by John Creasey
“At one time there was a guard at every doorway up here, no one could get past here without being questioned by at least four people.”
Hester said: “I see.”
The ‘wall’ had swung round so that they could squeeze through to the continuation of the staircase. Rodney led the way, Hester followed, with Mannering just behind her. He held her arms as they went up. He could tell that she was edgy and nervous; and the tower was enough to scare any woman. He wondered whether she would be able to face it out alone, whether she would say that she could not go on with it.
She did not.
Then they stepped into the first of three rooms, a small one, with some old-fashioned armchairs, a couch, blankets, rugs, a radio on a small table, a record-player. The girl was so surprised that she stopped on the threshold.
“I use this as a kind of funk-hole,” Rodney explained. “When I really find the others unbearable, I say I’m going away for a day or two, and come up here. There’s a bathroom and bedroom – the strong-room guards used to live here, and it’s as cosy as a flat in Knightsbridge. You can see all over the park by day, and it’s like being in an eyrie – you’re right up here in the sky with the eagles and the aeroplanes. You’ll love it,” Rodney added, and then looked at Mannering and gave a twisted grin. “I’m going to stay up here for a while, and I don’t mean what your suspicious mind thinks I mean.”
“If I thought you did, I’d have the police here in ten minutes,” Mannering said. “Have you a spare key?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me have yours and you use the spare one, will you?”
Rodney hesitated, then shrugged and handed a long, thin key over. Mannering put this in his pocket, as he turned to the girl. “Hester, I’ll look after your mother and father, and I’ll do everything I can to find the man who murdered Morgan. Have you now told me everything?”
“Yes,” she answered simply.
“Fine! Rodney, how many things have you kept back?”
“I forgot to tell you the fiendish devices that my dear father has developed to keep me short of money and always ready to come to heel. He seems to think that I ought to be a kind of whipping-boy. If you want my opinion, he’s got a warped mind. All the treasures here have turned him into a kind of Shylock.”
“What is the value of the things you’ve taken and sold?”
“Upwards of two thousand pounds, I suppose.”
“Is that the lot?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“It’ll do to be going on with,” Mannering agreed. “I’ll see you about midday, Rodney. Good night.” He smiled at the girl, then turned and went carefully down the cold staircase, to the landing, to the lift, then along the gallery until he reached his own room. He watched every step he took; watched every corner and every piece of furniture that was large enough to hide a man. He saw and heard nothing, but there was eeriness in this great house, heightened by the visit to the Tower Room.
He retraced his steps, going right up to the blocked spiral staircase, and saw and heard no one. Now he could feel reasonably sure that they had not been seen. He undressed, and got into bed, very tired now that the need for concentrated thought was over. One phrase kept coming back into his mind.
“Is that the lot?” he had asked Rodney.
“Isn’t that enough?” Rodney had retorted.
It might seem plenty; two thousand pounds was still a lot of money even these days. But Mannering was here to investigate the loss of nearer two hundred thousand pounds’ worth of paintings and objets d’art.
Horton suspected his son of stealing these, under pressure, and knew that Rodney had taken some.
Had Rodney tried to pull the wool over his, Mannering’s eyes, or was there someone else doing the same thing as he had done on a much larger scale? On the answer to that question rested the answers to others. Who had killed Morgan and made sure that the girl would be a suspect? And who had attacked Guy Vane?
It was after four o’clock when Mannering got into bed. He reached across to a telephone at the side of the bed, which had a direct line to the Gilston exchange, and waited a long time before a man answered.
“Give me Gilston Hospital, please,” Mannering asked.
“One moment, sir.”
Mannering had long enough to yawn before the hospital answered. There was another delay while inquiries were made, and then a calm voice assured him: “Mr. Vane is no worse, sir, and is as well as can be expected. Mrs. Vane is staying here the night.”
That could mean only one thing: the boy was on the danger list. His mother would be in the particular kind of despair which affected mothers in times of crisis, Vane would be alone, hardly knowing which way to turn. And it might be a long time before Guy Vane could speak and explain what had happened; even when he could do that, he might not be able to say why the attack had been made.
Mannering switched off the light, and settled down. If he could get five hours’ uninterrupted sleep he would be able to cope next morning.
A knocking at the door woke Mannering, and he lay for some seconds, not sure what was happening, only knowing that he did not want to open his eyes; they seemed to be gummed down. Then the knocking was repeated. Suddenly he remembered that he had locked the door. That meant he would have to get out of bed to open it. It was broad daylight, but that meant little: it might be anything from six o’clock onwards.
“Mr. Mannering!” a man called.
Mannering made an effort. “What is it?”
“Inspector Hennessy wants to see you, sir.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m here,” Hennessy said in his deep voice with its unmistakable country accent. “I’m sorry to worry you, Mr. Mannering, but I must see you urgently.”
Mannering called: “Wait a minute.” He pushed the bedclothes back and climbed out, rubbed his eyes, yawned, and smoothed down his hair. It was sunny when he looked at the parkland of the Hall stretching out into the distance, and at tall hills beyond. He put on a dark-blue dressing-gown, and opened the bedroom door. Hennessy and a plain-clothes man were standing there together with Simms, one of the Hall servants in this wing; the man who usually looked after the guests.
“I’m extremely sorry, sir,” he said. “I’ll bring some tea right away.”
“Enough for three, please,” Mannering said, and turned to Hennessy. “What’s all the urgency about, Inspector?” As he asked the question a possible explanation sprang to mind. “Is the Vane boy any worse?”
“He’s still on the danger list, but I didn’t come here about that, Mr. Mannering. I want to know where you took Miss Vane last night.”
That question would have been bad enough coming at any time; coming now, before he was fully awake, it nearly put Mannering off his balance. He faked a yawn, smothered it, and said: “I haven’t the faintest idea where she is. What makes you think I have?”
“She was at her parents’ bungalow last night, I know that now,” said Hennessy. “But she isn’t there this morning. She left with you. Don’t say that she didn’t, Mr. Mannering. Strands of a nylon stocking as well as two hairs which have been identified as Miss Vane’s were found in the boot of your car. You took her away from the bungalow and hid her. I don’t have to remind you that it’s not safe to interfere with the police in the execution of their duty. Where is she?”
Time and time again Mannering had been challenged like this. There had been a long period when he had led a double life – as John Mannering on the one hand, and as the Baron, cracksman and jewelthief-extraordinary on the other. The press and the public had raved over the modern Robin Hood, who robbed the rich to help the poor; and the police had set about their task of unmasking the Baron.
One man at Scotland Yard had suspected Mannering.
Hennessy spoke as if he had been fed on those deadly suspicions.
“I want your answer at once,” he said coldly. “Where is Miss Vane?”
Chapter Fourteen
Manne
ring Bluffs
Mannering looked at the block of a man in front of him as if he were astounded, and as soon as Hennessy finished, he exclaimed as if he had not heard aright: “She was in my car?”
“You know very well she was!”
If Michael Vane had admitted that, lying wouldn’t help, and Mannering would not even gain time; but he did not think that the market gardener would have made any admission, and felt sure that Hennessy believed in playing his trump card, in the hope of winning the game at the first round.
“I don’t know anything of the kind,” Mannering said. “The car was outside the bungalow while—good Lord!” He began to grin. “Are you sure of this?”
“Positive. And it’s no laughing matter, Mr. Mannering.”
“I think it’s damned funny! The great detective, as I’ve been called, talking to Vane in the bungalow while the wanted daughter sneaks out and gets into the boot of my car. Have you searched the grounds?”
“All the district is being combed for her,” Hennessy said. “Fifty policemen are looking for her, and at least a hundred farmworkers and estate workers. You can stop that waste of manpower, Mr. Mannering. If you don’t, I can’t be responsible for the consequences.”
Mannering said sharply: “I don’t like threats. I don’t know where the girl is. Is there anything else I can do for you, tell me, and then leave, Inspector.”
Hennessy didn’t speak.
The servant came back, carrying a tea tray loaded with beautifully worked Georgian silver, and there was not only tea but wafer-thin bread-and-butter. Simms sensed the tension, put the tray down on a table, and retired to the doorway; he probably stayed near so as to hear what followed. Mannering felt the strength of Hennessy’s challenge, the man was determined to flog himself so as to find the girl, probably because it would look as if he were not carrying out his duty if the suspect, daughter of a personal friend, were not soon caught. He was a simple man, he was probably a capable detective, but gave the impression that he was not used to dealing with people in this social stratum. Now that his challenge had been accepted, he did not know what to do next.
Mannering said: “How about a cup of tea, and a more rational approach to the mutual problem, Inspector?”
Hennessy said: “Well, I admit I took it for granted that you knew where Hester Vane was. I’ve been talking to Scotland Yard, and they—”
Mannering grinned.
“They warned you of all the villainies I can get up to, is that it?”
A reluctant smile made Hennessy look much more likeable, and he conceded: “Well, in a way.”
His companion, not the small, thin-faced man of the previous night but a larger, younger man, was smiling broadly.
“I know the Yard harbours a lot of suspicions of the tricks I play, but I’m not really as bad as that. Sit down.” The police were almost now cooing doves, but Mannering warned himself that Hennessy might be pretending to be satisfied, but he thought that he had judged the man correctly from the beginning. “Shall I be mother?” The big detective sergeant positively beamed. “There’s one thing you’re as worried about as I am,” Mannering added. He saw the look in Hennessy’s eyes, and knew that Hennessy was trying to guess what that anxiety was, so that he should not look a fool. “Why was Guy Vane attacked, and is there any connection between that and the attempt to frame his sister?”
Hennessy took it well.
“If the sister was—er—framed, sir, then it is a big question. You haven’t remembered anything more about the men who attacked Guy Vane, have you?”
“No. One was short and stocky, the other taller and thin. They both wore scarves round their faces, and hats pulled down over their eyes. No indications as to who was there?”
“We’ve found footsteps and one or two threads of cloth on some branches and bushes,” Hennessy answered, “but we can’t identify either of them. There were definitely two men, you were right about that.”
“When you think that someone is going to smash your head in you make sure how many there are,” Mannering said dryly. “That’s the crux of the whole problem, Inspector: why was Guy attacked? And what made him go into the woods when I was talking to Lord Horton?”
“We’ve a man sitting by the boy’s bedside, we’ll know the moment he comes round and we can question him,” Hennessy said. He was a little over-dainty in drinking tea, but his sergeant was a gusty drinker. “Mr. Mannering, will you answer one or two other questions?”
“If I can.”
“What are you doing down here?”
“I thought everyone knew,” said Mannering. “I’m valuing Lord Horton’s collection of odds and ends.”
“Odds and ends,” breathed the sergeant.
Mannering grinned: “I suppose that was an understatement.”
“Is that the real reason?” Hennessy demanded.
Mannering said: “If it isn’t Lord Horton has fooled me. Anything on your mind, Inspector? I don’t want to be made a fool of, and Lord Horton is a very shrewd man. You know that as well as I do.”
“I don’t mind admitting that we’ve thought for some time that something odd was happening here,” Hennessy said. “We knew Morgan was a bit of a rogue, the Yard told us, and we wondered who he was after. We were never able to connect him with anyone at the Hall – until a few days ago.”
Mannering kept a straight face.
“What was the connection you found then?”
“Miss Vane often met Rodney Horton on the sly,” said Hennessy. “They met in Winchester or Southampton, never in Gilston. Then we realised that Morgan was probably blackmailing young Horton, using the girl as a go-between. Any reason to believe that’s true, Mr. Mannering?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“I’ll tell you what you can do for us,” said Hennessy, warming up, “and that’s try to find out if Lord Horton knows about his son’s association with the girl. Not the kind of thing that we would expect to please his lordship! You don’t need telling that a man like Lord Horton isn’t the easiest to deal with, and we have to mind our p’s and q’s. I took a considerable chance in coming here the way I did, Mr. Mannering, but Bristow – Superintendent Bristow – of the Yard said that we needn’t worry about you getting on your dignity. He said you would see me through if I made a mess of things. I wanted to ask for your help, and the best way was to make it look as if I’d come to make myself obnoxious. Anything you can find out will be very useful indeed.”
“I’ll see what I can find,” Mannering promised, and looked into the big, broad face, wondering whether Hennessy was anything like so obvious as he looked. “Seriously – have you any idea where Hester is?”
Hennessy said: “I know what a fuss his lordship kicked up when young Mr. Rodney had an affaire with a chorus girl, a year ago. If it weren’t for that I’d wonder if she was here. If you can put in a word, Mr. Mannering, I’d be grateful if you would warn Mr. Rodney and anyone concerned that if they try to hide anything from us, they’ll only head for trouble. We have to be careful how we deal with gentry, but if they start playing ducks and drakes with the law, then they’ve had it. Position and money won’t help them at all.”
His gaze was very direct.
“I should hope not,” Mannering said solemnly.
Five minutes later he shook hands with Hennessy and the big detective sergeant, and saw them out of the suite. When he went back to his bedroom he was very thoughtful indeed. Hennessy had meant that warning for him just as much as for the Hortons. But he had also meant that the girl was safe for the time being.
Mannering wondered what would be required to force Hennessy’s hand and make him search the Hall.
Nothing short of another murder, probably.
Now Mannering had the two situations to face: the difficulty with the police because of the girl, and the problem of Lord Horton and the big losses at the Hall. They overlapped of course.
So did Morgan’s murder.
Who had a motive for killing Morgan
?
And above everything else, why had the two men been in the woods last night, the men who had viciously attacked Guy Vane and would have attacked him, Mannering, just as viciously.
Mannering looked out of the window, and saw Rodney Horton walking across one of the great lawns. That was the moment when Mannering realised how like the stocky man of the trees he was; in fact, young Horton answered the description of the shorter of the two men who had attacked him and Guy Vane.
How deeply was young Horton involved?
How deeply did he hate his father?
Then Mannering saw Lord Horton appear, on horseback, from the side of the house. For a big man, he rode extremely well, and he did a great deal of riding. Now he sat, hard-faced and nearly as massive as Hennessy, trotting along a path towards his son, who stood quite still. They were two hundred yards away from Mannering, but even from here it was easy to realise that they were bitterly antagonistic; it was like two animals, sparring, hating each other. The older man took his horse closer to his son than was necessary, almost as if he meant to push Rodney out of the way. Rodney did not budge.
Mannering saw Horton’s lips move, saw the red face in the bright light of the morning, and imagined he could see the sneer on the full lips.
Rodney’s back was towards Mannering.
He saw the youth move, at last; he leapt at his father and struck at him. Horton seemed to be taken by surprise, and leaned back, thrusting up his hands to try to defend himself. The horse shied. Rodney struck again, and Mannering caught a glimpse of his expression, saw his lips twisted with rage, knew that he had never known an uglier relationship between father and son.
Horton was recovering, slowly.
He used his crop, and slashed it across his son’s face. Rodney backed away, covering his head in turn, and Horton flung the crop at him, then kneed his horse and began to canter towards the stables at the side of the Hall. His son turned round, to stare after him. The younger man’s expression was not good to see.