The Mark of the Crescent by John Creasey

Author:John Creasey [Creasey, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Agora Books

CHAPTER 13

‘Chineside’

‘ALL ready?’ asked Loftus.

‘All set,’ said Hammond.

‘Then we won’t waste time,’ said Loftus. ‘Come on, George, stop squeezing Polly’s arm.’

‘I resent that,’ said George, leaving Polly’s side promptly. ‘I was urging her to go home. She’s looking tired out.’

‘It’s a good idea,’ said Loftus, but he made no effort to persuade Polly. She watched the three men open the gate of the house called Chineside and walk up the long, winding path.

Some men were in the grounds, some in the street outside, some in the grounds of the neighbouring houses. It would be virtually impossible for anyone to escape—if, thought Loftus, who felt a little blue, anyone was now within.

‘Bell, knocker or just forced entry?’ asked George.

‘Bell and knocker,’ said Loftus.

‘Okay,’ said George, and pressed the bell while Hammond banged on the door. ‘We shall probably scare ‘em into making a run for it, and they won’t choose the front door, so we shall miss the fun.’

There was no answer.

‘Let me show you what a wizard I am with locks,’ pleaded George. ‘I’ll have that open in half a jiff.’ He peered forward. The light from the flood-lamps was still bright, and when he stood on one side he could see clearly. He frowned. ‘But can I? A pretty nifty lock, that, and the door’s all wood. No glass to break.’ He tapped it. ‘Pretty solid, too. Windows?’

‘Go and look,’ said Loftus.

George disappeared from the porch. There was still no sound from inside the house, and when George returned, after a few minutes, he had an owlish expression.

‘Shutters,’ he said. ‘Steel, thick, locked. We could do with a spot of high ex., Bill.’

Then came a shout from the rear of the house.

George was on the porch one moment and on the drive the next. Loftus and Hammond exchanged grins, but did not move. If there were a sortie from the back, it might be a feint. The front door might be used for the main sortie because it seemed the most unlikely place. They heard nothing from inside the house, but there were scuffling noises at the back—and then, sharp and clear, the report of a shot.

At the back, a door was open.

There was no light from inside the house, but the glow from the flood-lighting showed George Henry George the open door and the men who were rushing from the house. The waiting police pounced on them. One man—a little fellow whom George recognized as Pimple Face, and who had nearly got free—used a gun. He missed the man at whom he fired, and was soon flat on his back.

George reached the open door a yard ahead of Mike and Mark Errol. Powerful torches shone into the scullery and then the kitchen, but the house was silent and they met no one.

Other men came in.

‘Room by room,’ said Mike Errol, ‘and don’t take chances, George, we want you to amuse us another day.’

‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ said George.

He took no chances; he frequently amazed the Errols as well as others by his competence.

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