by John Creasey
The voices were louder again.
‘That’s that, anyway.’
‘Where’s the other swine?’
‘Never mind ‘im – let’s get a move on!’
At all costs Mannering wanted to stop the two raiders, and it seemed reasonable to assume that they would make for the drive.
He broke through the shrubbery as the two men appeared at the far end of it.
One was carrying a case, the other the weapon that had been used on Errol. They were running towards the drive gates, and they had one big advantage. Mannering was impeded by a dressing-gown and slippers, while they were fully dressed and well-shod.
The gates of the drive came in sight, and at the far side of the road beyond Mannering saw the sidelights of a car. There were fifty yards to go, and the couple had a twenty-five yard lead. The first man reached the car, wrenched open the door, and jumped in, pulling at the self-starter.
The second followed, flinging the case into the back. Mannering was now ten yards away, and his lungs felt like bursting. But if the escape was to be prevented it would have to be through him.
He jumped the last five yards, and as the car jolted forward, grabbed at the door handle. He could see neither of the men’s faces, for they wore masks, but he caught the glitter of eyes as the window was opened, and the man next to the driver lashed out with a length of solid rubber.
Excruciating pain shot along Mannering’s forearm.
A clenched fist struck him in the chest and he was sent flying. Breathless and pain-racked, he fell to the gravel road. He did not see the rear light of the car disappearing, nor the four men who came rushing from the gates of the Towers.
Nor did he hear Sharron’s high-pitched cry. ‘Stop them – for God’s sake, stop them – they’ve got the jewels!’
‘What I can’t understand,’ said Mannering twenty minutes later, ‘is why they came back.’
He was cushioned in an easy chair, pale-faced but not seriously hurt. Across his forearm was a weal already turning colour, but a strong whisky-and-soda had done much to restore him.
Servants had been set for Errol who, still unconscious, was lying on a couch near Mannering. Fay was sitting in an easy chair, Rene perched on the arm. None of the other women had appeared, but Mendleson, Crane and the Sharrons were present, while Forbes hovered near the door. Neither Bill Armstrong nor Lord Fauntley had put in an appearance.
Mannering had been told what had delayed the party from the house.
Fay had raised the alarm, while her father had rushed to the strong-room. There was plenty of reason for Sharron to have lost his head: he had found the strong-room open, the Kallinovs and Alice’s and Fay’s personal jewellery missing.
Mannering’s lips twisted wryly when he thought of the Glorias – of the Baron being robbed.
‘We’d better get Errol round,’ Sharron said heavily. ‘He might know something.’
‘Just what did you see, Mannering?” asked Mendleson. He seemed less disturbed by the robbery than anyone but Reggie Sharron, who appeared to judge it on its excitement value.
‘Two men running hell-for-leather along the drive,’ said Mannering. ‘I went after them, but saw a third in the shrubbery. I thought it was one of the beggars, but it must have been Errol. That doesn’t explain why the others came back. I wonder—’
‘What?’ asked Theo Crane quietly.
Mannering felt all their eyes on him.
‘We–ell, the second time I saw them one of them had a case. The first time – I’m not sure. They might have planted the case in the shrubbery, and come back for it.’
‘That still doesn’t explain why they needed to put the case anywhere,’ said Mendleson, kicking at the logs thrown hastily on to the dying fire. ‘They must have had it to put the stuff in – so that suggests they carried the full case to the shrubbery, put it there, and returned to the house for some reason or other. Then you saw them, luckily, or we might have known nothing until morning.’
‘Only the nearly-deaf could have slept through it,’ Mannering said. ‘Errol saw them first. You found his gun, didn’t you, with two shots fired?’
Sharron had put Errol’s colt .45 on the mantelpiece.
‘Of course.’ Mendleson seemed confused.
‘No bright deductive minds about here?’ demanded Reggie.
‘This isn’t a thing to take lightly,’ snapped his father. ‘Have you sent for the police, Forbes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Two things were puzzling Mannering: the second watchman had not showed up, and Bill Armstrong had not joined the search party. Was either fact significant?
Mannering had seen with surprise that it was a little past two. He could not have been in bed much more than an hour before the shot had awakened him.
He was quick to see the implications behind that discovery even if the others failed. He knew that the three doors to the vault, and the safes, could not have been forced in less than an hour, which suggested that the work had been going on before he had retired, certainly before the whole household had been asleep.
The police would realise that, of course. It seemed to offer him a reasonable alibi, but not one which opponents of the Baron would consider sufficient.
He look a glass of water from Forbes, and held it close to Errol’s mouth. The man stirred, and in five minutes he was sitting up.
The full meaning of the situation did not at once strike him. When it did he tried to struggle to his feet.
‘I—I tried, my lord! I—’
Mannering restrained him.
‘We know you tried. Errol. What happened?’
It appeared he had been walking round the house – a regular hourly patrol – and had found the front door open. Then he had seen two men near the drive.
‘I didn’t see their faces,’ he muttered. ‘I went after them, fired at one, and I thought I was catching up when we reached the shrubs. I lost them there, and—and then something hit me. I think I wounded one man, me lord, but I don’t remember anything after that.’
‘Did either man have a case?’ asked Mannering.
‘I—I don’t think so. I’m not sure.’
‘What happened to Knowles?’ asked Sharron sharply.
‘Knowles?’ asked Mendleson.
‘The other watchman. He should be in the house. Forbes—’ Sharron swung round. ‘Have a search made of the house, quickly, but don’t go near the strong-room. By the way, Where’s Fauntley? And’—he scowled suddenly—‘Armstrong? Did you call them, Fay?’
Fay stood up slowly, and every eye was turned towards her. Mannering felt the tension that had arisen.
‘I didn’t call Lord Fauntley,’ she said clearly. ‘I thought it best not to. I couldn’t make Bill hear.’
Sharron stared, and then said heavily: ‘Couldn’t you?’
The girl prepared to make a heated reply when Mannering broke in.
‘I’m going to change, so I’ll look in at his room. You and Mendleson are in better shape to assess the damage, Sharron. Theo, you’d better come and change, too.’
There was reason enough for them to get into warmer clothes, but as they went upstairs Mannering felt uneasy on Fay’s account as well as his own. He hoped Armstrong had not been concerned in this, but he suspected that the others had jumped to conclusions, and that Fay was nervous.
If the clock was right, and his judgement on the quality of the strong-room accurate, somehow someone had helped from the inside: the theft could not have been done otherwise in the time. He felt his own sense of perception quickening in the urgent need of finding out the truth.
Before they had gone halfway up the stairs more evidence was forthcoming to suggest that the thieves had been working while the party had been in the music room. Forbes, pallid and jittery, was coming from the kitchen quarters, and with him was an agitated and dishevelled man Mannering recognised as Knowles.
‘What happened, Knowles?’
‘I’m dreadfully sorry, sir. I�
��I—was going my rounds in the house when someone hit me over the head. Next thing I know, sir, I was tied hand and foot. Forbes just found me, sir. I—I must see his Lordship at once.’
Mannering glanced at Crane, who nodded, and they went back with the watchman. Sharron asked several sharp questions and dismissed the man in less than two minutes: then Mannering checked up on details.
Knowles had been attacked before midnight, which was all the proof of the time-factor that they needed. The use of the storeroom seemed conclusive evidence that the attacker had known the house well.
‘You get to bed, Knowles,’ Mannering suggested. ‘You’ll be right as a trivet in the morning. Have some coffee sent up to my room, Forbes, will you?’
‘At once, sir.’
Neither Mannering nor Crane spoke until they reached the landing at the top of the stairs. Looking down into the wide hall, with its marble statues and vast paintings, three centuries of the House of Sharron were revealed in a perspective that epitomised the stateliness of the Towers and the distinguished history of the family. As Crane spoke the soft echo of his words were lost in the high ceiling.
‘Well, John, I wonder why Armstrong didn’t wake up?’
Mannering shrugged.
‘A heavy sleeper probably.’
‘You don’t seriously think so, do you?’
Mannering hesitated. They had reached Armstrong’s door, but neither tapping or knocking brought any response.
Mannering tried the handle, and found that the door opened.
He saw at once that the bed had not been slept in, nor was there any sign that Armstrong had undressed. Crane looked across at Mannering meaningly.
‘It doesn’t look too good for that young man, would you say?’
From the doorway Fay’s voice cried out sharply: ‘That’s a beastly remark to make! Does he have to be the thief because he’s missing?’
Chapter Three
Enter The Police
Of the strength of the girl’s love for Armstrong there was no room for doubt, and Mannering was prepared for an outburst of anger. But, strangely, none came. The architect hesitated, then stepped towards her.
‘I’m sorry, Fay. I said the first thing that came into my head.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said dully. ‘The only difference between you and the others is that you said it, and they think it.’
Mannering sensed that she was afraid – and there was only one apparent reason for her fear. She, herself, was not sure that Armstrong was innocent.
‘It’s quite possible he heard something and went to investigate,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I doubt whether anyone is thinking he’s involved.’
‘Dad is, for one! The others – of course they are. They must do!’ Her voice broke, there was a wealth of appeal in her wide grey eyes. ‘He’s not been to bed, his coat’s missing, and—and he came up before anyone else.’
‘Easy does it,’ said the Baron, for he knew the girl was close to hysteria. ‘This won’t help Bill Armstrong. In point of fact—’ He spoke more sharply, while Crane guided the girl to a chair. ‘We’ve no justification for thinking anything, and I was about to tell Theo he’s talking out of the back of his neck. There was a car waiting at the end of the drive, and the thieves obviously used it. There isn’t a tittle of evidence against Bill, any more than against Lord Fauntley. Why didn’t you call him, by the way?’
He had succeeded in steadying her.
‘Well, he’s too old to be out on a night like this, and I knew he’d dash off the moment he heard the jewels were gone.’
She talked quickly and showed no inclination to go, while Mannering and Crane were shivering again, both anxious to get to their rooms and change. But neither of them had the heart to point that out to the girl.
Mannering could not rid himself of an impression that she knew more about Armstrong’s disappearance than she had admitted. He wished she would go, wished Crane would hurry to his own room. He wanted to think. How long would it be before the local police referred the robbery to Scotland Yard? What time would he have to prepare a ‘defence’ against the Yard’s inevitable suspicion?
The ghost of the past was rising again, dangerous and insistent.
There was his own loss, too. The Glorias were well insured, but he valued them for their beauty, rather than for their worth.
At the back of his mind, also, was the thought of the scene which would come when Fauntley heard of the loss. The peer was jewel-proud to a point of mania. God, what a mess!
Someone tapped on the door.
Mannering looked up to see the small, grey, kindly figure of Lady Fauntley regarding him.
‘I thought I heard—John what is the trouble? I’ve been lying awake for a long time trying to pluck up courage to come and see, but—my dear! You’ll catch your death of cold and be in bed tomorrow with a temperature, you look frozen!’ Her placid eyes regarded each one in turn, resting finally on Fay. ‘Fay, do say something, what has happened?’
Mannering explained briefly.
‘A robbery? Not all those lovely gems I hope – poor Hugo will be so upset. John, I wish you and Mr. Crane would hurry along and change. Fay can tell me all about it.’ She rested a hand on the girl’s arm, while Mannering and Crane slipped out. Mannering hurried to his room.
He bathed and dressed at high speed. There would be little opportunity of further sleep for some time.
His own problem now filled his mind.
Would there be talk of the Baron? It would be strange if he was not mentioned before the night was out. The fact that the Baron was reputed always to work alone would not prevent him being discussed; nor would it prevent the police considering him.
Damn the Baron!
Crane arrived as he finished, and they went downstairs together.
Sharron and Mendleson, neither of them changed, were the only two people in the lounge.
Sharron had aged in the past hour, every tinge of colour had gone from his face: but Mendleson looked his usual florid self, quite self-possessed and unflurried.
‘If only I’d listened to you,’ Sharron muttered again.
‘Hang it, we’re all insured,’ Crane said.
‘Insured!’ Sharron shouted. ‘They were the Kallinovs, no insurance could—’ He steadied himself with an effort.
‘Damn good of you to take it like this, but what will Fauntley say?’ He hesitated, and his eyes hardened. ‘Did you find Armstrong?’
Mannering shook his head.
‘So it was he—’
‘Now don’t talk nonsense,’ Mendleson said sharply.
He stopped, and all of them turned as the door was flung open, and Lord Fauntley appeared on the threshold. Nothing was left of the pompous, immaculate little man. He drew a deep breath as he stepped towards the men grouped about the fire. His voice was pitched high.
‘Is—is it true, Sharron?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Sharron.
Fauntley flung his hands upwards.
‘Gone! All gone! The Leopolds, the Dellings, the Kransits – gone!’ He stood glaring, quivering with rage.
Mannering stepped to his side.
‘You’re not the only loser, Fauntley.’
Fauntley swung round, his face working.
‘But you don’t understand, those gems were priceless, the finest in my collection. I wouldn’t lose them for a fortune! It’s an outrage, where are the police, what are you doing about it? What—are—you—doing?’
Mendleson brought a tot of whisky. Fauntley drank it at a gulp, and some colour came to his cheeks.
‘The police won’t be long getting them back,’ Mannering went on with seeming confidence. ‘The Winchester men should be here at any moment.’
Hardly had he finished speaking when they heard the approach of a car. Mannering’s heart thumped. The police. Would a Yard man be with them?
In less than a moment Forbes had opened the door to announce Chief Inspector Horroby of the Hampshire Constabu
lary. Mannering liked the look of his bright, direct blue eyes. Behind was an athletic-looking man of thirty or so, later introduced as Detective Sergeant Glenn.
‘Good evening, Horroby.’ Sharron and the policeman were acquainted, obviously. ‘Sorry to bring you out—’
‘My job,’ said Horroby briefly. ‘Just what happened?’
He did not interrupt while Sharron gave a brief résumé of the night’s activity, and his first request was to see Errol’s gun. Using a handkerchief to prevent his own fingerprints being transmitted he opened it.
‘Two bullets gone—’
‘I’ve told you, Errol fired twice,’ Sharron said, with a touch of irritation. ‘Hadn’t you better see the vault?’
‘Yes, of course. I wonder if you gentlemen’—he looked at Fauntley, Mendleson and Crane in turn—‘would mind writing a list of exactly what jewels you had in the safe, and a description of them? If you’ll come with Lord Sharron and me, Mr. Mannering—’
Was there any ulterior motive in that request, wondered the Baron? There appeared no reason why he should go with the Inspector instead of one of the others. No sign of the alarm that shot through his mind showed on his face, and the trio left the room.
Horroby spoke before they reached the vault.
‘I’ve heard something of you, Mr. Mannering. Inspector Bristow of the Yard is an old friend of mine.’
Bristow, one of the few men at the Yard who knew Mannering as the Baron, but could not prove it!
‘We’ve met, of course,’ Mannering was surprised that his voice was so steady, and angry with himself for being so full of nerves.
‘Several times I gather,’ continued Horroby. ‘You gave him unofficial help, once or twice, didn’t you? The Halliwell case last year, and that amazing Baron alias business—’
‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Sharron. ‘I’d forgotten.’
His interruption gave Mannering time to assess the position. Bristow, then, had said nothing of Mannering being the Baron, and he felt more confident as they reached the strong-room.
The Inspector and Glenn examined the locks of the doors and safes carefully. Before they had finished, a second carload of police arrived. Flashlight photographs were taken, and fingerprint men set to work. There was a quiet, impressive efficiency about it all, particularly noticeable to Mannering.