Attack and Defence Read online

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  Attack and Defence

  First published in 1951

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1951-2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755135210 9780755135219 Print

  0755138554 9780755138555 Kindle

  075513687X 9780755136872 Epub

  0755139135 9780755139132 Epdf

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Chapter One

  Robbery With Violence

  The youth looked fresh and pleasant, with fair hair, blue eyes, a nice mouth and a firm, square chin.

  ‘It may be worth ten thousand pounds,’ he said, ‘but I don’t see why I should pay all that when I can get it for nothing. Don’t try to stop me, Mannering, or you’ll get hurt.’

  He took an automatic out of his pocket, and covered the man who sat at the other side of the desk. Stretching out his left hand, he closed it over a single diamond which rested on a pad of cotton wool. There were others, and these he picked up too, slipping them into an inside pocket, before backing towards the door.

  ‘And keep your hands in sight.’ There was no edge to his pleasant voice, no change in his expression.

  Mannering kept his hands on the desk and moved his right foot to the press-button in the floor.

  This office was at the back of Quinns, a narrow shop in Mayfair, where Mannering dealt in precious stones, objets d’art and antiques of great value.

  If the youth were nervous, he showed no sign of it.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he said, and opened the door a couple of inches.

  Mannering watched him, ready to pull a drawer open and get his own gun, but not while he was covered.

  ‘All you’ll get for this is a stretch in jail,’ he said mildly.

  ‘That’s what you think.’ The youth opened the door another inch, then tightened his lips. Mannering didn’t like the glint which sprang to his eyes, and flung himself sideways as the youth fired. The roar of the shot and the flash came simultaneously. Mannering felt the hammer-like blow at his temple before darkness engulfed him. He slumped forward on the desk, blood spattering the blotting paper in front of him.

  The youth pulled the door wide open. A short, elderly man was coming swiftly along the narrow shop, and the youth fired again. As the man collapsed, the youth swung round, leaping up a flight of narrow, winding steps. Reaching the first floor, he rushed to the first window he came to. It showed a sheer drop to the courtyard outside. He pushed the gun back into his pocket, flung the window up and climbed out. Lowering himself, he hung for three seconds at full length, then dropped. He found himself in a narrow passage, which led to a narrow street beyond. He raced towards it, and the two-seater coupe which was parked some distance from the corner.

  He drove off.

  At the end of the street, a girl stepped off the kerb, and then hastily drew back to let him pass.

  He smiled and waved to her, and went on.

  Superintendent William Bristow of New Scotland Yard frequently said that he was the most over-worked man in London. He had some justification. He sat at his desk on that late September afternoon, reading through a pile of reports which had accumulated because he had been out on a case during the morning. A sudden gust from the open window caught several of the papers on top of the pile and whisked them to the floor.

  Bristow glared at them.

  As he did so the door opened and a further flurry of papers rose from the desk and floated about Bristow like a sand storm.

  ‘Shut that door!’ he roared.

  ‘Sorry.’ A tall, lean man with a shock of ginger hair, advanced cautiously. ‘Bill, there’s …’

  ‘I don’t care what there is,’ growled Bristow. ‘Can’t I have half an hour’s peace? Do you have to run to me with every trivial piece of news? I’d like to know what the hell they pay you for.’

  ‘Take it easy,’ said Chief Inspector Gordon, gathering up the strewn reports. ‘A friend of yours has been shot. We may have another murder job on our hands by tonight.’

  Bristow stared. ‘Friend?’

  ‘You don’t always admit it, but friend is the word.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘John Mannering,’ said Gordon. ‘He was showing some diamonds to a customer, who shot him in the head, had a go at one of his assistants, and escaped by a window. Division’s at Quinns now.’

  Bristow said slowly: ‘So he’s caught it at last.’

  His expression changed, and Gordon’s mildly sardonic manner faded. There was plenty of character in Bristow’s face now, a hardness which hadn’t been there before. He said tersely: ‘How long ago?’

  ‘About half an hour.’

  ‘Where’s Mannering?’

  ‘On the way to the Westminster Hospital.’

  ‘Get them on the line, and find out how he is. Telephone me at Quinns, with a report. Have a man sent to Mannering’s flat, to keep reporters and anyone else away from Mrs. Mannering.’ Bristow slipped into his coat. ‘Is he really likely to die?’

  ‘The report was pretty grim.’

  ‘No, damn it!’ said Bristow, explosively. ‘Mannering can’t go out that way.’ He saw something in Gordon’s expression that he didn’t like, and rasped: ‘I know you hate Mannering’s guts, but if I had three men with half his ability, we’d be a lot more efficient here than we are. Mannering’s pulled off jobs we’d given up as hopeless, we owe him plenty and
it’s time someone said so. I’ll say so.’

  ‘I know Mannering’s good, but I’m not so sure he’s honest,’ Gordon said carefully.

  ‘Well, I am sure,’ said Bristow. ‘Tell the Assistant Commissioner where I’ve gone.’

  He strode out, hurrying through the hall and down the steps to his car. Watched by the policeman on duty, he swung right along the Embankment, into Parliament Square, and then cut across St. James’s Park.

  He gave himself little time for thinking, but as he hummed past everything else on the road, impressions made pictures on his mind, like a moving camera which had picked up oddments out of the past and strung them together without any attempt at coherence or continuity. Mannering featured in them all. Mannering, when Bristow had first heard of him, as a collector of precious stones, amiable, helpful. A different Mannering, bleak and resourceful, under great pressure at the Yard – denying what Bristow and a few others had come to believe was true, that he was a jewel-thief who masqueraded under the soubriquet of the Baron. Mannering, threatened with arrest, laughing into Bristow’s face and defying him – Mannering, breaking into strong-rooms and laying his hands on fortunes in precious stones.

  He’d never known what had turned Mannering into a thief; and never known for certain what had turned him from crime. His wife’s influence? That had something to do with it, but wasn’t the full explanation. Mannering had been badly hurt, had struck out savagely, turned to crime – and seen its folly. The hurt had been healed, but he hadn’t withdrawn at once. More pictures passed through Bristow’s mind; of Mannering as the Baron, working against criminals who always appeared to keep on the right side of the law. Of Mannering robbing these rich crooks, and distributing what he’d stolen to a host of needy people. Then, later still, of Mannering working with the police, using his keen mind and his gift for detection for the protection of society.

  There had never been proof that he had ever been the Baron. There was ample proof that without him, many dangerous criminals would still be at large.

  Three minutes later, Bristow’s car swung into Hart Row.

  It was a narrow turning, with only a few shops on either side. Several police cars were parked there, and a little crowd had gathered about the shop doorway. Two constables stood on duty.

  Among the crowd was a youngish, fair-haired man wearing an old sports jacket and a pair of grey flannels; he looked cherubic, with a round, chubby face and mild blue eyes.

  ‘Hallo, Chief. Anything for me?’

  ‘No,’ growled Bristow.

  ‘Does Mrs. Mannering know?’

  ‘Lay off her, will you?’ asked Bristow.

  Chittering of the Daily Echo said: ‘All right. He’ll pull through, won’t he?’

  A constable opened the door of the shop. It was crowded with detectives, and Bristow recognized burly Harding, one of the best Divisional Chief Inspectors in London. He turned to him.

  ‘What’s the latest?’

  ‘Larraby, Mannering’s shop manager, has given us a description—the gunman wasn’t more than twenty, apparently. Larraby heard the warning buzzer, shouted for the police and then hurried to the office. The door opened and he heard a shot—and the young man shot him in the leg. The only things stolen, as far as anyone knows, were some diamonds that Mannering was showing to the killer.’

  Bristow snapped: ‘Killer?’

  ‘I didn’t see Mannering myself, as an ambulance was here within ten minutes, but I’m told he was in a very bad way.’

  Jameson, the senior assistant, a small, middle-aged man, turned agitatedly to Bristow. ‘I must go to the hospital, I really must. There’s nothing I can do here.’

  ‘There is, you know,’ said Bristow. ‘You can help a lot, as Larraby’s out of action too. I’ll make sure you know as soon as there’s any news.’ He looked into the office, where a man was taking photographs and another was smearing the desk with fingerprint powder. ‘Had this gunman ever been here before?’

  ‘I don’t recognize anyone from Mr. Harding’s description,’ said Jameson, ‘but I’m out a great deal. Mr. Bristow, what about Mrs. Mannering?’

  ‘I’m going to see her.’ Bristow turned into the office. Behind the desk, just above Mannering’s chair, was a portrait of Mannering. This had been painted by his wife ten years or so before, when he had been in the early thirties, and he hadn’t changed much in the intervening years.

  The handsome face, the keen grey eyes, seemed to be smiling down at Bristow.

  That fancy was broken by a sharp ring of the telephone bell.

  It was Gordon – and Gordon should have news of Mannering.

  Chapter Two

  Bristow Breaks The News

  ‘Hallo,’ said Bristow sharply.

  ‘Gordon here, sir. The news isn’t very good.’

  ‘Just how bad is it?’

  ‘He’s on the operating table now, and may be there for several hours.’

  ‘So it’s as bad as that,’ said Bristow.

  ‘I’ve laid on a man to stand by, for when he comes—if he comes — round,’ Gordon told him.

  ‘Right. Don’t forget to draw up a rota.’ Bristow rang off, aware of Harding’s curious gaze. He would have to take himself in hand, he was showing his feelings too much.

  ‘It’s touch and go,’ he reported. Then he saw Jameson hovering by the door. ‘But there is a chance.’ He saw the relief on Jameson’s face. ‘Tell me everything you can, will you?’

  Harding related all he had learned from Larraby.

  ‘Make it a priority job,’ Bristow said gruffly. He had a mind picture of the distress on Jameson’s face when he had heard the news. Larraby, he thought, would take things even harder, for he had particular reason for gratitude, having once served a prison sentence for jewel robbery. Larraby had made good; as more than a few had done under Mannering’s influence.

  Chittering was waiting for him. He looked shocked. ‘John, of all people. I still can’t believe it. It’ll be the very devil for Lorna.’ He lit a cigarette and flicked the match away. ‘Bristow, if there’s anything, anything I can do to help find that gunman, just say the word. And I mean anything. How soon can I have a description?’

  ‘Harding will fix it. Tell him I think we ought to put the story as big as we can.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Chittering hurried off, but he was not thinking only about his headlines. He had often worked with Mannering, and few newspapermen knew him better.

  He looked almost as badly shaken as Jameson had, Bristow reflected, as he drove off.

  Ethel, the Mannerings’ maid, was in the kitchen of their flat in Green Street, Chelsea. She was singing. Lorna, in the loft studio, could hear her slightly off-key soprano, although the hatch was closed.

  In a paint-daubed smock, she stood, now in front of a partly-finished portrait, eyeing it critically. Her dark hair was untidy, and she blew at a whispy curl out of the corner of her mouth.

  The singing reached a higher pitch.

  Lorna put her brush down with a sigh. It was hot. The old winged armchair was tempting, but if she sat in it now she would probably laze for the next hour and be late for John. She was to meet him at Quinns at six o’clock, and had to dress. It was nearly half-past four.

  Ethel’s voice called to her: ‘Shall I bring tea up, Ma’am?’

  ‘No, I’m coming down.’

  Lorna climbed down the awkward step-ladder from the studio, and met the girl coming out of the living-room. Ethel was tall, plump and pretty; a misguided teacher had told her she had a promising voice.

  There was a moment of quiet, and then her voice shrilled out to new heights. Lorna closed the door firmly on an imperfect rendering of ‘My love is like a red, red rose’, and poured out a cup of tea.

  Just before five o’clock she heard the front door bell ring, and a few seconds later Ethel’s heavy tread across the hall.

  She recognized a man’s voice.

  Fear stabbed into her mind. She would never get used to the fact that Br
istow had become more a friend than an enemy.

  ‘It’s the Superintendent, Ma’am. Mr. Bristow,’ said Ethel.

  It wouldn’t be a social call, that was certain. Bristow might want some information about precious stones, and prefer not to go to Quinns or to summon Mannering to the Yard. It was even possible that John had started some investigation which the Yard had discovered, and Bristow was hoping to persuade him to leave detection to the professionals.

  Lorna smiled as Bristow approached. ‘Hallo, Bill. I didn’t expect you.’

  ‘Nice to see you, Lorna.’ He added uncomfortably: ‘This is one of the jobs I don’t like at all, I’m afraid.’

  She was strikingly attractive, he thought; her skin, nearly olive-coloured was without blemish. Even her dark eyebrows, which sometimes gave her an expression both sombre and aloof, could not detract from her obvious beauty.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘Is John—?’ she broke off.

  ‘Lorna, I’m dreadfully sorry,’ he said. ‘John’s been hurt in a robbery at Quinns. He was shot.’

  Lorna backed away in sharp distress. Bristow shot out a steadying hand. In a moment or two she was in command of herself again. But she was glad of his support.

  ‘How badly?’

  ‘They’re operating now, at the Westminster Hospital. I’ve a man there, and the moment there’s news, you will be told. They’re doing everything they can.’

  She said: ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’re after the gunman, and we’ll get him soon,’ Bristow said. ‘We’ll need help from you, I’m afraid. We must know what John was doing recently, and who he’s been dealing with. The diamonds stolen were from the Fesina collection. Larraby has told us a little, he wasn’t so badly hurt.’

  ‘Josh hurt?’ This was nightmare.

  ‘Only a flesh wound. Unfortunately he can’t throw any light on it, except that he knows John had several offers for the diamonds. Other things may have been stolen but we haven’t traced any yet.’