by John Creasey
‘I haven’t looked at the reports yet,’ said Dando. ‘I can’t burn the candle both ends.’
‘I’ll leave you to your mail for ten minutes,’ said Bristow. He nodded vaguely, and went off. In the cloakroom, he took out the card from Mannering.
Much of the brightness faded from that morning. ‘I didn’t kill Holmes, of course.’ Just a flat statement, put down almost casually. The rest of the letter was characteristic of Mannering. Cheerful, confident, saying a great deal in a comparatively few words. That Mannering was working on the ‘case’; knew that he dared not give himself up; and, in the postscript, suggesting that the affair might be concerned with Dando’s skeleton in the closet – smuggling.
The cloakroom door opened and Bristow glanced round, expecting to see one of the Cornshire detectives. Instead, Chittering strolled in, one hand in his pocket.
‘Hallo, Bill!’
‘What the devil are you doing here?’
‘Come to see if there’s any news,’ said Chittering. ‘I’m funny that way. Perhaps it’s because I have to earn my living. Anything from Mannering?’
‘No.’
‘Police baffled. Nice headline, if not original. Too bad. Not a simple job, Bill, is it?’
‘You’re too familiar,’ growled Bristow.
‘Touchy on a nice bright morning like this. Sorry, Super! But I’m by way of being a friend of the great John. Same like you. And the last time we met, you were almost garrulous. I take it the news is bad?’
‘There isn’t any.’
‘H’m, pity.’ Chittering ogled him in disbelief. ‘Personally, I don’t believe you. Who’s the billet doux from?’ He looked pointedly at the letter-card.
Bristow drew a deep breath.
‘Now look here –’ he stopped abruptly, hesitated, and then – a sense of humour had always been Bristow’s saving grace – he broke into a chuckle. ‘All right, Chitty. I don’t see why you shouldn’t know, off the record.’
Chittering raised his eyebrows.
‘Okay – let’s have it.’
‘I’ve had a note from Mannering. He doesn’t say much, except to deny that he killed Holmes and expects to be able to prove it. You might care to let Mrs. Mannering know that he is all right.’
‘Delighted. Pity we can’t publish that letter, though. Would it do any harm?’
‘It might.’
‘Okay, I’ll be good,’ said Chittering resignedly. ‘But if there is a story in it later, you’ll think of me, won’t you?’
‘You’ll have it first.’
‘Mucho gracias.’ Chittering looked at Bristow through his lashes. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t know, and I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’ve a feeling that things won’t hang fire much longer. Reaching a climax, so to speak.’
Any reason for saying that?’
‘Just an opinion. I can’t say more. Er—you got the same feeling?’
Bristow shrugged his shoulders.
They went out of the cloakroom together, and outside Dando’s door, Chittering touched his forehead in mock humility, and said: ‘Good morning, Mr. Bristow.’
Bristow took his arm, and pressed firmly.
‘Just a minute, Chitty. You aren’t fool enough to keep anything back from me, are you. Mannering hasn’t been in touch with you?’
‘William! What an idea.’
‘I know you, and I know Mannering. But you will come a cropper if you try to do any investigating yourself, and don’t forget it.’
‘I’m just a hack reporter. If I get a lead, I’ll come running to you with it.’
‘See that you do,’ grunted Bristow.
Chittering grinned, and went off. Bristow went into Dando’s office, and found him with the letters spread out on the desk. ‘Well how does it go?’
‘Nothing really fresh. A report from Galliard’s place – the two girls haven’t come out. My man hasn’t been able to find out their names. We might try to force an issue, if they’re the Bellamy girls. That’s about all. Nothing new from the houseboat – no one’s there now, they’ve all returned to Hallen House. Arrived last night. An hour after Harrison had gone in, all the lights at the house went out, and came on again ten minutes later.’
‘Fault in their generator, possibly,’ said Bristow. ‘It didn’t happen anywhere else – my night-duty man checked up.’
‘Thorough fellow,’ said Bristow. ‘Nothing else?’
‘No.’
‘What about this smuggling?’
Dando looked wary. ‘Now look here. You yourself said that the first consideration was Mannering, and the smuggling secondary. We can’t take the smuggling for granted, anyhow. I’m going all out to trace it if I can. That man Lark might have something to do with it. I’ve begun inquiries about him and the people with whom he’s friendly. Perce Grey—remember him?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s well-known throughout the town, especially in the liquor trade and among the poorer people, and he’s a London East Ender. Two or three East Enders have taken over pubs here in the last year or two. I’m going to have Grey closely watched. After he was released, Lark went back to his pub, remember. He hasn’t stirred from there – nor has his friend Jackie – and they’ve had no callers. We’ve got to be patient and keep our eyes on everyone with whom Mannering might get in touch, and we might find a smuggling end.’
‘Yes, that’s all right.’
It wasn’t such a bright day after all.
‘Oh, one thing did come in,’ said Dando. ‘Confirmation from the Yard about the finger-prints on that lock and the cabinet. They’re Mannering’s.’
‘He’s got himself into a fine old corner,’ said Bristow. ‘But he doesn’t seem down-hearted.’
He took out the letter-card.
Two minutes later, Dando put a call into the Bristol Police Headquarters, and Bristow, getting up, glanced out of the window and saw a Lancia being driven slowly along the High Street. He remembered the man with the battered face getting into it. Must have had quite a beating-up. Dando was talking to Bristol, while the Yard man made up his mind to see Galliard and the girls.
It was a waste of time.
Kathleen was in bed, on doctor’s orders. Galliard said that they were old friends, and were staying with him for a rest – because the moor got on their nerves. A pale-faced and subdued Stella, stuck to what she had said on the house-boat.
Bristow’s hopes for that day had faded completely.
Lorna had one thing to cling to, during the day: Chittering’s message. If John felt confident enough to write to Bristow, he must be sure of himself.
Mannering had spent the night at the Red Lion, a small hotel at the far end of the town. No questions were asked about his battered appearance and lack of luggage. When he woke up, his face was a discoloured mess, very stiff and painful. After cleaning his clothes, he went to a chemist opposite to the police station for a healing lotion, returned to the hotel, bathed his face and dried it gingerly, then returned to the High Street. He had arranged by telephone to see Chittering outside the King’s Head at half-past ten; but Chittering wasn’t there.
He drove out of town before midday, and stopped for lunch at a country inn on the edge of the moor. The inn was in the middle of a small village, a cluster of cottages, one shop, a garage, and a church with a fine Norman tower. Hallen House, he knew from a careful study of the map, was nine miles away. This was the nearest village of any size – only a small hamlet was any nearer to the house. He had been assured by the owner of the Corwellin Arms that this place was ‘safe,’ which probably meant that it was a link in the chain of smuggling in the district.
Whether Bellamy was concerned with the smuggling didn’t matter; Ashton at Hallen House was his chief concern now. An old man, prisoner for twelve months, victim of a sadist. Through the whole affair Bellamy’s cruelty and love of inflicting mental torment showed like a murky red glow.
How to find Ashton?
There must be a strong-room at
Hallen House, and probably vaults. He conjured up a mental picture of Harrison creeping into the Great Hall with a candle, and the rest of the house in darkness. Generator failure? It might be, as there was a plant at the house. But the window of the jewel-room had been electrically locked. But supposing the current had been switched off so that electrically controlled doors could be opened.
Could he break past such defences? Was he justified in trying to? Even now – could he find out the truth in any other way?
And also free Ashton?
A meek little waitress came towards him in the lounge after lunch.
‘Please, sir! The telephone.’
‘For me?’
‘Yes, sir, for Mr. Browning.’
‘Thanks.’ Mannering forced a smile as he rose to his feet, but he didn’t like this. Who knew he was here? Had Lark talked about ‘Browning’ after all?
The telephone was in a secluded corner.
‘Hallo.’ He used the harsh voice.
‘Perce Grey ‘ere,’ said the man at the other end of the telephone. ‘I’ve been trying everywhere to find yer.’ They were loyal.
‘Why?’
‘It’s Larky,’ said Grey. ‘’E’s in bad. I dunno if you can help. ‘E …’
He talked swiftly. No one knew for certain where Lark had gone, but probably to Hallen House. If Bellamy didn’t mean to put him in bad, he wouldn’t have sent Harrison to do the rough stuff, would he?
No. And there was no longer any lingering doubts about what Mannering must do.
All right, Perce,’ said Mannering. ‘I’ll see what I can fix.’
That afternoon, a local bus took a letter addressed to Chittering at The George, giving him precise instructions. And Mannering booked a room at this inn for the night.
Mannering drove away at half-past eight, and after three miles turned off the Corwellin Road. According to the map, he would strike the road which led from Corwellin to Hallen House near the bridge where he had fallen off the motor-cycle.
Soon, he switched off his headlights.
It was difficult going; the sidelights gave only a dim glow. But the police were probably watching Hallen House and headlights could be seen for miles around.
Bellamy probably had a close watch kept, too.
He crossed a narrow bridge over a stream; it was not the bridge where he had fallen on the motor-cycle. He slowed down, travelling at no more than twenty miles an hour, his eyes strained to pick out the faint trail of the road. He came to a junction; this was probably the road he was looking for; he had to turn right.
He made the turn, and turned off the sidelights.
The stars gave a dim light, but he could hardly see the road, and the car lurched and rattled from side to side. Ten minutes of such driving was enough for him. He drove behind some bushes, and carefully noted the spot.
As he climbed out, a keen wind made him shiver.
He could see only the starry sky, and the dark shapes of the Lancia and the bushes.
He ran through his pockets, checking that he had all the tools which Lark had returned to him, and the Luger which he had taken from Harrison. He put that in his coat pocket, the others he stuffed into his hip pocket. He stepped on to the road and walked towards Hallen House, which was at least two miles away.
His footsteps were loud on the rough road, and he stepped on to the moorland. Here the grass was slippery, and he kept catching his feet in heather which grew close to the ground, but he made little noise. After a while, he began to long for a cigarette; but if the police were watching, they would see the flare of a match; it might even be visible from Hallen House.
Suddenly a tiny flash broke the darkness.
Standing quite still, he peered across the moor, and made out a man’s face, then another, probably two hundred yards away. The flame died down and fell to the ground. He could no longer see the faces, but two little glowing red dots told him that the watchers on the moor had given way to the temptation to light cigarettes.
He smiled to himself as he made a wide detour.
He could still see the cigarettes glowing and, now when he was on low ground, saw the rocks behind which the men were sheltering. The stars were blotted out by the ragged outline. The red glows faded behind him, but he had lost the road, and it was not easy to find his way back.
There were no lights at Hallen House, or he would be able to see them.
One could easily get lost on the moors. He remembered the picture of bleak desolation which it had by day. Another light flashed – then another.
Hallen House appeared in a blaze of lights which came from half a dozen windows. It seemed very near – not half a mile away. He stood silent, watching, trying to judge which rooms were lighted up. The front door and the hall were in darkness.
He peered at the dial of his luminous watch; it was half-past ten.
He walked over the rough grass, slipping and sliding now and again, until he could see the trees which lined the drive. He heard a throbbing noise which he couldn’t place.
One of the ground floor lights went out; another.
They were going to bed.
But there would be men on guard. Bellamy would take precautions against a sudden swoop by the police. Mannering reached the wall.
He stood beneath it and reached up, touching the broken glass on the top. He felt along, until he could get a grip without cutting his hands.
He hauled himself up. The old excitement made his nerves tingle.
He climbed over and dropped down into soft earth. The deep throbbing note still broke the quiet; a petrol engine, probably generating electric current for the house; but he hadn’t heard it before.
Another light went out. Only one was on, now – on the first floor; Harrison’s room. There might be others at the back or on the far side, but that didn’t matter. He crept forward to within a few yards of the drive, and listened quietly.
He could hear a man’s footsteps. There were two men. They walked past him; he could have touched them.
He waited until they were at the end of the drive, then crept closer to the house. He was on the side nearest the garage.
The throbbing noise grew louder as he neared it. Apart from that he could only hear the whistling of the wind.
He stepped on to the asphalt of the drive near the garage, as the engine’s regular throb was interrupted. It stopped, with a gurgling, rumbling sound, and fell silent. Now all seemed still.
Had they deliberately turned off the current? Or had the last light in the house been switched off as a man got into bed? The plant was probably operated from the switches, and did not run unless current was being used. But if it weren’t in use now, the electrical devices at the windows and the strong-room could not be operating.
He entered the garage, and using his torch, he approached the engine. There was a strong smell of petrol.
Ah! There was another plant, a battery set; so they were used alternately, there was no mystery about that.
He found the main switch and pushed it up – off.
Still no sound. He approached the back door.
The lock would take five or ten minutes to force. He took out his tools, trying the skeleton key first; no use. He ran his fingers over the lock fittings and touched the heads of the countersunk screws. He took out his screwdriver.
He had three of the four screws out and in his pocket, when he heard footsteps.
He moved swiftly towards the garage, and waited there. Two men were talking this time, and their footsteps rang clearly on the asphalt. They passed him, without troubling to try the back door lock. When they were out of earshot, he went back to the door.
The fourth screw soon came out.
He pulled the facing of the lock away, and switched on his torch. The mechanism was bared; he could press the barrel back now. He used the screwdriver; there was a familiar sharp click as the lock went back.
He stepped into the darkened hallway, then into the passage which led to the front hall. O
il lamps flickered in the draught, so the battery set wasn’t in use for ordinary lighting purposes.
He went along on tiptoe. The silence in the house was unnerving.
He opened the door leading to the entrance hall. A single oil-lamp was burning on the table where once a guard had been. Was a man here now?
If so, would he notice the door ajar?
Mannering opened the door wide and stepped boldly into the hall.
No, no one was there! Bellamy was relying on the two men outside.
Mannering went to the door of the Great Hall.
It was padlocked, just as it had been when Bellamy had wheeled his chair towards it and taken out a key, but there was light enough for Mannering to work by. He used the skeleton key, and after two minutes the padlock opened; he took it out of the hasp and let it hang.
Now for the main lock.
It was more formidable, but to force it would be only a matter of time. The simplest method was to unscrew the lock and remove it; the danger was that anyone who came would see that it had been forced.
In any case the padlock would be noticed.
He took out the screws, and they jingled in his pocket. He was alert for any warning sound, but the house seemed dead.
He slid back the lock.
Slowly, he turned the handle and pushed one of the great doors. It opened, creaking slightly. Beyond there was only darkness, a great black void.
He stepped inside and closed the door. Darkness and silence, except for the fluttering of his heart and the blood drumming in his ears. He switched on his flashlight.
The pale beam stabbed the darkness, and he began to swivel it round.
Next moment, another light came on!
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Vaults
For a wild moment Mannering thought that he had been fooled, that someone was waiting here for him. He took in the great room at a single glance, and saw no one. No one spoke. Yet the light was on, over the sideboard.
Had a switch been pressed on in the hall?
He stepped swiftly across the room, and hid behind a suit of Dutch armour.