Into the Trap Page 6

  She was concentrating on her driving; cool, aloof, indifferent to him. There was ample room to pass. She didn’t look back. Could she have failed to recognise him? She must have recognised the car – or was he jumping to conclusions again? The car might not belong to Courtney or to the household. Had she been so preoccupied that she hadn’t troubled to glance at him – or had she recognised him at once and pretended that she hadn’t?

  He reached some crossroads. The arms of a signpost stood out clearly; to the left, London; to the right, Swindon. So he was in Wiltshire. He turned left, stopping when he reached a hill crest, a mile further on. He could see the road he had taken. A tiny light-blue mark disappeared behind a belt of trees. He lit a cigarette as he waited. The car appeared again, travelling almost at right angles to its first course – heading towards one of the big houses. No other vehicle was on that drive, on the road leading from it, or on the secondary road, where he had scared the driver.

  What wouldn’t he give to listen to the conversation between Thelma Courtney and Allingham!

  There was nothing to prevent him from going back except commonsense, and a vivid mind-picture of Lorna. He held that picture for a few moments, then let it fade. He wouldn’t get anywhere by being timid; timidity wasn’t his strong suit. He couldn’t be more than four miles away from Courtney’s house; it wasn’t likely that the woman would leave at once, and—

  He swung round, and a wave of painful thudding through his head gave him fresh warning. He ignored it, leaned over, and felt inside the door-pocket where his car-companion had put the automatic. It was still there! He took it out and tossed it into the air, caught it, broke the magazine and saw that it was fully loaded. He weighed it jubilantly in his hand. There is nothing so effective as the unexpected; if he returned to the house now, Allingham would never be sure of what he was going to do next. He was crazy. Ask Lorna!

  He drove along until he came to a gate leading into a meadow, reversed, and began to drive back towards the house, the gun snug in his pocket.

  The blue car stood outside the porch. From the gates the house looked large and fairly impressive. The grounds were superb, except for one patch by the door, where he had crushed the daffodils. He saw a man bending over that patch – yes, a gardener was already at work. Mannering watched him, saw the man look up – and then back away, astounded. Mannering waved to him and passed. The man turned and ran towards the rear of the house, but before he disappeared Mannering’s car-companion appeared at the front door. Mannering waved again.

  He pulled up behind the blue car. The man came slowly towards the head of the steps as Mannering climbed out.

  “Hallo,” said Mannering. “Seeing ghosts?” He smiled. He walked briskly up the steps. “Those tablets of yours must have the secret of life in them; I feel fine. How do you think Allingham will feel?”

  The man said nothing.

  “Surprised?” suggested Mannering. He reached the top step and took the man’s arm, actually led him into the hall. “Nice place you have here. Where are they?”

  “Are you—crazy?”

  “Yes.” Mannering looked round the hall. All of the doors were closed and he could hear no murmur of conversation. He opened the nearest door and looked into a large drawing-room – but it was empty. He strode towards the next door. One opened opposite. Mike, the chauffeur, appeared; he had fists like hams, and they were clenched.

  “Hallo, Mike! Don’t blame me for the dents in the Daimler; I didn’t shoot at it. I hadn’t a gun – then.” He grinned at his car-companion. “It was thoughtful of you to leave one in the pocket.”

  The next room was a ballroom with magnificent chandeliers and arched windows. He crossed the hall, and as he approached a door beneath the staircase heard the murmur of voices – a man’s and a woman’s. He stood still, smiling. Mike, the man he had first met, and a third man, his luncheon waiter, were now near him. Each was spoiling to attack him; none of the three made any attempt or showed a gun.

  They wouldn’t stay dumbstruck like this for long.

  “Have you told Allingham?” he asked.

  “Mr. Pratt,” said Mike in a absurdly small voice for so sturdy a man, “he mustn’t go in there.”

  “Verboten?” asked Mannering, and stepped towards the door. “They won’t really mind.”

  Pratt, his car-companion, moved forward quickly, with a hand upraised.

  “It can’t be as sacrosanct as all that,” said Mannering, keeping his voice pitched in a similarly low key. They evidently did not want to be heard; it would almost be true to say that they were terrified of being heard. “After all, Allingham wanted, probably still wants, to talk business with me. Or doesn’t he confide in you?”

  He stretched out a hand and touched the handle of the door.

  “Don’t!” cried Pratt, his fear of consequences strong upon him. “He’ll kill you if—” Pratt broke off.

  Mike unclenched one huge fist and slid it into his pocket. For a gun? He drew out a spanner; not big, as spanners go, but large enough to cause a nasty wound. Mannering turned the handle – and Mike hurled the spanner at him. It crashed into the wall above Mannering’s head, then dropped with a dull thud on to a rug. At the same time Mike rushed. Mannering shot out a foot then flung open the door. He stepped swiftly into the room and slammed the door behind him. The key was on the inside. He turned it swiftly – and then faced the room itself.

  It was a small and lovely room, a fit setting for Thelma Courtney. But it wasn’t likely that her husband would approve of the use she was making of it – or the long couch near the window where the filmy curtains were drawn.

  The woman was lying on the couch, head raised now, one hand also raised as she stared in astonishment and—was it alarm?—at Mannering. Allingham was on his knees by the side of the couch, and there were smears of lipstick on his mouth and cheek.

  “Not kissproof?” murmured Mannering. “That’s too bad. How are you both?”

  Chapter Nine

  No Love

  Allingham got up slowly and straightened his coat. The woman swung her legs from the couch. The astonishment and—was it really alarm?—faded from her eyes; she looked as composed and expressionless as when she had called to see him. But there was nothing composed or expressionless about the man. His lips were parted and he breathed heavily; he looked dangerous.

  Mannering took the automatic from his pocket and put it back again.

  “Get out,” said Allingham in an unsteady voice.

  “I thought you wanted to talk business.”

  The woman darted a glance at Allingham; there was no love in that look, only clear, cold speculation. And suspicion?

  Allingham said: “We can do that later, Mannering.” He fought for self-control and also fought for something else; a way of preventing Mannering from telling the woman what business they had to discuss. “Have you gone crazy?” He moved forward, and actually stretched out a hand to touch Mannering’s arm. His expression conveyed his meaning: “Get out now; say nothing.” He said aloud: “When I asked you to visit me here, I didn’t expect you to come with a gun and to break in upon my privacy. If you will wait, I will see you later.”

  “Sorry,” said Mannering. “I shan’t have time. I’ve already accepted a job, and that will take up all my spare moments.” He smiled at the woman; Allingham was on his other side and missed the smile. “I thought I’d let you know. Forgive my impetuosity.”

  He turned away. His back was towards Allingham, but he didn’t think there would be an attack. He was right. He unlocked and opened the door, standing to one side to make sure that Mike couldn’t attack him. Pratt stood there, looking pale and worried.

  Allingham said: “Get Mr. Mannering anything he wants.”

  “Yes, sir,” murmured Pratt.

  The door closed and the key turned audibly in the lock. Pratt said in a dazed, uncertain voice: “What do you want?”

  “How long has that been going on?” Mannering jerked his head towards t
he closed door.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Who do you work for – Allingham or Courtney?”

  “I am—an employee of Mr. Courtney’s.”

  “And trusted, I presume. Was this romance in process before Courtney left for America, or is it of recent growth?”

  Pratt said: “It is none of my business, and—”

  “Well, here’s something that is. You hit me over the head, you and Mike pushed me into the car and brought me here. That’s crime-common assault, punishable by several years in prison, once it’s proved. I can prove it. The police are intensely interested in men who go around kidnapping. Remember that. How long has this been going on?”

  Pratt said heavily: “About two months.”

  “Was Allingham employed by Courtney before that?”

  “Oh yes, for years.”

  Mannering said: “That’s better. Tell Allingham to come and see me at my shop – the shop, not the flat – sometime this afternoon. If he hasn’t arrived by five o’clock I shall make a full report on the day’s incidents to the police. That means what happened here, as well as what happened in Chelsea. Tell Allingham that – and tell him he’ll be a fool if he doesn’t come, a bigger fool if he tries any more of his tricks. Who sold him the story that I was a fence?”

  Pratt said: “I don’t know.”

  “Jog your memory,” said Mannering. “Have you another car in service, as well as the Daimler”?

  “Yes.”

  “Have it brought round to the front. I’m going to borrow it. Don’t prepare any prize packets.”

  Pratt walked, a little uncertainly, through the doorway from which Mike had appeared not long before. Mannering was alone, and he did not think that he was being watched. He could just hear a murmur of voices from the small room, but the tone was not amatory now. He realised that Allingham was desperately anxious that the woman should not know what had happened earlier; would sacrifice anything to prevent it. That meant that Mrs. Courtney knew nothing of the attempts to sell the Carla collection or any of her husband’s jewels.

  For as long as Mannering could tell the woman the truth, Allingham would either be anxious to conciliate him or would be determined to silence him. That promised excitement. Mannering shrugged and strolled towards the front door. An Austin 14 with a closed, black body, appeared round the corner of the house as Mannering reached the foot of the porch steps. Mike, pale and apparently subdued, climbed out of the driver’s seat.

  “Thanks, Mike,” said Mannering.

  He climbed in, fiddled with the controls and looked at the petrol; the tank was nearly full. He drove down the drive without haste – and without being shot at. It was a false calm, but it continued. No one followed him, though Pratt and Mike watched assiduously from the corner of the house, near the sleek blue car.

  Mannering pulled up at Hammersmith Broadway, opposite a newsboy, and bought each of three London evening newspapers. There was a front page headline in the Evening News:

  GIRL KIDNAPPED: HOUSEHOLD DRUGGED.

  Nothing in the story was new to him. It told how one P.C. Williamson, while on his nightly rounds, saw the front door of 29 Liddell Street standing open. On entering, all six people in the house were found to be in a drugged sleep. One girl, who had a room there, left in great disorder, had disappeared. Alicia was named; so were the other lodgers and Mr. and Mrs. Simons, the owners of the house. None of them had any idea why it had all happened. All agreed that Alicia Hill was a quiet, well-behaved girl, and no one thought that she had had anything valuable in her room. She worked at the head office of a large insurance company, and her employers could throw no light on her disappearance. She was known to have a man friend, but no one who lived at the Liddell Street house knew his surname; only that she called him ‘Nigel.’

  Mannering glanced through the other papers. Like the Evening News the reports suggested that the drug had been in the coffee which was available every night for those who lived there. The Star gave most details of that – it was a later edition. Mrs. Simons always left a pot of coffee on the gas stove in the kitchen. As the boarders came in they would help themselves. The supposition was, that either the coffee or the milk had been doped. The police had taken both containers away with them for analysis. None of the victims suffered any serious ill-effects.

  And, of course, the police were anxious to find anyone who could give them any clue as to the whereabouts of Alicia Hill.

  Mannering drove along to the nearest telephone kiosk and dialled the flat.

  “Hallo?” Lorna’s voice, though immediate, was calm.

  “Sorry, darling, I couldn’t get away earlier.”

  Lorna didn’t answer.

  Mannering said: “Yes, it is me, not a ghost or a big bad villain imitating my voice.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “There seems sufficient reason to me, but I’m just on edge, I suppose. Have you seen the temptress?”

  “Only for a moment. I have to see her again, but she’ll probably call or ask for an appointment. She’s a dangerous woman.”

  “So, you realise it. Have you seen the evening papers?”

  “Yes. Not much help, are they?”

  “Help? John, when Bristow knows that Alicia is here—”

  “We’ll postpone giving him the glad news until he’s in a mood to be grateful,” said Mannering. “Yes, I know it’s a bad spot, but you worry too much. How is Alicia?”

  “She felt tired after lunch and has gone to lie down,” said Lorna. “She hasn’t talked again, and I can’t make up my mind whether she’s telling the truth or not.”

  “She isn’t. But it may not be her fault; she may not know it,” said Mannering. “Listen, my sweet – I’m going along to the shop. If there’s any news, let me know there.”

  Lorna said: “John, don’t try to fool me. I know from the very tone of your voice that there’s been trouble. Be careful. Be very careful.”

  Mannering said gently: “I will, my sweet.”

  He rang off and stood outside the kiosk, looking up and down the road but not seeing the lumbering red buses, the thick traffic, the crowded pavements. He guessed how Lorna was feeling; and he knew, as he should have known all the time, that it was folly to try to fool her. He went slowly to the car and drove towards the West End.

  Quinn’s in Hart Row, off New Bond Street, was a small narrow shop. Hart Row itself was a narrow thoroughfare, little used except by those who knew London well. Each shop was small, and each, in its own fashion, exclusive. Quinn’s attracted much attention from the knowing ones. In the window there was always one showpiece, now a jewelled casket against a background of dark blue velvet. Beyond, dim lighting shone on the antiques, which were set out in careful, cunning array.

  As Mannering entered, a tall, white-haired man appeared; an artistic finish to a place where tones were hushed and business was conducted in an almost reverent atmosphere.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Hallo, Rodney. Anything much in?”

  “Very little of any kind, sir, that you don’t already know about. Lord Wilmerston has the Queen Anne cabinet, as arranged, and will telephone his decision today or tomorrow. I don’t think there is anything more of note.”

  “Have any callers asked for me?”

  “There was a telephone call this morning, sir, from a lady who said that the matter was private and that she would ring up later. She gave no name.”

  “Hmm. Where’s Larraby?”

  “In the workroom, sir.”

  “I’ll go and see him,” said Mannering. “If anyone telephones, I’ll speak to them.”

  He went through a doorway which led to a flight of narrow, twisting stairs. Everything about Quinn’s was old; even the jutting ceiling above the stairs, where heads had been banged for centuries. Mannering lowered his as he went up. He heard someone moving about in the largest room above the shop, where furniture was stored; all small pi
eces, all exquisite and all cared for with a craftsman’s skill by Joshua Larraby.

  Larraby, white-haired and gentle-voiced, looked round from a Regency chest of drawers he was polishing. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mannering.”

  Josh Larraby had reason to be both grateful and loyal to Mannering; and he was.

  “Getting tired of polishing?”

  “Not really, sir; but if there is anything else you would like me to do—”

  “There is, and you’ll like it.” Mannering closed the door quietly. “Have you heard any rumours about the Carla pearls – or the Courtney collection – being on the market?”

  “No, sir, or I should have told you about it.”

  “Well, there are strong rumours. I want to know whether they’ve been offered, who is interested, and whether any particular individual has been spreading the rumour.”

  Larraby nodded gravely, understandingly.

  “And there’s one other thing,” said Mannering. “I want to find out whether Mrs. Courtney has been talking about the collection, and if so, what she’s been saying. If that’s impossible, just find out whom she’s seen.”

  “Is the matter urgent?”

  “Desperately.”

  “May I use a friend of mine, or should I keep the matter strictly to myself?”

  “If your friend’s discreet, certainly. It’s information I’ll gladly pay for. But he mustn’t talk; no one is to know who’s behind the probe.”

  “I can answer for him,” Larraby said, with dignity.

  “Fine.” Mannering took out his wallet, counted twenty pounds, and handed them to Larraby. “Don’t stint – we’ll go higher than that if necessary.”

  “I will make sure that we pay only for the value of information received,” said Larraby, with his gentle smile. “Am I to understand that it would not surprise you if some of the people interested are—anti-social?”

  Mannering chuckled.

  “Life-sized crooks; and mind yourself, they hit me over the head this morning.”

  “I won’t worry much about such eventualities,” Larraby said, his white hair and saintly expression oddly at variance with his remark. “I trust you weren’t badly hurt.”