by John Creasey
“This key’s loose,” Mannering said. “A long, thin one.”
She looked at the pile of silver and coppers, at a wallet, handkerchief, leather key case, all the oddments which the valet had taken out, but she didn’t speak.
“Darling, hurry,” Mannering urged.
Lorna looked round. “There’s no other key here.”
“There must be. It’s a long one, with a complicated-looking barrel.”
“There’s no other key here,” Lorna insisted, picking up the key case and opening it. Mannering watched her with great intensity, until she said: “It isn’t here, either.”
“It must be!”
“John, don’t keep saying ‘it must be’. It isn’t, and that’s all there is about it. Are you sure that you had it?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Mannering said. “Simms—”
He stopped.
He had rung the bell for Simms at least ten minutes ago, but there had been no response.
“Where’s Simms?” he asked sharply.
“I haven’t seen him this morning,” Lorna answered. “John, where is this Tower suite?”
“It’s the old gallery, blocked off at the upper spiral staircase in the days when it was a kind of museum. There were just two keys. Rodney took them, and used the place to sulk in. That girl’s been there without food—” Mannering broke off. “You’d better call for the police right away.”
“Another half-hour or so won’t make any difference to her,” Lorna said. “Her mother and father are coming to see you at twelve o’clock – that’s in twenty minutes’ time. They were coming earlier, but I put them off. Hadn’t you better talk to them first?”
“Hunt everywhere for that key,” Mannering said, urgently. “Press the bell for Simms again, he must be about somewhere.” Even as he spoke he wondered if that were true. Lorna stabbed the bell-push, and then began to go through the things on the dressing-table, the mantelpiece and the dressing-chest, but he would not have put the key anywhere on its own, and he knew that it had been loose in his pocket.
Simms didn’t come.
“If Simms took the key, he may have known about the room,” Lorna said. “Perhaps it’s open, and she’s gone. Can I find out?”
“You’d lose yourself on the way,” Mannering said. “I’ll—”
“You’re not going to get off that bed.”
He knew that he could not do so without help, and was not sure that he could stand erect. He had never felt so useless, and never more aware of Lorna’s strength of will. But there was fear in her, for the girl, and she said quite sharply: “Tell me how to get to the room, I’ll find my way somehow.”
It was the only possible thing to do.
Mannering told her; and as he talked he realised how desperately anxious he was to find out what had happened; to know more about the crime with which Rodney had been charged; to know how Guy Vane was; to know what else had been discovered. But the urgent thing was to find out whether Hester was still in that room.
Chapter Twenty-One
Blank Wall
Lorna found the lift; the spiral staircase which led up from the landing by the lift and near the door and windows to the observation balcony. And she found the wall across the second spiral staircase. She looked at this as if by her will could make it fall as the walls of Jericho. The great stones which made the castle looked as if they would defy heavy artillery or rockets. She looked up awkwardly to the spot where Mannering had told her to look, and all she could see was a rough-faced stone. She began to press against this stone with her thumb, trying to cover every square inch of it, but the stone was twelve inches by nine, and it would take an age. She felt the soreness at the ball of her thumb before she was half-way through, and tried with her left hand.
She could not even see the keyhole.
She called out: “Hester Vane! Are you there?”
Her own voice seemed to come back to her from the thick wall.
She went over the top right-hand section again, but there was no result; nothing yielded to the pressure, and she could not see the keyhole.
She had to go back to John; he would have to tell Hennessy and Horton. She could not believe that there was no way to get into the tower rooms, that no one but Rodney had the keys.
As she hurried back towards the lift, she saw the doorway leading to the observation balcony, and stepped towards it. This was the nearest point anyone could get to the Tower Room, except up the spiral staircase. Wind struck at her as she stepped out. There was a parapet and, beyond, a sheer drop of a hundred feet or more. No one was in sight except, a long way off, cars on the road which led to Gilston.
Just to her left there was a tall, round tower, and it seemed vast and high above her. She could see a ‘window’ – little more than a narrow slit in the immensely strong walls. It was dark and narrow, too, and she could not see into the room beyond.
What must the girl be thinking about in there?
Hester was thinking despairingly: “They’re not coming back for me. They’re not coming back.”
Mannering could see from Lorna’s expression that she had bad news. She closed the door sharply behind her and stood with her back to it. He had edged himself up so that he was sitting and leaning against the pillows, now; his back was aching, that was all.
“You’ll have to tell Hennessy,” Lorna said, without preamble. “I can’t do a thing.”
“Did you find the stone?”
“Yes.”
“Did it have the keyhole on it?”
“John, it isn’t any use, I searched every inch of that stone and found nothing.”
Mannering said: “I see.” Then he added very tensely: “At least, I’m beginning to see. Help me up.”
“No, I—”
“I’ve got to get up there, even if I’m carried,” Mannering said. “Help me up. I’ll put some clothes on while you go for Horton’s secretary. If she can’t help, we’ll send for Hennessy.”
Lorna started to protest, but something in his manner made her move towards him. She steadied him as he put one leg out of bed, then the other; and she took his weight as he stood upright. His back seemed to break, and he gasped with the pain, but did not fall.
“Let me go.”
“If you fall and hurt yourself—”
“Just let me go,” he said, and she drew back, leaving him standing and swaying slightly, but he did not topple to one side.
“No worse than lumbago,” he said. “Fetch Horton’s secretary, will you?”
She turned away.
Very slowly, he began to dress; pulled on a pair of grey flannels, shirt, and a tweed coat, made no attempt to bend down to put on socks, but slid his feet into a pair of leather slippers; they were snug enough for him to walk in them. All that took him ten minutes, and should have taken two. Twice he pressed the bell for Simms, but no one came. It was as if with Horton’s going nothing happened as it should. He was pushing his fingers through his hair when the door opened and Lorna came in.
“The secretary’s outside, John, but she says that she’s never even heard of the Tower suite.”
“Ask her to question all the staff, especially Simms.”
“I’ve told the butler to do that,” Lorna reported, and hesitated, and then said: “Largent is here.”
Mannering looked at her unbelievingly.
“Horton sent for him to finish what you’d started,” Lorna explained, “and—John, I wanted to give you more time to think about this, but Largent says that several of the pieces you said were fakes are real.”
Mannering felt as if someone was kicking him. Then he began to move towards Lorna, his lips twisting wryly as he said: “Largent doesn’t make mistakes.” He pushed open the door and saw a small, faded-looking woman, Miss Medbury, who had a scared, harassed manner as she looked at him.
“I do assure you that I’ve never heard of the Tower suite, Mr. Mannering, but I’ve only been here for a few months …”
“It
’s all right,” Mannering interrupted. “Can you get me a walking stick?”
“Yes, but—”
“Bring it to the main gallery,” Mannering said. “Is Mr. Largent there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ask him to wait until I come,” requested Mannering, and began to move towards the passage door. Lorna took his elbow as the secretary hurried off. “Darling,” Mannering said, “go down to the car, and bring my tools. The special tools.” He squeezed her arm, and almost unbalanced himself. “Sorry. I’ll be all right. This is a job for the Baron without his mask.”
“What do you mean?” Lorna asked sharply.
“That door revolves – I’ve seen it,” Mannering said. “If you can’t find the right spot to release the spring, then it’s locked and the keyhole’s concealed. I’ve got to find the lock and force it. I’m more likely to be able to than a local locksmith.” He grinned. “Better have Hennessy here as soon as we can get him, it will be a change if a policeman actually sees me in action.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Lorna said.
“You get the tools, I’ll telephone Hennessy.”
Mannering watched as Lorna began to go ahead of him, glancing round as if she hated leaving him alone. He reached the side of the passage, stretched out his left hand, and steadied himself. Every step jarred his back, but the pain seemed less acute. He needed a local anaesthetic, something to ease that pain while he did whatever he had to do. Or something simple – like aspirins! He found himself grinning, tautly: He could not quicken his pace, and the thirty seconds’ journey to the big gallery took him five minutes. He saw Largent there talking to Miss Medbury, and the little grey-haired woman was holding an ebony walking stick with a silver top.
Mannering saw Largent glance round; and saw the surprise in his eyes.
“Mannering, you oughtn’t to be on your feet!”
“Got to be,” Mannering grunted. “If I sit down again I’ll never get up. Thanks.” He took the stick. “Miss Medbury, get me Chief Inspector Hennessy, will you? Use that telephone.”
“Yes, sir.” The woman behaved like a little frightened sparrow as she picked up the telephone.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this,” Largent said, and seemed genuinely embarrassed. “Horton asked me to come and help him as you were hors de combat, but if I’d realised that you were able to get about, I wouldn’t have come.”
He sounded as if he meant it. He was as striking to look at, in his sharp-featured, hook-nosed way, as Mannering.
“Forget it,” Mannering said. He leaned heavily against the stick, while Miss Medbury waited for the police station to answer. “Would you mind getting some of the pieces I said were fakes and you say are genuine? That Louis statuette, for one, and the Genoese daggers.”
“Mannering, I do assure you that I wasn’t casting the slightest doubt on your—er—integrity. I suppose I could be as wrong as the next man.”
“Mind if I look?” Mannering forced a smile as Miss Medbury bumped against him in her eagerness.
“Mr. Hennessy, sir.”
“Thanks.” Mannering took the receiver as Largent went to the nearer recesses. “Hallo, Hennessy.”
The other man sounded very deep-voiced as he answered: “Speaking.”
“I was wrong and you were right,” Mannering went on. “Miss Vane is in the Tower suite at the Hall. It’s approached by a spiral staircase, which is blocked – as far as I know, only Rodney Horton could have locked it, but Horton himself might be able to. Will you ask the Yard to find out if Rodney Horton had a long, thin brass key in his possession?”
“Brass?”
“Yes – dull brass, with a complicated barrel,” Mannering said. “No one would carry one about normally. If he had it, have it rushed here. If he hasn’t, ask the Yard to question Lord Horton and find out if he can get into the Tower suite.”
Hennessy exclaimed: “Good God! Do you mean to say you can’t get in?”
“I’m going to have a damned good try, but this way would be simpler,” Mannering said. “Hurry, will you?”
Hennessy said gruffly: “If anything happens to that girl, you’ll only have yourself to blame.”
“Could be,” agreed Mannering. “Thanks.” He put the receiver down, and saw Largent coming towards him with the statuette with the jewelled cloak. He did not handle it, just looked at it, and began to walk towards the far end of the gallery, and the lift. “This is one more occasion when you’re right, anyhow,” he said to Largent. “That’s the genuine article.”
“But you said—”
“I said that the thing I’d handled yesterday was a replica, and so it was.”
“You mean—” Largent hesitated, gulped, and then went on with a rush: “You mean that someone exchanged it again?”
“Yes.”
“But who would?” Largent’s voice trailed off.
“That’s what we have to find out,” Mannering said. “Someone might be trying to cover up.” He knew that he sounded ponderous; he felt ponderous, and his back was threatening to break in two. “Will you find out how soon Dr. Richards could come and give me an injection?”
“He’s actually in the Hall, sir,” Miss Medbury exclaimed. “Shall I go and speak to him?”
“Please.”
She hurried off. Mannering moved towards the staircase leading to the lift, leaning heavily on the stick. He tried to tell himself that a few minutes would not greatly matter, but wasn’t convincing. He could not be sure whether the girl was alive or dead; he could not be positive what had happened, but he felt sure that he knew at least part of the secret now.
He crawled up, and eventually reached the lift.
“I’ve never been up this far,” Largent said.
“Here’s your chance, there’s room for two,” said Mannering. “Mind if I go in first?” He stepped inside the small lift and backed against the side; then Largent stepped in after him. “It goes to the Observation Balcony,” Mannering explained. He set his teeth as Largent pressed the button, and the lift began to move; it did not jolt badly, yet it was agony to his back. It was almost worse waiting for the jolt when it stopped. Largent stepped out into the passage, and saw the door of the second, smaller, spiral staircase was just in front of him.
That wasn’t all.
He could smell burning.
He did not realise what it was at first, but felt the sharpness against his nostrils. Then he glanced towards the balcony, the doors of which were wide open, and he saw the smoke drifting by it.
Hester woke from a kind of dazed sleep, and like Mannering, was only vaguely aware of the smoke. It was as if she was dreaming of a fire. She turned over in the chair, and tried to keep her eyes tightly closed; it was better not to wake fully, better to stay like this as long as she could. But the smell of smoke persisted, and soon she opened her eyes.
Then she saw that the floor by the wall was burning, smoke was coming up through cracks in the wooden blocks, and here and there was a lick of flame.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Baron Against Time
Largent said in a scared voice: “It’s coming from the tower, pouring out of the arrow slits. How could a fire—”
Mannering said swiftly: “Rush downstairs and call the police. We need a fire-fighting unit, turntable, and everything necessary to make a hole in that tower wall. We want a pneumatic drill, too, get one here as soon as you can. Talk to Hennessy.”
Largent was already at the door of the lift.
“Right!”
“Ask my wife to hurry!” Mannering called after him, and the lift door closed on Largent’s answering word.
Mannering went towards the door which blocked his way.
The smoke seemed very pungent, but was no more than a thin mist here, partly because the breeze from the Observation Balcony drove it in. He felt in desperate haste, but could not hurry. He reached the wall. When he had last come here he had found it heavy; now he could hardly push
it, and the hinges seemed rusted, the door seemed to scrape along the floor. He gritted his teeth as he put his weight against the studded oak, and at last it was open wide enough for him to squeeze through.
The smoke was thicker, and it seemed very warm.
He gripped the metal hand-rail, and began to pull himself up. The strain at his back was unbelievably painful, but he had to get up. He leaned against the wall as he pulled; the chief trouble came when he tried to raise a leg to get on to the next step.
The way the staircase curved, narrow close to one wall, wide at the other, making his task more difficult. Once he slipped, and groaned aloud with the pain; but he did not stop.
He began to cough.
It was very dark in here; the only light came from two of the arrow slits.
He could not see the wall for what seemed a long time. Normally he would have been there in a few seconds; now it seemed to be an age, and there was no sound but that of his own movements.
At last he saw the wall.
All the time, he was blaming himself for having agreed to leave the girl here; for bringing her. He had only himself to blame. If she died—
She mustn’t die.
But he could not be sure whether the smoke was coming from the sanctuary which had been turned into a prison and might be blazing.
He reached the top step, where Lorna had stood, and saw the stone which Rodney had touched, to work the miracle of the revolving door; and it would be a miracle, now.
He looked tensely for the keyhole – or something which might conceal one. He needed a bright light, and there was none. He felt his pockets for his pencil-torch, but it wasn’t in this coat. His eyes were watering from the smoke, and he kept coughing; each spasm racked his body, but he was hardly aware of pain.
He scrutinised the face of the wall blocking the staircase, and the well itself. The keyhole must be within hand’s reach, so it would not be too high. The most likely place was between some of the great pieces of stone; these had been cemented together, and the cement would be easier to pierce than the granite itself. He could not see any button to press, any switch, or any hole. One might be filled in, with some soft material; putty, plasticine, even plastic wood. If only he had a light he could find out more quickly.