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.
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
“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.”
Lorna nodded. She did not know why, but she accepted Mannering’s assurance without question. But there was one thing worrying her, and she pointed towards Bristow, who was lying at full length, still motionless.
“What about — him?”
Mannering could see the rise and fall of the detective’s chest, and he believed that the other would regain consciousness in a few minutes, none the worse for his knock-out, but very bad-tempered and with a stronger dislike of the Baron than ever.
“He’ll be all right,” he grunted. “The thing is — will Gerry get here first, or Tanker — the policeman? Oh, my dear . . .”
He broke off, white to the lips. There was a thud of heavy feet on the landing outside the front-door of the flat. Mannering’s face paled, but his voice was steady.
He held out the bullet to the girl.
“I’ll go,” he said. “If it’s the police get into the bedroom, wait for Gerry, and throw that down when he comes. I’ll keep them out — somehow.”
But he doubted whether he could. He knew that Sergeant Jacob (Tanker) Tring was a shrewd officer, and would have no hesitation in breaking into every room in the flat when he saw his superior lying unconscious; and if Tring got into the room in time to see Gerry Long outside the game was up.
As he turned the handle of the door he was wishing that he had let Lorna take the bullet out of the flat. She would have had time to get away; the proof would have been missing. But before he had opened the door he knew that he had done the only thing. It lessened the chance of dragging Lorna’s name through the mud, and if it was humanly possible that had to be avoided.
He pulled the door open, his face set to greet Tring.
And then he stood very still for a moment, staring at a large, solemn-faced man who was resting a heavy attache-case on the floor, and who was proffering packets of note-paper and envelopes.
“Would you care to buy . . .” The man’s opening words came smoothly.
“I’ll make you a gift,” said Mannering, recovering from the surprise and acting quickly.
The man’s face brightened at the sight of a free half-crown, but darkened as the door was shut in his face abruptly. He pocketed the coin, and walked on to the next flat, shrugging his shoulders and lugging his case, knowing nothing of the alarm he had caused.
Mannering hurried towards Lorna, who was standing by the door. She had known from his words that it had been a false alarm. Quickly he explained, and went to the window anxiously. The alleyway along which Gerry Long would have to come was empty.
And then Mannering’s face hardened; this time there was no mistake.
He could just see into Brook Street, for his flat was near a corner, and he saw the police car, which was
