He didn’t bother to force open the smaller cases, but selected three that would fit easily into his pocket. He tucked them away, breathing very fast. There was no need to wait to shut the door, either of the strong-room or the safe; the bound and gagged guard would be evidence enough of the robbery.
He turned away from the open safe, and as he did so something slid down his leg. The unexpected movement made him jump, and the little thud as the thing hit the floor made him tighten his lips. He looked down.
Then he smiled, and passed his left hand across his fore-head. It was absurd, but one of the cases of gems had missed his pocket, and, as he had moved, had slipped to the floor. He was doing most of the things he shouldn’t do.
As he bent down to retrieve the case he saw the small gold plaque on it for the first time. He frowned a little, seeing an inscription. He read the words quickly, and as he did so his brows darkened, and his teeth showed for a moment in a mirthless smile.
For the inscription read, “To Lorna from Dad, Christmas, 1934.”
To Lorna! The girl’s eyes, humorous and resentful in turn, mocking and somehow suggesting disillusion, seemed to be in front of him as he stared at the inscription. Very slowly, and hardly able to explain the weariness that was passing through his limbs, he took the other wallets, expecting what he found. Both of them were Lorna’s, one from her mother, the other from Fauntley himself
Mannering’s eyes held mockery of himself just then. He knew that he could no more take the girl’s jewels than he could take the Gabrienne collection, and for a stronger reason. Call it chivalry, call it what he liked — he couldn’t force himself to rob her.
But there was still no humour in his smile as he turned back to the safe, although he laughed silently as he ran through the wallets one by one. The only jewels in there, apart from the Gabrienne collection, were Lorna Fauntley’s. . . .
“And I don’t know the combination of any of the others,” he said, his lips twisted. “I’m damned if I’ll take these.”
He felt the temptation to go back on that decision, and he shut and locked the safe-door quickly. A glance towards the guard showed that the man was still unconscious, and there was no sound from outside. He had plenty of time to try one of the other combinations. It wasn’t impossible to get them by experimenting.
He turned from the door of the strong-room, but as he did so he caught, for the first time, the faintest rustle of sound. His body went rigid, and he stared towards the window, A dozen questions flashed pell-mell through his mind. Was it a policeman — a late servant — or his imagination?
No — there was someone at the window. The sound came again, softly, warningly. As it reached his ears he acted, switching off the strong-room light to put himself into shadows, and moving very fast across the room, his gun clasped in his hand. His palm was sticky.
Not until he was half-way to the window did he see who it was; and then he pulled up short, and the realisation that he was seen — recognised — flashed through his mind. Recognised — by Lorna Fauntley!
She was standing by the open window, staring in, and even in the gloom he imagined he could see the smouldering mockery in her eyes. She was looking squarely at him. . . . God, what a tool he war I Of course she couldn’t recognise him: he had pulled the handkerchief over his mouth and chin, his eyes were hidden by the brim of his hat, and the mackintosh made his figure unrecognisable. She couldn’t know him. But if not, why didn’t she move ? She was standing motionless, almost as if she were challenging him.
It wasn’t until then that he realised that he had his gun trained on her, that it had been directed towards her from the moment he had turned round. She daren’t move without risking a bullet, and that discovery put another thought into Mannering’s mind. If she’d seen through his disguise she would have spoken; certainly she would not have been afraid of the gun. As it was, the gun was bidding her to be silent.
He smiled beneath the handkerchief, and now the zest for the game returned to him. There was danger here, and more than a spice of it, a difficulty to get past, a chance to exercise his wits — the Lord knew they needed it after tonight. Well, the gun had been the only talker so far, and it could keep talking for a while. He was ten feet or more from the window, and lie could see her clearly, even to the steady rising and falling of her breast. He motioned with the gun, beckoning her towards him.
She hesitated, and he took a threatening step forward; it carried the necessary persuasion, for she spoke at last.
“All right” — she might have been talking over the dinner-table for all the nervousness in her voice — “I’ll come.”
She climbed in, easily and gratefully, and Mannering had a fleeting glimpse of a slim, silk-clad leg and a trim ankle. The next moment she was in the room, and he jerked the gun, motion her back from the window. She obeyed, slowly, and now he could sec her eyes more clearly, and feel her contempt. It stung him, and beneath his mask his face went red, but he brushed the thought from his mind quickly.
They had turned completely round, facing each other all the time. Her back was towards the open strong-room door, and under the shadow of his hat his eyes gleamed suddenly. The strong-room, of course. He could shut her in there, and be sure she was safe and unable to stop his escape. It was the only way; not for a moment had he contemplated treating her as he had treated the guard.
The gun acted as spokesman again; she shrugged her shoulders, and backed a pace towards the strong-room. Two paces . . .
And then she stopped, her face flushed suddenly. Mannering went rigid, but he forced himself not to look away from her, although the sound that had jarred through the silence came again — a rattling at the library door.
Then he heard Fauntley’s voice, high-pitched and half-hysterical.
“Morgan — Morgan! Unlock the door — unlock it, I tell you!”
John Mannering knew that he had only a few minutes to get away; perhaps less than a minute, for Fauntley would raise an alarm immediately, and the windows would be guarded soon. He couldn’t think for some ten seconds, and then his mind cooled. For the first time he spoke to Lorna Fauntley, but he hardly recognised his own voice: it was a snarl, harsh and guttural.
“Get in, you!”
She was appalled by the sudden ferocity of his words, and she dropped back, pale-faced. He stepped after her, his left hand outstretched, but rather than let him touch her she turned and ran into the strong-room — a picture he would retain for many years. He had no time for smiling, though, and he slammed the door on her, turning the key in the lock quickly and leaving it there. Fauntley had called out twice, and then the sound of his footsteps had followed. As Mannering leapt towards the window a gong boomed out in the hall, loud and threatening.
That was the first alarm — and no one but Fauntley was likely to be about for another minute, while already Mannering was half-way through the window. He felt the asphalt beneath him as he jumped, balanced himself quickly, and raced, not towards the front-entrance, but towards the rear, which opened on to a small street leading to Park Lane. As he ran through the garden he saw first one light at the top of the house blaze, then another and another. He was breathing hard, but running well within himself. He reached the street safely. Should he turn right, towards Park Lane, or left?
He decided on the former, and shed his mackintosh as he went. In its pocket was the handkerchief with the false initials, and he had time to smile grimly as he dropped the coat to the ground, and then turned the brim of his hat up. He stopped running, and he was breathing more regularly when he reached Park Lane and turned towards Piccadilly. There was just one thing he wanted now — a taxi.