Chapter Ten

Dragon’s End

Wainwright collided with the man he’d rushed at. The man who had attacked Mannering struck again, his weapon whistling through the air. Mannering swayed to one side, took out his gun, was half-prepared for shooting. None came. He heard the gasping and grunting from Wainwright and the other man, and saw his own assailant raise the weapon. He thrust out his foot. The man tripped over it and dropped the weapon, which clanged on the ground. Mannering went for him, but the man turned and fled. He didn’t cry out, didn’t wait to see what had happened to his accomplice, just fled down the drive.

The other two were still battling it out.

They parted, and Wainwright’s face became visible. The other man turned and started to run, but almost fell into Mannering’s arms. Mannering jabbed him beneath the chin.

“Catch, Ned,” Mannering called mildly.

Wainwright grabbed the falling man.

Mannering chuckled, partly in relief. “We’ll get along! No need to be too gentle with him. Did you know they were about?”

“No, I—” Wainwright was gasping for breath. “No, I thought I saw a car’s headlights, just now, and thought—thought it might be you. You all—right?”

“Fine.”

“Brash—” began Wainwright, and then paused for breath again. “Brash is in—the house.”

“Sure?” Mannering asked sharply.

“Yes, he—he broke in. Climbed through a window.” Wainwright’s voice was a hoarse, excited whisper. “It was only ten minutes ago. His car’s on a cart-track near by. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to follow or not, but decided I’d better not let myself get caught on enclosed premises. I thought if he stole anything we’d find it at his hotel.”

“Or in his pockets,” Mannering said softly. “Ten minutes ago?”

“Yes.”

“Which window?”

“I’ll show you,” said Wainwright, “but—” He looked down at the man who was lying on the ground, a dark shape against the light gravel. “What about him? We can’t let him get away, can we?”

“I’ll break his neck if he does,” Mannering said as if he meant it. “You didn’t think to bring any cord with you, I suppose?”

He couldn’t see Wainwright’s face; but he could imagine what the youngster looked like, judging from the tone of his voice.

“Well, no, I didn’t think—”

“You do his wrists,” Mannering said, “I’ll do his ankles.” He took two small twists of cord from his pocket. “And we’ll see if he’s in a mood to talk.”

He went down on one knee – and the prisoner darted up, struck at his face, tried to scramble to his feet. Mannering clipped him on the side of the jaw again, and he dropped back.

“Be careful, Mr. Mannering,” Wainwright urged.

The prisoner exclaimed, “Mannering! It’s not—” He broke off.

“Next time you try any tricks, you’ll get hurt,” Mannering said. “What were you after?”

“Listen, Mannering. If—if I squeal, will you let me go?”

“Squeal, and find out.”

“To hell with that! Will you?”

Mannering hesitated. He didn’t want a prisoner; taking the man to the police would mean admitting that he had come to Dragon’s End, could lead to complications that certainly wouldn’t help. Bill Brash was inside this house, and probably Bill Brash was much more significant than this prisoner.

He said, “I wouldn’t be able to prove whether you told me the truth, would I?”

“Mr. Mannering, you can’t—” began Wainwright, in what sounded like a shocked whisper.

“Give me a break,” the prisoner whispered. “I’ve heard plenty about you, got a good name, you ’ave. Never thought I’d talk to Mr. Mannering. Listen, I’m working with Bill Brash, see. He’s inside. Two of us were keeping cave. Thought—thought you were a copper.”

It was very smooth. Too smooth?

“What does Brash want?” demanded Mannering.

“He’s after anything he can get. Knows Smith’s away, it’s a good chance, never be a better.”

“Brash and who else?” demanded Mannering.

He dropped his right hand to the prisoner’s wrist, and twisted. The prisoner screamed. His whole body seemed to writhe as he reared up from the ground.

“Don’t, you’ll break my arm! Don’t—”

“Brash and who else?”

“You’re breaking my arm! I can’t—”

“Who sent you?”

“Oh, gawd,” gasped the little man, and then screeched as Mannering twisted that little more, not enough to break, but enough to bring sweat to the man’s forehead, another groan from his lips. “Lemme go, lemme go, I’ll tell you.”

Mannering eased his grip, slowly, and let the man relax on to the ground. Wainwright was breathing hissingly through his nostrils, as if he had found that as much as he could bear.

“Let’s have it, quickly,” Mannering growled.

“It was Brash and Crummy Day,” the little man muttered. “Crummy Day, you know, the pawn-broker, Aldgate High Street, that’s who.” He spoke hoarsely, fearfully. “Don’t do any more, my arm’s gone dead. I can’t feel it, I just can’t—”

“Get up.”

“You—you won’t—”

“Help him up, Ned,” Mannering said.

Wainwright moved forward, but the prisoner got to his feet, without help. It was hard to tell who was breathing more wheezily, Wainwright or the prisoner.

“Hold his arms behind him,” Mannering ordered. “This way.” He demonstrated. Wainwright took the prisoner’s arms and held them back, so that his chest was thrust forward, and he couldn’t move. “Hold him tight.”

The little man was moaning, but it wasn’t all in pain. Mannering dipped into his pockets, and took out everything there; including a leather cosh. He slipped that into his own pocket.

“I ought to use it on you.”

“My arm—”

“Just keep still.” Mannering used the torch, shining it straight into the prisoner’s face. It wasn’t a sight for anyone to see, a small, pallid face, eyes closed tightly against the glare, mouth set too, a small button of a nose, ears which stuck out, low, wrinkled forehead. As he got used to the glare, his eyes opened a little and Mannering had a good look at him. “I’ll recognise you again,” he said ominously. “Keep him there, Ned.”

“Okay.”

Mannering knelt down, spread out the contents of the prisoner’s pockets, and scanned them in the light of the torch. The only thing of real interest was a letter, addressed to:

M. Dibben,
17 Penn Street,
Whitechapel, E.

There were the usual oddments, a few pounds in cash, a railway ticket to Waterloo from Horsham, several keys, a comb that felt sticky with grease, two handkerchiefs, a couple of snapshots of “M. Dibben” disporting himself on the sea-front, probably at Southend.

Mannering kept the cosh and the keys, which might one day be useful. He stuffed the rest back into Dibben’s pockets.

“All right,” he said, “let him go.”

“You—you’re going to let him off?” gasped Wainwright.

“I think he told the truth, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“A bargain’s a bargain,” Mannering said, “so we’ll let him go. He’ll probably have to walk to Horsham, that’ll teach him. I’ve got his name and address,” Mannering went on, “and if he tries any monkey business with the car the police will be calling on him tomorrow morning and he’ll be on the wanted list. Scram.”

“He—he’s still holding me,” gasped the prisoner.

Wainwright let him go.

“Listen, Mannering,” Dibben said, with a catch in his voice, “I’ll remember this, don’t make any mistake, I’ll remember.”

He turned and started to run down the drive, but couldn’t keep up the pace. He walked quickly. His right arm was limp by his side, he didn’t seem to turn round, but disappeared into the darkness. It was some time before his footsteps faded.

Wainwright said as if amazed, “You can’t rely on a crook. There’s no honour—”

“It’s worth the chance,” Mannering said briskly, “and he certainly won’t do any more harm tonight. Have you heard of Crummy Day?”

“Well, vaguely. Larraby seems to have mentioned him.”

“We could use Larraby here, but it would be a pity to spoil his holiday.” Mannering chuckled. “You aren’t doing so badly! Game to try the house?”

“You mean—break in?”

“If we catch Brash red-handed it would do a lot of good. I think,” went on Mannering, straight-faced, “that if we stated in court that we’d seen a man break in, and though it our duty to follow, we would probably be forgiven if we were found on enclosed property.”

Wainwright welcomed that point of view very seriously.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, and squared his shoulders. “All right, I’m game.”

They moved towards the house.

They walked on the grass verge, making little sound; most was from Wainwright. Mannering wished that he were on his own. Wainwright’s breathing, loud and uneven, could be heard some distance away. It might be drowning sounds that Mannering wanted to hear: sounds of Dibben and Dibben’s accomplice coming back, for instance.

He heard nothing.

They neared the house.

“It was a window on this side,” whispered Wainwright.

“Let’s make it.”

They had to walk on gravel, here. Wainwright, obviously doing his damnedest to walk quietly, made twice as much noise as Mannering. He kept muttering imprecations against himself. They reached another grass patch, near the house. The stars seemed brighter. Mannering could see the tall windows on the ground floor, the Window-ledges and the windows above, too.

Then he saw a light inside.

His hand closed round Wainwright’s forearm, and Wainwright went as stiff as a board.

“Wha—?”

“Quiet.”

Mannering let the youngster go, and watched the light intently. It was visible through a window, and seemed to be moving. A man with a torch?

The light disappeared.

“Did you—did you see that?” breathed Wainwright.

“Brash, probably. Wait here. Don’t climb in until I call you.” Mannering went slowly towards the window, and found it open nearly two feet at the bottom; obviously Brash had left it open.

Mannering bent down, and climbed in. Once he was inside the room, the silence seemed more profound. He could not hear the soft noises of the night, or Wainwright’s breathing; or any sound at all.

Then he heard soft footsteps.

A light appeared, very dim but getting gradually stronger.

The door of the room led into a passage, and someone was coming along the passage, making as much noise as a man wearing rubber soles might make.

Mannering moved slowly to one side, then towards the door. Behind the door he wouldn’t be noticed.

If this were Brash—

Suddenly, a brighter light flashed on, the man in the passage exclaimed in swift alarm. Then came the roar of a shot, deafening, threatening, deadly.