John Creasey - Meet The Baron

The slightest of grim smiles lit Mannering’s eyes. Mr Septimus Lee was certainly a man in a thousand; he had even trained his dog to tackle an intruder in silence. It seemed that he was prepared for night-attacks on the house, and he was equally prepared to keep knowledge of them from the police, who might have been alarmed by the baying of the Dane. Lee wanted no inquiries, Mannering guessed, and his admiration for the Jew’s shrewdness increased.

The darkness of the rest of the house was appalling and Mannering dared not switch on the lights, for he had no idea whether the curtains were drawn, and there was no time to waste in trying each window. He kept the white beam of his torch trained towards the ground, where it would prevent him from stumbling on any unseen obstacle, while being invisible from outside.

It took him five minutes to locate Septimus Lee’s bedroom, a large, airy chamber on the second — and top — floor. The door was unlocked — the easiest job he had had so far.

For the first time Mannering used his mask, a dark-blue cloth that covered his mouth, chin, and nose, and he pulled on thin rubber gloves to make sure that he left no fingerprints. A silent, shadowy figure, he crept into the room and reached the bed. The Jew was sleeping on his back, with one crooked arm over the coverlet, the other hand at the back of his neck.

Mannering used his gas-pistol quickly, regulating the gas this time; the only effect it appeared to have was to make Lee breathe more deeply, and the Jew’s body seemed to shrink back into the bed.

“Peautiful!” murmured Mannering, emphasising the “p”. His heart was beating fast now, and his eyes were glistening; he was more than half-way to success.

Rapidly he ran through the man’s clothes, searching for keys. If he could find them it would save him a great deal of time — and time had never been so precious.

Nothing that might have opened the safe was there, however. He rubbed his chin disappointedly as he looked round the room, but his eyes glinted when he saw a small deed-box resting on a chair near the bed.

Using a pick-lock, he opened the lock of the box without any trouble, and found what he was expecting to find — a bunch of intricately cut keys. He smiled, jubilant again.

Now for the safe.

There was a peculiar feeling of depression in Mannering’s breast a few seconds later. He had told himself that he was thoroughly prepared for the sterner tasks o his newly chosen profession, but the affairs of that night proved how badly he had misjudged the difficulties. To get into a house was one thing. To get into it without the vaguest notion of where to find the safe was another. In future, he told himself, he must prepare the ground more thoroughly beforehand. For the time being — where was the safe ?

A wall-safe, almost certainly, and in the bedroom. Lee was not a man to keep valuables in another part of the house at night.

Mannering tried every picture, to find the blank wall behind them. The feeling of depression grew heavier — until he looked intently at the bed, the last possible place. And then that curve at the corners of his lips came, and his eyes gleamed.

Septimus Lee’s bed was a double one, with a large head-panel of walnut, very close to the wall. Mannering went to it, bent over the unconscious figure of the Jew, and examined the centre of the panel. It was very intricately carved — too intricately carved for its purpose. Mannering ran his fingers — gloved fingers — over the smooth surface. Luck was with him. There came the slightest of clicks! And the centre of the panel began to slide . . .

And then the shock came!

The room, the house, was filled with noise, the strident clatter of a low-pitched electric alarm. The very air seemed to shiver with the sound. For a split second Mannering stood still, his muscles tensed, his lips compressed. Then, above the alarm, came the sudden banging of a door!

Mannering looked at the window of the bedroom and resisted the biggest temptation of his life. A few seconds, a climb down the walls of the house, would mean freedom, escape. But escape, he told himself, without the Rosa pearls. . . .

The temptation, the thought, and the first ringing of the alarm took no longer than a few seconds. It seemed almost in one movement that Mannering stiffened and then leapt towards the unlocked door. The key was on the inside, thank God! Mannering turned it as footsteps echoed along the passage outside. Before the cracksman had reached the head of the bed again there was a thud on the door, and a low-pitched voice came through to the room.

“Mr Lee — you all right, Mr Lee?”

Mannering ignored it. He tried key after key in the lock of the safe, quickly but with steady fingers; the filth one opened it. He was still laced with the combination beyond the first door, and as the thudding on the door grew louder he told himself that he would have to give up. Desperately now he twisted the knob, right, left, right again, hearing the numbers clicking, working with raging impatience, not knowing whether he was close to his goal or not. Suddenly there was a loud click, and with new hope he pulled at the door.

It opened!

But Mannering’s satisfaction was tinged with anxiety; even though success was near he was not out of the wood yet.

The man outside had stopped calling, but another, more ominous sound came. A second key was being poked through the keyhole. As Mannering turned round he saw the first key moving slowly, drooping towards the floor.

Another mistake! The realisation flashed through his mind as he crossed the room again. He should have put something heavy against the door when he had locked it; he should have been prepared for this development. Now it would be touch-and-go whether he succeeded or not.

He pressed his left side against the door and stretched out for a stiff-backed chair with his right arm. As the door thudded against him he pulled the chair into position, jabbing its top rail beneath the knob of the door. In the respite that followed he pulled a heavy arm-chair from a corner of the room and upturned it, leaving its weight to support the first chair.

“Three minutes, with luck,” he muttered, sotto voce. There was a queer relief in talking to himself, and he kept murmuring under his breath as he worked.

He reached the open safe again and searched for the contents. There were several bundles of papers, one or two small trinkets, and a leather case. The case was locked, but by now Mannering had finished with finesse. He took a screwdriver from his pocket and forced the hinges from the leather, snapping them off.

The lustre of pearls shone for a moment in the dim light of the room. . . .

The excitement was almost too much for him, but he resisted the temptation to stare at his prize. The Rosa pearls were his, but the danger was still about him. He stuffed the case in his pocket, while his eyes were glistening and his lips parted. Quickly he moved towards the window. It was shut and locked, but he opened it without trouble, and looked below. To the garden it was a fair drop, but a drain-pipe and a sill at the window beneath promised foothold. Mannering climbed out quickly.

Even to the last his luck — and his caution — held.

As he went down, easily enough, he kept his ears wide-open for the slightes t sound. For a few moments there was silence; then something moved beneath him. He turned his head in time to see the burly figure of a man waiting in the shadow of the trees that had befriended him, Mannering, a short while before.

There was trouble both ways now, and Mannering had to fight hard to keep his self-control. One thing was certain: he had to get down.

As he went, cautiously, his coat caught round the drainpipe, and the temporary delay gave him an idea. At the next staple he stopped again, tugging at his coat. He was within a few feet of the ground now, and he judged that the man in the shadows would come forward, believing the climber to be in his power.