She was young and strikingly attractive.
She wore a dark dress, with lace at the neck and cuffs; absurd things to notice, but he noticed them. Her glossy dark hair dropped to her shoulders, curling inwards at the ends. The gun, a small automatic, was steady in her hand.
“Go to the corner by the lamp,” she said, “and don’t try to be clever.”
The voice was calm and untroubled, and he had heard it before; she was the girl who had taken the pendant to Pender’s flat. He obeyed her, backing step by step.
The door behind her was ajar.
Near it, was a telephone. Keeping him covered, she lifted the receiver with her free hand. He heard the faint burring sound.
“Do you know of any good reason why I shouldn’t send for the police?”
Mannering said: “Yes, I do.”
“What is it?”
“There’s more than a chance that it might seriously annoy Smith.”
She started, and her forefinger moved away from the dial. Mannering watched her eyes. She wasn’t frightened, but suddenly she had become a little less certain of procedure.
“You don’t know him.”
“Don’t I?” asked Mannering. “He knows me, anyway, and before I leave here, I’m going to know a lot more about him. Him and his – shadow.”
He dropped the word out, sharply. He expected her to show reaction, but there was nothing.
“I think he’d want me to send for the police,” she said, “but he’ll be here, soon, I can ask him.”
“Maybe he won’t be here so soon as you think.”
That shook her. “Why not?”
Mannering grinned, showing his discoloured teeth. He wasn’t handsome in this guise, and had often practised that one sided leer, worse in effect, he calculated, than the sardonic grin which had become a habit with Smith.
“He met with a little accident,” Mannering said.
Her eyes blazed, and she took a step forward; he thought she would come near enough for him to strike at the gun, but she kept just out of reach.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I say, dearie,” Mannering said “Smith thought he’d fixed me tonight, but I had a little surprise waiting for him. I’m good at surprises. He’s had a nasty time; maybe he’ll tell you all about it – when he wakes up. Or if he wakes up.” Voice, words and manner were all intended to unnerve her, and he noted with satisfaction that she had lost much of her poise. But the gun was steady, pointing unswervingly at his chest
“What have you done to him?”
“Never you mind, dearie. Just put that gun down, and be sensible. Then you won’t get hurt.”
“I won’t get hurt”
“That so? What about my pals, outside?”
Her head moved, upwards; but she stopped herself from looking round, robbing him of the chance of striking the gun aside. He needed only a split second, but she wasn’t easy to fool.
“There aren’t any,” she said. “I don’t think you understand. If I shoot you, it’ll be quite safe. I shall tell the police that I caught you in here, and you tried to attack me. Where is Paul?” She didn’t seem to realise that she had said “Paul”, not Smith.
“Where would you expect him to be?” Mannering asked.
“Don’t be clever. Remember that it will hurt if I shoot you.” She lowered the gun and now it covered his stomach. “I’ll aim where it hurts most.” The words took on even more sinister meaning coming so calmly, and in that pleasant voice. “I mean what I say.”
“It would be your big mistake,” Mannering said.
He was only just out of reach of the gun. If the girl took one step nearer, he could knock it aside. But if he jumped she would shoot. Her forefinger was steady on the trigger, and he didn’t like the expression in her eyes. It had been a mistake to tell her that he had injured her Paul. He felt the slow drops of sweat beading his forehead. He’d been in jams where the danger was more real but none where it was greater. The beauty in her eyes was superseded by the smouldering hatred in them – outwardly, she was calm; inwardly she was afire, and it was the inward fire which might make her decide to shoot
She said: “If you don’t tell me where Paul is, I shall shoot you in the guts.”
“Your insistence leaves me little choice. I left him at the garage. He was smart, but not quite so smart as he thought he was.”
“You couldn’t have fooled Paul.” Fanatical belief in Smith was in her voice.
“Thank so?” Feigning an ease he was far from feeling,
Mannering sat down on the arm of a chair. It worked, as far as the fact that the girl visibly relaxed; but the gun stayed unmoving. “Neither of you is as clever as you think you are, honey. You and your shadow!” He flung the word out again, but the reaction, or lack of it, was the same. It was obvious that she was thinking of Smith and the possibility that he was lying badly hurt. Mannering leaned back and grinned, and it wasn’t a leer this time. “You needn’t worry,” he said. “We had an argument, and I came out on the winning side, that’s all. He’s not hurt. We parted almost good friends; he thinks he might have a job for me, later on. He wasn’t sure I was expert enough at breaking into places, and I thought I’d demonstrate. He won’t argue about that in future.” Mannering actually laughed, and moved his hand towards his pocket.
“Keep your hands in sight,” she said. “Paul wouldn’t work with anyone else. You’re lying.”
“All right, I’m lying. You don’t have to believe me.” Mannering yawned. Suddenly, and for the first time, tension went out of her; the gun sagged, pointing at his feet.
He slid forward, propelling himself with his arms, and knocked against her with such force that the gun went off. He seized her arm and the weapon dropped to the floor. When he released her, she was limp and breathless. He pushed her off, snatched up the gun and slipped it into his own pocket, then moved away. She lay on the floor, still breathless but beginning to recover, her expression was baleful.
“Sorry I had to be rough,” said Mannering. “I may have to be rougher. Remember I can put the cops on to your pal Paul any time I want to. If you kick up a shindig, you’ll bring them in and I’ll give Paul away.” He bent down and lifted her bodily. She struck him across the face, and then drew back as his grip tightened. He carried her to the bathroom, stood her down, and went out, locking the door behind him.
He dragged a big settee across the door, and then went back to the study. He examined the lock in the top of the desk, and tested it with a pick-lock. Short of shooting the lock, there was no other way to get at it. He might cut out a piece of the wood, but the top was probably steel lined and he couldn’t do anything about steel without an oxy-acetylene cutter. If he were to break through here, he would have to use the pick-lock.
He went out to the front door, and left it wide open.
There was a risk that the older woman would turn up; he had to take that. But he had to make sure that he couldn’t be caught unawares. He pushed the outer door to, and placed a chair across it so that it couldn’t be moved without making a noise. Then he went into the kitchen. A fire escape led to a tiny back garden. Leaving that door open also, he returned to the desk and set to work with the pick-lock.
Five minutes convinced him that he hadn’t a hope this way.
He went back to the kitchen, pulling open every drawer until he came to a small one, fitted out like a tool chest; there was a chisel. He hesitated, and then opened a cupboard beneath the dresser. Then he laughed spontaneously, for there was an oxy-acetylene burner, a small cylinder and a pair of goggles.
The Shadow’s equipment?
It was a light model, but still fairly weighty, and he grunted as he carried it to the study. There was no sound from the bathroom or from outside. He used a chisel on the unpolished wood, chipping it away round the keyhole. The noise was loud, but he hadn’t time to be quiet. Soon, the bare steel round the keyhole lay revealed. He would have known after using the pick-lock if it was electrified, but he checked it carefully first, touching it lightly with the blade of his knife which had an insulated handle. There was no spark.
He hadn’t used a cutter for a long time. . . .
He had been in the flat at least an hour and a half, but he forced himself to work carefully, and without panic. Through the dark goggles he saw the flame, cutting through the steel like a hot knife through butter. He cut out a square, then put the burner down, and prized the square out. After that, it was simply a matter of lifting back the top of the desk on its hinges.
It was empty; a big empty space, the shape of a coffin.