by John Creasey
Levinson came back. “That was a narrow squeak!”
“Narrow?” echoed Mannering. “He didn’t give us a thought. Now, I think—”
There was a faint snapping sound; the bolt was severed.
Mannering pushed the door, and it moved. He pushed it wider and stepped inside. Levinson took a last look up and down the square, and joined him. They closed the door. Mannering switched on a pencil torch, and the thin bright beam shone on shiny black paint. The floor was carpeted, it was easy to deaden sounds.
“You know the drill,” Mannering said. “A blast on that whistle if there’s any danger.”
“I know,” Levinson said.
“All right?”
“Jumpy as a cat, but I’ll get by.”
Mannering moved along a narrow passage by the side of the stairs; in these old buildings there was no lift. He passed two doors, and shone the light on them: one said: Mr William Hebble, Mr James Hebble, the other had the names Mr Guy White, Mr Josiah Hebble.
These, he knew, were the younger generation of the firm.
A door, facing him, was marked: Strictly Private. He tried and found it locked, but the skeleton key opened it in a second or two. He stepped into a little lobby, with several doors leading off it. Each door had a single name: William Hebble, Senior, Benjamin K. Hebble, Justin White. A fourth door said: Secretary.
Mannering found the doors all locked.
He went into William Hebble Senior’s room, and it was like stepping into the past. As his torch beam swept round he saw big, shiny black leather armchairs, massive bookcases which stood almost as high as the ceiling, a huge desk – and in the far corner, another door which had no lettering on it. The shelves were filled with black deed boxes, and with files tied round with grey-looking tape. Curtains were pulled back at the tall windows. Mannering drew them, then crossed the room and switched on the light. It was not very bright. He rounded the big pedestal desk, sat down, and worked on the locked central drawer. It took him five minutes to force, and the only sound was the scrape of metal on metal. He pulled it open at last, and saw what he most wanted – a set of keys.
He took these out, then walked back to the outer door, and opened it.
“All right, David?”
“I’ll tell you if it isn’t.”
Mannering turned back. His heart was thumping, and it was easy to imagine how Levinson was feeling, but with luck the job would be over in five minutes. The place was silent. He backed to the door in the corner, and tried three keys; the fourth worked. He pushed the door open very carefully. Except for documents, nothing of value was likely to be kept here, there was probably no need for extreme precautions or burglar alarms – but there was always the possibility that he might come across one.
He saw no sign of electric wiring, nothing to suggest that one of the new electronic machines operated here.
The room into which he stepped was small. Two big, tall safes filled up one wall. Shelves round the other walls were packed with deed boxes – and more bundles. He switched on the light. A moment’s scrutiny told him that the boxes and the bundles were arranged in alphabetical order. He found Galloway . . . Gall . . . Galson . . . and at last Gentian. One box was marked “Lord”, one was marked “Sara”. Now his heart thumped. He took Sara’s box off the shelf; it was locked with a small padlock, but one of the keys on the ring would be the master. He selected and tried it – and the padlock sprang open. He gulped as he raised the lid of the shiny metal box, which was cold to his touch. There was very little inside here, but there was a safe deposit slip. He picked this up, and read:
One leather sheathed jewelled sword, deposited on Miss Sara Gentian’s behalf with the National Security Safe Deposit Company, Fenchurch Street, E.C.3.
Now Mannering knew what had happened to that missing sword. Sara had taken it – but was stolen the word?
He found nothing else in this box, so opened Gentian’s. Inside this were a pile of documents, each strung round with red tape, and on top was an envelope on which was pencilled: Sara G. 2. He picked this up, felt a key inside, took the key out, and turned to the safe nearest him.
One of the keys on the first ring opened this. Inside were several more boxes, one marked Lord Gentian, white on black. He drew this out. The key fitted the lock, and it turned silently. He raised the lid stealthily, as if afraid to make a sound.
Inside was a large, sealed envelope; great blobs of sealing wax glistened red in the light.
Mannering hesitated before picking up this envelope. There was no way of opening this without leaving traces, so he might as well be both quick and bold. He used a letter opener, slit the envelope, and shook out the contents.
The first thing to catch his eye was a beautiful colour plate of the Mogul Swords of Victory. The two were shown, crossed, and beneath them, at the point where the blades intersected, was a picture of the miniature sword. On the back of the colour plate was a brief description of each sword, a list of the precious stones in it, and a history of their possession by the Gentian family.
Mannering set this aside.
He picked up a thick document, unfolded it, and read:
Report of Coroner’s Inquest.
It was written in a copper plate handwriting, was dated forty-nine years ago, and the place was: Babwe, Southern Rhodesia. The story was very simple. James Arthur Gentian had been drowned in the Zambesi River, and the body had been discovered two days later, badly mauled by crocodiles.
Evidence of identification, read a note, was given by his brother, Lord Eustace Gentian.
Mannering laid this aside, too, and found several yellow newspaper cuttings of the tragedy, like those which Chittering had shown him; this had been the sensation which he and Bristow remembered.
There was a copy of James Arthur Gentian’s will. He left all his estate including his Mogul Sword to his only son, James. So Gentian had lied about that. Mannering read on with increasing excitement, beginning to hope that the flash of intuition he had felt in his flat would be vindicated. The other sword had belonged to Gentian’s brother, who had left it to his son.
There were birth certificates, too – one of them Sara Gentian’s, granddaughter of the original brother James, daughter of the second James, rightful owner of the second Mogul Sword of Victory. There were also death certificates, of Lord Gentian’s wife and infant son, and of Sara’s mother and father, who had died in a motor car accident when she had been five years old.
First, a death by drowning in the crocodile infested Zambesi.
Next, a double death by accident on the roads of England.
Now – attempted murder, not once but several times.
Mannering stood staring down at the documents, his thoughts darting from one possibility to another. He heard a hiss of sound, and at first it meant nothing; then he heard it again – and it jolted him out of these moments of intense reverie.
That hissing was the noise made by the alarm whistle.
He swung towards the door which led into the old solicitor’s office, and saw Levinson framed in the next doorway.
“A car’s just pulled up outside,” he breathed. “It’s a Daimler – I think Lord Gentian’s getting out.”
23
INHERITANCE
Mannering pushed the documents back into the deed box, thrust the box into the safe, and closed the safe; it locked automatically. He went into the next room, closed and locked the first deed box and put it back on its shelf; all his movements were quick and decisive. He heard a bell ring. He placed the keys back in old Hebble’s drawer, and relocked the drawer with his skeleton key, then stepped to the door.
Levinson was just outside.
“Someone’s coming down,” he said. “He’s bound to notice that the bolt’s damaged.”
“Don’t panic,” Mannering said. “Let’s get i
nto one of the other rooms.”
As they moved, a man appeared at the foot of the stairs, with his back to them; there was no reason why he should turn round. A glow shone from the landing above him, and suddenly he put on the hall light. He looked old as he padded along to the front door. Mannering and Levinson stepped inside the room chosen for sanctuary. Almost at once, the front door opened, and a man said in a clear voice: “I am sorry to worry you so late, Arthur. Lord Gentian wishes to get some papers from his deed box.”
“That’s all right, Mr Hebble,” the caretaker said. “I wasn’t asleep – Bessie was, but bless you it would take more than a ring at the bell to wake her up.” He stood aside, and an old man, a big old man who walked like a lad, came bustling along, with Lord Gentian by his side – the poor old man who was supposed to have been in a state of collapse. Mannering watched them pass. Levinson, just behind him, was trembling. Mannering could just see the caretaker. Once he realised he had not drawn the bolt, and saw it sawn through, he was bound to raise the alarm. He was looking down at it. Suddenly, he exclaimed: “My goodness. We’ve had burglars!”
He turned round and hurried after the other two, who had disappeared into the inner offices. As he reached an open doorway, he called out: “Mr Hebble, sir – Mr Hebble!” Mannering opened their door wider, gripped Levinson’s arm, and led the way out. They were on the porch with the door closed behind them before Hebble, Gentian, or the caretaker appeared again.
A big old Daimler stood at the kerb, but no one was at the wheel or standing by it; one of the old men must have driven the car.
“Turn right, David,” Mannering ordered. “And then go straight home. I’ll see you in the morning. I think we’re going to see this thing through nicely.”
Alone, Mannering walked towards Soho, where he was most likely to get a taxi; and one came along behind him while he was still in Holborn. He said: “Gentian House, off Park Street,” and sat back. He lit a cigarette, and closed his eyes, to relax after that tension. He had no doubt that Hebble and Gentian had discovered the opened envelope by now; Hebble was probably talking to the police by telephone. The drive through the empty streets was very fast, and the taxi pulled up outside the gates, which were open.
“This okay, sir?”
“Yes, thanks,” Mannering said. He paid the man off and walked across the courtyard. The lighted centre lamp showed everything clearly. He did not press the bell or attempt to get inside, but sat in a window ledge, hidden by a corner of the building, and lit another cigarette. He was there for a little more than half an hour before the Daimler appeared, turned into the gates, and drove towards the side of the house where Mannering was sitting. It stopped short, the engine cut out, the lights were switched off. Lord Gentian stepped out of the driver’s seat, and walked past Mannering, without seeing him. Mannering followed a few paces behind. Gentian opened a side door, without a key. Mannering reached it as it closed, listened for any sign of the bolt shooting home; he heard it. He heard Gentian’s footsteps, too. He hurried round to the front of the house and pressed the bell as he had done when he had first come here. He kept his finger on it for several seconds, took it off, pressed again. While his finger was still touching the bell push, there was a sound at the door.
Gentian opened it – the pale, frail, silvery-haired man who looked as if he were at death’s door.
“M-M-Mannering!” he gasped.
“I think we need to talk,” Mannering said, and stepped inside. “This afternoon you were supposed to be unable to speak to anyone, but tonight you can go rushing about London.”
Gentian stood aside. He muttered: “What on earth do you want?” but there was no strength in his voice. Mannering took his arm and led him across to a large oak settle, let him sit down, and stood in front of him.
“Why did you help Claude to get away?”
“M-M-Mannering, I am ill. I really am ill.”
“Why did you let him go? What influence did he have over you? Why could he frighten you so easily?”
“P-p-p-please, Mannering—”
“Gentian,” Mannering said, “nearly fifty years ago, on the side of the Zambesi river, your brother fell in and was drowned. He was half devoured by crocodiles. Isn’t that true?”
“He didn’t tell you that! He wouldn’t tell—”
“The newspapers told me,” Mannering said. “They also gave evidence of identification. Gentian, did you kill your brother and then identify him as yourself?”
Gentian screamed: “No!”
“Did you?”
“No, no, no!”
“Did you?” repeated Mannering in a hard voice. “Tell me, Gentian, did you take your brother’s place? Did you?”
“Oh, God,” gasped Gentian. “Oh, God. How did you find out?”
He looked like a man suffering from palsy. Mannering thought that he would collapse, that he might die from shock and shame. They stood facing each other, Mannering stern and still, Gentian shaking.
“Tell me,” Mannering said. “Tell me exactly what you did.”
“Oh, God,” moaned Gentian. “Yes, yes, I did it. I did it. I killed him. I wanted the title, but Eustace’s little son stood in the way. I wanted the title and the swords. All my life I wanted—”
He began to cough, but when the spasm was over, he went on in a voice which Mannering could only just hear: “We—we were so alike. We always had been. Always. My wife was dead, and my own son was very young, and I was away so much. I—I meant as much to him as an uncle as I did as a father. Then Eustace’s little son died, so I would have inherited anyway. But I was stuck with the impersonation. I stayed away for years, and most who knew me were dead when I came back. Years alter a man’s appearance and no one suspected. Then I—I began to feel the burden. Do you understand? I began to feel a liar and a fraud, even to my own son. And—and to my only sister, Claude’s—Claude’s mother. She knew. I’m sure she knew. She died bearing her second child, who was stillborn but—I believe—I believe she knew what I’d done. And then—then my own son died in—”
“How did that accident happen?” asked Mannering softly.
Gentian’s voice rose. “I didn’t do it! I didn’t know it was murder until afterwards—” The old man broke off. He still looked as if he might die before the night was out, his eyes were so sunken and his thin cheeks so grey.
“Was the killer your nephew Claude? Your only sister’s only child?” When Gentian did not answer, Mannering went on quite gently: “Did his mother tell him, so that he knew the secret, and could force you to do whatever he wanted? Is that why you kept silent when he tried to kill your granddaughter – not your niece, your granddaughter? Is that why you stood by and let him try to drive her from sanity to madness and from madness to her death?”
Gentian was gasping, his teeth were chattering.
“Is that why you spent so much time abroad, and lived like a recluse with your guilt whenever you were in England? Is it why Orde managed your affairs? Did Orde want to sell the possessions murder had won for you?”
Gentian screwed up his eyes.
“God forgive me,” he said chokingly. “Yes, Mannering, yes. I killed my brother, I tell you. He was wealthy and I was poor. I saw the chance to take his place. Once it was done, it was done. Years later Claude told me he knew. I made a will in Sara’s favour. He knew it, he tried to make me change it, and—and I defied him. I wasn’t aware of all he was doing.” Passion strengthened the old man’s voice. “I did not know that he was trying to kill Sara. I believed that she was sick, that the shock of her parents’ death had affected her mind. I tell you I believed that she was deranged. But then—then I discovered what Claude was doing. So I brought the sword to you, with a manufactured story. Sara had taken the other one. I knew she had, and I made that my excuse to come to you – I believed that you would find out what Claude was doing. I hoped t
hat he would be frightened of you and would stop. There was a risk that he would tell all the truth but he had for so long connived at my crimes I felt he would avoid that if he could. But he would not stop working, Mannering. He stood to gain too much. So very much,” the old man added, and his voice fell away to a whisper. “That is the whole truth, Mannering – that is the way I tried—I tried to make amends.”
“I think perhaps you’ve succeeded,” said Mannering, still gently. “You’d better go upstairs and rest.”
Gentian said: “Go upstairs? But—but the police—”
“The police have Orde on a charge he can’t wriggle out of,” replied Mannering. “He won’t tell the truth about you if you say nothing more about him.” He could afford to be generous now, for this old man would soon, perhaps very soon, be dead. “I’ll help you upstairs,” he added. As they went slowly towards the lift, he went on: “Where have you been tonight?”
“I went—I went to get some documents from my solicitor,” Gentian said. “Someone had been there before me. It must have been Claude. Claude, or a friend of Claude – Mannering! Mannering, others worked with him, others knew the truth.”
“I don’t think he would risk telling anyone else all that he knew,” Mannering said reassuringly.
They reached the second floor, and as they stepped out of the lift, the old butler came hurrying, anxious, alarmed, eager to help.
As far as Mannering ever knew, Hebble did not report the burglary at his offices. The solicitor might not know for certain but undoubtedly he guessed the truth, and would do nothing which might focus attention onto it.
As Bristow had prophesied, the next day Lorna was herself again but for a few bruises on her neck, and a bruised head. The skin had not been broken, and she would be all right in a few days.