“I shouldn’t take any chances,” grunted Bristow. He was hard and implacable, and he seemed to have changed into granite. “If this goes off it’ll be because you were resisting me in the execution of my duty. I’ve nothing to worry about, and you stand to risk another bullet.”
There was a tense silence as he stopped. Then Mannering uttered a short, high-pitched laugh.
“Let’s humour him,” he said to Lorna, and he hardly knew how to keep his voice level, for his heart was thumping fast.
Bristow’s eyes glinted. He watched the couple move towards the corner, and the glint changed from one of annoyance to satisfaction at Mannering’s words. Keeping his gun trained on his prisoners, he reached for the telephone. It was one of the new type, and he had no difficulty in talking and keeping his captives under his eyes. They were caught. Mannering might have moved and taken a chance, but he would not risk Lorna.
“Scotland Yard,” Bristow grunted. There was a pause. Then: “Sergeant Tring? Oh, Tring, come along to Mannering’s flat, in Brook Street, with two plain-clothes men and a woman. Yes, a woman. That’s all. Don’t lose any time.”
He replaced the receiver with a flourish.
That just about finished you,” he said evenly, and he smiled, more like the old Bill Bristow well known and liked in the East End. “I’ll admit you gave me a shock, Mannering, and I’ll admit it was luck that I found you, but — we always get our man.”
Mannering shrugged his shoulders. He contrived to smile, but he felt no humour. The end was coming, quickly, undramatically. His recent burglaries and his successes seemed to lose a great deal of their glitter.
He seemed to picture the crowded court, the judge and jury, the droning voice of the prosecutor. It would be child’s play for the Crown. There was hardly a possible line of defence. Even Toby Plender wouldn’t be able to do anything, clever though he was.
Mannering felt physically sick.
Bristow seemed to realise it, and naturally felt a malicious pleasure. It rankled deeply that he had been made such a complete fool, and even now he was wondering what Lynch’s comment would be.
“It’ll be in your favour,” he said, “that you didn’t try force, Mannering. And it’s luck for you that you don’t carry firearms.”
Mannering shrugged his shoulders again, and Lorna’s eyes were very wide. She was gripping Mannering’s sound arm, and he could feel her fingers trembling. Neither of them spoke.
“I suppose you wouldn’t like to tell me where I’ll find the stuff?” suggested Bristow, fingering his moustache. “It would save a lot of time.”
Mannering made a big effort.
“What stuff?” he asked. His voice was remarkably steady, and he surprised even himself.
There was a gleam of admiration in Bristow’s eyes.
“You’re game,” he said grudgingly.
Lorna broke out as the words left the Inspector’s lips. Her poise had gone now, and her breast was heaving.
“John — don’t let it happen! Take a chance. You can get away; you must, you must! You mustn’t let them get you. John . . .”
Mannering gripped her arm soothingly; her outburst gave him new strength.
“Steady,” he said. “There’s no sense in losing your head, my dear. Bristow’s got an idea that I’m the Baron, and he won’t be satisfied until it’s been proved to the contrary. So . . .”
Lorna swallowed hard. She looked up at the man at her side, and saw his face set in a strange smile. He would fight to the last, of course.
There was a fleeting expression of doubt in Bristow’s eyes, but it was gone in a flash. He laughed rather harshly, and moved his gun.
“That’ll cut no ice when we’ve found the stuff you took from Ramon’s,” he said. “And the bullet.”
“No?” Mannering was very cool. His mind was working at top speed, on one thing and one thing only. The bullet.
How could he get round that substantial piece of evidence? Was there a way out, other than losing the bullet? Must this be the end ?
“No,” snapped Bristow.
Mannering bent his head suddenly, until his lips were very close to Lorna’s ear. Bristow’s gun moved a fraction of an inch threateningly.
“No tricks,” he warned.
“Try and slip it in my pocket,” whispered Mannering. Don’t answer.” He straightened up, and grinned at Bristow. “Couldn’t we sit down now ?” he demanded.
The detective was bristling with suspicion.
“I’ve warned you,” he said, “and if you try any tricks, Mannering, you’ll make acquaintance with another bullet. I’ve had more than enough of the Baron — a lot more.”
“I find him a little too universal myself,” smiled Mannering.
As he spoke he moved, and Lorna slipped the bullet from her hand into his pocket. Or almost into it. At the critical moment he moved again, and the little lump of lead dropped to the floor. The plop came as Lorna gasped out in consternation. Bristow’s eyes glittered, and he made his first mistake.
He darted towards the bullet. Mannering saw him, loosed his left arm, and swung it at the detective with every ounce of strength in his body. Bristow realised the ruse a fraction of a second too late. He saw the clenched fist loom in front of his eyes, and then there came the sickening thud of fist on bone and flesh. Bristow went sprawling, his eyes rolling as he fell.
Lorna seemed petrified; the thing had happened so swiftly. Mannering swung towards the telephone while Bristow was still dropping to the floor. He had dialled his number before Bristow’s head dropped back, but he need not have worried, for his man was unconscious.
Mannering was almost frenzied with excitement, and his eyes were gleaming. The wait for the response to his call seemed never-ending. But a voice came at last, a rather sleepy and irritable voice.
“Hallo, there! Yes, yes?”
The Colonel, thought Mannering. And: “Let me speak to Gerry,” he said, keeping his voice steady with a great effort. “Yes, Gerry Long; quickly, please.”
“A minute,” grunted Colonel Belton at the other end of the wire.
The minute seemed age-long.
Bristow was still stretched out, unconscious. Lorna seemed to break through the stupefaction which had gripped her when she had seen the policeman go down, and her eyes brightened.
“What shall we do with it?” she demanded.
“Lose it, with luck,” snapped Mannering, “If this man keeps me waiting much longer I’ll . . .”
“But why can’t I take it?” Lorna almost cried the words. “I could get to the river, drop it down a drain . . .”
“And have the police pestering you, questioning you and your lather, your mother and . . .”
“But it doesn’t matter. You’ll be all right.”
Mannering’s eyes were very warm.
“You’re very dear,” he said. “But I think we can get away with it. . . . Ah! Gerry . . .” He swung round to the telephone, and Gerry Long, cheerful again now, answered quickly.
“H’m-h’m. Want me, Mannering?”
“Come to my flat,” snapped Mannering, “the back way. You came once before — remember?”
“Yes.” Long seemed to realise the urgency in the other’s tone. There was crispness in his voice at the other end of the wire.
“Stand in the courtyard,” snapped Mannering, “and catch the thing I’m going to throw out of the window. Then lose it. A drain, or the river, somewhere. And for God’s sake be here inside five minutes — less if you can make it.”
“Right,” said Long, and Mannering heard the click of the receiver.
He swung round towards the girl, and his eyes were dancing with hope. But there was anxiety in his expression, for time was precious.
“I think we’ll do it,” he muttered. “I wish to heaven you weren’t here, my dear, but it’ll be best for you to stop now.”