Without Lawful Authority

by Manning Coles

  “This is odd,” said Hambledon. “They’re looking for something and they don’t know where it is.”

  “It’s particularly odd,” said Denton, “their doing that in that neighbourhood.”

  “Really. Why?”

  “Several slightly mysterious occurrences have taken place in the Westerham district in the last half-dozen years. You, being abroad, naturally haven’t heard anything, but one or two of our people who disappeared were last seen near there, or going in that direction. Poor Finnis, for example; perhaps you remember him—yes, I thought you might. He was last seen leaving Westerham Station on his own flat feet and has never been seen since. Then there was a man named O’Dare who did very well in Russia and round the Baltic generally; you wouldn’t know him. He was supposed to be meeting somebody off a ship at Southampton and never turned up. A friend of his reported having seen a man he thought was O’Dare driving through Orpington in the back seat of a car—— There’s your phone again.

  “But he admitted he might have been mistaken,” went on Denton when Hambledon returned. “Still, it’s the same neighbourhood. Another pin?”

  Hambledon had spread out on a table the map which the innkeeper had lent to Warnford and was sticking pins into it at every point whence the passage of the car had been reported. A thin line ran from Marybourne to Westerham; one stood alone a little way down the Eastbourne road, but this last one was on the road to London.

  “Perhaps they’re packing up for tonight; it is getting late,” said Hambledon. “Be dark before long; we shall know when the next call comes through. Yes, it’s odd what you were saying.”

  “The oddest of all,” continued Denton, “was the case of an elderly man from America who was a professor of conchology at some university or other. I am never sure whether conchology is shells or bell ringing; I never saw the man, but I’m told he was almost too lifelike to be real. Thick mane of greyish hair which he continually combed with his fingers, glasses so strong that his eyes popped at you, and a passion for delivering lectures to everyone he met. There’s the phone again.”

  “Farther up the London road,” reported Hambledon. “I think this expedition is drawing to its close for the time being. Well, what happened to him?”

  “He disappeared from his Bloomsbury lodgings for three days, though I can’t say anybody worried much at the time. I mean he might have gone anywhere; he was his own master. Then the police found him, dressed in pyjamas several sizes too small for him, asleep in a dry ditch on Epsom Downs. He said a man came and told him that a fellow countryman from his own home town was ill at a certain address—they’d got the name right and the fellow was in Europe—and would he come? So he started, and that’s all he remembers, except grinding up a long hill with a bus just behind them, and the bus had ‘Edenbridge’ on the destination indicator. Well, here’s Edenbridge, all in the same district, you see. My theory is that these people, whoever they are, didn’t believe in him and roped him in for investigation. Then they found he was all right and threw him back. He doesn’t remember anything about his stay or anyone he met.”

  “Doped, I expect,” said Hambledon, returning from the telephone again. “I am getting tired of all this hopping up and down, but they are in London now; a little longer and we can go too, I hope. Yes, it looks as though there was some funny business going on near Westerham; you never found anything, I suppose?”

  “Not a thing, and I hope our friends are more successful.”

  “You know,” said Hambledon, “I was expecting a biggish house on a tidal estuary somewhere, with a natty boathouse containing a fast cabin cruiser or two. I can’t think what they’re doing so far inland.”

  “A country house, a good flat park—not too many trees—you could put an aeroplane down in a spot like that. And take off again if you weren’t too heavily loaded,” suggested Denton.

  “It’s an idea, certainly. In fact, if I don’t hear some definite news from our friends tomorrow I shall look for it myself. Surely it would be easier to spot it from the air? Can’t one hire an air taxi of sorts from Croydon?”

  “Oh, certainly. I think it’s a very sound idea now that we’ve some idea where to—— The phone again.”

  This time Hambledon came back laughing. “We can go home now,” he said. “Your car’s been deposited at the door of the Foreign Office. Two men corresponding to the familiar descriptions got out and asked for me. When told I was not yet returned the tall one wrote me a note, after which they both walked unhurriedly away. I am going back to read that note as soon as possible.”

  “How did they know,” said Denton, “that the Foreign Office was the right place to leave the car?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Hambledon. “Perhaps they just thought I’d like it. It’s quite a nice car.”

  20. Police Car Vanishes

  Warnford drove Denton’s car when they left the Marybourne constable indignantly handcuffed to the two alleged keepers; Marden studied the map and dictated the route.

  “I was sorry to handcuff that good chap,” said Warnford. “Right fork here? But it had to be done. We don’t know how many more of the gang are hovering about; they might have been released in ten minutes.”

  “Exactly. Left here and then right. You shouldn’t have given him that quid, though; that’s bribery and corruption.”

  “Nothing of the sort; it was compensation for inconvenience. He can charge me with assaulting and impeding the police in the execution of their duty—if he can catch me.”

  “Go easy, this must be the main Alton-Winchester road. Yes, it is. Turn right. What exactly do we do when we get to Westerham?”

  Warnford paused to arrange his thoughts before answering. “In the first place, I was very surprised to find it was Westerham. I should have expected people like that to have a place on the coast somewhere, a quiet inlet like Bosham Harbour—or quieter—or some backwater on the Broads. There is no possible doubt now that poor Kendal has been abducted by German agents who want to make him talk.” Warnford shivered suddenly. “That’s why we’re in such a hurry. But people like that want a quick and unobtrusive getaway; they don’t pass through the customs at Dover every time they come and go, not they. Especially if they’ve got an unwilling travelling companion. So I should have thought a fast cabin cruiser at the bottom of the lawn which sloped gently down to the water, as in all the best novels. I don’t think, though, that a cabin cruiser would be much use near Westerham. So I think we are looking for a property with a sufficiently large expanse of flat land to serve as a private aerodrome, and enough private property round that to make sure that even the doings on the aerodrome are not in the public eye. What do you think?”

  “If you ask me, I think it’s a dashed good thing we are looking for something large. Don’t you think Hambledon ought to know about this?”

  “I do, indeed. In fact, if we can find out anything useful—or even if we can’t—I shall ring him up this evening and tell him the whole story. This is a nice car, you know; I wonder who it belongs to. I wonder who the lanky bloke was who was pipped in the arm by the keepers.”

  “There might be something informative in the pockets,” said Marden. “Maps in this one, no name on them. A shopping list in a feminine hand: bacon, butter, 5½ yards pink celanese, whatever that is, and a scrubbing brush. The owner has, perhaps, a wife. Here’s something screwed up at the bottom, an envelope addressed to Mrs. Chas. Denton, Woodside Avenue, Blackheath. Does the name of Chas. Denton convey anything to you?”

  “Nothing whatever.”

  “Not informative to us, though we know now an address to return the car to. I’ll put these things back and try the rear door pockets.” Marden put the maps back and twisted round in his seat to reach the rear door pocket nearest him. “Hullo, there’s something slipped down between the seats. A long envelope, empty, with the route from London to Marybourne scribbled on the back, and it’s addressed to—who d’you think? You won’t believe it. T. E. Hambledon, Esq.
, Foreign Office, London.”

  “Good heart alive,” said the startled Warnford, “you don’t mean to tell me we pinched—— D’you suppose the long man was Hambledon? I hadn’t thought of him as being like that. So they’ve called in Hambledon on this job,” he went on more gravely. “They must think rather seriously of poor Kendal’s disappearance if a man like Hambledon comes down in person to look into it. I wish I’d known he was at Marybourne; it would have paid us to have a talk with him about it. However, it’s too late now; he’s probably left again—if he can get another car. I say, what a nerve we’ve got. D’you suppose he’ll put the police onto us? He didn’t know who we were”—in which Warnford was mistaken—“I can’t think what he thought when we just brushed him aside and pinched his car——” His voice tailed off in horror.

  “I should think it’s all right,” said Marden consolingly. “He was after those keepers, too, or they wouldn’t have been firing at each other.”

  “It does suggest a certain coldness between them, certainly,” murmured Warnford.

  “Well, we got them for him. I mean it’s obvious we’re on his side, as it were. He may have guessed it was us. Anyway, you can explain when you ring up.”

  “Not much good ringing up when he’s in Hampshire, is it? I should think he’d be pretty late getting back, especially without his car. I say, what a frightful gaffe; I go hot all over whenever I think about it. I’ve dropped some pretty resounding bricks in my time, but this——”

  Marden thought it kinder to change the subject. “How are you going to set about it when we get to Westerham?”

  “House agents,” said Warnford promptly. “Westerham’s a sizable place; there’ll be sure to be some there. We’ll ask a policeman.”

  They did this, and the policeman was most helpful. He not only showed them carefully where all three house agents were, but went straight to the police station when he left them and reported it. In ten minutes’ time Hambledon, at Marybourne 43, heard about it and was very interested indeed.

  The first house agent was out, and the office was in charge of a thin boy with pimples who didn’t know much. He was very sorry Mr. Bickerstall was out; if they would call back in half an hour when Mr. Bickerstall would be back——

  The second house agent was just the sort of man whom Warnford was hoping to find, friendly, talkative, and very well informed about the neighbourhood. He told them about the height above sea level, the soil, the subsoil, the water supply, the drainage system, and the train service to London. He took a short flight round the local notables and back to the Conservative Club, the Cricket Club, and the British Legion. He admitted the rates were a bit on the high side, but you got value for your money in Westerham. The electricity supply——

  “I gather from some names you mentioned,” said Warnford, “that there are some pretty large properties in the neighbourhood.”

  There were; yes, there were. But that only added to the amenities of the district, because none of the gentlemen concerned were at all exclusive as regards their properties. There were public roads across all of them, besides bridle paths and footpaths; there were some delightful walks in the neighbourhood. “In fact, there’s only one place near here which is closed to the public, and you wouldn’t want to go there anyway,” said the house agent, laughing pleasantly.

  “What’s that?”

  “Morley Park. It’s about two miles out on the Eastbourne road. It’s a private mental home.”

  “I say. That’s not too pleasant, is it?”

  “Never had any trouble from there, my dear sir, never. In fact, from what I hear, it’s such a marvellous place that it’s quite a privilege to be a lunatic. Huge great house, not picturesque, but comfortable, excellent gardens, and a very large park. And a high stone wall all round with barbed wire on the top. A gilded cage, in fact—quite the gilded cage.”

  “Oh. Who’s it run by?”

  “The mental specialist in charge is a Dr. Goddard. I have an idea the place is financed by someone else, but I don’t know who. That may not be true. I should think it’s a paying proposition, the prices they charge. But why are we talking about lunatic asylums when what you want is a perfectly sane cottage with some rough shooting? I will make out orders to view the three places I mentioned to you, and perhaps you’ll have a look at them and tell me what you think of them.”

  When they eventually got away from the house agent it was nearly seven and already getting dusk. “We can’t do much tonight,” said Warnford. “Suppose we just run down and have a look at the place to be quite sure where it is. After that I think we’ll drive back to Town, return this car to the Foreign Office, and come again tomorrow morning in the Bentley. Two miles out on the Eastbourne road, he said.”

  They came first to a high wall with three strands of barbed wire on the top and followed this to the entrance gates, tall iron gates, very strong and heavy, with matching lodges on either side. The gates were shut, and inside were two men lounging against the wall of one of the lodges.

  “Remember the taller of the two keepers?” said Warnford softly. “These men might be his brothers.” He pulled the car round, drove up to the gates, and hooted. The men inside came up to the gates but made no move to open; one of them looked between the bars and shouted, “What d’you want?”

  Warnford leaned from the side window and said haughtily, “My good man, mend your manners. Is His Grace at home?”

  “Who?”

  “His Grace the Duke.”

  “We’ve got no dukes here as I know of.”

  “What place is this?”

  “Morley Park Mental Home. No admittance except on business,” added the man impertinently, and the other grinned.

  “We’ve come to the wrong place,” said Warnford to Marden in a tone audible to the gatekeepers. “I might have known the duke would never employ louts like that.” He backed the car away from the gate and moved away again towards Westerham, Marden watching the gatekeepers, who had turned their backs on the gate and were strolling slowly up the drive.

  “Those men also have been recently drilled,” he said. “Look at the set of their shoulders.”

  “The gentle Nazi to the life,” said Warnford, “and heaven help the poor lunatics. This place is big enough in all conscience. I think we go back to Town now and report to Hambledon.”

  “I wonder if there really are any lunatics there.”

  But when they reached the Foreign Office and asked for Hambledon they were told he had not yet returned. Warnford looked conscience-stricken but said nothing in reply, only asking if he might leave a note. He was given the necessary materials and wrote hastily: “Dear Mr. Hambledon, I can’t apologize enough for having pinched your car; I didn’t know it was yours. We have our very serious doubts about Morley Park, Westerham, which is alleged to be a lunatic asylum. We are going there tomorrow morning to look for Kendal; if you don’t hear from us again soon you will know we were right.” He sealed up the envelope, told the Commissionaire to be sure to let Mr. Hambledon have it as soon as he returned, and walked out to find Marden waiting for him with his back carefully turned to an adjacent policeman.

  * * *

  It was late that night when Hambledon got back to the Foreign Office, but he read Warnford’s note, tossed it across to Denton, and rang up Scotland Yard.

  “Is Chief Inspector Bagshott still there? . . . Good. Could I speak to him, please? . . . Bagshott, this is Hambledon speaking from the Foreign Office. I’m sorry to bother you, but could you come round here? I’ve got something important to tell you. . . . I know, I haven’t had dinner myself yet. . . . Never mind, you can go to bed early tomorrow night—perhaps. And perhaps not. . . . Right; thanks very much.” He replaced the receiver. “He says he wants to go home to supper and bed. Poor man, how little he knows me. Let me see, Butler Vokes said, didn’t he, that the police didn’t seem to be worrying much about the young master? I’ll worry ’em. You’d better go home and get your arm tied up properly; I�
��ll ring you up in the morning and tell you what’s happening. You’d better take three days off and see the doctor. My regards to your wife.”

  Chief Inspector Bagshott arrived, and Hambledon unfolded the whole story of Kendal’s disappearance, his own visit to Marybourne, and Warnford’s intervention. “I’ve got an important appointment at eleven,” he said, “but I’m going to Westerham as soon after that as I can. You’d better come, too, with all the police you can muster, and the bigger the better.”

  Bagshott said that the police did not as a rule leap immediately upon the trail of young gentlemen reported recently missing by their loving female relatives. They usually turned up again with a much better story than anything the police could think up. This case, however, was obviously different, and he would take any steps in the matter which Hambledon suggested. Also, he would enquire what was known about Morley Park Asylum. “These places all have to be licenced, you know, and are open to inspection by the proper authorities.”

  “Yes. I expect it seems all right, but we’ll see. Any other news about anything interesting?”

  Bagshott was just in the act of saying that an atmosphere of humdrum virtue appeared to have settled deeply over the British Isles, when Hambledon’s telephone rang. He said, “Excuse me,” and lifted the receiver. “Yes, he’s here. Hold on just a moment. . . . Call for you,” he added to Bagshott, handed over the receiver, and strolled tactfully out of the room.

  When he returned the telephone conversation was over and the chief inspector was staring into vacancy with just the concentrated expression of one completely foundered in The Times crossword puzzle. He looked up when Hambledon came in and said, “I spoke too soon just now about nothing happening. An odd event took place half an hour ago. At eleven-thirty, to be exact; it’s just on midnight. A police car containing a prisoner, escort, and driver have disappeared entirely from the Kingston by-pass; car, escort, and prisoner all complete, and they can’t be found anywhere.”