by John Creasey
And now, he, Mannering, could recognise one of them.
How much danger did that spell?
The doctor came, pronounced Mannering’s back badly bruised, and recommended cold compresses and very soft pillows; he said that it would be three or four days before Mannering could walk in comfort. Mannering wanted to call that nonsense, but by the time he had been helped to his room, his back was already stiff, and he felt as if he could walk only when he was bent almost double. At least his mind was much clearer. He wanted to know how the two men had gained entry to the hall, how they had discovered what he was doing, and how they had come to realise the significance of the record book. That had gone, of course. He had spoken to no one else about it; he could tell Horton just what had happened as soon as Horton came to see him. Meanwhile, he could remember most of the items he had checked; a day or so had been wasted, that was all.
There was another problem: how much to tell the police.
Mannering reclined in an easy-chair with billowy upholstery, half-dozing, his back feeling more tender than painful. He had taken tablets which the doctor had given him, and hot sweet coffee. It was a little after one o’clock. Because he was drowsy, some of the urgent matters did not press heavily on his mind.
He wanted to see Horton; and he wanted to see Rodney, about the girl.
Could she have been the murderess? Could she give a name to these men?
Could Guy describe them?
There were movements in the outer room, and a moment later Simms peered in.
“Hallo,” Mannering greeted.
“You are awake, sir. Good.” The valet smiled. “His lordship is coming in about five minutes.”
“Fine,” said Mannering. “Any more news?”
“I understand that the police are on the way, sir.”
“Ah,” said Mannering. “Well, come and help me sit up, will you?”
Sitting up was much more of an effort than he had hoped; he had to face the fact that he would be practically helpless for several days. True, he could have the objets d’art brought to him, but it would take much longer and be much less satisfactory.
Then Simms announced Horton.
Horton’s left arm was in a sling, and the sleeve of his jacket hung loose. He looked pale and more flabby than usual but he walked briskly enough, stamping on his heels in exactly the same way as he had stamped across the floor of the great hall a few minutes before the attack. The door closed, and he sat on the arm of a chair and said: “Damned sorry about this, John.”
“Occupational risk,” Mannering said. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt too badly.”
“Would have been, if you hadn’t shouted,” Horton said. “I’ll always be grateful.”
“Forget it.”
“Not on your life.” Horton’s voice was strong enough, and he was uncannily like Rodney in some of the things he said and the attitudes he adopted. “Know what the swine came for?”
“My record book.”
“They get it?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder why they wanted it – they can’t rub the details out of your memory, can they?”
“Only in one way,” Mannering said.
“Tell me?”
“If I’d hit the floor of the hall head first I wouldn’t have much memory left, and you would have had to put someone else on the job. They’d have had a few days’ grace, anyhow.”
“See what you mean,” said Horton. “Think they were going to kill you?”
“Yes.”
Horton growled: “It’s a hell of a business, and I’m responsible because I brought you down here. Like to go back to London and forget all about it?”
Mannering grinned: “No.”
“Didn’t think you would,” said Horton. “Well, I was warned not to bring you down here, as you know. Someone wants to make sure that we can’t easily find out just how much stuff has been stolen and replaced with worthless replicas.” He was probably the only man in the world who would have used the word ‘stuff’ to describe the priceless things in this great house. “I don’t frighten easily but I don’t care for this. You know my basic worry, don’t you? How much has been stolen, and has Rodney taken all of it? Or is there someone else you don’t know about?”
“That’s it,” Mannering said. “I’m a long way from sure, yet. What happened between you and Rodney this morning?”
Horton grimaced. “Did you see that?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll probably think that the major fault is mine, and you may be right,” Horton said, in a hard voice. “The truth is that Rodney won’t forgive and forget and there’s nothing I can do about it. I asked him quite civilly if there was any truth in the story that he’d been seen in Winchester and Southampton with a girl, and I hoped he wasn’t going to have another affaire with a tart.”
“Why do you have to needle him?” Mannering asked.
“I’m damned if I know,” Horton said, almost explosively. “The truth is that whenever I see him, I get edgy; and he does with me. We’re the most unnatural father and son you can imagine. He hasn’t confided in you about a girl, has he?”
“No.”
Horton said: “This girl Vane – any idea where she is? I was told that Hennessy seems to think you have.”
“The police have been wrong before,” Mannering said dryly.
Horton looked at him intently, and then said: “I believe you could find her, and Hennessy probably thinks you could, too. Well I’m not going to quarrel about it. Anyone who killed Morgan and took the pressure off Rod did me a service, but—who employed Morgan? Who is employing these other men – Morgan certainly didn’t work alone. Is there someone else who can start blackmailing Rodney? What else has the boy done? And it’s worse because we know that someone is employing these other men. The ugly truth is that they were able to gain access to the Hall. That suggests someone on the staff might be involved. Or else Rodney is still under coercive pressure.”
Mannering said: “Leave it at that, for the time being. What do you want to tell Hennessy?”
“That’s one of the things I’ve come to see you about,” admitted Horton. “Hennessy is nobody’s fool, and he puts on an act that he can’t behave as ruthlessly with the aristocracy as he can with a farm worker, but don’t you believe it. What do you advise?”
“Tell him everything.”
“Am I to take that literally?”
“Yes,” said Mannering, and shifted his position gingerly. “I should tell him that you suspected that Rodney was taking real objets d’art and replacing them with replicas and that you thought he was being blackmailed, and you asked me to come and check how far this had gone, and how much was missing. You needn’t prefer a charge. In fact there’s a case for saying that some of the things are morally Rodney’s, so this is a family quarrel and outside the law. If you tell Hennessy much less, he won’t believe you.”
“You may be right,” Horton conceded. “How do we explain the loss of the record book and the attack on you?”
“We don’t.”
“But we tell Hennessy that Rodney is a suspect.”
“If Rodney’s behind it, he’ll be caught eventually. If he isn’t, being suspected won’t do him any harm.”
“I suppose not.” Horton was silent for a long time, before he went on very stiffly: “All right, John. Have it your way. But you tell Hennessey. It’s not the kind of statement I want to make to the police. I take it you’ll see the whole thing through, as far as you can.”
“Yes,” Mannering assured him. “And as soon as I can.”
Horton stood up. Mannering stared into that pale, flabby face, and the eyes which so often looked blank, despite their owner’s sharp intelligence. Horton began to move away. Mannering let him get as far as the door, and then called: “Barry.”
Horton half turned. “Yes.”
“How much does Rodney really mean to you?”
“You can judge for yourself, can’t you?”
“He’s an obstinate young fool,” Horton muttered, “but—oh, forget it!”
He turned and strode out.
Mannering watched, wondering what he would do when Hennessy knew, wondered whether Rodney had the faintest idea of the depth of his father’s feeling. The visit had stimulated Mannering, but he was still confined to the easy-chair, and his back felt as if it were a mass of bruises. He knew that Simms would give him good warning of Hennessy’s approach, and dozed again, wishing that he could have a full day and night’s rest before he had to cope.
There was a tap at the door.
“Come in,” Mannering called.
It was Simms, who did not usually tap, and who opened the door swiftly, and seemed to run forward. Behind him was the massive police inspector and at least one other man; there was also someone whom Mannering could not see properly: a woman.
Had the police searched, and found Hester?
If Hennessy came to attack now, he would find Mannering’s resistance at its lowest.
Simms whispered: “Mrs. Vane’s with the police, sir,” and then added loudly: “Chief Inspector Hennessy, sir, by appointment.”
Hennessy came in, and then Alicia Vane pushed past him and came swiftly to Mannering. He could see the great tension in her manner, the desperation in her eyes.
“I want to know where my daughter is,” she said abruptly. “I’m quite sure you know.”
Chapter Seventeen
Distress
Alicia Vane was shocked when she saw Mannering.
She recalled him as looking tall, healthy, strong; and now she saw him lying back in an easy-chair that was half-couch, very pale, and with bruises on the side of his face, a swollen lip, and badly grazed hands. She realised, then, that Hennessy had used her as a tool; had not warned her that Mannering had been hurt, had simply told her what to ask, and that she should keep out of sight until the last moment. Now she stared at a man who was obviously sick, and the deep distress she felt worsened instead of eased.
Hennessy said: “What makes you so sure, Mrs. Vane?”
“He came back to my house after I’d left last night, and if he didn’t come to tell my husband where Hester was, why should he come back?”
“Have you asked your husband?”
“Of course I have,” Alicia said, so sharply that Hennessy actually recoiled. “I can’t make him admit anything, but it’s obvious that he knows.” She turned back to Mannering, and there was pleading in her voice. “Mr. Mannering, if you know where she is, please tell me. I can’t stand the uncertainty. The doctors say that it’s still touch and go with Guy, in twenty-four hours I seem to have lost both of my children. If you can help, you must.”
“If I can help, I will,” Mannering promised, and his voice was stronger than she had expected. “I’m sorry about Guy, but at least he’s in no further danger.”
Hennessy said: “If you have any idea where to find Miss Vane, Mr. Mannering, you must tell us.”
Mannering looked into Mrs. Vane’s eyes.
She was puzzled by his expression, and read into it something which Michael had tried to give her, reassurance. He did not speak, and did not take any notice of Fred Hennessy or the detective with him; he was simply trying to give her a message, that she need not worry about Hester.
“If I were you I’d go home and get some rest,” he said. “I promised you and your husband that I’d do everything that I can – and I will.”
Hennessy showed a harsh, cruel streak.
“A man who can’t look after himself isn’t likely to be able to look after others, Mrs. Vane. Judge for yourself whether Mr. Mannering is capable of helping your daughter or anyone else for the time being.”
Alicia didn’t respond.
She felt quite sure that Mannering’s words were intended to do exactly the same thing as his expression: go home and rest, he said in effect, and don’t worry about Hester. All the anger and rage she had felt towards him had gone, just as her prejudice had faded last night. She felt that she could trust this man.
“Mr. Mannering—” Hennessy began.
Mannering said: “Inspector I’ve an urgent message for you that doesn’t concern Miss Vane but which might be connected with the murder. And I’ve put off taking a dose of morphia so that I can talk to you before I go off to sleep.”
Alicia realised that Hennessy had failed in what he had come to do. She did not know whether she had lost or won, but was easier in her mind when she left the room and the great house. She had told Hennessy, wildly, that she believed Mannering knew where Hester was; that had been when Hennessy had called to visit and question Michael that morning. Michael had been out in the market; the tomatoes and lettuce had to be picked and sorted, and she had made herself help.
Michael would be waiting when she got home.
A police car took her away from the great porch, and she looked round, to see the vast building outlined against the sky. There was no sun now, only grey skies, and the light gave the Hall a kind of sinister appearance which was almost frightening.
She wanted to get away.
Hennessy said sharply: “Well, what is this information?”
“I can ring the bell and persuade the doctor that I’ve got to have that injection now, and complete rest to follow it,” Mannering reminded him, equally sharp.
“You don’t seem to appreciate the seriousness of the position. This is a case of murder.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Mannering knew his temper was dangerously near getting the better of him. “A would-be killer, one of the two I saw in the woods last night, nearly broke my back. It’s more luck than anything else that I’m alive. That’s how serious I know it is.”
“If you insist on withholding information—”
“If I get any information I think will do you the slightest good, I’ll give it to you,” Mannering said. “For instance – that Rodney Horton has been taking precious articles from this house and replacing them with replicas. That he was being blackmailed because of it. That Lord Horton sent for me to make a valuation to find out how much was missing.”
Hennessy looked bewildered for a moment, and then snapped his fingers at the big sergeant, who took out a notebook and began to write, his eyes flickering from his notes to Mannering. The telling took no more than three minutes; at the end of them, Hennessy knew everything except the fact that much more than Rodney admitted taking was missing.
Mannering felt very tired when he finished.
“Very grateful, Mr. Mannering,” Hennessy said, more mildly. “You won’t regret giving us this information, I assure you. Now, this man you actually saw. Will you describe him please? We’re coming to the gallery for finger-prints and we actually found the scarf you pulled from the man’s face. With a bit of luck, we’ll soon get him.”
Mannering gave a full description, but found it difficult to concentrate; the effort of talking to Hennessy had taken a lot out of him. Hennessy went off in one of his mild moods, and soon afterwards Horton’s doctor came in. He was a short, bald, rotund and jocund man, with plump, very white hands. He fiddled with a hypodermic syringe as if he enjoyed it, and Mannering watched him pierce the tiny bottle so as to fill the syringe.
“This’ll put you off in a few jiffs,” he said. “Ready?”
“Fire.”
“Nice to know you’ve a sense of humour,” the doctor said, and jabbed. “This’ll keep you quiet for twelve hours or more, and when you come round you’ll feel a new man. The X-ray shows that your back’s only badly bruised. The danger might be a slipped disc later, but we’ll look after that when the time comes. Your wife’s coming up this evening. I told her that there was no great hurry.”
“Thanks,” Mannering said. “Everything may be solved by the time I come round.”
“Could be, but it isn’t likely,” said the d
octor, and rinsed his syringe in a glass of water. He seemed to relish filling and emptying it. “That’s quick-working stuff I’ve given you – don’t be surprised if you begin to feel drowsy almost at once.”
“I’m drowsy,” Mannering said, and meant it. He could feel the effect of the drug sweeping over him, and already there was much greater comfort in his back. In a few minutes he would be asleep, and the odd thing was that he did not mind; in twelve hours he could tackle anything that was thrown at him, but now—
“Has young Rodney been questioned, do you know?” he asked, and thought vaguely of Hester up in her eyrie.
The doctor was putting the syringe away.
“Eh?”
“Has Rodney been questioned?”
“Be difficult,” the doctor answered, and closed a drawer in his case and grasped it.
“Why difficult?”
“My dear chap, you can worry about this when you’ve had some rest.”
Mannering said sharply: “Don’t play the fool.” His head was swimming, his limbs were feeling numb, he knew that in a few minutes if not in a few seconds he would be under the influence of the drug. “Why—”
“Rodney’s gone to London,” the doctor said. “He caught the first train after lunch.”
Mannering stared at him.
In his mind’s eye he saw Hester, up in that Tower Room, watching from the window, living minute to minute for Rodney to come and see her; to take her food; to take her news. Why had he gone to London? How long would he be? Mannering tried to sit up, but could not. The doctor came towards him and said something which Mannering did not catch; he felt the pressure of the man’s fingers on his arm, and felt the waves of unconsciousness coming over him. He tried to mouth the words: “Tower Room, Tower Room. Key’s there.” But he did not know whether he made himself understood or not.
The doctor said to Simms: “Do you know why Mr. Mannering should have been alarmed because Mr. Rodney has gone to London?”
“No, doctor, I’ve no idea.”
“It’s odd. He tried to say something, but couldn’t get it out,” went on the doctor. “Probably nothing like so important as he thought it was. There’s no need to watch him, but you’d better look in after four or five hours.”