by John Creasey
Mannering did not speak.
“It’s no use sitting in that armchair and looking up at the portrait Lorna did of you,” Bristow said irritably. “Lorna nearly died today – remember? If my chaps had been five minutes later I doubt whether we would have saved her. She’s all right now she’s had a sedative, and with luck she’ll wake up tomorrow with a few bruises on her throat and a sore head – but she was within minutes of death. Your wife was, John. So was Sara Gentian – and if it comes to that, so was the maid. You’re taking risks you’ve no right to take.”
“I haven’t taken any risks that I could avoid, and there’s nothing you don’t know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Mannering, a whisky and soda by his side, was sitting relaxed in the big armchair. He looked at the Yard man with a faint smile. He felt much better, but the flare of fear for Lorna had taken a lot out of him. He was still desperately anxious for Sara Gentian, who was at St George’s Hospital, under a sedative. There was no danger to her life; that had been confirmed. It was anyone’s guess what her mind would be like when she came round.
“I can’t make you believe me,” Mannering went on, “but it’s the simple truth. This is one case where I haven’t kept anything of importance back.” He had told Bristow about the talk with Orde, and Bristow himself had seen the kitchen cabinet “doorway” between the two flats. The charge against Levinson would be withdrawn, at least that much good had come of the day’s activity. Just now, Mannering read the scepticism in Bristow’s eyes, and went on: “You didn’t believe that I’d been at the mews flat, after Levinson – I hope you do, now.”
“Oh, I’m convinced about that. But why should Orde try to kill Lorna?”
“Because she could have stopped him from killing Sara,” Mannering reasoned. “Hickson didn’t talk about a special hate, but any hatred for me or Lorna is because we got in the way of the attempts to kill Sara Gentian. You may never prove it, but those so-called suicide attempts were really attempted murder.”
“No need to press those particular charges,” Bristow pointed out. “We’ve got Orde for the attempted murders here. Our own men actually saw him in the act of strangling Lorna. Oh, we’ve got Orde – but we haven’t got the motive yet. We need it before we can be sure that the case is over.” When Mannering made no comment, Bristow stood up and began to walk about the room. “There’s no reason at all why you should hide anything from us for Gentian’s sake.”
“No reason, and no chance that I shall,” Mannering said. “I’m not holding any brief for Gentian. Bill – you’re the one who’s been holding out.”
Bristow stopped just in front of him. “Don’t be an ass!”
“Fact,” insisted Mannering. “You told me that you had reason to believe that Sara Gentian’s life might be in danger. Why did you think so?”
“We heard rumours from the Gentian servants that she had made several attempts to kill herself by taking overdoses of sleeping tablets,” Bristow said. “We couldn’t be sure, but we wondered if they might be murder attempts, not suicide. We knew that Lord Gentian was – is for that matter – very conscious of his position, and would hate scandal. We had failed to make him talk, and hoped you would. According to what you say, he insists that his niece has been mentally unstable all her life.”
“That’s it,” Mannering said. “That’s what he calls the skeleton in the family cupboard.”
“Believe him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t believe you yet.”
“Now, John—”
“Bill,” Mannering interrupted mildly, “you told me about pressures on Gentian from the City. Chittering told me about them too. What kind of pressures? What have you done about them?”
Bristow sat on the arm of his chair.
“There isn’t anything we can do,” he answered gloomily. “There are big financial interests who want to buy all Gentian’s property – all but Gentian House, that is – and he’s been holding out. We’ve discovered nothing at all to justify any theory of illegal pressure being brought to bear. Two big building corporations use sub-contractors, some of whom might have attempted to use threats and menaces or physical violence – we can find no evidence that any of them have. Orde has been known to visit certain financial houses and it is just possible that some kind of pressure has been used on him, but I’m beginning to think this is a family issue.”
“Ah,” said Mannering. “How?”
“On the surface – Orde wants to make sure that he has plenty to come into, and no one to share it with.”
Mannering said: “It won’t wash, Bill.”
“What do you mean it won’t wash?”
“If this were a matter of killing for inheritance, there would be no need for all the complications. Have you ever been able to get information from Gentian’s solicitors?”
“Hebble, White, and Hebble, you mean?” Bristow smiled wryly. “No, I haven’t. The three original partners are still alive – each of them is over seventy. They’re the most reputable firm in London, and they won’t breathe a word that isn’t according to protocol. They each have sons, four of the younger generation are in the firm, and they’re as sound and old-fashioned and rigid on matters of professional etiquette as the old men. I don’t believe that they know anything to the discredit of Gentian. Even if they did—”
“They wouldn’t say so?”
“They certainly would not.”
Mannering asked, musingly: “Supposing they knew something which put Gentian – or any of the Gentians – on the wrong side of the law. What would they do?”
“What would a priest do if he received a confession from a man guilty of a crime?” asked Bristow. “They might – in fact I think they would – refuse to handle any legal case if they knew for sure that Gentian was guilty; they might ask him to get someone else to represent him. And if they were in the witness box, under oath, they might say what they knew if they were asked questions on the specific subject. Other than that—” Bristow broke off. “Are you suggesting that Gentian has broken the law?”
“I don’t believe that the only skeleton in the Gentian cupboard is Sara,” Mannering told him. “Gentian did his damndest to make sure that I couldn’t stop Orde getting away.”
“So you told me. But he might simply have been giving Orde a chance to escape, it doesn’t necessarily mean that he knew where Orde meant to go. I’ve spent ten minutes with Gentian. He’s confined to his room, his doctor refused to allow me to stay any longer. He looks ill – and he still looks and behaves as if he’s as proud as Lucifer. He says that he remembers nothing of what happened this afternoon – that he does not remember Orde talking to you, or making any admissions. You see what that means, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Mannering, very softly. “Yes, I see exactly what it means. It’s my word against Orde’s. The secret door at the mews might let Levinson out but doesn’t necessarily put Orde in the dock. He doesn’t know about the attempt to kill Sara and Lorna, does he?”
“No.”
“When he realises that he can’t help Orde by keeping silent, he might regain his memory.”
Bristow said: “Do you really think so, John?”
After a long pause, Mannering said: “No, I don’t.” He heard the front doorbell ring, and put his hands on the arms of his chair, to stand up; there was no one in the house to take Ethel’s place. “I’d better see who that is,” he went on. “Meanwhile you can take it from me that I’ve told you everything I know.”
He left Bristow in the study, and went to the front door. He opened it. David Levinson stood outside, with Chittering. Before he could warn them that Bristow was within earshot, Levinson said very clearly: “It’s been a wild goose chase, Mr Mannering. We haven’t been able to find anything out about Orde. Nothing that helps, I mean.” Mannering made no attempt to stop
him, and he came further in, while Chittering kept silent. “He’s seen a number of the executives of the companies which want to buy the Gentian estates, but simply to discuss the preliminaries of a deal. It doesn’t go any further than that.”
“A bit further, surely,” Chittering said.
Mannering raised a hand, and glanced at the door. Chittering looked surprised, Levinson began: “What—” and stopped abruptly. Chittering suddenly seemed to grasp what Mannering was getting at, grinned, and went on: “The latest offer for the estate is twenty-two million pounds. London Land Company told David that and said they didn’t mind the figure being mentioned in the Press. So the Globe has a big scoop in the morning, and Gentian could be the richer by a lot of money if he would do a deal.” The newspaperman strolled towards the open study door, looked in, touched his forehead with mock humility, and asked: “Any idea why he doesn’t, superintendent?”
Bristow came to the door.
“I thought you knew everything,” he said sourly.
“Not about this case,” Chittering countered. “And if you don’t and I don’t, it’s up to John. Any bright ideas, John?”
“My mind is like yours,” Mannering said. “A complete blank.”
But as he spoke, a possibility crept into his mind, one so simple and yet so startling that he was afraid he would give away some inkling of his thoughts. He did not seem to. Chittering shrugged, and declared that he must hurry to get his story on the front page. Mannering saw him off, and Chittering added sotto voce: “Your David is all right – but he has a crush on Sara Gentian. She bowled him right over. Keep that in mind.” He raised his voice: “I’ll be seeing you when it’s all over!” He hurried down the stairs, ignoring the lift.
Bristow was next at the door.
“I must be getting along, John. If you find anything out – anything at all – let me know.” He turned to Levinson. “Mr Mannering’s been able to put considerable doubt into my mind about the charge against you, and it might be very difficult to prove. Consequently, it may be withdrawn.” He stepped across to the lift, erect, dapper, earnest.
Levinson said eagerly: “Does he mean that?”
“He said a lot more than he should,” answered Mannering. “For a policeman our Bill Bristow has too much heart. Yes, he means it. Orde took that miniature and tried to frame you. Orde . . .”
He talked on and off for half an hour. Most of the time he moved about the kitchen, cutting ham sandwiches, making coffee, preparing the kind of meal that Lorna might on Ethel’s day off. Ethel was at home, with her parents, probably too frightened ever to come back to the Mannerings. Now and again, Levinson asked a shrewd question, until by the end of the half-hour and the end of the meal, he knew almost as much as Mannering.
At half past eight Larraby arrived.
“All I want you to do is sit in until I get back,” Mannering told him. “I don’t think my wife will come round. If she does, the sight of your angel face will stop her from worrying. You know who to send for if there seems any need, but I think she’ll be all right.”
“I’ll look after her,” Larraby promised.
Mannering went in to see Lorna, looked down at her, realising just how close a shave it had been for her. As he watched, tears stung his eyes.
He went out of the bedroom, and found Levinson waiting.
Levinson said harshly: “It may sound crazy, but that’s how I feel about Sara Gentian. I’ve hardly seen her, I hardly know her, but the fact that she so nearly died—” He broke off.
“I’ve known a lot queerer things than that,” Mannering said.
“I expect you have, but—” Levinson hesitated, looked at Larraby, moistened his lips, and went on in a high-pitched voice: “Is she out of danger, now that Orde’s under arrest? Is she safe, or—is she in danger from Lord Gentian as well? Is he involved?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Mannering said. “If you’ll take the risk.”
“I’ll take any risk!”
“Mr Mannering—” Larraby began, protestingly.
“All right, Josh,” Mannering said. “I know you’re going to tell me to be careful, but we can’t afford to overdo caution. You’d better know what I intend to do, though. If I run into trouble, you will be able to give evidence of good intentions. I—”
“You keep saying ‘I’. Aren’t I in this?” demanded Levinson.
“That’s up to you,” Mannering told him. “I want to find out whether there is anything in the Gentian family history which might explain this. The solicitors won’t talk. They can’t even be asked intelligent questions until we know more than we do. But if they can’t talk, their deed boxes can. I’m going to break into the offices of Hebble, White, and Hebble, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and try to find the truth.”
After a long pause, Levinson said, bewilderedly: “But that’s burglary!”
“That’s right,” Mannering agreed. “My crime will be burglary. As you forced the lock at Hillbery Mews in daylight, yours was only breaking and entering. I can go alone, or I can take you along, to keep watch. With luck, no one will have any idea that we’re there.”
Larraby said quietly: “Mr Mannering, it is exactly the kind of thing that Mr Bristow would expect you to do. It would not surprise me at all to find that he is having those offices watched.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, either,” Mannering said, drily. “Coming, David?”
“You bet I am,” Levinson said.
22
OFFICES BY NIGHT
The square of Lincoln’s Inn Fields was full of shadows. A few street lamps burned; some windows showed yellow; here and there a crack of light showed through curtains; but most of the houses were in darkness. The stars were out, and with the street lamps spread a glow on the new, pale buildings in one corner – where Toby Plender had his office. The older buildings seemed black. Round the fence of the garden in the middle cars were parked, one with parking lights left on by a thoughtless driver. There was good space for parking; by night the Fields were little used.
Mannering and Levinson approached on foot from Kingsway. The sound of cars, and the hum of their own taxi faded into the distance. A motor scooter, its light pale and weak, came wobbling towards them; as it passed a girl pillion passenger giggled.
“Damned fool,” muttered Levinson.
The offices of Hebble, White, and Hebble were in the far corner from here, on the left – in one of the Georgian buildings. A caretaker and his wife lived on the top floor, but as Mannering approached, no light showed up there. A clock from the Strand boomed midnight; it was late enough for Mannering’s purpose, not so late that it would be surprising if anyone saw them. A man came hustling out of a doorway on the right; on the other side, from the new buildings, a door opened, light streamed out, and a woman called: “Thanks for a wonderful time, darling!”
“Come again soon.”
“Come and see us!”
There was laughing and shouting, followed by the noisy revving of a car engine.
Mannering stepped into the area outside the Hebble, White, and Hebble building; the name showed up beneath a street lamp, black on pale coloured glass. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, and had briefed Levinson thoroughly; the younger man seemed to understand. Mannering stepped boldly up to the front porch, keys in hand; he used the skeleton key quickly, while Levinson stood back. Metal scraped on metal, until the lock turned. Mannering drew the key out and tried the door. It was held by a bolt in the middle – the position where a bolt was easiest to handle.
He took out a thin saw, with a sharp point, and thrust it between the door and the door jamb. As he did so he made a little hiss of sound with his lips, warning to Levinson that this was the time to be extremely careful. Levinson lit a cigarette. Mannering felt the point biting into the old wood, and soon was able to move
the saw to and fro, feeling the teeth bite. He had the teeth facing downwards. Soon, he felt a harder pressure, and a faint squeak of metal on metal sounded. A car came crawling past them, swaying, its headlights full on; as it reached the doorway, the headlights went out. The car passed. In the moment that it took to go by, Mannering squeezed oil from a small tube onto the saw, and pushed it back again; he was still sawing metal, but there was no squeaking.
“How long will it take?” whispered Levinson.
“Fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“That long?”
“Go for a stroll,” Mannering said. “Stay within easy reach.”
“I’m all right here.”
“Don’t argue, David.”
Levinson moved off, his cigarette glowing. Another car passed. Mannering, half hidden by the shadows of the porch, worked faster, and made more noise. He heard David’s footsteps, to and fro, and wondered how the youth would stand up to this strain. In the years that were past Mannering had thought nothing of spending an hour, sometimes longer, forcing his way into a house like this, and taking just as big a chance as he was tonight. He knew the measure of the risk, and that was probably worrying Levinson now. If they should be caught, they would have no defence; a benevolent motive would not count as extenuation. This was burglary, and could ruin them if they were caught.
Levinson came back, and whispered: “A policeman’s coming along!”
“Right,” Mannering said. “You keep going. Walk right round the square.” He slid out the saw, put it into his pocket, waited for Levinson to go past, and heard the plodding footsteps of the policeman. He turned with his back to the door, made a thud of sound with his heel, and walked briskly from the porch. He stepped onto the pavement a few paces ahead of the policeman, turned towards him and walked past. The man’s glance was casual and incurious. Mannering went across the road and hid between two cars until the policeman was out of sight. He went back to the porch, his saw already in hand, squeezed a little more oil, and started work again.