Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

Taking the Blame: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
Taking the Blame: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
Taking the Blame: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
Ebook280 pages3 hours

Taking the Blame: (Writing as Anthony Morton)

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

John Mannering (aka ‘The Baron’) runs Quinns, an upmarket emporium in London’s Mayfair. He is often called upon to solve difficult crimes, but this one is different. ‘The Baron’ is himself the victim as Quinns has suffered a night time burglary. To make matters worse, a cold-blooded killing has taken place and now he is the suspect. The chase to find the culprits is on and it is a question of who gets there first in the face of both mystery and danger.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateNov 1, 2014
ISBN9780755138098
Taking the Blame: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
Author

John Creasey

Master crime fiction writer John Creasey's near 600 titles have sold more than 80 million copies in over 25 languages under both his own name and ten other pseudonyms. His style varied with each identity and led to him being regarded as a literary phenomena. Amongst the many series written were 'Gideon of Scotland Yard', 'The Toff', 'The Baron', 'Dr. Palfrey' and 'Inspector West', as JJ Marric, Michael Halliday, Patrick Dawlish and others. During his lifetime Creasey enjoyed an ever increasing reputation both in the UK and overseas, especially the USA. This was further enhanced by constant revision of his works in order to assure the best possible be presented to his readers and also by many awards, not least of which was being honoured twice by the Mystery Writers of America, latterly as Grand Master. He also found time to found the Crime Writers Association and become heavily involved in British politics - standing for Parliament and founding a movement based on finding the best professionals in each sphere to run things. 'He leads a field in which Agatha Christie is also a runner.' - Sunday Times.

Read more from John Creasey

Related to Taking the Blame

Titles in the series (45)

View More

Related ebooks

Thrillers For You

View More

Related articles

Related categories

Reviews for Taking the Blame

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    Taking the Blame - John Creasey

    Chapter One

    Theft By Night

    London lay sleeping.

    The two men on the roof of Quinns worked swiftly but made little sound.

    A third man stood in the darkness of Hart Row, placed so that he could see a policeman on his beat or a belated reveller.

    The night was cool; heavy clouds, threatening rain, hid the stars. Street lamps shone on the fashionable goods in the shop windows of Bond Street, at one end of Hart Row, but there was little light near Quinns.

    The men on the roof had placed a cowled lamp on the slates, and this shone on the hole they were making. For tools, they needed only a wooden wedge with a long handle. As each slate was levered up, one man took it away and placed it on a neat pile at the base of a chimney stack. The pile grew rapidly, the hole grew larger, until one of the men who crouched over it straightened up and grunted:

    I’m perishing cold. How many more are you going to move?

    Not many. His companion was masked, but the other’s face showed palely. We haven’t any time to lose.

    A car swept along deserted New Bond Street, its headlights spreading a broad, white glow which touched the roof. The men crouched very low. Long shadows of chimneys of the adjoining building crept towards them: then the car passed and they were in darkness again, except for the light of the cowled lamp.

    They went on with the job, but soon heard plodding footsteps in the main road.

    That’s a copper, muttered the man who had first spoken.

    Stop whining, Dale. Slim will warn us.

    He might have taken a powder, and—

    Getting the wind up? Through the eye-holes in his mask the speaker looked at the grumbler, whose face was in darkness except beneath the chin, which was touched by the hooded light. It made him look ghostly and grotesque. He had a square jaw and a thick neck, and was wearing a cap and muffler.

    If you can’t take it, clear out, said the masked man softly.

    "I can take it."

    Then stop bellyaching. The masked man’s voice was softer, mellower, the voice of an educated man; the other’s was much coarser.

    The policeman walked past the end of Hart Row, his plodding footsteps faded, and the two burglars went on, the rough-voiced man placing slate after slate against the chimney stack as his companion prised them up. Soon the hole was large enough for a man to climb through. Beyond it they saw thick, wooden rafters, coated with dust and thick cobwebs, and the reinforced plaster of the attic ceiling.

    That’s enough, said the masked man. Pass me that lamp.

    The thick dust, the age-old wooden beams and the cobwebs showed more clearly. A big spider moved swiftly to the centre of its web and curled itself up. The masked man stood the lamp on a horizontal beam, stirring some dust. Suddenly he clapped his hand over his mouth – and sneezed. He made only a soft, stifled sound.

    That’s right, wake ’em all up, the other muttered. Wake the whole ruddy town!

    Listen, Dale. If you can’t stand the strain, go down and relieve Slim, and send him up here. I was told you were O.K., but you’re going to pieces.

    I’ve never run out on a job yet, growled Dale. But I’m used to working with clever boys—they don’t go sneezing all over the place because of a bit of dust. Don’t talk so much, Bud, or I might get nasty.

    You’ll do as you’re told. Where’s the drill?

    All fixed, said Dale.

    He handed his companion a brace fitted with a large bit. Bud placed the point of the bit against the plaster and began to turn the brace. A soft whirring sound followed, and more dust flew. Bud worked carefully and surely, without putting too much pressure on the tool. As the bit went deeply into the plaster, the noise became louder.

    The bit went through the roof, and Bud lurched forward.

    Ah!

    Got it? demanded Dale.

    Yes, it’s through. This won’t take long now.

    You’d think we had all night, said Dale.

    The masked man went on with his job, without comment. He drilled half a dozen holes, close together, to make room for his fingers. The old plaster would easily crumble away once they could get a good grip. In Quinns, the tiny shop below, there was a fortune for the taking.

    There were jewels and objets d’art, paintings, porcelain, things of great beauty and value. Quinns was famous throughout the world, almost as famous as its owner, John Mannering. Quinns handled only rare and superbly lovely pieces, and chose them for their quality rather than their market value. In every corner of the world where men loved old and rare and beautiful things, the name of Quinns was known and respected.

    It was as nearly burglar-proof as man could make it. The men on the roof knew that, and also knew that the only way in was through the roof.

    Dale was nervous, this was a big job; but Bud seemed superbly confident. The plan was his, and Dale wasn’t happy about it; Dale didn’t like working with strangers. Bud had been introduced by a fence as a man who wanted a good cracksman for a big job – and also wanted a good look-out man, like Slim.

    The plaster began to crumble; soon there was a hole large enough for Dale to get his hand through. He pulled at the edges of the plaster. It came away fairly easily, in small pieces. They could have made a large hole quickly with a hammer, but a man slept in the building.

    In the distance, a clock chimed the hour; then Big Ben’s voice travelled clearly across the silent city. Other clocks boomed and donged; and when the bells stopped, the silence seemed more tense.

    Another car came along New Bond Street, but this time Bud did not stop working, although Dale watched the growing shadows tensely. The light disappeared and there was no warning from Slim.

    Little pieces of plaster dropped through to the floor of the room below, making slight sounds. The man who slept on the premises was on the floor below that. Such small noises wouldn’t disturb him.

    How much longer? Dale muttered after a while. One or two bangs with a hammer—

    Would save us half an hour and might land us in the clink, said Bud. Don’t be a fool. I’ve had more than enough bellyaching from you. I thought you were good.

    Dale snapped: I’ll show you I’m good! He gripped the edge of the hole with both hands and pressed heavily. A lump of plaster came off in his fingers. He grabbed to save it from falling, and laid it aside. "You want to work fast," he growled. He tried again, but this time couldn’t get a big piece off.

    Tiny pieces kept spattering to the floor below.

    Suddenly, a bicycle bell rang clearly. That was Slim’s warning.

    Listen! hissed Dale.

    Silence again, followed by heavy footsteps, a pause and a new sound – as of a door being rattled.

    The men on the roof could picture the scene below. A constable turning into Hart Row, trying the handles of the shop doors, shining his torch inside, seeing nothing to alarm him and going on to the next shop. There weren’t many shops in Hart Row, but it seemed an age before the policeman finished and his footsteps faded.

    Okay, said Dale, in an explosive little whisper.

    Slim isn’t asleep, Bud remarked.

    After twenty minutes the hole was large enough for the stocky Dale to climb through, and to shine the light down into the room. It lit up the pictures on the walls, others on display easels. The centre of the floor was empty except for two chairs.

    Forgotten me? Dale growled.

    Bud gripped his wrists as he lowered himself carefully through the hole. By resting his elbows on either side, he was able to hang easily, and hardly needed Bud’s help. He tried to hook a chair nearer with his right foot, but couldn’t reach it.

    Better hold me.

    Bud said: All right. Take it easy.

    He gripped Dale beneath the armpits. Dale eased his elbows from the ceiling, and dropped slowly towards the floor. Bud could just see his head and shoulders; the floor and pictures were blotted out. For a few seconds he took the whole weight; then it eased.

    Okay! Dale called softly.

    Two minutes later, both men stood in the store-room; Bud was the taller by two or three inches. The cowled lamp spread a dim light to every corner, and up through the hole. They would go out that way; it was large enough to climb through easily now, and there was a way out to narrow alleys, from the roof next door.

    They went to the landing. This was tiny, and a flight of crooked, wooden steps led from it to the next floor.

    The jewels were in the strong-room, which was possibly electrically controlled.

    Time we had some real fight, Dale said.

    Not yet, said Bud. Larraby might— he broke off.

    Who?

    Larraby, the man who works for Mannering.

    You know the place pretty well, Bud. Pal of Mannering’s?

    When I plan a job, I plan it. We’ll put a light on when we’re past Larraby’s room.

    So you know where that is, too, growled Dale.

    You talk too much, Bud said waspishly.

    Dale didn’t answer.

    He took a large, khaki handkerchief from his pocket and tied it round the lower half of his face. Only his eyes and the top of his broad nose showed beneath his cap.

    Dale led the way, carrying the lamp. At the next landing, he was more confident, and walked with a swagger. The stairs creaked, but not loudly. Three doors led off the landing, and each was closed. They reached the head of the staircase which led to the ground floor. This was wider and carpeted from the banisters to the wall. Small pictures, some miniatures and several gilt mirrors hung on the wall, the mirrors reflecting and magnifying the light.

    The shadowy figures crept down the stairs.

    Being inside had taken Dale’s fears away. He shone the light in this direction and that, to get the position of each door fixed firmly in his mind. Those who knew him well could have told Bud that he was always nervous when outside, but once inside was one of the best cracksmen in London.

    Downstairs a dim light shone at the back of the shop, a lamp which burned to show passing policemen that all was well. They slipped past this into a small office at the rear of the shop.

    You say the strong-room’s down below? Dale asked.

    That’s right—have to get the carpet up.

    Need to move the desk?

    Just back to the wall.

    Okay, let’s get cracking, said Dale.

    They placed the cowled lamp on a shelf, then lifted the Sheraton walnut desk to the wall; that took only a few seconds. They rolled back the carpet, and at first glance appeared to be looking at bare, unpolished oak boards. Dale’s experienced eyes soon told him that there was a door in the floor.

    It’s screwed down. Bud pointed.

    Okay, said Dale. Give me some elbow room.

    He now took complete control, found the screws which fastened the door, took them out and eased the door up. It creaked a little.

    After this, everything is electrically controlled, Bud whispered.

    One thing at a time, Bud. Dale raised the door up.

    A short flight of steps led downwards, and he could just see a steel door which led to the underground strong-room. He nodded, as he straightened up.

    Know where the main switch is?

    In a corner of the shop, Bud said. I’ll go and fix it. He turned towards the door.

    Hold it, said Dale, and there was a sneer in his voice, he’d gained confidence now that he was inside. I thought you were smart. If we touch the main switch, the light over the door will go out. The dicks would see there was something up before you could say snap. He opened his case, on the desk, and took out a small wall-lamp attached to a tiny battery. This will fool ’em.

    Shall we hear the bell in here, if Slim rings? Bud asked.

    He isn’t likely to ring it, said Dale. The copper only comes along Hart Row once an hour, that’s if he thinks the sergeant’s out. We don’t have to worry for half an hour. He took the battery set into the shop, stretched up and took the lamp out of its socket, and hung the battery lamp on a picture-hook.

    Now you can switch off.

    Bud turned to the corner, where the main switch was concealed by a small, wooden cupboard. The click as he pushed it up sounded loud. The light from the battery lamp was not so bright as that from the main current, but enabled them to see fairly clearly. They went back to the office, and Dale prepared to lower himself down the steps.

    Bud glanced over his shoulder—

    A little man with tousled grey hair stood in the doorway, with a dressing-gown over his pyjamas and a gun in his hand.

    Chapter Two

    Violence

    Bud gasped.

    Dale swung on his heel, saw the gunman, and slowly raised his hands.

    The little man in the doorway grinned, rubbed one eye absently, and lowered the gun an inch or two. Bud’s breathing was very loud behind his mask, Dale’s was hardly audible. The little man’s shadow reached almost as far as Bud’s – but they weren’t looking at his shadow, only at his face.

    You’re very wise, he remarked casually, staring at Dale. I think your friend should put his hands up too—it will be much better for him. Bud took the hint. "Thank you. I won’t keep you like that for long, just until the police arrive. I wonder— he paused, and his smile became positively cherubic. I wonder if one of you would be good enough to lift the receiver and dial 999? It would be such a help."

    Dale said: You dial it yourself, Larraby.

    You know me? Larraby looked surprised. Well, well! you needn’t make difficulties, though. We may as well get this business settled and done with quickly. If you won’t co-operate, move into the corner—the far corner—and keep your hands very high.

    Dale moved back.

    Bud said in a strangled voice: I won’t—

    I don’t want to shoot you, said Larraby, "but I will, if you make any difficulty. Into the corner, if you please."

    Bud backed away.

    Larraby stepped towards the desk and the telephone. His smile remained; his soft, chiding voice seemed to hover about the room. His gun kept both burglars covered, and they stood side by side in the corner. He stretched out his left hand to lift the receiver, and actually touched the instrument when a fourth man appeared in the doorway. Bud saw him and caught his breath, Dale didn’t move or utter a sound. Larraby stared at Bud, who couldn’t keep his gaze away from the figure in the doorway, then darted a glance towards the door.

    The man there flung something at him as Dale leapt forward. The ‘something’, a heavy stone, caught Larraby on the arm. Dale snatched his gun away before he could shoot; the gun hit the floor. Dale drove his fist into Larraby’s face and hit him three times, fierce, savage blows which made Larraby whimper with pain. Then the new arrival came behind the little man and struck him on the back of the head with a length of iron piping.

    Larraby collapsed, and lay still.

    Bud said in a thin voice: Have—have you killed him?

    What the hell if we have? muttered Dale. Now who’s bellyaching? Tommy, tie him up and gag him. Look slippy. Bud, go downstairs, I’ll come and give you a lesson in how to open a can. He laughed, harshly. Same way as I’ve given you a lesson in how to break in, mister. I arranged for Tommy to be around, just in case there was something you forgot.

    Yes, you’re good, Bud said. But Larraby’s badly hurt.

    Forget Larraby.

    Tommy, short, bald-headed and thin, was already tying Larraby’s wrists together behind his back. Blood oozed from a wound in his head, and spread gradually over the carpet.

    Bud went down to the strong-room door and Dale, with his toolkit in one hand and the cowled lamp in the other, followed him and set to work.

    It wasn’t really dark when Larraby opened his eyes. There was a tiny light from the back of the shop, the light which showed passing policemen that all was well. He didn’t know whether the hole in the floor was open or closed, because he was huddled in a corner and couldn’t turn his head. He felt desperately ill. His head was burning, there was a sharp pain across his left ear and his left’ eye. He was thirsty, too. Waves of pain kept crossing his forehead, and he groaned aloud.

    He closed his eyes.

    Soon, he lost consciousness again.

    John Mannering, absorbed in the first leader in The Times, murmured thanks as the maid put his breakfast on the table and ignored it until he had finished the unemotional and logical summing-up of the present international situation. It did not cheer him up.

    This was the third Wednesday in October.

    As he ate, he looked out of the window. He could just see a stretch of the silvery, sunlit Thames and the ugly blots of wharves and broken buildings across the river. Close at hand was a row of tall, terraced houses. The bacon was succulent and the coffee excellent. Here was a bright morning with the promise of a fine day, after the rain of the day before and the dark clouds of the night. The roofs and windows opposite glistened, and the cutlery and the damask table cloth shone in the rays of the autumn sun that streamed in through the open window.

    The small room was furnished with antiques. He sat at a narrow refectory table, on a chair with a slung leather seat which had supported men and women from the days of William III. There was no sideboard, but a Jacobean chiffonier almost black with polishing. It gave him a glow of pleasure whenever he looked at it. So did several pieces of Georgian silver. On the painted walls were old prints, gems of their day and fashion.

    One thing, and only one, was needed to make the picture perfect; his wife. Lorna was late this morning, which meant that she was taking great pains with her appearance because she had an early appointment; pity; breakfast would spoil …

    He heard her walking across the hall, and stood up as she came in.

    Sorry I’m late, darling, said Lorna. Had to get ready, I must be at Fotheringay’s by half-past nine. She walked with easy grace across the room, tall, dark-haired, dressed in a stylish black suit with a long coat, a white blouse frilly at the neck and cuffs. She sat down with that same, unconscious grace, and the world was suddenly a brighter place. How is the state of gloom this morning? She glanced at The Times.

    Stagnant, said Mannering. Coffee?

    Please. Martha, the maid, came in with Lorna’s breakfast. Thank you, Martha, I hope I haven’t let it get cold.

    "So do I, ma’am," said Martha, a cheerless but most efficient soul.

    How do I look? Lorna asked, when the maid had gone.

    Wonderful! Far too wonderful. There’s probably a young Apollo at Fotheringay’s ready to tell you that you’re beautiful and adorable and all the things that an unimaginative husband forgets until he discovers there’s competition. You know— he paused.

    Yes? asked Lorna.

    It’s time you had your portrait painted.

    Don’t be silly, said Lorna. She was an artist both of repute and real achievement, spending much of her time in a huge attic studio above the flat. Some of her pictures were showing at an exhibition of modern art at Fotheringay’s, one of the more important private galleries.

    I’m serious, Mannering went on. Self-portrait, perhaps, dressed as you are this morning—no, a self-portrait wouldn’t do, you’d be scared of doing yourself justice. Think Winship would have a go?

    What’s the matter, darling? Do you want to capture the little youth that’s left in me, before it’s too late?

    "I’d like something to remind me how you

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1