Without Lawful Authority

by Manning Coles

  Young Verrall had not been long in the force but had an unhappy knack of getting into trouble. He arrived hastily, tightening his belt and asking himself what on earth it was this time; it couldn’t be those apples.

  “Sir?”

  “You belong to some sort of acting club, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you think any of your members has a monk’s robe—you know, hood and all”—the superintendent gestured—“they would lend us for a few hours?”

  “There’s one belonging to the society, sir. When we produced Romeo and Juliet——”

  The superintendent snorted, and Verrall stopped.

  “Who’s got it now?”

  “Miss Gallagher, sir. She looks after the wardrobe.”

  “Oh lor’. You can go and interview Miss Gallagher. The superintendent’s compliments, and could she oblige us—all that sort of thing. Get a move on.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Verrall, and fled. “What’s in the wind now?” he asked himself, pedalling violently along the road. “Super getting up a fancy-dress dance?”

  “But how d’you propose to get in?” asked Bagshott.

  “Over the wall, like our friends. Only with two ladders, one up and one down. And a couple of constables to heave them about for me.”

  “You’ll be seen and nabbed, like the others,” said Bagshott.

  “Oh no, I shan’t. Everybody will be running to see what the loud bang is a quarter of a mile round the circumference of the wall.”

  “And what will it be?” asked the superintendent nervously.

  “A two-pound slab of guncotton hurled over the wall at an appointed moment by some of your fellows. You’ve got a man or two who served in the last war, haven’t you?”

  The superintendent nodded. “I did myself, for that matter.”

  “And you can get hold of some guncotton?”

  “I could, I think. But look here, this is all highly irregular; I should——”

  “So is Morley Park,” said Hambledon, “and we are going to regularize it.”

  * * *

  The patient who thought he was Saint Francis was sitting under a tree in the afternoon sunlight, engaged in what he called his meditations. He did this because he knew it was his duty to meditate, though he much preferred talking to the birds. It is difficult to meditate without letting one’s mind wander back, and it hurt him that his mind would not go back beyond a point where there was a loud bang and a flare of flame. This memory frightened him so much that it made him shake; he would get up hastily, abandoning his meditations, and go across to the warren and watch the rabbits playing about. It was very sad that they always ran away when they saw him coming; they ought to know he would not hurt them. If he meditated more, perhaps he would get the power of not frightening the rabbits, but there was always that terrible moment when one remem——

  There was an earsplitting roar quite close to him, a shower of clods and stones; and a small oak sapling sailed past his head and came down to earth with a crash. Francis leaped to his feet and ran like a hare. Run, run, there is danger. Why couldn’t he run faster? He used to be a good runner, only he didn’t have these skirt things hampering him. Why was he dressed up like this?

  He dodged round a clump of rhododendron slap into the arms of another monk who was advancing cautiously with his hood pulled well forward and his hands in his sleeves. Francis seized him by the arm.

  “What am I doing in this—this monastery? I’m not a monk; I’m a stockbroker.”

  “My dear fellow,” said the other monk.

  “I’m not even an R.C.; I belong to the Church of Scotland,” babbled Francis. “I ought not to be here; I’ve got a wife and child at home. Oh, let me get out!”

  The other monk took him by the arm and piloted him behind a group of hollies.

  “See that ladder?” he said, pointing to one which leaned against the wall. “There’s another the other side. Over you go. You’ll find some police outside; they’ll see you’re all right.”

  “You’re a pal,” said Francis, and shot up the ladder, overcame the connection between his robe and the barbed wire with a rending sound, and disappeared. The other monk pulled his hood forward again and advanced towards the house with measured strides. Two men came towards him, running, and one of them called to him. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”

  Tommy Hambledon turned his back on them, gazed dreamily up into a tree on which a starling was sitting chattering to itself about the bang. “Poor little brother,” said Tommy softly, “sing your lovely song for me.”

  “He’s all right,” said the other man. “Come on.” They ran on in the direction of the explosion, and Hambledon quickened his pace towards the house. He walked into the hall, which happened to be empty, and immediately recognized the large cupboard of which the superintendent had spoken. He tried the door, but it was locked.

  “Damn,” said Hambledon softly, and looked about him. He was in a square, ugly hall paved with black-and-white-marble squares; a large room furnished as a sitting room opened off one side, and a long passage, with doors at intervals, off the other. Hambledon looked round for some tool with which to force the door, but there was nothing, not even fire irons in the grate. “I suppose they don’t have fire irons in loony-bins,” said Hambledon. “Funny there doesn’t seem to be anybody about.”

  Down the long passage somebody was shouting and somebody else knocking from inside a door. Hambledon felt horribly conspicuous all alone; it only wanted someone who knew the real Francis to come along and look at him hard, and the game would be up. Create a diversion. He turned abruptly and walked down the long passage, opening all the doors. They were not locked; they merely had no doorknobs on the inside.

  For a long minute nothing happened; Hambledon reached the end of the passage and turned, and cautious faces began to appear in doorways. One tall man who looked like a soldier said it was most irregular; he’d already had his exercise. He went back into his room and sat down again, but the others drifted out into the passage and followed Hambledon into the hall.

  He looked them over as they came in; they might be prisoners and not lunatics at all; certainly they looked sane enough to him. Hambledon had never seen Kendal and had only a fleeting glance at Warnford and Marden outside Marybourne House. Then there was O’Dare whom he had never met either, and Finnis whom he remembered rather vaguely, though it was hardly likely the last two were here or, indeed, anywhere except in heaven, thought Tommy. Nobody there resembled Warnford or Marden in the least, though there was one young man who might conceivably be Kendal. He looked more like a spring poet than a Tank Corps officer, but one never knew.

  “Excuse me,” said Hambledon, addressing him. “Is your name Kendal, by any chance?”

  The young man turned an abstracted gaze upon him. “My name is Benvenuto Cellini, and I am also a cousin of all the Doges. I am a goldsmith of some small repute.”

  “Oh dear,” said Tommy inaudibly.

  “Your face reminds me of a pickled onion,” said the young man thoughtfully, and drifted away.

  A fat man with a good-tempered face came up to him and said, “It was extremely civil of you, sir, to open my door for me. I have been ringing for the servants, but nobody came.”

  “There ought to be some servants about, surely,” said Hambledon. “I have been wondering that, myself. There are generally people about here, aren’t there?”

  “As a rule,” said the fat man, “the attendants are assiduous in their duties, but perhaps they have all gone to the fair. Do you like clocks?”

  “Very much, thank you.”

  “Have you got one you could give me? I take them to pieces and repair them, though Marie says it is not suitable employment for one of my rank. But surely a king may choose what amusements he pleases?”

  “Certainly, Your Majesty,” said the tactful Hambledon. “Isn’t there one on the drawing room mantelpiece?”

  “Where? In there? Sir, you are
perfectly right, and I am much obliged to you.” The fat man made him a slight bow and trotted off into the drawing room, which was adorned with a large marble clock with gilt figures on it. The king tried to lift it and failed, so he levered it off the mantelpiece with a piece of wood from the unlighted fire; it landed in the fender with a satisfying crash and broke into a dozen pieces. The king picked the works out of the wreckage and retired to a corner with them; the others took not the faintest notice.

  “I have certainly let out the wrong ones,” said Tommy anxiously to himself. “I sure have,” he added fervently, and dodged out of the way as a tall thin man came loping in with an axe he had found somewhere and attacked the grand piano.

  “Ha,” said one of the others. “Firewood, eh?” and went to help him.

  There were quick footsteps in the hall, and the two men who had spoken to Hambledon in the park came to the door and looked in.

  “Gott im Himmel,” said one, “the lunatics are loose.”

  Hambledon turned his back on them and examined a picture on the wall.

  “Where are their proper attendants?” asked the other, speaking in German.

  “Locked up upstairs,” answered his friend in the same language. “They threatened to call the police back after that row when Goddard bolted, so we locked ’em up.”

  “Let ’em out again, I say. Police are bad enough, but raging lunatics are worse. Allmachtige, they’ve started on the chairs now.”

  “We can’t have the police here yet; it’s only another hour or so and we shall all be away; the Herr is arranging it. I will speak to them firmly; perhaps they will go back to their rooms.” The man, who certainly did not lack courage, advanced into the room, stopped, and suddenly yelled at the top of his voice like a drill instructor in a barrack square.

  “Attention! Back to your rooms, all of you. You have played long enough.”

  The man with the axe turned like a flash and swiped at him, hitting him a glancing blow on the head with the back of the axe, and the German dropped where he stood. The other lunatics, who were standing apathetically about, brightened up at this and began to close in on him, making unpleasant little growling noises, but the axeman merely started on another chair. The second German sprang into the room, menacing them with a revolver, but they took no notice of it. The tall soldier who had returned to his room suddenly appeared in the doorway, surveyed the scene, and said, “Most irregular,” in a disgusted voice. He saw the revolver in the German’s hand, picked up a long bar of wood from the ruins of the piano, and hit him hard on the wrist with it. The German dropped his gun, nursed his wrist with the other hand, cursing, then suddenly seized his unconscious friend by the feet and towed him out of the room. He slammed the door after him, but Hambledon could hear him in the hall outside yelling for somebody called Alberich. “Alberich! Come up! The lunatics are loose, and there’s hell to pay.”

  The tall soldier threw down his piece of wood, said, “Most awfully irregular,” and stalked out of the room, leaving the door open behind him. Hambledon saw him cross the hall, walk down the passage opposite, and turn into his own room again.

  “Got a one-track mind, that fellow,” said Tommy aloud, and moved near enough to the door to see into the hall. As he did so the door of the big cupboard opened and a fat little man emerged.

  He took in the situation at a glance, said, “The official attendants instantly released must emphatically be,” and bolted upstairs. The undamaged German heaved up his battered friend and bore him away somewhere into the back regions, and the hall was, for the moment, empty.

  “Now for it,” said Hambledon, and glided with artistic dignity tempered by haste across the hall and into the cupboard. He shut the door after him, noticing that it had a spring lock on the inside. A light was switched on in the cupboard by the shutting door, and he saw that a panel at the back had been slid open; through it he saw stone stairs leading down and another electric light at the bottom.

  “I wonder how many of the gang are down here,” said Tommy plaintively to himself. “I shall present a singularly easy target walking down these stairs. Oh, why wasn’t I a stockbroker like Francis?”

  He pulled his hood well forward again—the wretched thing kept on slipping back to display his face—and walked steadily down with a measured pace and his automatic, with the safety catch off, in his hand under the wide sleeve. At the bottom was a short stone-flagged passage with three doors on either side; the first door was open to a room with a table, a couple of chairs, and a good fire in the grate. The room was unoccupied.

  “The guardroom,” guessed Tommy correctly. “Then it’s just possible I’ve chosen the right moment. The other doors all have bolts on the outsides, and they’re all bolted.”

  He unbolted and opened all the doors one after another, and four men came out; the fifth room was empty.

  “You all prisoners?” asked Hambledon briskly. “Yes—I thought you might be. If you can get across the hall and down the drive unseen, lie doggo near the gate. The police will be here shortly. Don’t talk, go.”

  Three of the men murmured, “Thanks awfully,” and departed up the stairs; the fourth hung back and said, “Police?” in a doubtful tone. Hambledon looked at him attentively.

  “Hullo,” he said. “We’ve met before. Your name is Palmer.”

  “Yes, and I don’t know as I want to meet the police.”

  “Please yourself,” said Hambledon. “There are worse people than the police, you know.” He turned and led the way upstairs, with Palmer following irresolutely behind.

  “I think this is where I ring up the superintendent,” said Hambledon to himself. “I wonder where they keep their telephone.”

  The cupboard door was open when he reached it, and he caught sight of the other three prisoners peeping out of one of the passage rooms till recently occupied by the genuine patients.

  “Young idiots,” said Tommy crossly, “why can’t they do what they’re told?”

  He was delayed in his search for the telephone by the young man who thought he was Cellini. He came across the hall with his arms inconveniently full of bottles, gave Hambledon two of them to hold, and pushed him firmly into the drawing room. He appeared to have been exploring the house, for he had several bottles of eau de cologne, one of salad oil, one of methylated spirit, and a cut-glass decanter of whisky. The wreckage of the furniture had been loosely cast in a heap, and he emptied the contents of his bottles over it. Hambledon watched with horrified fascination while he struck a match and set fire to it. There was much stuffing out of chairs in the heap, and the bonfire was an immediate success.

  Hambledon dropped his bottles and bolted out of the room to find the telephone. “Probably somewhere just off the hall,” he muttered, and tried a door opposite. It was a small room furnished rather like an office, with a desk, a couple of leather armchairs, a grandfather clock, and a telephone. He sprang at it, dialled Exchange, and asked for the number of the Westerham police. While he waited for the call to go through he heard sounds of running feet on the stairs and someone saying, “But who let them out?” in an unmistakably English voice.

  “The official attendants instantly released have evidently been,” said Hambledon. “That you, Superintendent? . . . Hambledon speaking from Morley Park. Come along as quick as you can; there’s——”

  “Drop that receiver at once,” said a voice behind him.

  Hambledon turned and saw behind him a man whom Denton had described in detail, and he was holding a revolver very competently.

  “Blackbeard!” said Hambledon in a loud voice, hoping the superintendent would hear, and dropped the receiver, but not onto its hook. “Herr Richten, I should say.”

  “I think you had better put your hands up,” said the tall man with the black beard. “It is always done on these occasions in the best novels. I am pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Hambledon; I have heard much about you, but I hardly know what to do with you now I’ve got you. Since our countries are still at
peace—officially—I can’t very well shoot you. I can’t even stay and have much of a chat with you either, because I am leaving almost at once. My usefulness here has come to an end for the moment; I suppose I have you to thank for that. I have a very good mind to shoot you after all; you know too much about me, I think.”

  “I am not the only one,” said Tommy mildly.

  The fat man who thought he was a king strolled into the room and said, “Hullo, here’s another clock.”

  “Run away, there’s a good chap,” said Blackbeard quite good-naturedly. “There’s a much nicer clock on the stairs.” He kept his eyes fixed on Hambledon and the gun quite steady.

  “But this is such a nice big one,” said the king, and opened the door in the case.

  “If only he’ll get between us,” thought Hambledon, “I’ll rush Richten and chance his gun.”

  “Listen, Your Majesty,” said Richten, “if you’ll just go and call Alberich here you can have this clock all to yourself.”

  “I thank you, sir,” said the king statelily, “but I already have it.” He put his arm inside the clock case, and there was a sound of a chain rattling.

  “I really must go,” said Richten, and took a step back; Hambledon at the same moment stepped forward. “No, don’t do that, otherwise I shall have to shoot you.”

  For a wonder the king noticed this remark and resented it. “Sir,” he said, addressing Richten, “we cannot have this tone used to a friend of Ours. We are obliged to this gentleman for several courtesies already.”

  “Oh, go and boil your head,” said Richten irritably. “It might do it good,” he added under his breath, and Tommy bit his lip.

  The king withdrew from the clock case with a heavy weight on the end of a chain and examined Richten critically. A cloud of smoke rolled in from the doorway and made him sneeze, which added to his annoyance.

  “We do not like men with black beards,” he announced, and walked round behind Richten. The German half turned, but Tommy moved, and Richten faced round again instantly. “Clear out of this; get out!” he said in an authoritative voice, and the king snarled.