Mannering nodded, and his smile was still encouraging.
“I shouldn’t worry,” he said. “The police will probably want to see you again. Stick to your story; you’ll be all right.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Long held out his hand impulsively.
“You’re a great guy,” he said, very simply.
Mannering suddenly remembered the wedding-reception.
“Here’s how!” he said, and for the first time that day Gerry Long laughed as though he meant it.
“That’s that,” said Mannering as Detective-Inspector Bristow and Sergeant Jacob (Tanker) Tring, having come from their hiding-places, awaited him. Gerry Long had gone, in a more cheerful frame of mind, Mannering believed, and the latter was satisfied that the talk had done some good. “If you care to believe Long had anything to do with it, you’re welcome. I don’t.”
Bristow fingered his moustache.
“It sounded genuine enough,” he admitted cautiously. “I’ll have a talk with him myself later in the evening.”
Mannering saw his visitors off, and went back into the room. Gerry Long had left twenty minutes before, and Mannering had strolled towards Piccadilly with the American, buying an evening paper on the way back. He had glanced at the front-page, and had seen what he wanted to see, but he did not show it to Bristow.
Despite the secrecy with which Colonel George Belton and the Wagnalls had handled the affair, the story of the robbery had leaked out. Mannering imagined that Mason, the stocky little private detective, had something to do with it. Mason had been angered by the way in which he had been treated on the previous day, and was of the type to want to get his own back.
The paper had exaggerated, of course. The five-thousand-pound necklace had grown into twenty thousand pounds” worth of jewels, and the story was as vague as it could possibly be. But the fact remained that publicity had been given to it, and, worse still, there was a list of the guests at the wedding on a centre-page. Gerry Long figured on that list.
Mannering felt restless. He was worried about Long, more than he had been before. The fact that there was a girl in the background complicated the affair. Men did strange things when they were in love, and Gerry Long was certainly in a state of very high nervous tension. In a few hours, Mannering knew he other man would have nothing to worry about, but those tew hours were the dangerous ones.
At half-past seven he telephoned Scotland Yard, to learn from Bristow that he had just seen Long at Belton’s house.
“I’m glad it’s over,” said Mannering. “How did he seem?”
“Worried out of his life,” said Bristow bluntly.
Mannering grunted, and rang off after a word or two more; he was in no mood tor a long conversation.
From his flat to Park Square was little more than half a mile, but something warned him to hurry for that journey. He hopped into a taxi, and waited impatiently for the short run to finish. He had a ten-shilling note ready for the driver, and did not wait to see the expression of surprise on that worthy’s face when he received ten times the normal tare. A queer urge inside Mannering made him hurry up the steps.
A trim maidservant answered the door. She greeted him with a pleasant smile, and told him that he would find Mr Long in his room. The Colonel and Mr Wagnall were out.
“I’ll go up,” said Mannering.
His feeling of impending disaster was very strong at that moment. He had difficulty in preventing himself from running up the stairs, and when he eventually reached the door of the American’s room he grasped the handle and pushed hard.
The door was locked.
Mannering went very still for a moment. Then he reached a decision quickly, drew back across the wide passage, and hurled himself at the door. He might be making a fool of himself, but he would risk that.
The lock burst from its fastenings at the third attempt. Mannering went flying into the room, and a single glance told him that his fears had been justified. He caught a glimpse of Gerry Long, standing near the window, and he saw the gun in Long’s right hand. For a split second Long hesitated, turning startled eyes towards the door. Then he raised the gun to his forehead. . . .
Mannering had gone sprawling across the floor, carried half-way into the room by the impetus of his effort. Somehow — afterwards he could never remember how — he contrived to twist his head so that he could see Gerry. The
American’s face, deathly white and thrown, into ghastly relief by the grey darkness of the gun, was like that of a ghost.
Mannering’s heart was pounding madly.
He knew that if he tried to get to his feet and rush the other he would be too late. A second lay between Gerry Long and eternity — and if Gerry died Mannering would never forget why.
“God!” he moaned, and it was a supplication.
He fastened his hand round the leg of a stiff-backed chair near him. He was still moving along the floor as his fingers found their hold, and he hardly knew how he rallied strength enough to lift the chair off the ground and throw it towards Long. As if in a nightmare he saw the chair going, saw the American dodge it instinctively, heard it thud against the wall and hit Long on the rebound; then, fast upon it, heard the report of the gun!
The explosion echoed through the room, sharp and ominous. Still on the floor, Mannering saw very clearly the wisp of smoke from the gun, the mark on Gerry’s forehead; he saw the other’s eyes close, saw his body begin to sag, heard the gun clattering, and then watched, fascinated, as Gerry slumped downward.
Mannering’s forehead was covered with sweat as he started to clamber to his feet. He was staring at Gerry
