hair, and was more wholesome than beautiful to look at, but there was something attractive in her parted lips and very white teeth. Mannering managed to smile, and go on: “May I come down?”

“Who—” the woman began, and her hold tightened on her son, who announced: “Man.”

“Quite a nice man, really,” Mannering tried to reassure the woman.

“You—you stay up there until I’m in the house,” she ordered. “Benny, come with me.” She gave the child no choice but hoisted him up in her arms and first backed, then turned and scurried away.

Mannering waited until she had disappeared before letting his legs dangle over the edge of the flat roof. He saw now that there were such outbuildings attached to all the houses, he was probably sitting over a kitchen or scullery. A rainwater tub stood a few feet along to the left. He edged towards it and lowered himself feet first. His left ankle took the strain without any twinges, of pain, his right was slightly painful. But soon he stood upright by the barrel, testing his ankle and deciding that he wasn’t really hurt. When he walked towards the gate through which his assailant had passed, he felt quite comfortable.

He looked up and down the alley which had once been paved with macadam now broken into patches. There were ruts, big holes, some rubble which had been rolled into some of the holes, a dispiriting prospect altogether. He turned left, towards the nearer end, and when he reached the street beyond turned left and left again. Each one was very like Riston Street.

Mannering turned into Riston Street at last.

A crowd of fifty or sixty people had gathered near Number 17. In the middle, it seemed, was a policeman’s helmet, and as Mannering appeared at one end a police car appeared at the other. The old man was at the gate. On the other side of the road Doris Paget stood holding her baby, surrounded by neighbours, and Clive Paget was on the fringe of the crowd outside Number 17. As Mannering drew nearer he saw through the bobbing heads that Julie was talking to the policeman.

Mannering’s station wagon was close by.

It would be easy to get into this and drive off but that would only postpone the time of questioning. It might worry Julie, too, for she would wonder what had happened to him. And it might also imply that he did not want it to be known that he was involved. So he passed the wagon, as Doris Paget pointed at him, excitedly. Paget was now in the thick of the crowd and as Mannering reached the fringe, the other man called out: “What’s up, Julie? Did Mannering give you trouble?” His voice was loud and blustering. “If he did—”

Julie stated simply: “Someone tried to kill him.”

“Kill Mannering?”

“Yes. He—”

“Now, miss,” interpolated the constable, a youthful-looking man. “I shouldn’t talk too much if I were you.”

“Did you see who it was?” demanded Paget.

“Now, sir—” began the policeman. Then he saw that his reinforcements had arrived, and he placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “We’d better get inside, miss.” His voice took on a stern note. “Clear a path, please, clear a path.” Men from the car pushed their way through and the crowd began to make way for Julie and the policeman, but as Julie turned she caught sight of Mannering, spun round and out of the policeman’s grasp and ran to Mannering, arms outstretched.

“Oh, you’re safe,” she cried. “Thank God, you’re safe!”

Next moment she was huddled against him, arms bent between them; and she began to cry. Even as he stood with his arms about her, protectively, and with every eye now turned towards him, Mannering was acutely aware that she had turned to him as a girl might turn to her lover.

Not her brother, not her father, not simply a friend; but as if he meant everything in the world to her.

And he could feel her sobbing.