Chapter Six

The House in the Terrace

Mannering sprang up and pushed aside the glasses. One of the wings pressed against the bruise; he snatched them off and flung them to one side. The light was too bright for his eyes, but by the time the other fetched up on the floor by the fireplace, Mannering could see clearly. It was a fat man; big, paunchy, not flabby, who was crumpled up, gasping, and opening and closing his mouth like a great fish.

A small table crashed over, the contents slithered to the floor. Mannering saw the desk, but the automatic wasn’t there – no, it was on the floor, near the man. He glanced at the door; it was opening slowly, stealthily.

He grabbed the gun.

The fat man, trying to pick himself up, stamped at his hand and missed by an inch. Mannering caught his ankle, thrust him farther back, and heard his head strike one of the pillars of the mantelpiece. Mannering swivelled round, the automatic tight in his hand. It had a long rubber silencer—

A man in the doorway was pointing his gun at him.

Two flashes came together. Mannering flung himself to one side, and felt no pain. He heard the man in the doorway gasp and saw him sag away. Mannering, standing upright, jumped forward to get out of the man’s line of vision. The door was half open.

Mannering reached and slammed it.

There was a key on the inside; he turned it and grabbed a chair and thrust it under the handle.

The fat man was on his feet, holding a poker. He lunged forward, poker raised, his eyes blazing.

Mannering dodged. The poker grazed his arm but neither hurt nor delayed him. He drove his left fist into the big stomach, bringing the man forward with his chin an easy target. Mannering smashed a vicious uppercut home, the man toppled over.

There were footsteps on the stairs, and men were shouting. The door shook under an impact and the chair quivered.

Someone shouted: “Mind the window!”

It was tall and narrow, and the curtains were drawn. And it led to safety.

The desk and the whole room was at his mercy, if only he had time to search. His victim was lying on the floor, with blood drooling from his lips to his chin, quite helpless. The blood had splashed over his pale, plump face, too. He was dressed in a light-grey flannel suit and brown shoes.

On the mantelpiece above him was a photograph of the man himself; a good likeness. Mannering snatched it off and crammed it into his pocket with the gun as he moved towards the window and flung back the curtains. The door still quivered under the impact, and the lock groaned, a panel splintered, but the chair had lodged tightly. He heard a series of soft, sneezing noises, and light thuds; and something hit the wall behind the desk. Plaster powdered and sprayed downwards.

Mannering flung up the window.

It was at the side of a house, which was semi-detached. A five foot wall ran between this and the next house, leaving a narrow service alley on either side. The back door of the opposite house was closed; he couldn’t see below him properly, to the back door of this one. He glanced upwards. It was a three-storey house, there was no hope of climbing to the roof.

No hope of rescue?

He shouted: “Police! Police!”

The gardens beyond and the houses slept in warm sun and no one appeared to hear him; certainly no one responded. The sharp, sneezing gun shots came from behind him; there was a hole in the door, a hand groped for the key.

He glanced down at the wall, which was a foot wide.

He climbed out, on to the window-sill.

Then he heard two things at the same time. A crash behind him – so the chair was down – and a shout beneath him. He saw a man rush into the passage, brandishing an automatic, and peering upwards.

A bullet crashed through the glass, from behind him.

He jumped; and the wall seemed tiny and narrow, too narrow for a foothold.

He landed squarely, overbalanced, swayed wildly and saved himself. He felt a bullet tear through his coat. He jumped into the next door passage, without jolting his legs so much. The one door in sight remained closed – damning him.

It opened!

A woman stood clutching it.

“W-w-what?”

Mannering sprang forward, and she backed away in fright. A bullet struck the door. Mannering pushed the woman back into the kitchen, then slammed the door behind him. He shot the top bolt home, gasping: “Telephone!”

“W-w-w-what?”

“Is there a telephone? We want the police.”

“The—police?” She was shivering violently, too frightened to answer calmly, but before Mannering could speak again, a door at the other end of the kitchen opened and a boy of ten or twelve appeared. His eyes were rounded and glistening, and he carried a carving knife.

“Here, you!” he shouted shrilly, and then he saw the gun in Mannering’s hand, and his voice quavered: “Don’t—don’t you shoot my mum!” He brandished the knife, but didn’t budge.

Mannering was sharp and crisp.

“Telephone the police, dial 999. Hurry, old chap!”

“Dial—”

“999!”

“Derek, do what he says!” screamed the woman. “Dial 999!”

Men appeared in the passage outside; Mannering saw a pale, flat face pressing close to the window, which was covered by a fine net curtain. The window was smashed in, a leg appeared through it. Mannering shot at it, made the man draw back, then pushed the woman through the far door. They entered a parlour with a window looking out into the street.

He slammed and locked the communicating door as he heard the boy cry out: “Please will you come to 27 Chiltern Street, quick. There’s a man with a gun … 27 Chiltern Street, Bayswater … Please—”

He broke off, and came hurrying from the hall. The thugs were thumping at the communicating door, and Mannering saw a man appear in the front garden, peering into the room. One of them?

“What shall we do?” gasped the woman. “What—”

“Take the boy into that corner, we’ll be all right. The police won’t be long.”

But they might be too long.

Mannering watched the woman and the boy crouch in the corner, out of range from any possible shooting, while he stood near the wall by the window. A shadow appeared, as if a man were pressing his face close to this glass, now. The din in the kitchen shook the house; how long would the door resist the assault? The thudding, the pulsing throb in his head and the beat of the blood through his injured temple all merged together; he felt another spasm of vertigo. Too bad if the men forced their way in; he’d given all he’d got.

He …

The thudding had stopped, bringing a strange silence.

The man had disappeared from the window.

A policeman appeared, peering intently into the room.

25 Chiltern Street was empty when the police searched it.

A beat policeman had heard the disturbance, and arrived in time to see a carload of men disappearing, and others in the garden of this house and the one next door. He’d been too late to stop them from getting into a taxi which had pulled up, but he had the cab’s number.

That didn’t help; it wasn’t registered at Scotland Yard.

It had been a bad hour for Lorna.

Ten minutes after Mannering had left, their front door bell had rung. She had opened the door to find a neighbour from below standing outside – a small, rather worried-looking man, who had asked nervously: “Is Mr. Mannering in?”

“He’s just gone out.”

“Oh. I—I may be making a fuss about nothing,” said the little man, “but I saw someone drive off in his car. A garage mechanic, perhaps something’s wrong with it.” He peered hopefully into Lorna’s eyes – but instead of finding reassurance, saw the onslaught of fear. He stepped forward, gaining in stature, no longer timid. “Now, Mrs. Mannering, please. What’s the matter? Can I help?”

How could anyone help?

Lorna telephoned Bristow, and the neighbour spoke to him, telling his story. Every policeman in London was on the lookout for Mannering within half an hour.

While Lorna waited.

Not knowing what it was about made her feel worse. Imagined disaster filled her mind. One day, John would go out and not return. Perhaps this was the day.

The dread had been with her, sometimes urgent and close, sometimes buried in her subconscious mind. It was the keen blade which sharpened her love for him. A man who need never know danger lived dangerously and tormented her, and now—

Hours passed in a slow massing of minutes; and then the telephone rang.

She heard his voice, cheerful and gay.

“Hallo, darling. All’s well.”

Mannering replaced the receiver in the hall of 27 Chiltern Street. Lorna’s voice receded slowly as he looked at the boy who, not long ago, had kept his head and dialled 999. A boy with Lorna’s face, her eyes, stormy and yet bright with relief, and a childish treble coming out of Lorna’s warm, soft lips.

“Are you feeling all right, sir?” asked young Derek.

Mannering made himself smile.

“Never better.”

“That’s good,” said Derek, “because you don’t look so good.”

“I expect you could do with a cup of tea,” said Derek’s mother, coming in with three cups on a tray. “Derek, don’t be so rude. If you’d had an experience like this gentleman’s, you wouldn’t be feeling so good.”

“I think Derek’s looking fine, and he had nearly as rough a time as I did,” said Mannering. “So did you, Mrs.—?”

“Peacock.”

“Thanks. You were wonderful. I’d never have got away without you.”

“Please—” Her voice broke.

“Oh, you would,” breathed Derek. “I say, sir.”

“Yes?”

“Could I—” began Derek, with great longing in his voice, but he was stopped by his mother’s sharp: “Don’t worry the gentleman now, Derek.” Mrs. Peacock, a plump and harassed forty, smoothed down her flowered frock.

“No worry.” Mannering assured her. “I can do with a lot of Derek just now. What is it old chap?”

“Could I touch your gun?”

“Eh?”

“Just touch it. It’s a real one, isn’t it? It must go off with a hell of a bang, and—”

“Derek! Your language!”

“Sorry, Mum. But could I, sir?”

“I don’t know that I want you to handle real weapons,” said his mother, but she wasn’t very definite about it. Mannering took the automatic from his pocket, set the safety catch, and handed it gravely to the boy. Mrs. Peacock was agitated and nervous, her voice was tearful.

“Derek, don’t point it, be careful. Don’t touch the trigger. Derek!”

The child’s eyes were glistening.

“Derek! That’s enough!”

“Thanks,” said Mannering, taking the gun back.

They sipped their tea, Derek still round-eyed, his mother happier, Mannering hearing Lorna’s voice as clearly as if she were in the room.

Then a man entered the hall, where a policeman was on duty, and they heard voices, then the policeman’s gruff: “I really don’t know what his name is.”

“You’ll find it’s Mannering,” said the newcomer.

Mannering placed the voice; it was Chittering, a reporter from the Morning Cry. He won his way into the room, and grinned at Mannering. He was short and chubby-looking, with untidy, fair hair. He wore a loose-fitting, brown sports jacket and a pair of baggy flannel trousers, and had an air of studied carelessness.

“So you’re at it again,” he said.

“Just poking about here and there,” murmured Mannering.

“What’s it all about? Large-scale gangster show, from what I can gather from Bristow next door, but he isn’t in one of his garrulous moods. Did you track the villains to their lair?”

Mannering laughed.

“No, they brought me here. They had some fool notion that I could be persuaded to sell stolen stuff through Quinns. When I said I wasn’t having any, they cut up rough, and I thought it time to get away. Now if you really want a story with a hero, try this—”

By the time he had finished, Derek Peacock was in seventh heaven, and his mother, at Chittering’s urgent request, was tremulously studying the family photograph album, to pick out the best photograph she could find of Derek and herself. They had learned that her husband was dead, and that this was a boardinghouse. All her boarders were out, and she and Derek had been alone in the house.

Mannering slipped away, leaving Chittering with them.

Next door he found a small army of plain-clothes men, searching every corner. He went upstairs, passing men in every room. When he reached the room where he had talked to the man with the cigar, Bristow was sitting at the desk, and a youthful-looking sergeant with a face like a Greek god was sorting out some charred papers on the mantelpiece. They looked up when Mannering entered, and Bristow, who had already seen him for a few minutes, stubbed out a cigarette and groped for a fresh one.

“Feeling better?”

“Much.”

“Seen Chittering?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That these merchants appeared to want me to sell stolen goods,” said Mannering. “It’s as good a line as any—it’ll satisfy him without getting Gloria into the news.”

Bristow grunted.

“What have you found?” demanded Mannering.

Bristow pointed to the grate, where there was a heap of charred paper and black ash, which stretched right across it. Mannering grimaced – his own disappointment was as acute as Bristow’s, yet there was something else in his mind; a reluctant admiration for the men who had worked so quickly.

“Quick, but they hadn’t time to get rid of everything,” he said mildly.

“I suppose we may get something from the rest of the stuff,” said Bristow sceptically. “The house was rented furnished, they’ve been here only a couple of months. Half-a-dozen of them lived here, and they came in and out at odd hours—odd enough to make the men on duty around here keep an eye on the place. I’ve a description of some of them.” He picked up the photograph of Mannering’s questioner, which Mannering had given him when he had called next door. “Is this a good likeness?”

“Very.”

“Should be a help,” said Bristow. “The man called himself Fenner, Wilfrid Fenner. He appears to have dealt in books—old books and manuscripts,” he added, and took a small, rather bulky book from a drawer in the desk. It was bound in faded red leather, the edges of the pages were rough and the paper was thick. Mannering looked at it with quickening interest. There were smears of grey powder on the cover, so it had been tested for finger-prints, and could be handled. The print – it was print, not manuscript – was large, with strong old-German characteristics, and there were small illustrations in red on every page; the red had not faded a great deal.

“Know anything about it?” asked Bristow.

“It’s a Johann Koelhoff, I fancy,” said Mannering, looking at the print again, but not at the title page. “Has the stamp of it, 1475 or thereabouts, and quite a treasure in its own way.”

The Greek God at the mantelpiece turned round.

“That’s right, sir,” he said. “1474, actually—very rare.”

“You know Detective-Sergeant Longley, don’t you?” asked Bristow.

Mannering smiled.

“I didn’t, I’m glad to. So the man, who calls himself Fenner, has a rare book shut away in his desk—that might give us a line, Bill. Lithom Hall is crammed with ’em. Gloria has a phobia about them. Are you going down there, sergeant?”

“Yes,” Bristow answered for Longley.

“I’m looking forward to it,” said Longley keenly, then went on more briskly. “There’s no old stuff here, sir—all the burnt papers are modern, you can be sure of that. Of course I can’t be absolutely sure without making a microscope and chemical test, but I think you’ll find it’s all modern, mill-made paper. Nothing special, at that.”

“Hmm,” grunted Bristow. “All right, Longley, go and see how they’re getting on outside.”

Longley went out and closed the door.

Mannering looked round the room and saw ‘his’ glasses in a corner, broken. An upturned table was on its side, the room was much as it had been when he had left. He saw the little pock-marks in the cream-papered wall, where the bullets had struck; and the light-brown door was damaged. Sitting here brought everything back vividly; too vividly.

“Well,” said Bristow heavily.

“Not so good,’ said Mannering. “Amazing what can happen in a couple of hours.”

“Did you tell me everything at luncheon?”

“I kept nothing back, William. My most solemn oath on it. This isn’t a case I know much about. I hadn’t a notion that so many thugs were involved, that it even bordered on gangster stuff—if I had, I wouldn’t have travelled about without a gun, and wouldn’t have been so carefree as I was this afternoon.”

“Well, it is gangster stuff,” observed Bristow.

“Getting plenty of it these days,” Mannering murmured.

“Far too much, but we haven’t had an outbreak for several weeks. Not a new one. That’s what worries me about this, it seems to be a crowd we’ve never suspected. How much money is there in these things?” He tapped the Johann Koelhoff.

“Plenty.”

“Enough to justify today’s show?”

“Could be. I won’t try to give that book a value, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the total value of the stuff at Lithom Hall runs into the quarter million pounds. Look up the probate papers, and make sure. There’s a Codex Amiatinus there, worth more than the Koh-inoor diamond to enthusiasts. On the other hand, they’re not so easily sold as jewels. There aren’t so many serious collectors with money, and books and manuscripts aren’t so difficult to trace—it’s fairly easy to find out where a particular one is, has been, or should be. There’s an illegal market in them, of course. Collectors don’t always care where they get their beauties from.”

“Handle many yourself?”

“A few. I’m no expert. When one comes my way, I consult Jeremiah Caldecott, who knows more about them than any man in England.”

“So Longley says. Is Caldecott all right?”

“I’d back Jeremiah with my last pound, and I don’t think anything would persuade him to handle stolen stuff,” said Mannering. “On the other hand, book-collecting can become a mania, like precious stones. Caldecott might retain a papyrus, if he could get hold of one, just for the sake of gloating over it.”

“Seen him yet?”

“About Mary Scott? No, I haven’t had time.”

“Still going on with the job?” demanded Bristow.

“Of course.”

Bristow stood up and walked to the broken window, where a slight wind stirred the curtains. The sun was still high in the west, and the gardens and houses were bathed in its bright light. Mannering sat and watched him, seeing Bristow’s cheeks working, as they always did when he was concentrating, and smiling faintly when he saw him toss a cigarette butt out of the window, and take another from his case.

“All right, John. I’ll take your word that you don’t know any more than you’ve told me. And I can’t stop you from rooting around on your own. But I want to know everything you discover. Is that clear? It’s much graver than I thought. Whether Lithom was murdered or not, is neither here nor there. Half-a-dozen ruthless, armed men are at liberty and I’ve got to get them quickly. Don’t keep anything to yourself.”

“No, Bill,” said Mannering meekly.