Free Hide the Baron by John Creasey Page B

the man on the other side of the road, lurking in the shadows. They crossed, stepping out as a car approached. Green Street was only twenty yards or so away from here. There was a large waste patch, where the houses had been rased; this was now in utter darkness; darkness which could hide murder.
    They neared it.
    The man behind them drew closer, and still made no sound. When he drew his knife, he hid the blade up his sleeve. He was only two yards behind, near enough to strike, when they actually reached the corner; a low wall prevented them from crossing the waste patch. He turned, also. In the distant fight of a street lamp, he could see Mannering’s figure clearly, and he knew where to strike, knew exactly what thrust was needed to reach the heart.
    Two yards …
    He kicked against a stone.
    The noise broke startlingly across the quiet. It burst upon the Mannerings, who were ambling, sharing those troubled thoughts. It made Lorna exclaim, with the alarm that unexpected noises always created; and it made Mannering spin round.
    He saw the man, with the raised knife glinting.
    â€œJohn!”screamed Lorna.
    The man lunged.
    Mannering knew that he couldn’t avoid him, could only lessen the viciousness of the blow. He jumped forward. The knife swept down, and cut into his coat sleeve with a slicing movement; the sharp pain hardly counted. He tried to close with the man, who realised that he’d lost his first chance, and swerved to one side, knife raised again. He slashed.
    Lorna was in the way.
    â€œ Jo —” began Lorna, and then her voice died away.
    Mannering could see her face, pallor in the darkness, could even see the glitter in her eyes. She swayed. The man with the knife was racing along the emptiness of Green Street, and Mannering let him go, having no possible choice. Mannering didn’t speak, but moved to Lorna. She fell against him, a dead weight.
    He felt an awful fear.
    â€œLorna, where is it?” he heard himself say. “Where did he hurt you?”
    She didn’t answer.
    â€œWhere is it?” he asked savagely, but it was with the savagery of his own helplessness. He raised his voice: “ Help! ”he shouted. “ Police, police! ”Now, Lorna was leaning against him, and his hands were exploring desperately, fearfully. There was no blood at her back, none at her neck, none on her arms.
    There was blood at her breast.
    â€œPolice , police! ”he shouted.
    She was still a dead weight against him, and would fall if he moved. He did not know what to do; just felt distraught. The suddenness of it, the fact that she had been cut down and might be dead.
    â€œ Fetch the police! ”he cried desperately, but he wanted a doctor, and he wanted to be able to pad whatever wound there was. The numbness of the shock vanished as a man in a small car drew up, and got out nervously. “Get to a telephone, doctor wanted urgently!” Mannering cried, and the words nearly choked him.
    Then he found the wound, on Lorna’s left side.
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    Three-quarters of an hour afterwards he walked out of the hospital in Tite Street, moving stiffly, looking straight ahead at the car park with a few cars dotted about. His own Rolls-Bentley wasn’t there, for he’d come with an ambulance.
    They were operating, and there wasn’t a thing he could do. There was hardly a thing he could feel.
    A car came along, swung round into the hospital car park, and drew up at the foot of the steps. A man jumped out, vivid in the light from the main entrance. He was tall, brisk-moving, dressed in pale grey. He saw Mannering and stopped. Mannering looked at him, knew who it was and, without a change of expression, went to meet him.
    This was Superintendent Bristow, of New Scotland Yard.
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Chapter Nine
Bristow of the Yard
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    That’s right, Mannering said savagely. She’s in the theatre now. There isn’t a man alive who can tell me whether she’ll ever come