John Creasey - Meet The Baron

By now Mannering had thoroughly accustomed himself to the thought that he would start a campaign of cracksman-ship, even though so far the thing was hazy in his mind, and he was tempted to laugh at it rather than take it seriously. What easier way of making money than as a gentleman-thief?

A thief? The word made him stop and think. “Cracksman” sounded more pleasant; it gave the project a Robin Hood gallantry; but if he was to be honest with himself, and it was absurd to be anything else, he would earn the name of thief — and deserve it.

As he thought of these things a sardonic smile curved the corners of his lips. If the word itself was hard to face, so were facts. Cash he must have, and quickly, or he would go under. Going under was the devil, whereas his very life gave him opportunities to steal in a hundred places — yes, and without the slightest risk of suspicion.

The decision that had been hovering in his mind came to a head on the afternoon following the dinner at the Fauntleys’. Mannering weighed up the chances coolly, and decided that the odds favoured him. In the Fauntley strongroom he had been presented with as near a “sitter” as a cracksman could pray for, and it was almost like looking a gift-horse in the mouth to refuse the opportunity.

The decision being reached, he did not propose to lose much time. The quicker he made the plunge the better.

He realised that there were several things he would need, but most important of all, he told himself, was a weapon to help him in emergency. He decided cheerfully that the most effective would be a gas-pistol with a load of diluted gas, but for the moment that was impossible. He had an old Army revolver, however, without ammunition to fit it; if he took it with him it might have a demoralising effect on anyone he met — it was absurd, he knew, to be sure that he would get through without some trouble — and if necessary its butt would come in useful as a club. Yes, the revolver was what he wanted.

The rest was comparatively easy.

Towards evening, with the prospect of the raid on the Fauntley house making his heart beat fast, he spent an hour making various small purchases. For tools he told himself he needed two small screwdrivers, two thin files, and a tiny hammer. He bought a pair of thin rubber gloves from a department-store, and later a pair of rubber-soled golf-shoes. Finally — and he chuckled when the idea came — he bought a handkerchief with the initials T.B. on it. The initials meant nothing to him then — and he had no idea what they were likely to mean; he proposed to use it simply as an admirable “clue” to leave behind for the police.

He was ready.

And he was going through with the first effort; he knew that until he did he would be restless; as much as anything else he was hungering for a gamble that carried a real risk, and, providing his victims were sufficiently wealthy to sustain the financial loss, his conscience would not trouble him.

He felt cool enough as he approached the Fauntley home that night, and his nerves seemed steadier than ever as he walked towards Langford Terrace and entered the grounds of the house by the side-entrance. It was shadowed there, and he was hidden from the street by a thick hedge. The situation was perfect, for one of the library windows opened on to this side of the house.

And there was a light coming from it, given by the reading-lamp in one corner, where the armed guard was sitting and waiting for the dawn to come. Mannering knew he had only to outwit the man and he was through. Only!

Very softly, and with a set smile on his lips, he approached the window.

Misgivings stronger than any that had attacked him before flooded through John Mannering’s mind as he came closer to the window. The odds against him seemed multiplied enormously; the slightest slip now, and he would be in the armed guard’s power; the police would be called; Fauntley would recognise him. He felt hot, and his hands trembled as he touched the window-sill.

He told himself that he had been too impetuous: he should have taken more than a single afternoon to collect the things he would need for burglary; he wasn’t making capital of his advantages as he should have done; he was acting like a fool, making his first attempt as though he had been schooled in the East End by practised thieves. Before he was qualified to try to raid a place from the outside he would have to learn a lot in the art of safe-breaking, of forcing entries, of covering his tracks.

On the other hand, once he was in the strong-room he could get at the one safe without any trouble. The combination ran through his mind time and time again, word-perfect. But he should have given up the idea when he had heard of the armed guard.

The back of his neck and his forehead were sticky. He could see the guard in a far corner, and he wondered whether the man would shoot to kill if he met with an intruder. His courage seemed to ebb away. . . .

Three words that flashed across his mind halted the flight of his nerves, and made his smile more natural. He seemed to see Lorna Fauntley’s eyes, and hear her murmured “Even doing it”.

He was capable of doing it. Damn it, he couldn’t go so far and then back out. The door of the strong-room was less than twenty feet away from him; he could see the polished brass of the door-knob, and a picture of the glittering cascade of the Gabrienne collection came to his mind. He breathed more steadily, and he dipped his gloved right hand into his pocket.

He smiled more when he felt cold steel through the thin rubber of his gloves. The Army revolver, a relic of the days of the War — he had been in Flanders for the last year of it — rested there. He had been wise enough to bring it unloaded; to risk carrying loaded weapons would have been insane, for the authorities dealt harshly with armed thieves. Now the precautions he had taken and the preparations he had made seemed more reasonable.

He left the revolver in his pocket, and took out one of the screwdrivers. Every pocket of his coat contained something that would help him — a file, a torch, the handkerchief marked T.B. He had no real idea of what tools he would want, but the screwdriver would be best for levering up the window.

He glanced up, seeing that the top frame was open a little. The window was unlatched. Unless the bottom frame squeaked as he pushed it up there was a chance that he would get in without rousing the guard. Fauntley had unwittingly relieved him of several causes for anxiety. He knew that he could open the window without starting an alarm-bell, for the only alarm was controlled by the strongroom door.

He exerted a little pressure after wedging the chisel-end of the screwdriver beneath the window, and felt it move a fraction of an inch. There was no sound at all. Very gently, and with his breath coming faster every second, he levered it up. There was an inch to spare now — ample room for his -fingers.

He replaced the screwdriver, and took the revolver from his pocket, resting it on the sill. All the time the noise of late traffic passing the Terrace came to his ears, while occasionally he heard the hurrying footsteps of a man or a woman, and he found it hard not to let these sounds distract him. But as he put his fingers beneath the window he forgot everything except the man sitting in the far corner, whose heavy features were thrown into strong relief by the reading-lamp.

Mannering pushed the window up another inch, fraction by fraction. Suddenly the man in the corner moved. Mannering stopped, his limbs suddenly very cold. The guard lifted his head, looking towards the window, and darted his hand towards his pocket.

“God,” thought Mannering, “it’s all up!”

He couldn’t have turned away if he had wanted to; he felt there was no strength at all in his limbs. He stared, fascinated by the approaching disaster.