Mannering looked at his watch, to find that it was twenty minutes past eleven.
“He should be here,” he muttered, and from the fact that he was talking aloud realised his own tense excitement. He waited, pricking his ears to catch the wanted sound. It came at last — the heavy tread of the policeman he expected.
Mannering had been in this street three nights in succession. He had discovered the policeman’s usual time, and he knew that between eleven-twenty and eleven-fifty only a casual wayfarer would pass by; once the man had gone he could start his job.
He waited beneath the shadows of a spreading tree. The policeman walked on ponderously, without flashing his lantern. Mannering watched him disappear, and then turned towards the tree, a tight smile on his lips.
He had studied the tree and garden beyond, and the narrow passage beyond that. He had climbed the tree on the previous night, and he knew just how long it would take him to get to the end of the passage. Never again, he told himself, would he start a thing without ample preparation.
The sound of the policeman’s footsteps died away. No other came. Mannering climbed the tree quickly, a task made easier by several knots which stood out from the trunk. From the first branch it was a simple matter to jump over the wall into the garden of 27 Crown Street. He landed lightly, and grinned to himself more freely as he went through that garden.
Every taxi-driver who had taken a fare from the neigh-bourhood of the New Arts Hall would be questioned on the following morning, but no one would suspect that the man who wanted the Crown Street house was connected with a robbery which had taken place at Queen’s Walk, a quarter of a mile away from Crown Street. Actually the garden and the passage took him to Queen’s Walk in thirty seconds, but the policeman who realised it would have to be smart.
The Walk was lit by occasional street-lamps, and the unwinking side-lights of two stationary cars broke through the darkness. Mannering slipped into the doorway of the first house past the passage and slid a pick-lock into the keyhole.
It was an old-fashioned lock, and gave little trouble, for the picking of a lock came easily now. Mannering pushed the door open as the lock clicked back. He went inside quickly, and closed the door. For a moment he waited in the hall, but no sound came. The house seemed empty.
It was, he believed, and he smiled as he recalled the flash of inspiration that had told him that the house, rather than the ballroom, was the best place at which to make an attempt.
Rented by Carlos Ramon for his six months” sojourn in England, the place was deserted for that night, when Ramon and his wife were at the Ball; the servants, Mannering knew, had permission to be out. He had prepared for the possibility of meeting a caretaker, but he doubted whether Ramon would have taken that precaution.
Mannering hurried up the stairs, flashing a small electric torch to guide him. His rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the oak landing as he reached it, and his face was covered with the thin blue mark that he used as much to enable him to merge into a general scheme of darkness as for a disguise.
Silently he went along the landing. The first three doors he passed were unlocked, and he went on, but the third refused to open when he turned the handle.
He stopped, and the pick-lock slid into the keyhole. Two or three dexterous twists made the lock click back. He opened the door very quickly and stepped into the room. The moment was near now.
From two windows he could see a dim light streaming, light from the street-lamps. He hurried to the windows, experimented with the blinds, and discovered with relief that they were of the roller type. He lowered them silently, and then looked round quickly.
There was a slight perfume in the air, and he smiled, needing no telling that Carlotta Ramon had dressed in here a few hours before. He flashed his light on to the dressing-table, and from one of the drawers a few small trinkets rewarded him. He opened each drawer quickly and silently, finding a diamond brooch and an emerald pendant which made his eyes glisten. But he had no time to gloat over his success. He closed the drawers, left the dressing-table, and hurried to the walls, where he hoped to find bigger game. He lifted each picture, finding the safe behind a large oil-painting opposite the door.
He worked on it, quickly, patiently, efficiently.
Now that he was actually at work the excitement had cooled. He knew that he was fighting against time, and he could not afford to fumble. Within ten minutes he must be out of the house, together with the contents of the safe . . .
It clicked open at last.
Mannering’s heart leaped. Not since he had robbed Septimus Lee had he known such exhilaration as he felt at that moment. He put his hand inside the safe quickly, and three black cases, unlocked, yielded necklaces. A wad of small denomination notes followed the jewels into his pocket. A pair of diamond ear-rings and pearl solitaires joined the notes. He could not have found a richer plucking, and his smile was wide.
He was chuckling to himself as he slammed the door of the safe and turned round . . .
And then he stared at the figure in the doorway, absolutely dumbfounded. He had heard no sound, had no idea that he was being watched, but the man was there !
And he was holding a gun in his right hand.
Mannering’s head seemed to whirl as he waited, as he watched the man advancing towards him. He had been wrong, he knew, and he cursed himself for his madness. He should have allowed himself time to look through the house, to make sure that there was no watchman. He should have made sure from the Ramons, if necessary, whether they kept a man; but it was too late now.
The gunman stepped towards him.
It meant — the end.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A PATCH OF BLOOD
THAT MOMENT WAS VERY VIVID TO JOHN MANNERING.
The approaching man, the gun, the slow, almost stealthy movement, as if the other were expecting an attack, and the thumping of his heart against his ribs, remained in his mind for years.
He stood dead-still, staring.
His passiveness seemed to make the other hesitate. He stopped, two yards away from Mannering, and his gun moved threateningly.
“No funny tricks,” he muttered, half to himself. “And now take yer mask off, mister.”
Mannering’s mind was racing as he tried to find a loophole; but he did not move. The other’s voice took on an ugly note.
“If you don’t snap it off I’ll shoot,” he said.
Mannering managed to laugh, little though he was feeling like it. The sound echoed unnaturally through the room, and it sent uncertainty into the other’s mind. The short, stumpy fingers tightened round the handle of the gun.
“I’ve warned you . . .” he started.
Mannering’s heart was going more steadily now. He was doing what he wanted, taking the only possible chance by making the other nervous. The man had the gun, and had reckoned that he could instil fear into Mannering with it. Mannering’s silence unnerved him. The gun wavered. It was one thing to threaten and another actually to pull the trigger.
“Take your mask off!” The man’s voice rose again. “Now, listen to me, my man . . .”
Mannering’s right hand moved towards his mask, a gesture of defeat. He fiddled with it for a moment, while the other watched him closely.
Mannering was judging the distance all the time. Two yards separated them, and he could reach the man if he jumped. It would be touch-and-go whether he succeeded in preventing the gun from going off, but the chance had to be taken. He tensed the muscles of his legs, actually started to take the mask from his face.
“All right,” he muttered dully. “You win. . . .”
On the word “win” he jumped!
That split second seemed an eternity. He heard the man shout, saw the gun move up, thudded his fist into that heavy face, felt the jolt, heard the gasp of pain from the other, and heard the roaring of the revolver!