back; he heard the heavy key turn. The door opened â not slowly, as Bernstein would open it, because it was heavy; but swiftly.
He saw a man with a Homburg hat pulled low over his forehead and a handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth. Before he could dodge aside the man kicked him in the pit of the stomach. Pain surged through him, driving thought out of his mind, made him double up and stagger backwards. He fell. He did not hear the man run wildly towards the end of the street, and did not see the killer again.
He lay on the pavement, doubled up, his knees almost touching his chin. He must do better. He staggered to a kneeling position, and the pain was like a gigantic spider with steel legs, clawing at his vitals. Sickness followed pain, but that gradually passed, and soon he could stand upright.
The door was open. A light glowed on the landing, showing the stairs with their strip of threadbare carpet, the plain brown walls and the door which led to the shop. In the distance a car started up; that might be his assailant. He clenched his teeth as he went forward, and had to hold on to the door for support, listening for other sounds, but hearing only the distant hum of traffic, as much part of London as the air. There were no plodding footsteps of a watchful policemanâ
He left the door open and went to the foot of the stairs, leaning against the wall for support, feeling better as each second passed yet not trusting himself to walk naturally. He clutched the banister post, and called: âJacob!â
There was no answer; of course there would be no answer. He went upstairs, and by the time he reached the top he did not need to hold the banister rail.
âJacob!â
The door of the front room stood wide open and he saw the corner of the littered desk, the shape of the angle-lamp beneath which Bernstein read, or worshipped his possessions. He also saw what might have been a dark shadow on the floor between the desk and the wall. He put on the other light and went forward. It was not shadow but a body.
He felt as if a bucket of icy water had been thrown over him as he stepped to the angle-lamp, stretched out his hand to switch it on â and drew his hand back sharply. The assailant had touched the lamp to put it out; he might have left prints. Mannering took out a handkerchief and through it pressed the switch carefully. The white light shone out on the desk and the closed black book. He moved it a little, so that it showed the old manâs glazed, half-open eyes and the slack mouth; and he did not think that Jacob was alive.
There was little point in feeling for the pulse in the bony wrist.
First telephone Scotland Yard; then look at Jacob. He crossed to the far side of the desk, lifted the telephone, still using his handkerchief, but heard nothing when he put it to his ear. Then he saw that the cable had been torn from the tiny black box fastened to the side of the desk.
That explained why there had been no answer.
It didnât; the ringing sound had come, so this cable had been damaged since he had telephoned. He had probably been trying to get through while Jacob was being murdered, and in a fit of nervous rage the killer had silenced the telephone.
There was a kiosk five minutes walk away, and it would take more than five minutes to rouse neighbours and use their telephone. He turned back, bent down and straightened the frail body. He laid Jacob on his stomach, knelt astride him and pressed his hands into his ribs, gently at first, then harder.
After five minutes, he stopped, and tried the kiss of life, but there wasnât a spark of life.
Mannering hurried to the landing, swung round to face the stairs then stopped abruptly. A girl stood half-way up. She wore a dark fur coat and had wavy, bright fair hair. Startled blue eyes peered into his, bright red lips were parted.
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Chapter Three
Girl In Distress
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She was young; not beautiful, but vivid and attractive. The coat