Chapter Seven

Thief

Lorna backed into the hall, and the man followed, the gun only a few inches away from her. She could not see his features because they were so squashed by the stocking but she could sense his menace and felt that he wasn’t lying; if he didn’t get what he wanted he would kill her.

He kicked the door to with his heel.

“Come on,” he said. “Give.”

She knew, with an awful sense of hopelessness, that the Fiora jewels were not here.

The police knew they were back in London and were on the ‘market’, but John had not bought them and they were not at the flat.

But would the man believe her?

Heart thumping, breath coming in shallow gasps, she watched him. Suddenly he raised his free hand and slapped her across the face. The blow stung. She staggered to one side and put out a hand to support herself against the wall, as he caught her other hand and twisted the wrist painfully.

“Come on,” he repeated. “Where are they?”

What could she say even to gain time? And what could she do even if she gained it? She searched desperately for some kind of answer, and suddenly one came; one which he might conceivably believe.

“I only know where they might be,” she said, and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, the words merging with one another.

“Don’t mumble!” he rasped. “What did you say?”

She felt so utterly alone, and so afraid. There was no hope of help, nothing could be done unless she did it herself, and she did not know what she could possibly do. She repeated what she had said very slowly and deliberately, although she had never known her tongue or her lips more dry.

“I only know where they might be.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” He twisted her wrist again, and the pain made her gasp. “Play it straight or you’ll be sorry.”

The mask pressed tight against his mouth and nose, squashing them. It squeezed his hair and his eyebrows, his cheeks and his chin. It was as if she were looking at a half-formed creature who would never become old. But the fine nylon did not press against his eyelashes or his eyes. The lashes were short, black, stubby, and his eyes might be any colour with the pale stocking superimposed but there was a scar on the pupil of one of them; on the pupil itself. She would never fail to recognise it, a tiny little white dot about the size of a pin-head.

If she lived.

“My—my husband didn’t tell me he had the Fiora jewels here,” she said.

“That’s a bloody lie!”

“If you won’t believe what I tell you, what is the use of my saying anything?” she demanded.

She thought he was going to strike her again. His jerky manner and gasped sentences made it seem as if he were so much on edge that he could hardly control himself. The grip on her arm tightened, but he actually backed a pace.

“You know where he would put them, don’t you?”

“I only know of one hiding place here,” she said.

He let her go, but gave her a little shove and ordered: “Show me!”

Very slowly, she turned round. There was only one place where John would conceal valuables, unless he were deliberately hiding them from her; that was in the settle in his study. As this realisation came she began to recover from the shock, and her mind began to work more freely. Several things became certain.

John had not brought the Fiora jewels here, or he would have told her.

There were other jewels, some being held for customers at Quinns as well as her own jewellery, in the settle, which was a carefully disguised safe and had to be opened with a key. She had a key, but this man didn’t know that she had, and it would hardly be surprising if Mannering kept it with him.

As these thoughts ran through her mind, the man was breathing very hard. He had hurried to get here, and in his way was as nervous as she. If she were careful, very careful, she could outwit him. But if she failed then she had little doubt that he would kill her.

All of these things passed through her mind as she moved towards the study. There, the soft lights from wall fittings glowed on the dark panels, on the furniture, on the decanters and the glasses standing by John’s chair; on the leather pouffe she liked to sit on.

“Where?” hissed the man behind her.

She pointed to the settle: “In there. He—”

“Get the other end of it,” he ordered. “Where I can keep my eye on you.” He motioned to her with the gun. “Go on!”

She did exactly what he told her, and keeping the gun covering her, he crouched down to get at the settle.

“How does it open?”

“The seat’s open now,” she told him.

“Don’t talk to me about an unlocked safe!”

“The safe is built into the bottom,” she told him, which was the simple truth.

Very slowly, still gasping for breath, still covering her, he went down on one knee and put the fingers of his free hand on the overlapping ledge of the settle. He tried the seat, and it moved, and she sensed new tension grow in him. He raised the seat up slowly, and let it rest against the back of the settle.

“Don’t you move!” He thrust the gun closer her, then looked into the settle. All he could see were big books, bound in calf. They were press cuttings books containing cuttings spread over twenty or more years: cuttings about the John who had been, so long ago, and later, cuttings about Quinns. Recently, two more had been added: press notices about her, Lorna’s, early paintings.

In all there were nine books, and before anyone could get at the fitted safe, each book had to be taken out.

“What the hell’s this?” the man cried, swivelling round and thrusting the gun forward.

And as she had expected, he kept his free hand on the edge of the seat.

Here was her chance! Her heart thumped in dread lest she should fail, but the moment was here and she dare not let it pass. He was glaring up into her face, and all she had to do was move her left hand a few inches and tip the hinged seat forward on to his fingers.

“Wha—what do you mean?” she managed to say.

“These are old books! This isn’t a safe!”

“The books are on top of the safe,” she said with difficulty, and moved her hand as if to show what she meant; she was only an inch from the seat, and his hand still rested on the edge. “Look, the safe’s at the bottom.”

He stared at her in a kind of hatred, then glanced into the settle. As he did so, she tipped the seat forward with her fingers. It made no sound as it fell but it seemed an age before it toppled. Even if he snatched his hand away he would be off balance if not hurt and she would still have a chance.

The seat fell, missing his forehead by inches. But for the stocking mask he might have seen the shadow. He simply peered into the settle and the seat struck his fingers with crushing force. There was a split-second of silence, before the pain spread through his hand and arm and body.

He screamed.

And he pulled the trigger, as Lorna darted to one side.

The gun flashed and barked, the bullet hit one of the panels with a cracking, splintering sound. Then the man pulled his hand away and reeled about the room, still holding the gun but having no control of it. She could try to snatch it from him; instead, she ran to the door and into the hall, slammed the door and turned the key in the lock. She could hear her prisoner gasping, swearing, screeching, roaring. She leaned against the door, knowing that she was safe, and suddenly she began to shiver from head to foot.

She did not hear the front door open or see Mannering stride in.

As the small lift stopped at the top floor, Mannering felt quite relaxed and content. He had made the journey in less than ten minutes, and in a few seconds he would see Lorna and there would be the deep pleasure of that as well as the relief of knowing that she had no cause for anxiety. Before long he would be in a warm bath, he needed that to ease the aches and bruises; then he would relax with a whisky-and-soda, with Lorna sitting on the pouffe while he related those events of the day he thought it wise for her to hear.

The lift door slid open, with hardly a sound.

He heard the crack of a shot.

It came as he was poised to go forward. It stopped him in his tracks, sending alarm screaming through him, but that was only a momentary pause before he plunged forward, caught his foot as the door began to close, digging into his pocket as he staggered forward, taking out his keys.

He thought: Oh, dear God!

He heard no footsteps, which would surely have sounded had a man rushed towards the door.

He selected the right Yale key with great care, thrust it into the key hole, then flung the door back and strode inside.

The first sight gave a moment of relief, followed by swift, searing fear. Lorna was leaning against the study door, head drooping, body shivering; and he thought she must be hurt. Shot? He moved swiftly towards her, then heard the man beyond the door, swearing and groaning. He reached Lorna and put his arms round her, and at once she raised her head; at least there was no outward sign of injury. Her teeth were chattering and her body still shaking, but her eyes were open wide, almost staring.

“He—he’s got a gun,” she muttered.

“Are you hurt?” Mannering made himself say.

“No. Just—just scared. He’s got a gun.”

“Yes, I heard,” Mannering said. “He sounds—” he broke off, put his arms more closely about her waist and shoulders and led her away from the door. “Wait in the kitchen.”

“John, be careful! He’s armed!”

“I’ll be careful,” Mannering promised.

Above the sounds of the man’s swearing and moaning there came the roar of a shot, and the study door quivered as a bullet burst through it just above the lock. A second earlier and it would have struck Lorna at waist height. Mannering half-pushed, half-carried her to the kitchen and spun round as another shot roared. This time the door sagged, the ancient lock shattered by the two bullets. Mannering flattened himself against the wall as the man inside kicked the door open. He still held the gun. He still had the stocking over his head. He was glaring and staring, as he said: “Where are you, you bitch?”

He saw the kitchen door wide open and Lorna’s shadow there. Quite unaware of Mannering he moved towards the kitchen, his gun outstretched. Mannering simply put his hand forward, clutched and twisted the wrist, and made the gun fall. The intruder swivelled round in alarm and Mannering, filled with cold anger, struck him first with his right fist and then with his left, one blow on and one beneath the jaw. The man staggered back several paces, and then fell like a felled tree.

He did not stir.

Mannering turned, to see Lorna in the kitchen doorway. She was standing upright and the shivering fit had passed. Mannering went to her, held her shoulders, scanned her face which was now very pale, and leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. Gently he led her back to the kitchen which was white and primrose yellow, with a glossy black rocking-chair. He pulled this forward and steadied her as she sat down, said “Don’t move, darling,” then opened a dresser drawer and took out a ball of picture cord, white decked with red. He cut off a length with a carving knife, then went out to the intruder, who lay flat on his back. Mannering hoisted him up, dragged him to an upright chair near the door, dumped him in and tied him to it, with cord round his waist. Then he tied his wrists together, behind his back, and did a reef knot.

The man would not come round for five minutes or more, and even when fully conscious wouldn’t have a chance to free himself.

Mannering stood looking down, actually moved his hand forward to take off the stocking, decided that Lorna needed attention first and crossed quickly to the kitchen.

“Brandy?” he asked.

“John, I’d love a cup of coffee,” she said, huskily.

“Instantly done,” Mannering assured her, and plugged in an electric kettle. “I could do with a whisky-and-soda!” He went out, brought back both decanters then poured out his drink, made instant coffee, and laced it with brandy. Lorna, her colour returning, sipped it slowly and with obvious pleasure. For the first time Mannering sat down and watched her as he drank. She had always been beautiful, with her slightly arched black eyebrows, her high forehead, her full lips; and she seemed to grow more beautiful with the years.

“How long had he been here?” he asked at last.

“About ten minutes, I suppose.”

“How did you manage to lock him in?”

She told him enough for him to be able to fill in the gaps: of her fear and her courage and her desperation, as well as her quick-thinking and her ingenuity. And she told him that the man had thought that he had the Fiora jewels and had brought them here.

“They are not,” Mannering said quite definitely. “I know they’re on the market, but that’s all. And this joker came right out of the blue, you say.”

“Yes,” Lorna answered. “He gave me no warning at all. I was just about to ring Bristow because you were so late. John, wha—John! You’ve got a bruise on your forehead, and your cheek’s scratched!”

She broke off, with belated alarm for him, while an aircraft roared, very low, one of the few nuisance noises common in this flat. She pushed the rocking-chair back and bent over Mannering, looking for more evidence of injury, and he began to tease and laugh at her, a measure of his great relief.

In the midst of this, and without any warning, there was a click of sound outside; the closing of the front door.

“He’s got away!” cried Mannering, and sprang to his feet and rushed to the hall, with Lorna just behind him.

But the man was still sitting where Mannering had left him; head drooping, chin on chest, body slumped forward, legs stretched out. Behind him the door was firmly closed, while a sound of the closing of the lift doors came clearly through the quiet.