John Creasey: Meet The Baron

And then he saw the handkerchief in the guard’s hand, saw his head go back, and heard a sneeze that seemed to shatter the silence. Mannering’s heart turned over — or so he thought — and then his mind worked very quickly; he saw how he could turn the absurd development to advantage. He was still cold after the moment of fear, but he pushed at the window less cautiously now.

The guard sneezed three times, and by the time he had stopped the window was up two feet or more, and moving noiselessly. Mannering pushed it another foot, and then, as the other put his handkerchief back into his pocket, backed away from the window, taking shelter by the walls. He could see his man, saw the quick glance round the room . . . .

“Close,” Mannering muttered under his breath. “Thank the Lord for that sneeze! . . .”

He stopped muttering, and his eyes gleamed. He saw the guard glance towards the window again, and he realised that the other man was probably feeling a draught. Even as the thought flashed through his mind he saw the other move, and he realised that the open window would shout suspicion.

And then Mannering saw how it would also help him.

Breathing very softly, he drew into the shadows, waiting, as the guard came soft-footed towards the window. He could just see the man as he reached the window, and he saw him peer suspiciously. He could almost hear him thinking, asking himself whether he had for once forgotten to close the window or whether it had just been pushed up.

Mannering took just time enough to measure the distance, and then he acted. With the muzzle of the revolver in his hand he swung his right arm. The butt of the gun crashed into the man’s solar plexus; there was a single gasp, not loud enough to make itself heard more than a few yards away, and the guard staggered back.

In an instant Mannering was alter him. But as he climbed into the room his coat caught, and he wasted precious seconds. The guard had recovered sufficiently to dart his hand towards his own gun when Mannering looked up. His hand moved, and his unloaded gun was very threatening. The guard hesitated.

“Put your hands up,” said Mannering very softly.

The words were low, but the guard heard them while his fingers were dipping into his pocket. He stopped, seeing the gun in Mannering’s hand for the first time, seeing too a tall, heavily-built man clad from chin to knees in a mackintosh, with a trilby pulled low over his eyes and a handkerchief tied loosely round his neck. Mannering knew he might need to pull that up as a mask later, but while it was necessary to talk he couldn’t use it.

He drew his right leg into the room and straightened up. The guard stared, without moving, his eyes on the gun. Mannering’s lips curved a little as he realised that the other was prepared to take many chances, but not to risk his life even for the Fauntley jewels. His hands were level with his ears.

“Put them right up,” Mannering said, still softly and in a voice that Lord Fauntley himself would not have recognised. “Now stand up.”

The other obeyed without a word. Mannering’s eyes danced, and for a moment he was tempted to count his chickens too soon. Gad! This was child’s play.

He stopped smiling, and walked slowly across the room until he was within ten feet of his victim. Then he ordered again: Turn round and face the wall — and keep those hands up!”

It was like watching a film; Mannering couldn’t get it into his mind that it was really happening, that he’d made his first step. But if there was unreality about it at least his brain worked quickly, and prompted him to step quickly to the guard as the man’s back was turned towards him. Nor did he hesitate as he reached within striking-distance. This was the worst part of the job, but it couldn’t be avoided.

He moved his revolver, gripping it by the barrel, and rapped quickly at the back of the guard’s close-cropped head. The man gasped and grunted, swaying a little uncertainly. Mannering pocketed his gun, swung the other round, and jerked an upper-cut that connected with a vicious snap. The guard’s body sagged, and his eyes rolled.

Mannering felt panic very close to him now, but he gritted his teeth and kept it at bay. He supported the heavy body, letting it drop softly to the floor, and then straightening the limbs comfortably. He felt for the pulse, and found it beating well enough; a smile of relief crossed his face. Then he sought for the man’s own handkerchief, and, rolling it into a ball, stuffed it into the ample mouth.

“He won’t be able to shout for a long time,” Mannering muttered, and his eyes gleamed. It was short work to complete the job, using the guard’s belt to secure his wrists behind him.

Now for the bureau — and the key.

Mannering searched quickly, finding what he wanted with little trouble; the lock needed little forcing. He felt no thrill as his fingers touched the key of the strong-room; and now he found he had to guard against an impulse to hurry. The one thought in his mind was to get the job over, and escape from the house. He felt it was stifling him; two sides of his nature were warring, the one contemptuous at the way he was betraying Fauntley’s trust, the other mocking, as he told himself it was just another way of gambling. . . .

He learned then, and was to prove it time and time again afterwards, that the thrill of the game ended when the obstacles were overcome. There was nothing to stop him now; it was a thousand-to-one chance against anyone else coming to the strong-room at this time of night. The difficult part was over, and Mannering wanted to get it finished.

He ignored the guard, and stepped to the door of the strong-room, smiling a little, but with the need for urgency in his mind. He slid the key into the hole . . .

Then lie went rigid, and alarm seared through him. Fauntley had warned him, yet he’d forgotten it — forgotten that if the library door wasn’t locked when the strong-room lock turned the alarm would clamour out in the silence l He was white-faced as he withdrew the key slowly; and not until it was safe in his pocket did he breathe freely. Then the spasm of panic — the third he had had that night — went quickly. He smiled again, crossed to the door, and turned the key in the lock.

“It would have been my own fault,” he muttered. “Gad, but it shakes your nerves!”

Despite his words his hand was steady as he turned the key and a few seconds later pulled open the heavy door of the room that held the priceless collection. His ears were strained, and he half-expected to find that Fauntley hadn’t told the truth — that the alarm would ring. But no sound came beyond the sighing from the door as it turned on its well-oiled hinges.

He was inside now.

A feeling of triumph overwhelmed every other thought. He stood in the open doorway, looking at the room with its walls lined with safes. The third safe on the right held his attention — the one that contained the Gabrienne collection and a dozen other smaller pieces.

Now he wanted the combination. It was on the tip of his tongue as he stepped to the safe.

“Four right — six left . . .”

He muttered each figure under his breath as he turned the knob, and the clicking of the tumblers seemed to fill the small room. The seconds dragged, and he was fretting with impatience. “Ten left — four right — eight left. . . .”

He heard the final click, and pulled the door. It yielded to his pressure, and in a moment he was looking at the leather cases. The Gabrienne collection was the nearest, and the temptation to take it was overwhelming. He argued with himself, and at last common sense won. Every stone in that collection was known throughout the world; he would never be able to dispose of it.