Hide the Baron

by John Creasey

  Joanna had put a piece of wood between the teeth, as a wedge; they couldn’t close so tightly again, but if either of them let go now, they’d snap, and –

  “Hold it a second,” she pleaded. “Hold on.” She took one hand away and the steel closed in slightly. He grunted again. She shifted the wedge further into the corner and stretched for another, thicker one; got it, then put it in; and now she knew that the jaws couldn’t close more tightly.

  “All right,” she said. “You can relax.”

  He didn’t speak, just stopped straining at the trap. If it closed at all, it was only the fraction of an inch. He drooped, badly. She hadn’t time to study him, but levered with the stick, which was weathered and tough and didn’t splinter or break. Soon, it was close by his ankle, and it was nearly as thick as the ankle itself.

  She said: “Now I’m going to take your shoe off, and you can draw your foot through.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She unfastened the lace, made it as loose as she could, and drew the shoe off with great gentleness. Her hands were sticky, but she hardly realised that; or what made them so.

  “Now take your foot out,” she ordered.

  Merrow didn’t answer, or move. She looked up, sharply. His eyes were closed and his colour was dreadful; as of a dying man. His left hand clutched the sapling, and only that kept him up.

  “All right,” she said. “Just keep still.”

  She held his leg a little above the ankle and drew it up slowly and with great care, until it was free of the trap. She knew that he had lost consciousness by then. She eased his hand from the sapling, and laid him down, the injured leg bent a little at the knee. Then she stood up, spared a glance for the dog and said: “Wait here, don’t try to move.” Soon, cold where the wind of her movement struck her, she began to hurry along the path which Merrow had always used, towards the running stream, the leap, and the short cut to the house. This way it wouldn’t take more than ten minutes; well, less than a quarter of an hour. Once she was over the stream and up the hill on the far side, it would be easy going.

  She began to run …

  The doctor, both youngish and donnish, watched the ambulance men push the stretcher into the ambulance, and then turned to Joanna. He smiled easily if shyly, as if he was also impressed.

  “He’ll be all right, Miss Woburn, I’m quite sure of that. Nasty laceration and a fracture, but I should think it’s clean. We’ll have him up and about again in a week or two, and we’ll make sure he doesn’t suffer too much pain—he’s had plenty already.”

  Joanna nodded.

  “I’ll take the dog to a vet, too. And I’ll have to report this to the police,” the doctor added. “It’s an offence to put steel traps, any kind of trap for that matter, without authorisation. That type of trap’s been illegal in this country for a quarter of a century, too. You may find that the police will come out to see you this evening.”

  “I can only tell them what I know,” Joanna said.

  “Just wanted to warn you.” The doctor gave a boyish smile. “All right, I’ll get off then. Goodnight.” He shook hands.

  Joanna stood in the fading light, on the parkland near the house, and watched first the ambulance and then the doctor’s car moving cautiously over the uneven grassland towards the long drive. The ambulance put on its head lamps, which showed up quite brightly. Behind her the lights were on at the house, most of the windows were glowing; Jimmy Garfield liked to have brightness about him.

  He would be waiting for a report.

  Joanna turned and hurried across the parkland, seeing Gedde, the butler and general factotum, going ahead of her; Gedde always kept his distance, was the aloof, impersonal servant, proper, efficient and civil if not particularly friendly. He seemed to get larger as he drew nearer the radius of the light from the house. He reached the top of the steps, and waited. She hurried up, but at the top couldn’t resist turning to look back at the ambulance and the car.

  Only the headlights, nearly a mile away, showed at the foot of the drive; they turned right, towards the town of Orme, and seemed to be going too fast.

  Then she went towards the house.

  “Mr. Garfield would like to see you, miss,” Gedde told her, as if she didn’t know.

  “Yes, Gedde, thank you.”

  “He’s in the library, miss.”

  He was always in the library.

  “Thank you, Gedde.”

  The great hall was skilfully lighted; only the one big chandelier was visible, the other lighting was concealed, and yet shone upon the great paintings, the tapestries, the sheen of the polished armour and the panelled walls so that everything looked as well as it could. When she had first stepped inside here she had thought ‘baronial’, and nothing had made her change her opinion. She didn’t yet know the history of Brook House, but it was a long one; there were seven-foot walls in one part, and two rooms which had been untouched for nearly four hundred years.

  The library was on the ground floor, next to the dining room. On the other side of it was Garfield’s bedroom and bathroom; next to that, Gedde’s room. Garfield and Gedde, G. & G. The floor of the hall was stone-flagged and covered with beautiful skin rugs; the floor of the passage was bare and looked as if it ought to be covered with rushes, or with bales of straw, and as if oil flares or flares of pig’s grease should be stuck in the iron torch-holders bolted to the stone walls.

  She wondered why Garfield had bought this house; he had been over sixty, she knew, when he had.

  Well, a millionaire had every right to do what he liked with his money.

  Now that George Merrow was no longer in pain, and in the right hands, Joanna felt an almost guilty feeling of relief. She would not be forced to take any hasty decision, and it was possible that when Merrow came back his mood would be different. At least, there would be no issue to face for four or five weeks.

  She reached the library door, and knocked.

  The knocker was of iron, the shape of a gargoyle, and it rapped against an iron plate. Jimmy Garfield insisted that everyone should knock before coming in, and she wasn’t quite sure why; unless he was afraid of being indecorous. The rule applied to everyone except Gedde, and in the month that Joanna had been here she had learned to take it for granted.

  There was no answering call.

  She knocked again.

  At last she heard him say: “Come in.” His voice sounded weak, but occasionally it was, especially if he was very tired, and he would probably be tired after the shock of what had happened. She hadn’t seen him yet; all the messages had been relayed by Gedde.

  She went in.

  She didn’t go far, but stood for a moment with a hand at the door handle.

  Garfield sat in his wheelchair, one so beautifully made that it could turn on a sixpence and be moved at a fingertip touch of the wheels. He was looking at her. White hair crowned him; here was an Old Testament prophet come back to life. Usually he had beautifully clear skin and a ruddy complexion, as if a second childhood were coming in real earnest. His eyes were so bright a blue, too.

  Usually, but not now. They were lack-lustre. He looked as if he had received a nasty shock. She knew little about the condition of his heart, except that it was not strong, and he had never discussed his health with her; but now she realised she was looking at a sick man, as distinct from an old man with a spinal condition which made it impossible for him to stand up unaided.

  She closed the door and went right into the high room, with its bookcases and desk, its maps, its huge globe, its priceless treasures. Here were a few of the beautiful things he had collected, and which he loved. His collection of bizarre objets d’art was world famous, and twice while she had been here he had sent for some of the pieces from his strong-room, and returned others. Now there was a sedate group of African bronzes in a glass case
, and in a corner cupboard some beautiful beaten-gold models of pagodas from Siam.

  “Hallo, Joanna,” he said. “Bring up a chair, and sit down.” He blinked, and it was easy to believe that he was trying to throw off the sickness. He actually squared his shoulders. “That’s right. Comfortable? Like a drink?”

  “No, I—”

  “Nonsense. Do you good. Look worn out,” Garfield added, and with a touch of the wheel of the chair, turned himself round so that he could stretch out for bottles from a small cocktail cabinet near him; whatever he could do for himself he would do. “Brandy’s what you want, too; must have been a nasty shock.”

  “It wasn’t very pleasant.”

  “Couldn’t have been.” His voice gradually grew stronger. His hands looked strong, and the bottle shook only a little, the glass hardly at all. Brandy gurgled. “There y’are. Feel better after that.” He poured himself out a tiny tot of whisky, and squirted a lot of soda. “Got him free yourself, Gedde says.”

  “I had to.”

  “Had to? Ought to’ve fainted!”He grinned, and although it wasn’t the mock-fierce grin she was used to, the one intended to scare the wits out of anyone who saw it for the first time, it showed that he was feeling better. “Drink up, now.” They sipped. “I’ll find the scoundrel who put those traps there if I have to scour the whole county for him. That’s the first thing I want you to do, telephone the police. Not the station, the Superintendent’s home. Aylmer’s the name. He’ll make sure they get a move on. Understand?”

  “The doctor said that he’d tell the police,” objected Joanna.

  “Well, let him! I want to tell the Superintendent in person.” There was less than his customary vigour in the way Garfield said that. “Well? Feel better?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Early dinner, early bed, that’s my prescription for you for the night,” he said. “Especially as I’ve a job for you tomorrow. Important. Very important. George was going to do it.”

  She didn’t make any comment. The brandy warmed her and the fumes cleared her head. She felt relaxed, but not as exhausted or as affected as she had expected. It was pleasantly warm in here, and when you were with someone whom you knew liked you, it was a help.

  “Was he?”

  “Yes. It’s important that someone does it tomorrow, and there aren’t many people I can trust. Can’t spare Gedde.” He often talked about not being able to trust people, and it didn’t mean a great deal to Joanna then. “Be ready to go?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s good,” Jimmy Garfield said. “Y’know, Joanna, you’re a comfort to an old man. Didn’t ever think I’d be able to count myself so lucky. Nice to look at, sensible, competent—hm, yes, well.” He really was much better than he had been, and there was a glint in his eyes, which looked clearer and a brighter blue. “How d’you get on with George?”

  He’d never asked her before, and the question took her completely by surprise. She didn’t answer. She knew, from the way he looked at her, that her expression had answered for her. He scowled, but a hint of laughter lurked in his eyes; that was one of the magnificent things about this old man: the fact that he could summon laughter so easily.

  “Not surprised,” he said. “He’s been trying to add to his conquests. Conceited young fool. Every man has his weakness, Joanna; women were always George’s weakness, but with the right woman—never mind. What d’you do, slap his face?”

  She was surprised into a little gust of laughter.

  “That’s right, you look after yourself if you can. If he gets too fresh, tell me. I’ll deal with him! Rather the two of you worked it out between you, though, never so effective when gentlemanly behaviour is imposed, is it?” He chuckled. “But don’t stand any of his nonsense, Joanna, I’d be on your side.” He took a swig of his watered whisky. “Ah. Going to have a stronger nip, damn what the doctors say. You’ve done me good. You always do me good. Felt like the very devil when you came in. Ever have bad moods? Ever brood on the past? Ever been tormented by a conscience?”

  He flung that out.

  She said: “Well—”

  “’Course you haven’t, only an old fool would have asked. Take my advice, Joanna, never do anything that will weigh on your conscience. Twenty years or so ago I did something, and goddam it, the weight gets heavier every year.” He stopped, and the brightness faded from his eyes, he was back almost where he had been when she had entered. It was a long time before he perked up, and then it was only with a brief spurt.

  “Getting maudlin,” he said abruptly. “Never take any notice of an old man. Well, not too much notice.” He forced a grin. “All right, Joanna, go and telephone the police but if anyone wants to see me, I’m indisposed. Or tell them the simple truth, eh, don’t want to see them, don’t intend to see them, and if a septuagenarian millionaire can’t see whom the hell he likes, what’s the use of age or money? Eh?”

  She tried to laugh.

  “Off with you,” he said, and waved her to the door.

  She went out, closing the door quietly. In some ways it had been a puzzling twenty minutes, but he often behaved like that, jumping from one subject to another, and apparently obsessed by his age. She wished she knew what had weighed him down so heavily.

  No one was in the hall.

  It had lost the eeriness that its size and the medieval style had created when she had first come. The stone steps were carpeted, too, and she made no sound going up them. She made little as she went to her room, which was above Jimmy Garfield’s, and it wasn’t surprising that the maid who was turning down her bed and the housekeeper who was with her had heard nothing.

  The maid was saying: “And if you ask me, someone put them there on purpose. Meant to cripple him, that’s what I say.”

  Joanna stopped, abruptly, and stifled an exclamation. Then she waited for what seemed an age, hanging on to the housekeeper’s words, as if it mattered whether the older woman agreed or not.

  Chapter Three

  The Police

  “Don’t talk so soft,” Mrs. Baddelow Said, “ALL you girls can think of these days is something daft. Make sure there’s ice in that drinking water jug, and don’t let me hear any more of your nonsense.” She turned, saw Joanna, and took that in her stride. “Did you ever hear the like. Miss Woburn? A poacher puts down a few traps, just as poachers have been doing to my knowledge for the last thirty years, and this flibbertigibbet talks about it being put there on purpose. Who’d want to hurt Mr. Merrow?”

  The maid said waspishly: “Well, someone wants to hurt him all right. They nearly killed him last night.”

  As the words came out, she began to falter, and lose colour. It was obvious to both Joanna and Mrs. Baddelow that she wished she hadn’t spoken. She moistened her lips, and turned, flouncing, towards the bedside table and the vacuum jug fastened by a bracket to the wall.

  Mrs. Baddelow stretched an arm across Joanna’s bed.

  “Oh, no, you don’t, young lady! Tell us just what you mean by that.”

  She was tall and thin and angular, and could beat a carpet or wring a blanket with the best. Now, she seized the girl’s arm, and made her turn round. It was as if she saw this as a trial of strength which she dared not lose.

  “Out with it, now.”

  “Don’t, you’re hurting.”

  “You’ll know what getting hurt means, if I have to give a bad report to your pa,” said Mrs. Baddelow ominously; but she let the girl’s arm go. “You soft thing, I’m here to help you, not to scare the life out of you. So’s Miss Woburn. Now let’s know what happened, Prissy, and don’t have any half-truths.”

  The maid, Priscilla, stood there and rubbed her wrist.

  She still looked scared, and Mrs. Baddelow’s matter-of-factness threw that into sharp relief. She was a fair-haired, attractive little creatu
re, with curves which she flattened down when on duty, but exaggerated when she was out; when out, she also made up recklessly and adopted a walk which was doubtless meant to be like Marilyn Monroe’s. She had fluffy fair hair, a nice skin and eyes as blue as Jimmy Garfield’s.

  Mrs. Baddelow rounded the bed.

  “Now what is it, Priscilla?” She didn’t take the girl’s wrist again, but stood very close. “What’s this talk about Mr. Merrow nearly being killed? Either it’s the truth or a lie. If it’s true we need to know more about it, and if it’s a lie—well, we’ll come to that later.”

  “It isn’t a lie!”

  “How did you come to be in possession of such remarkable truths, then?” asked Mrs. Baddelow. One had to add plainness to her angularity, and a voice which had something of the harshness of a crow’s; but obviously she meant to get at the truth.

  Joanna was feeling less agitated, yet somehow she knew that whatever Priscilla had to say affected her much more than it should.

  “Come on,” Mrs. Baddelow urged.

  “Oh, all right,” Priscilla said, “someone shot at him.”

  She stood a little way from the housekeeper, eyes bright with defiance, nice lips unsteady. Yet she would hardly be scared, now, of something which she believed had happened the previous night. Would she?

  Mrs. Baddelow’s voice and manner told of both scepticism and scorn.

  “And how do you know, pray?”

  Priscilla didn’t answer, just turned a flaming red.

  Suddenly, Joanna seemed to know part of the answer, and it affected her in a painful, disturbing way. She wanted to send the two women away, without hearing anything more; she felt quite sure what the girl would say next, and didn’t want to hear it.

  She didn’t want to hear it.

  She would have to.

  Mrs. Baddelow seemed to have made some kind of guess, too, and it affected her manner. She looked worried, glanced at Joanna, gave the impression that she wished she hadn’t forced the issue here; but she had, and she wasn’t likely to evade an unpleasant matter.