Chapter Six

Sharp Shooting

Lorna could not move. The dumb girl could only stare at the two men, with fear mirrored in her eyes. The man, shorter than Mannering by half a head, stood two yards away with the gun thrust forward and his muffled voice carrying its own message; he spoke with the voice of desperation.

Mannering moistened his lips.

“What—what good are you going—?”

“I said don’t stall. I mean business. I don’t care who gets hurt. I want old Smith’s nest-egg, and I’m going to get it. Make up your mind whether I’m going to get it without a lot of trouble, or whether I have to shoot you up first, take your keys, and go and break into Quinns. I don’t care.”

There was a sneer in the voice; there was also that edge of desperation. The man couldn’t stop his hand from trembling a little, and that was ominous in itself.

Mannering said, “How do you know I’ve got it?”

He saw the trigger finger move, and stood motionless. Behind the man, he saw Lorna flinch; the terror in her eyes was as great as the girl’s. The shot snapped out, just a loud crack. The bullet went a yard wide and smacked into the wall.

“Talk, Mannering, or next time I’ll put it in your guts.”

He was still trying to quieten his own nerves. Mannering saw that, and made a swift decision.

“Get to hell out of here!” he roared. “What makes you think I’m scared by a little runt like you?”

He didn’t move.

He was telling the Squad man not to move yet, either.

Lorna was writhing on the bed, her eyes pleading, he could read the message: ‘Don’t do it,’ she begged, ‘don’t make him angry, he’ll shoot you next time.’ Mannering couldn’t even try to reassure her.

The man with the gun said more tautly, “You keep quiet. Where are those eggs? Don’t—don’t make any mistake. I mean business. Do you want to stay married, or would you rather be a widower? Because I can shoot your wife as easily as I can shoot you. Where’s that gold?”

He was still two yards away.

His hand was still unsteady, and if his nerve broke he might do what he threatened.

There was a slight smell of cordite in the air; and behind Mannering powdery chippings from the wall dusted the fitted carpet.

“I mean business,” the man repeated. “If you don’t think I do—”

“All right,” Mannering growled, “all right.” He saw Lorna’s body go limp with relief, but the man with the gun didn’t relax, just kept his distance and kept Mannering covered. “It’s all at Quinns.”

“You’re telling me! Strong-room?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” said the man with the gun, “we’re going to the shop. You’re going to let us in, you’re going to open the strong-room, and you’re going to help me get away with the eggs. Understand that, and don’t make any mistake. If you try any tricks, I’ll shoot you. And I’ll tell you something else that won’t make you jump for joy.”

Mannering said thinly, “Listen, my wife—”

“Never mind your wife and never mind Miranda Smith. I was going to tell you something. I’m on the wanted list, for murder. If the police catch up with me, I’ll be strung up. You know the old saving—might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. See what I’m driving at?”

The muffled voice made the words, the implied threat, and the menace sound very great. And the man had beaten his attack of nerves.

Mannering said, “No, I—”

“Well, sharpen your wits.” That was a sneer. “Someone told me you were good. I’m beginning to doubt it. I’ll tell you what I’m driving at. I can’t be any worse off, even if I kill you. And I’ll shoot to kill if you don’t do exactly what I tell you.”

Mannering shifted his position.

“I—I’ll take you to Quinns.”

“Just to make you want to do the job properly, get this into your head. If I have to shoot you, I’ll come back here and finish the job. I’ve a pal outside, and this is how it will work. You’ll go downstairs just in front of me, and I’ll have the gun in my pocket. You do just what I tell you until my pal shows up. Clear?”

Mannering muttered, “All right.”

It wasn’t as good as it had been, by a long way. The man’s finger was loose on the trigger, his words betrayed his edginess. It wouldn’t take much to make him shoot. Mannering was being forced out of the flat, but the Yard men outside wouldn’t dare to let this crook get away with it. Probably be allowed to start going down the stairs.

His gun would be close to Mannering’s back all the time.

Mannering felt the sickness of fear.

“What’s the matter, tired?” the man sneered.

Mannering turned slowly round. He looked at Lorna, tried to convince her that he wasn’t worried, actually fluttered an eyelid in a wink. She wouldn’t take any notice, she would guess how he really felt. But she didn’t know about those waiting police.

Mannering crossed the hall. There was no sound outside, except from a long way off: the wail of a car’s horn. The man with the gun was a yard behind him. A back-heel, a sudden lunge to one side, might see him through; but the risk was too great.

He opened the door wider.

“Listen,” he said, “keep that gun out of my ribs.” At least the Squad men would know what was happening.

“Just keep moving,” the man ordered.

Mannering opened the door wide. He stepped into the hall, without glancing right or left. He didn’t see the Squad man, but caught sight of something disappearing down the second flight of stairs. The gunman came behind him, still a yard away. He slammed the door.

Lorna was back there, with her fears and her awful helplessness.

Mannering started down the stairs.

“Don’t make any mistake,” the gunman said, “and remember I can only be strung up once.” He gave a little, muffled laugh, then jabbed Mannering in the back. The jab hurt. “Faster.”

“You can’t get away with—” began Mannering.

“You try and stop me!”

Mannering went on. He didn’t see anyone on the next landing, on the stairs, anywhere. The Squad men must be lying in wait; but where? They knew the risk, obviously they were trying to minimise it. But the gun was very close, and pulling the trigger would be almost a reflex action.

Mannering felt cold sweat on his forehead. His nerves were steady enough, but he was icy cold. He reached the landing, one above the empty hall. The street door was ajar. He passed the front door of the flat beneath his; it was closed. He went past and reached the head of the next flight of steps.

“Stop there,” the man ordered.

Mannering stopped.

He looked round, heart still thumping.

The man in the mask was looking at the closed door of the flat. He backed towards it. That flat was the most likely place for the police to be hiding; perhaps he had heard a sound or noticed a movement. Although he moved towards the door, he kept Mannering covered. The only place for Mannering to run was up or down the stairs, either way he would be a clear target. If he had to take his life in his hands, he could wait for it.

The stranger pressed against the door. It didn’t move. He seemed satisfied, drew nearer Mannering, and ordered: “Get moving.”

Mannering went down the stairs one at a time, slowly and deliberately. It was tense enough for him; what was it for the man with the gun? He could hear soft, sibilant breathing, as if the man were frightened of making any sound. They neared the next landing – the hall. Here there were two locked doors. The man seemed to hesitate, as if he were going through the same precautions again. Instead, he growled: “Hurry!”

Mannering stretched out a hand to open the front door wider. He heard nothing, until the man behind him gasped. He spun round. The man was staggering, his gun waving. He squeezed the trigger, a bullet spat out and smashed into the floor. He pirouetted round, the gun dropped, and he fell against the wall and then slithered down.

Chief Inspector Fenn in person came rushing down the stairs. A round glass ball, a paper-weight, rolled to the side of the hall, and lay still.

“Only thing I could do was to throw that at him,” Fenn said, “I was afraid he’d shoot you in the back. Feeling all right?”

“Just—mildly terrified,” Mannering confessed.

Fenn wiped his forehead and his neck, and loosened his collar.

“If this is the kind of job you get yourself mixed up in, I can understand why Bristow used to tremble at the sound of your name! Sure you’re—?”

“I’m fine,” said Mannering; and then moved.

He saw other men coming down the stairs, knew that more were hurrying from the street. One was actually on his knees beside the prisoner, taking off the scarf. People from the other flats were coming out, nervously. Mannering waited for nothing, but raced up the stairs, pushed past two Yard men, and flung himself at his own door. He remembered that the fanlight was open, and shouted: “It’s all over, darling, all over! He’s caught, I’m fine, fine! It’s all over.”

He put the key in the lock and thrust the door open.

Then he remembered Ethel.

He hadn’t seen the maid, and she might not be alive. He went swiftly to the kitchen, calling to Lorna, flung the door back, and saw Ethel sitting in an upright chair, trussed like the other two, and with her eyes wide open. All of them were safe, all could be free in a few minutes.

He waved weakly to Ethel, said, “Won’t be two jiffs,” and went swiftly to see Lorna. At the bedroom doorway he staggered; that was reaction from fierce nervous tension.

“Easy there.” Fenn was coming in briskly.

“I’m all right,” Mannering said, and straightened up with an effort. “Er—come in and meet my wife.” He gulped, went forward, saw Lorna lying there helplessly, imagined again the fear which must have tormented her.

Then he turned towards the corner.

Miranda sat, eyes wide open, staring at the window, victim of dreadful fears. And to add a touch of horror was a fact which Mannering had only just noticed. Lorna was gagged. Ethel was gagged. But the man had not troubled to gag Miranda.

Not far away, in the garden of an empty house, the police found Wainwright, with a lump on the back of his head and bloodshot eyes, but not badly hurt.

All he remembered, he said, was walking past Mannering’s house, after paying off his cab; and being hit on the back of the head as he passed the corner by the empty site.

“What had we better do with her?” Lorna asked, helplessly.

Mannering said, “She probably needs hospital treatment or a nursing home, or—”

“That might scare her even more,” reasoned Fenn. He was proving very human as well as capable. “Why not let her stay here for a day or two? I’ll make sure that your flat’s watched back and front, You say you’ll ask Richardson to come, and he’s as good as any for a start. Let her stay for the night, anyhow.”

Mannering looked at Lorna.

“Up to you,” he said.

“I think it would be better to have her here,” Lorna agreed.

She spoke slowly, and her lips were red and puffy where the gag had been. When she walked it was awkwardly, because the circulation hadn’t come back to her legs properly. But she was in much better shape than Ethel, who was on a couch, lying down, shivering violently and very close to tears.

Miranda, freed now, had walked slowly and with difficulty, just staring about her with her secret fears.

Fenn had brought a sergeant who flicked his fingers at her in the deaf-and-dumb alphabet, but she hadn’t responded. He hadn’t done more, wouldn’t until a doctor saw her.

“I’m very grateful, Mrs. Mannering,” Fenn said. “I must get back to the Yard. The prisoner will be there by now, and there might be news of Smith. You say you hadn’t seen him before, Mannering?”

Mannering recalled the face of the man whose mask had been stripped off; a thin face with deep-set eyes and a broad nose; the face of an ugly man whom he hadn’t seen before.

“No.”

“Care to come with me, and see if we can’t find out more about him? You’ll spare him, Mrs. Mannering, won’t you?” Fenn was almost too amiable; was this an iron hand in a kid glove?

Lorna looked searchingly at the Yard man, then gave a quick smile. Fenn didn’t know it, but that smile was a rare one; and it meant that she accepted him. And his own smile was disarming, he had a natural, likable manner.

“Not for too long,” Lorna said, “I need a lot of consolation.”

“We won’t be long,” Fenn assured her. “I think—”

He stopped abruptly, for a man outside raised his voice, in exasperation if not in anger. There was a little scuffle in the hall, and then a young man came striding in, a stranger to the Mannerings, and apparently a stranger to the police.

He said, “Which of you is Mr. John Mannering?”

“I am,” Mannering began. “What—?”

“Do you know where Miranda is?” the young man demanded roughly; and it was obvious to all who watched that he was restraining himself with a great effort, that he was almost quivering with anxiety.

And rage?