by John Creasey
Mannering said: “I won’t worry her. I didn’t come to see her or you.”
“If you came to open the safe, you shouldn’t have much trouble,” Kenley muttered. “I’m always telling the Old Man that he ought to buy a new one, the one he’s got must have come out of the ark.” He was talking quickly, and to cover his nervousness. “Er—would you give me a cigarette?”
“There’s a packet behind you,” said Mannering.
Young Kenley turned, groped for and found the cigarettes, took one out.
“What are you here for?” he muttered as he lit the cigarette.
Mannering hardly heard him.
He had been prepared to find the armed watchman; to encounter some of the men whom he had met at Bayswater – but this rather naïve and likeable young man presented a different problem. It was one thing to attack the watchman, or to lay about him when he was attacked; but to knock young Kenley out in cold blood—
He was getting soft.
Kenley hurled the packet at him, and leapt forward.
The cigarettes patted softly about Mannering’s head, and the clenched fist grazed his chin. Mannering swayed to one side, and drove a punch to Kenley’s stomach, which only half landed, and took a buffet on the side of the head. Another blow at the solar plexus drove Kenley’s wind out with a wheezing gasp, his chin jutted forward.
Mannering’s fist on his chin, rocked Kenley and made his eyes roil.
Five minutes later, he was as securely bound and gagged as the watchman.
Mannering dragged him, chair and all, into the scullery which led off the kitchen. The key was in the lock, and he turned it. No chance that the men would work together, now, and perhaps break their bonds.
The watchman was watching with dark, fear-filled eyes; Mannering wasted no time on him.
He reached the silent hall again, without any cause for alarm. The moon was brighter, and everything showed up clearly through the window.
He approached the doors he hadn’t yet tried, and found them unlocked. One was a morning-room, small, shadowy, sparsely furnished. The other was the dining-room, and Mannering switched on a light. In a tall, spacious room, the furniture was either genuine Jacobean or good imitation, for the polished oak was almost black. There were no books.
He went out.
He stood outside the first of the locked doors, and tried the keys from Fenner’s ring. He still thought of the man upstairs as Fenner. The third key turned the lock, and he stepped into a drawing-room, pastel-blues and greens, fragile-looking furniture, all apparently Louis Quinze; in one corner was an elegant writing-bureau. One of the two small keys on Fenner’s ring opened it, and he found several small notebooks, some letters and a leather-bound book which looked very old. Some of the pages were loose, and the brown leather cover was badly rubbed at the corners and at the spine.
Mannering put them all in a pile, strung them round with a cord, and made a loop to use as a handle. Then he relocked the bureau, went outside and put his haul on the settle near the front door. The door was bolted and chained; he unfastened it, then turned the catch. It was a modern Yale, and he left it so that he had only to pull at the handle to open the door. He could now escape from upstairs or down.
He went to the kitchen. Neither prisoner appeared to have made much effort to wriggle free. Both were conscious; Kenley tried to mutter something behind his gag, but Mannering ignored him and went back to the silent hall.
He turned to the last of the downstairs rooms and again found one of Fenner’s keys what he wanted. He stepped into a study rather smaller than the ground floor study at Lithom Hall, but very much like it – the walls were book-lined from floor to ceiling. The chief difference was that these shelves weren’t glazed.
Two had cupboards beneath them.
He found that the cupboards were locked; again Fenner’s keys came out.
One cupboard was filled with books – several large ones, obviously very old. He glanced at one, seeing woodcuts of great beauty on the seared pages. There were many much smaller, and about half were really old. He didn’t trouble to look at the titles or inspect the binding closely, but put them on a small pedestal desk – on which stood a telephone, a silver inkstand and a blotting pad.
The books were heavy – it wouldn’t be easy to take many of them away.
He went to the second cupboard – and found the black door and brass handle of an old-fashioned safe inside.
He had no keys for this.
The safe was built into the wall; it wouldn’t be possible to take it out and wrench the back of it off – the simplest and most effective way of dealing with old-fashioned safes. There was only one keyhole, and young Kenley’s words came to his mind – he’d told the
‘Old Man’ that he ought to get a new one.
Why had Fenner relied on this?
Was there danger in its apparent simplicity?
Mannering took a reel of twine from his pocket, crouched down, and began to unwind and push it into the keyhole, ramming it tightly. It took a long time. Twice he stood up and went to the door, but nothing alarmed him. Soon most of the twine was inside the keyhole. He rammed it in more tightly, then took a narrow steel tool, and pushed that in. The tool was like a sardine key, with serrated edges, and the edges would catch in the cotton. The cotton would be pressed into the tumblers of the lock, and so, when turned, the tool should act as a key. The method had one weakness; it took time, two or three efforts might be needed, and he had already been inside Marchant for an hour.
He turned slowly.
He felt the pressure, as if the ‘key’ had caught in the tumblers, and turned even more gently. If the ‘key’ slipped he would have to start all over again.
Slowly – slowly. He hardly breathed.
He heard no click, and expected none; but he knew that the lock was back.
He drew the ‘key’ out, breaking the threads which were attached to it, and then stood up, rubbing his strained legs. He crossed to the door, glad to move his muscles; still welcome silence greeted him.
But he was uneasy.
Fenner would never trust his valuables to an old-fashioned safe. Was there another, which he hadn’t found? Or was there a trick to this?
He’d known safes with ‘safety’ devices which could kill.
He stood deliberately to one side, leant forward, gripped the handle and pulled gently. The door was heavy; he had to exert a lot of pressure, but didn’t want to jerk it open.
Gently, it swung open.
Next moment he heard a little sneezing sound, and a cloud of white vapour spewed about him. Tear-gas burned his eyes as he darted back.
He wanted to cough.
He stifled it as he went to the door, to gulp in clean, fresh air.
He had to wait again.
The gas near the safe would take some time to disperse, and unless he opened one of the windows, the room would be untenable for a while.
He stayed where he was.
When at last he returned to the safe, the gas still hung about but was not strong enough to worry him. Still keeping to one side, he pulled the door wide open. Had he been in front of the safe when the gas charge had exploded, he would have been blinded and coughing helplessly by now.
He took out his pencil-torch and shone it into the safe – and was not surprised to see a second door. This wasn’t so simple and old-fashioned as Kenley’s nephew seemed to believe. He peered closely at this new obstacle, which seemed to have no lock. The first door was a false one.
Then he saw a thin rubber-insulated wire, running round all four sides of the inner door.
If he pulled the door open, a jangling alarm would rouse the household.
He took out a small screwdriver and pushed the wire gently between the door and the frame; minutes flew, but his movements were slow and steady, as if he had plenty of time.
The wire was tucked away at last.
The door opened easily.
But he kept to one side, prepared for
any trick …
Zutt!
A sharp, soft sneezing sound came with a yellow flash; behind him, something hit the wall with a thud.
But he was unhurt – although had he stood in front of the door, the bullet fired from the concealed automatic would have smashed his face.
Dear Fenner.
But he forgot Fenner as he saw the gun, with its silencer, wedged between the books which were crammed inside.
Chapter Fifteen
Cross Country
These books surely held the secret.
Mannering glanced at the first two titles. One was The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas B. Aldrich: He had never heard of it, could not imagine it to be valuable. The title-page told him that it had been published in the United States in 1870; the leaves were mostly uncut. The other was a tall Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson, which looked like a first edition with the expurgated sections still there. It was valuable to collectors, but hardly worth a fortune – three or four hundred pounds at most.
Some of the others were comparatively modern, and could probably be picked up at auctions for a few pounds. The intrinsic value of the books did not explain Fenner’s precautions.
They were now all on the desk, in three piles; it was as much as he could do to lift one pile in comfort. But he had to get them away. He was feeling the reaction; he wanted a cigarette, would have given a lot for a whisky and soda. He opened one of the small cupboards in the desk and found a decanter and several glasses. He helped himself to a weak whisky; and wondered whether his haversacks were big enough for the books.
Not for all of them.
But he could take the smaller volumes, and if he could find another sack, he might be able to hide the larger ones in the grounds.
He sorted the books out again, then went across the hall and out of the front door, placing the books on the top of four steps which led to a lawn. He returned for the smaller parcel which he had taken from the drawing-room and put it with the others. Then he went back and switched off the study light.
It wasn’t so bright outside now; clouds were drifting slowly across the moon.
He made for the oak tree, carrying the parcel, and some of the books, and the grey tossed his head in welcome.
“Won’t be long, old chap,” said Mannering.
He put the parcel and the smaller books into the haversacks, and went to the garage. It was locked, but one of the watchman’s keys fitted it, and soon he was inside, with the doors closed and the light on. There were three cars, including the Rolls-Royce. At the back were several sacks, clean and new. The strong hessian would easily hold the books. He filled two, tied the necks with cord, and went to find a hiding-place for them.
His luck had held remarkably well; he was on edge now.
There was a thick hedge only a few yards from the oak tree – laurel which had been allowed to grow high and wide before it was trimmed. He stuffed one of the large sacks into it, went back for the other, then stood back and surveyed the hedge. In this light, there was nothing to show that anything was hidden there, for the leaves had closed over the gap. In daylight, anyone looking closely would be able to tell that the hedge had been entered.
He would have to chance that.
He slung the haversacks over his shoulders.
The front door was still ajar, but he wanted to be off. He unfastened the grey, led him from beneath the shelter of the oak, and tried to mount. The haversacks made him lose his balance. The sense of urgency increased – he had experienced it before, had come to regard it as a sure sign of danger.
At his second attempt, he swung into the saddle all right, and settled the haversacks on his back.
“Off we go!” he said.
He intended to use the drive gates, so that he could ride on the grass while near the house, and lessen any risk of being heard.
The grey moved forward eagerly.
Then: Crack!
He darted a glance behind him, and saw the front door wide open and a man standing on the steps, gun in hand.
Crack!
He felt a thud, but no pain.
“Faster!” he said aloud, and crouched over the horse’s neck. The grey, scenting the danger, broke into a canter, which changed to a gallop. The shooting quickened, sharp cracks in the night. He heard men running on the gravel, heard the garage doors swing open and crash back; suddenly the drive was illuminated in a great beam of light.
They were getting a car out of the garage.
He still crouched low, with the wind rushing past his face and the grey going as if he knew that a life depended on it. The gates loomed up; they were closed, and the wall surrounding the property was high and solid. He heard the engine of the car splutter and then die down again. There was no more shooting; he was out of small-arms range.
He had to slow down to open the gates, and might have to dismount.
The engine hummed and this time didn’t stop. The light was blinding.
The grey slowed down.
They stopped in front of the gates, and the handle was fairly high – Mannering could lean forward and touch it. It wasn’t locked, but the gate was heavy; had he not been carrying the haversacks, he would have dismounted. He pulled, and the grey edged away as the gate came slowly open. Now the light from the headlamps shone on the wrought iron, casting a wider and brighter beam, and the powerful hum of the engine sounded very near.
Another shot clanged against the iron.
The grey was nosing his way out of the gates, although a car couldn’t get through the gap.
Crack-crack!
He swung right, away from the main road and the way he had come, trying to remember where this road led. The grey, going at a good quick canter, seemed glad to be on the move. The night was dark and shadowy, for the clouds were now thick over the moon, and it was colder. A cottage loomed up on his right, then another, next a little terrace of them; he was in the village.
They raced along the High Street, passing houses to the right and left.
Mannering knew where he was now; he had passed along behind the village to get to Marchant and remembered a grass field, on his right, leading to a small wood bordering the main road to Lithom. He could hear the car engine and, when he glanced round, saw the glow of headlamps swaying up and down.
A light went on in a cottage nearby.
The houses came to an end, and he scanned the hedge for a gate which would lead into the field. Yes, there it was – and the gate was open. He turned into it, then let the grey go all out.
The headlights spread over a corner of the field, and he wasn’t sure whether the car was going straight on, or whether it had stopped. If they guessed which way he had gone, they would drive to the main road and wait near the wood, hoping to head him off.
Was there a way across country?
He didn’t want to stop to look at the map, and he tried to visualize it. The picture gradually cleared in his mind. If he skirted the wood, he would reach a by-road which he could cross easily; from there he would be able to approach Lithom village from the south, and enter the parkland by the South Lodge gates.
It would add half an hour to his journey, but he would avoid the men in the car.
He reached the wood, and rode along the edge. Now and again he saw a glow of headlights through the trees. The car seemed to be moving slowly, he could imagine that the men were waiting to shoot on sight.
He hitched the haversacks up on his back more comfortably, and settled down to a steady trot.
The drawing-room window was still open.
Mannering climbed in, closed it, fastened the catch, then took off his boots and, with them in one hand and the sacks over his shoulder, he crept upstairs.
He entered his own room, and Lorna said softly: “Is that you, John?”
“All safe,” said Mannering, as softly,
A steady drizzle was falling when Mannering awoke, just after eight o’clock next morning, and saw the maid standing by the bedside with the morning tea
. She put it on the table, then went to draw the curtains. Lorna was still asleep, and Mannering’s eyes were heavy; he knew that he wouldn’t feel very bright later in the day. But he wished the maid a gay good-morning, and disturbed Lorna, who opened her eyes.
“It’s raining, sir,” said the maid.
“Pity,” said Mannering, and his thoughts flew to the books in the hedge.
“And—and there isn’t any news about Lady Gloria,” the girl said. “I do hope she’s all right.”
“I’m sure she is,” said Mannering soothingly.
The maid looked at him as if he were talking out of the back of his neck, and went out. Mannering poured out tea, and Lorna sat up, stifling a yawn.
It had been just after four-thirty when Mannering had returned, and he had been in bed within ten minutes. Lorna hadn’t asked questions. Now she was agog to hear what had happened. She sipped her tea and listened without interrupting, and when he had finished, she asked slowly: “Where are the books you brought back?”
“In the wardrobe,” said Mannering promptly.
“If the theft’s reported—”
“I doubt if it will be, and I’m quite sure they won’t search here for the loot,” said Mannering. “Before breakfast I’ll take the books up to the library, and make a note of their titles so that we can look at ’em later.” He yawned again. “I’m getting too old in the tooth for midnight rambles.”
“I thought you’d realize that one day.”
Mannering laughed.
He bathed and shaved and, by half past eight, went to look at the books. One of the first he handled was small and dumpy – nearly two inches thick. A small round hole was drilled in the front cover; the hole looked newly made.
Mannering opened the book slowly.
A bullet had gone most of the way through, and touched the back cover; only the book had saved him. He put it aside before Lorna could see it, and when she was in the bathroom, stood up and laid it on the top of the wardrobe, close against the wall.
While one or two of the books were really old and valuable, most were interesting collectors’ pieces, but no more. The small book which he had found in the writing-desk was an early Italian production, illuminated in red and black.