A Sword For the Baron

by John Creasey

  She has some kind of fixation about that sword. Do you know Dr Prince?”

  “Yes,” Mannering said; Prince was perhaps the best nerve specialist in the country.

  “He told me that if she gets much worse she may go over the line for the rest of her life,” Bristow said. “She certainly won’t talk to him, to other doctors, to psychiatrists. I wondered if” – he squared his shoulders as he looked up at Mannering – “if Lorna might be able to persuade her to talk.”

  Mannering said: “Well, well.”

  “Sara Gentian’s tried twice again to get out of the nursing home. She seems to think that she’s been put there to get her out of the way. If she were at a private home—”

  Mannering laughed. “Lorna suggested it this morning,” he said. “She’s due over at the nursing home now.”

  Bristow’s eyes lit up. “Two great minds,” he said. “If Lorna can persuade the girl to stay at your flat it will be a start, and if she can make her talk—”

  “One condition,” Mannering interrupted.

  “What’s that?”

  “The move is made in secret; no one knows where she is.”

  “We’ll fix that,” Bristow assured him. He stood up, taking the miniature sword from the table, wrapping it up in the cotton wool, and slipping it into the wash-leather bag. “Still think Levinson guiltless of all this?”

  “You know what I think,” Mannering said.

  “Well, don’t let him jump his bail,” Bristow rejoined. “I don’t think I have the same faith in that young man that you seem to have.”

  Levinson came into the office, when Bristow had gone, looking as chastened as he had sounded over the telephone.

  He also looked tired. He had shaved badly and cut himself slightly, just beneath his chin, leaving a line of dried blood. Mannering waved him to a chair.

  “I’d rather stand, sir. It’s good of you to let me come back while—while I’m under this suspicion.”

  “Didn’t occur to me to do anything else,” Mannering said, “any more than it occurred to me that you took that miniature. What I want you to do is trace Claude Orde’s movements. You’ll need help – Josh Larraby will tell you whom to go to. I want as comprehensive a picture of Orde’s recent movements as you can get in half a day. I want to know who he has seen in the City especially, who he has been with, his financial position – everything. It will mean a lot of high pressure inquiries, but it can be done. Willing to have a go?”

  “Of course.” Levinson was almost eager.

  “I’ll tell Larraby—” Mannering began, and his finger hovered over a bell push.

  “Just a moment, sir!” Levinson interrupted. He gave a nervous little cough. “I have—I have an apology to make to you, and I really mean it.”

  “Forget it, David,” Mannering said. “You were badly steamed up.”

  “I was damned badly frightened,” Levinson confessed. “Mr Bristow—” he coughed again. “Mr Bristow told me what you’d told him, and—well, that made me feel as big a fool as I must have looked to you. I can’t even explain what got into me. I just felt that you’d taken advantage of—”

  “Forget it,” Mannering insisted. “Find out all you can about Orde. It could be vital.” He pressed the bell for Larraby to come in, and when the door opened went on to the manager: “Josh, I’ve told David what I want him to do. I think the best man to help him will be Cunningham, of the Cunningham Agency. He—”

  “I’ve already had a word with Mr Cunningham,” Larraby said. “He will do all he can to help.”

  When Levinson had left the shop, Larraby stood frowning at Mannering. Mannering sat back in his chair, and asked: “What is it, Josh?”

  “I don’t understand David, sir,” Larraby said. “I’m not at all sure that he understands himself. Cunningham could have done this work just as well if not much better without him. Are you hoping that if he thinks he has got a job to do, it will help him over this difficult situation?”

  “That’s it, Josh,” Mannering said lightly. “Any messages?”

  “One from Mrs Mannering,” Larraby told him. “She said that she has arranged to see Miss Gentian early this afternoon. She will not be meeting you for lunch.” Even frowning, Larraby looked rather like a cherub grown up in years but hardly changed in appearance, his hair was so white and his pink cheeks so smooth. “I wasn’t easy in my mind from the moment I saw Miss Gentian walk in here. There is something unhealthy in this affair – something that goes very deep. As deep as hatred,” he finished with great care.

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Mannering said. “And I hope to find the answer at Gentian House. I’ll be there by two fifteen.”

  In fact, he drove in the Rapier straight to Gentian House, arriving about one o’clock. No cars were parked inside; the great iron gates with the Gentian Coat of Arms wrought into each gate were closed. The shutters were up at most of the windows, but two were open, at the top.

  He drove to Hillbery Mews.

  He made sure that no one followed him, passed the mews twice, then looked for a parking space; several meters were free within two minutes’ walk of the mews.

  He crossed the cobbles briskly, reached the little porch, rang the bell and knocked. There was no answer. He rang again, stood back and studied the porch, and saw a maid at one of the windows of another flat. He shrugged his shoulders, turned, and walked back towards the end of the mews. He went straight to his car, took out a long plastic raincoat, big and shapeless, and a mackintosh cap. He put these on. The weather justified it, for the wind was still blowing, and there was more than a promise of rain. He limped noticeably as he walked into the mews again. No one appeared at any of the windows of the mews apartments.

  As he reached the porch he took out a bunch of keys, including a skeleton key. He slid this into the door, just as Levinson must have done, and opened it almost as quickly as with a real key; it was like sleight of hand. Without looking round, he stepped inside and closed the door. Immediately he went into the front room where he had been when the police had arrived. Standing close to one side, he looked out to find if anyone had followed him, or if anyone took any notice; no one appeared to. Satisfied, he went into the kitchen.

  Nothing had been touched; even the towel was still where he had left it. He stood looking at the gas oven, picturing Sara Gentian sitting there, sleeping on the way to death. If Levinson hadn’t caught up with her, remember, she would be dead. He moved to the small window of the kitchen which overlooked the blank wall. No one could observe him from here. He studied the room and walls, got the measurements in his mind, and looked from one wall to the next.

  “That’s the connecting wall,” he said sotto voce.

  He approached a tall kitchen cabinet, which served as a larder. It was painted bright red, and was flush with the wall. He opened both doors; the fastenings clanged. He examined the back of the two shelves in front of him, and behind a pile of plates he saw a large chromium topped screw, suggesting that the cabinet was secured to the wall that way; but there was only one screw.

  He pressed his thumb against the chromium and twisted; the head of the screw underneath moved under pressure. It fell off, clinking against the edge of the plates. The real head of a screw, with the usual indented line across it, showed at once. He took out his knife, opened a small screwdriver blade, and twisted the screw clockwise. Almost at once, he felt something yield. He continued to turn it, slowly, and realised that the whole cabinet was moving away from the wall. This was more than a screw; it was the control of a mechanism he had hoped to find.

  He stood back.

  The cabinet was at least six inches away from the wall. He put a hand to one side, and pulled; it moved further away until he could get through into the flat next door. The room beyond was a kitchen, spick and span in black and white. It had an unlived in look. Th
ere was no odour, nothing to suggest that anything had been cooked here for a long time. He stepped further through. The refrigerator was silent, and when he opened the door he found the inside dripping with water after a defrosting. A few tins of fruit were there, and some bottles of lager; that was all.

  More boldly, Mannering went out of the kitchen into the living room. The flat was almost identical with the one next door, and it was necessary to go up a few stairs to get to the bedroom, where there was a divan bed. He opened the wardrobe which was built in exactly as the one next door. Inside were two party dresses, a flimsy dressing gown or negligée, and a suit, while at the other side was a man’s suit, a pair of pyjamas and a dressing gown. He took the man’s suit down, and examined it, holding it up against him. It was about his size, but would be too large for him – large enough, no doubt, for Claude Orde. He rummaged through the pockets, and found a handkerchief; the initials on it were C.O.

  “This is more like it,” Mannering murmured to himself.

  If this were Orde’s place, and it seemed likely, then it was either a hiding place or a love nest. Mannering examined the women’s clothes, half fearfully hoping that they were not Sara’s. When he held them at arm’s length he knew that they were much too small.

  Looking out of the window, he noticed that a piece had been built on to his flat. He went back downstairs and opened the kitchen door, which led to an outhouse, probably once used for coal and wood; now there was no approach from the street because of the new building. On one side was a wooden bench, quite old, with a wooden vice, a rack of tools, a few tools stuck in the rack. At one end of the bench were shelves, and on the top shelf was a roll of some kind of material. When he took it down, some small pieces fell out of the roll. It was familiar to the touch, and when he opened it he realised that this was the leather out of which the outer sheath of the Mogul Sword had been made. The tools were a leatherworker’s, and the intricate cutting and patterning on the sheath showed in some of the pieces which had been cut away.

  In a drawer, he found some needles, finer than those usually needed for working in leather – but this leather was very soft and pliable. He felt it between his fingers, rolled it between his palms, and then folded a piece up and slipped it into his pocket. It seemed almost too thin for the sheath itself; perhaps it had been treated in some way.

  Had Orde worked here?

  He found a few traces of cigarette burns on the woodwork, and one cigarette end, at the back of the bench and hidden away by a cutting tool, daubed with bright scarlet; he needed no telling from whom that lipstick had come. He made a closer search. A few golden coloured hairs in a brush used for sweeping the shelves and bench down also betrayed Sara.

  In the corner of a cupboard built onto the wall was some fine powder in a stiff cardboard box. He sniffed this, but it had no particular odour. He rubbed it between his fingers; it was something like salt, but a putty colour. He put a pinch of this into a matchbox, wrapped the box inside his piece of leather, took a last look round, and left the room.

  Could he assume that Sara had made that sheath?

  He went back into the other flat; it was still empty. He went out by the front door, seeing a car parked at the far end of the mews. He pulled the cap well down over his forehead, and limped towards the street. Once out of sight, he took off the raincoat and cap, bundled them into the back of the Rapier, and took the wheel. It was nearly two o’clock. He had just time to drive to Quinns, and as he pulled up outside, the crippled assistant appeared. He came outside, and Mannering said: “Good morning. Ask Josh to get this leather identified and the powder which is inside the matchbox. He’ll know what to do.”

  “I’m sure he will,” the other said, and gave a quick smile. �

  18

  SWEET REASON

  Lorna looked at the girl lying in bed at the small private nursing home near Sloane Square. For the moment, Sara was calm and apparently composed. She had applied lipstick in a scarlet gash which gave a kind of gypsy garishness to a face which needed much more care in make-up. She had a fine bone formation and beautiful eyes, Lorna saw – quite exceptional eyes, of a colour that seemed hardly natural, a rare, soft blue. Her corn coloured hair was brushed and tossed carelessly back from her broad forehead. Doctors, nurses, and the sister here had said that she would not talk to them about anything except food and drink, and getting up and leaving here. Lorna had seen her expression when the nurse had entered; almost a hatred. The nurse had announced hurriedly: “Mrs Mannering has come to see you, Miss Gentian,” and left the room quickly.

  The sun shone in at a corner of the window, reflecting on a glass of pink antiseptic on the bedside table, reflecting also from the thermometer sticking out of the jar.

  “I think you know my husband,” Lorna said. “He asked me to come and see you.”

  Sara lay on her back, staring.

  “He thinks that you might be able to help him,” Lorna went on.

  Unexpectedly, the girl spoke. “You mean that he wants me to help him. Why does everyone think that I’m a fool? I’m not ill, I am not a fool, I know exactly what I want – and most of all I want to get out of this prison.”

  “It’s quite a pleasant nursing home.”

  “It’s a home for the insane!”

  “Don’t be silly,” Lorna said sharply. “You’re obviously not well, and you have to be looked after for a day or two. It isn’t any use blinking at the truth any more than it’s worth exaggerating your illness. My husband—”

  “Who is your husband?” Sara demanded.

  So she hadn’t heard the name which the nurse had given.

  “John Mannering,” Lorna answered.

  The change came into Sara’s eyes almost at once; it showed at her lips, too. They tightened, then parted very stiffly. For a moment she showed a glimpse of her teeth. Then she eased herself up on one arm, staring intently, eyes glittering. She had not yet uttered a word, and yet seemed breathless.

  “John Mannering – of Quinns?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my God, I didn’t realise it!” Sara cried. She scrambled forward to the foot of the bed, kneeling on it, only a foot away from Lorna: she reminded Lorna of a young girl. “Mrs Mannering, he’s got to take that sword back to Gentian House! You’ve got to make him. Do you understand me, he must take it back to Lord Gentian’s house.”

  “But why?” asked Lorna, gently.

  “It doesn’t matter why. I tell you that he’s got to take it back, it’s vital. Vital, don’t you understand? Vital.”

  Lorna saw the shimmering in those beautiful eyes, the way Sara’s lips were parted, the way her provocative young bosom heaved; whatever else, she believed what she said. It mattered desperately to her, and was undoubtedly part of the reason for her fear.

  “Mrs Mannering, you must make sure your husband takes it back!”

  “I don’t think I can persuade him,” Lorna said. “You might, though.”

  “Where is he? Why doesn’t he come to see me? Why can’t I go to see him?”

  “You can come and see him, at our flat,” Lorna assured her. “He’s away from the flat and the shop for most of the afternoon but if you care to come and wait until he gets home—”

  Sara caught her breath, and leaned back, still on her knees. Her hands were held in front of her, fingertips almost touching; she looked like a child in prayer.

  “They won’t let me leave here,” she said pathetically. “You’ll have to help to smuggle me out.”

  “They’ll let you leave.”

  “They won’t, I tell you! I tried to get away last night. I went to beg my uncle to get the sword back, but they said he wasn’t in.”

  “Who said that?”

  “His butler. And—and they gave me a cup of milk, and two aspirins. I must have been so exhausted that I went off to sleep �
� and I came round here. You’ll have to smuggle me out. It’s the only way.”

  It was one way, Lorna realised – and it would serve John’s purpose, too, by getting the girl to Green Street without anyone knowing. Once she realised that, she entered into the “conspiracy” with a will, found an excited Sara’s clothes, lent Sara her own coat, watched while she was dressing and led the way to the lift, downstairs, and out by the servants’ entrance of the nursing home.

  It seemed to Lorna that Sara was doing the thing she wanted most in all the world.

  Lord Gentian sat at the huge desk in the library when Mannering went in, earlier in the afternoon. It was exactly two fifteen. Orde had let him in, and the butler had hovered in the background. Coffee was on a corner of the desk, not on the low table where Lorna had had it the previous night. Orde looked fatter and more untidy than ever, and his lips kept working, as if he wanted to speak, but would not allow himself to – possibly because he was afraid of his uncle.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Mannering,” Gentian welcomed. His eyes seemed very bright. “You have no objection to my nephew’s presence, I imagine.”

  Orde seemed to mutter: “I should damned well think not.”

  “It might even help,” said Mannering.

  “Good. What precisely do you want to know, Mr Mannering?”

  “I want to know why you brought me the Mogul Sword of Victory, and why you told me the cock and bull story about its pair being stolen,” Mannering said mildly.

  “My dear Mr Mannering—”

  “I told you, all he would do is insult you,” Orde declared hotly. “You shouldn’t have wasted your time.”

  “Claude, if you can’t control your temper you had better go,” Gentian said, but he did not force the issue. “I told you the simple truth, Mr Mannering. The pair to the sword was stolen from here three years ago. My niece stole it. I hoped that you would find this out, and that you would be able to bring enough pressure to bear on her to return it. I hoped that by coming to you I would avoid a family scandal, but it is beginning to look as if that is unavoidable. I trust you will understand why I said so little when I called at your shop. It is never pleasant to have to admit that a close member of one’s family is insane, but – that is the truth of it. I hoped that if you could trace the lost sword to her – and I would have given you sufficient clues, I think – that this would have shocked her into returning it. I think she is as reluctant to go to the police as I. But after the two attempts at self-destruction – I don’t see how the story can be hushed up any longer. The truth is that she has always been unstable. That is one reason why I made little attempt to control her extravagances, her association with a worthless set of Society people, but now – the truth will leak out, you know. And in view of that I think it probably better to tell the newspapers the whole story. There will be less risk of distortion.”