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  ‘I’ll see if I can get you some milk broth,’ Daphne said. Mannering lay silent, the girl’s smile, her curiously gentle manner, uppermost in his mind. Why had she smiled? He sat up slowly, and the answer confronted him. There was a mirror near his couch, and in it he could see his disguise had worn thin. Daphne must know that he was Mannering.

  She brought the bread and milk herself, and pushed the pillows into position behind his back. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was.

  ‘It’s after ten, by the way,’ she said. ‘You ought really to see a doctor.’

  He forced a grin. ‘Not just yet.’

  ‘I think your head will be all right,’ she said. ‘The wound isn’t deep. There is, too, some damage to your right wrist.’

  ‘Dawson shot the gun out of my hand – remember?’

  In spite of her tension, she laughed.

  ‘Yes, I remember, Mr Mannering. Do you realise that Dawson suspects who it was, too?’

  ‘You know, you make quite a conspirator in your own quiet way,’ Mannering said.

  ‘I’m going to, until I know the truth about my uncle’s death.’ Daphne brooded for a moment. ‘May I telephone a message to Ralph Harrison?’ she asked. ‘He’s been nearly demented since I took up the role of avenger.’

  Mannering said slowly: ‘Dawson will probably expect him to get news and have a shot at forcing it out of him. That might put Ralph Harrison in a nasty spot.’

  ‘Dawson will go for him whether he hears from me or not,’ said Daphne logically.

  Mannering hesitated.

  ‘Hold on a moment, I’ve a glimmering of an idea.’

  It was more than a glimmering; he could give a false message to Harrison, one that might reach Dawson. A false message – and a hiding-place where Daphne wouldn’t be. The trouble was to name a hiding-place at short notice.

  Daphne waited patiently.

  ‘Telephone the Arena Club, in the Mall, ask for Mr Robert White, and tell him I need a quiet rendezvous, in Central London. Tell him you’ll call him again, and give my name as Browning.’

  Daphne went out, closing the door quietly behind her. He needed sleep more than he needed anything else, and he let himself drop off.

  He didn’t know how long he slept, but a noise disturbed him and he opened his eyes a fraction. Daphne was standing there clutching some newspapers.

  ‘Get ready for a shock,’ she said, tensely, and began to unfold the newspapers.

  He saw a photograph on the first one she opened – a big one on the front page. His own.

  ‘I don’t think anyone can have been so badly wanted before,’ said Daphne. ‘Dawson has offered ten thousand pounds reward for you.’

  Chapter 23

  Front Page

  Inch-high headlines stood out. The attack on Bristow screeched from the pages. The police all over England were keeping a lookout, and airports and ports were being watched; all aircraft leaving the country were being closely inspected.

  Dawson’s offer of a £10,000 reward was centred in a box. The Evening Cry said:

  ‘This public-spirited offer by a great patriot should not have been necessary. Mannering’s escape from the police was a shameful episode which the Yard will take a long time to live down. The fact that one of the Big Five at the Yard was involved makes it more difficult to understand but no more excusable.

  The official attitude is hard to understand in other respects.

  Matters of vital interest to the public are at stake. Why aren’t we told what they are?’

  The Evening Londoner came out with bold headlines:

  DOES MANNERING HOLD VITAL SECRET?

  M.I.5 SHOULD BE CALLED

  Bristow wouldn’t have given that stuff out; Dawson almost certainly had. Mannering tossed the papers aside.

  ‘Feeling better?’ asked Daphne. There was a glint of sombre amusement in her eyes. Mannering laughed.

  ‘Much.’ He swung his legs gingerly to the ground. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Half-past four,’ she answered. ‘You’ve had six hours’ sleep, but that doesn’t mean that you can get up and go rushing round the house. So back to bed.’

  He compromised by dropping into an armchair. Daphne told him that Robby had promised to find a place and would be at the Club by six o’clock, for another message.

  Daphne looked at him squarely.

  ‘I’ve been trying to understand why you ever took an interest in this affair. It wasn’t because I came and asked you; you started before, when you burgled the house. Be honest, please.’ She tapped the headline which talked of M.I.5. ‘Have you any idea what it’s about?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘You think my uncle was involved, don’t you?’

  ‘It could be that he discovered that Dawson was doing a lot of criminal things, challenged Dawson and was killed.’ Her face brightened.

  ‘If only that is what happened! When my father died and I came back to England, my uncle made me as welcome as anyone could, but I could tell that he was – well, preoccupied.’

  She paused.

  ‘It seemed to me,’ she went on slowly, ‘that he was afraid of Dawson, but I’ve not the faintest idea why.’

  ‘No hint at all?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Daphne. ‘I thought your idea of making up to Dawson might work, and was prepared to try it. Then he arranged for a gunman to break into my room! I was forced out of the house and into a car. I saw only two men, a shambling brute of a caretaker and the man he called Tiggy.’

  ‘Are you sure Dawson arranged the kidnapping?’

  ‘Who else could it be?’

  ‘Did your uncle ever say anything to you about South Africa?’

  ‘Nothing at all significant. I knew he had a lot of business interests there, including some new mines. He was making himself ill with worry and overwork, yet he was already as rich as Croesus. I couldn’t see any sense in it, and told him so. Then he was killed,’ she finished abruptly. ‘I had a terrible row with Dawson, and another with Ralph, who wanted me to leave everything to the police.’

  Mannering said: ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘We knew each other years ago,’ answered Daphne. ‘Long before I went to live in the States. He worked for my uncle then, in one of his offices. He still works for the company, but I don’t know what he does. Uncle said that he had a good financial brain, but he was too impetuous.’

  ‘Trust him?’ asked Mannering.

  She laughed.

  ‘Good heavens, yes! With everything and anything. My uncle would, too.’

  There was a tap at the door. Daphne went across the room and opened it. Mannering caught a glimpse of Riley’s wife holding a tea tray in her hands. Daphne took the tray rather quickly, with a warm smile of thanks, and shut the door.

  ‘If she once catches a glimpse of you she’ll recognise you from the photographs,’ she said. ‘You can’t stay here for long.’

  ‘Long enough to get ready for the next move.’ Mannering watched her as she poured out tea. ‘Are you prepared to take risks?’

  ‘Certainly I am. I intend to find out the truth, and if that is the only way I’m prepared to take it.’

  Just after six o’clock Daphne went downstairs to telephone Robby. Mannering stood by the window, racked by doubt. What was the secret behind Dawson’s desperation? Could he, Mannering, be sure that Robby had told him everything? Was Garielle trustworthy? Daphne? Young Harrison?

  When he had the address from Robby, could he use it safely?

  He turned from the window. He felt better, but would need the best part of another day before he could fling himself into the affair wholeheartedly. Would that be too late?

  There was the sound of a handle turning.

  Mrs Riley came in, closing the door behind her.

  She stood there, holding her hands before her in an almost defensive attitude.

  ‘Where is my husband?’ The question burst from her. ‘Where is my Micky? Tell me!’ She took a ste
p forward. ‘You know he’s in trouble, and you know where he is. Tell me!’

  ‘Now, please—’ began Mannering.

  ‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll send for the police!’ She flung the words at him. ‘You can’t fool me. Micky’s in trouble; he’s been in trouble for a long time. Where is he?’

  ‘I saw him yesterday,’ Mannering told her quietly. ‘He was very well. He gave me his ring, to reassure you.’

  ‘How do I know you didn’t steal it from him?’ Her eyes were glittering and her cheeks flushed. ‘If you don’t tell me where he is, I’ll send for the police, and they’ll make you talk. I know who you are. I’m not blind!’

  Unnoticed, Daphne came into the room. She was not a girl who would lose her head in an emergency, Mannering decided admiringly, for, taking the scene in at a glance she moved forward, putting a hand lightly on Mrs Riley’s arm.

  ‘Micky is all right, Mrs Riley. He’s been helping Mr Mannering, and had to lie low for a few days. When this is over, Micky will be free from trouble.’

  The woman swung round.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Then tell me!’ Mrs Riley rushed across the room and flung the window open. ‘Tell me, or I’ll scream murder. The police will come, and then you won’t be able to hide. Where is Micky?’

  She stood there, a distraught and desperate woman, almost as dangerous as Dawson.

  Mannering took a step forward, and she opened her mouth to scream.

  Chapter 24

  Rendezvous

  Her neck tautened, her mouth open, she was too far away for Mannering or Daphne to get at her and stop the cry.

  Mannering said with the sharpness of a whiplash: ‘Scream once, Mrs Riley, and your husband will spend the next ten years in jail.’

  Her mouth went stiff, then slowly closed. She must have been expecting something like it for weeks, perhaps for months. She crumpled up, all the stiffening gone out of her.

  Daphne reached her first and put her arm round her shoulders. Clear blue eyes, burning in their fear, still stared accusingly.

  Mannering felt hot from the shock of the near disaster, which might, he realised, blow up again if handled unwisely.

  Simply, as if speaking to a child, he told her the truth.

  ‘He has been working for criminals. I’ve been working against them. He is my prisoner. The police don’t know, and can’t do anything against him unless I talk. I won’t tell if you do what I ask.’

  Tears flooded her eyes.

  ‘Take Mrs Riley downstairs, will you?’ Mannering asked Daphne. He watched as Mrs Riley allowed herself to be led away.

  Mannering wiped the sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck. The worst moments so often came like that, out of the blue. For the time being the danger was over, however, and there were other more pressing things crowding his mind.

  Daphne wasn’t gone for long.

  ‘Did you speak to Robby White?’ Mannering asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Your wife arranged a meeting place, a cottage on the outskirts of London, near Staines. Apparently an old servant of her mother’s lived in it. Can I tell Ralph I’ll be there?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ said Mannering. ‘Tomorrow.’ He looked at her as he spoke and saw the doubt in her eyes. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. He wasn’t fit enough now, and yet Dawson was desperate, or he wouldn’t have gone to such lengths. Dawson was also working against time. ‘I want Dawson at the rendezvous in person, and there is only one way of getting him – by telling him you’re there.’

  She moved about the room restlessly.

  ‘I don’t think he’s quite sane, the way he raved and shouted and takes it for granted that I could be his, body and soul, But whether the infatuation will be strong enough for him to take risks—’

  Mannering said, almost excitedly: ‘I’ve thought of an easier and surer way.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Release the man Dickson,’ Mannering said. ‘Have him tell Dawson about the cottage. Robby must fix it so that the man overhears and then escapes. He’ll find contact with Dawson. I’ll talk to Robby myself.’

  He went to the door.

  ‘So you are alive,’ said Robby over the telephone.

  ‘Just about,’ replied Mannering.

  ‘John, it couldn’t be tougher.’ There was an edge of strain in Robby’s voice. ‘I’ve been questioned all the afternoon by Special Branch men. They hammered at me about this letter. They’re crazy to get their hands on it, and there wasn’t anything in it to justify all this fuss.’

  ‘We’ll find out about that soon,’ said Mannering. ‘Now listen, Robby. Go to the cottage with Ralph Harrison, will you? Tell Harrison that Daphne will be there, and let Dickson overhear the address before you go. Then have Larraby allow Dickson to escape. Dickson will contact Reed, and Reed will probably contact Dawson. Make sure you get busy soon, I’d like Dickson safely away by half-past seven or eight. And give Lorna my love.’

  The telephone bell rang at eight o’clock.

  ‘Dickson’s gone,’ said Lorna briefly. ‘So have Robby and Harrison.’ Her voice was taut with anxiety. ‘John—’

  ‘Keep away from that cottage,’ Mannering said. ‘Keep away, my darling.’

  The cottage lay at the foot of a hill. The roof was gabled and covered with lichen and the windows had diamond-shaped leaded panes, caught by the car’s headlights.

  Mannering swung away from the gate and drove into a patch of trees fifty yards away; the car could be hidden there. He had no key, but simply opened the pick-lock blade on his knife and turned it as swiftly and easily as if he had used one.

  He went in, closed the door and switched on the light. Why wasn’t Robby here?

  He heard a sound – a footstep. He waited, on edge.

  Daphne appeared.

  ‘I had to come,’ she said. ‘I hired a car, and left just after you did. The back door was open.’

  Nothing could drive her away now, Mannering realised; he had to make the best of it.

  He looked at his watch.

  It was little more than an hour since the message from Robby; they could be sure that Dawson wouldn’t arrive yet. If he arrived at all.

  ‘Shouldn’t the others be here?’ Daphne asked. He nodded.

  Daphne said: ‘There isn’t any certainty that Dawson will come himself. I suppose you’ve thought of all that.’ She jumped up. ‘It’s just a gamble, isn’t it? He may have lost his head over me, but—’ She broke off at the sound of a car some way off. Soon it was close to the cottage. It went past, and the engine stopped.

  From the window Mannering saw the lights of a car, and two men getting out.

  ‘How many?’ breathed Daphne.

  ‘At least three.’ He watched as the men came towards the cottage, making no attempt to conceal themselves.

  Two of the men branched off into the garden. A third walked along the path, briskly, but the light was too poor for Mannering to see who it was. Robby? Reed?

  There was a knock at the front door. Daphne turned restlessly.

  ‘Direct approach,’ murmured Mannering. ‘Just stay here and don’t worry.’

  He went towards the front door. His hand was actually touching the handle, and Daphne was watching him intently, when a voice came softly from behind him.

  ‘Just open the door, Mannering, and then raise your hands.’

  A man, gun in hand, was on the stairs.

  Chapter 25

  Triumph for Dawson

  Mannering stood stock still. ‘Open the door, I said.’

  Mannering’s right hand moved towards the door; he touched the handle, turned it, and backed away. He stood halfway in the front room, one man behind him and another in front, then he saw a third coming in – Dickson. He sent a glance of searing hatred at Mannering.

  ‘That’s fixed you!’ he said.

  ‘You’ve said it.’ That was the man who had come in by the front door. ‘You aren
’t so tough, Mannering. You didn’t think I’d have time to get a man inside the house before you arrived, did you?’

  Mannering said: ‘Didn’t I?’

  ‘We sent a man here on a motor-cycle directly we got Dickson’s message, and he beat you to it,’ the man went on. ‘I’m Reed.’ He seemed to think that the name itself was sufficient to strike fear. He was broad-faced and powerful of body; and there was nothing to like about him.

  Mannering kept silent. His eyes were on Daphne, seeing a look of hopelessness on her face.

  The man from the stairs moved towards them and gripped Mannering’s wrist.

  ‘Get moving.’

  Mannering was forced forward into the garden. He had never felt so utterly defeated, even his own shadow, cast by the light from the cottage, seemed to mock him.

  They reached the cars. The Victor had been found and was near the front gate, the engine humming. Mannering was thrust into the back seat, Daphne into the other car. They moved off.

  It had been so quick, so simple and so easy; but why wasn’t Robby here?

  Mannering, staring at the road in front of him, felt a sharp prick in his arm. The man beside him grinned. ‘Have a nice sleep,’ he said. Sleep …

  Mannering grew drowsy soon afterwards, knew what was happening yet couldn’t do a thing to help himself. From the moment the man had spoken to him from the stairs his mind seemed to have stopped working.

  Sleep …

  He felt his head nodding, fumes of sleep crept over him and he slid into unconsciousness.

  He woke with a numbness in his head, and a raging thirst. He wanted a drink – anything to drink.

  ‘Water.’ He heard himself croaking the word.

  He found that he was able to sit up, then saw that his legs were tied to a chair.

  His arms were free. It was folly to bind a man’s legs but not his arms. He attempted to grapple with the cords, but the knots were tied tightly. He tried again, and then again, and gradually a knot came loose.

  Two minutes later the cord lay at his feet and there was nothing to stop him from getting up. He attempted to do so, swayed, and with difficulty regained his balance.