by John Creasey
He put the papers in a drawer in the dressing-table and locked it, then prepared to take the books to the library. It wasn’t going to be easy to slip in without being seen, but he hadn’t far to go; the main doors of the big library led off a passage which ran across the top of this one.
“I’ll go and see if the coast is clear,” said Lorna.
She was back in a few minutes.
“It’s all right. I’ve opened the door. There’s a table just inside, with some other piles of books on and under it, you can put them there.”
“I could kiss you,” Mannering said.
“Hurry, you fool!”
Mannering’s heart was in his mouth as he walked along the passage. If anyone saw him carrying the haversacks, they would be curious; and he didn’t want to answer questions. He reached the library unseen.
The piles of books in the corner were reminiscent of Jeremiah Caldecott’s shop, but this untidiness was a godsend. He placed his in two piles – and then heard footsteps!
He still had the haversacks.
There was a shelf, half-empty, near him. He grabbed the haversacks and tucked them behind some books – and as he turned round, the door opened and Longley’s fair head appeared.
The sergeant looked startled.
“Hallo! You’re up early.”
“Catching worms,” said Mannering lightly.
“Plenty of worms in some of this stuff,” said Longley, frowning. “It’s a damned shame, they ought to have been looked after better. That chap Wilberforce just didn’t know his job. I don’t think much damage is done—the worst I came across yesterday I dumped down there.” He glanced at the piles of books. “What’s brought you here, sir?”
“You recommended a visit.”
Longley laughed.
“I didn’t think you’d come before breakfast. I’ve had mine—haven’t seen Mary this morning, have you?”
Mannering couldn’t miss the eagerness in the detective’s voice.
“She’s probably still asleep,” he said drily, and glanced at the books; his own pile looked conspicuous. “Well, I’ll get along to breakfast—leave those three piles for me, will you?”
He pointed.
“What are they?” asked Longley.
“Oddments I’ve had inquiries for at Quinns,” said Mannering, “if there’s going to be a sale, I may as well be in on the ground floor.”
“Always with an eye to business,” said Longley. “I won’t touch ’em.”
“Thanks.”
Lorna had left the bedroom, and Mannering hurried downstairs, but she wasn’t there; Wirral was. There was grapefruit or porridge; Mannering chose grapefruit, and started to eat, looking out of the window.
The whole scene had changed with the weather; the bright green was smeared as with grey shadow, and the windows were spotted with myriad rain-spots. Rain trickled down them in places, and it was almost impossible to see far.
Would the hedge keep the books fairly dry?
No point in worrying about that.
The next task was to tackle Fenner.
The police?
It would be a waste of time putting the police on to Wilfrid Fenner; the man would have left Marchant by now.
“I don’t see that it makes any difference,” said Lorna practically. “If you had stayed behind to talk to him last night, you’d never have escaped. It’s a good thing that you did have a mental blackout. But didn’t you say that his nephew was there? And did you see Halsted?”
Mannering said: “Yes, to the first; no, to the second. Young Kenley’s wife is about to have a baby, if he told the truth, and she might be in a bad way. The shooting probably roused her. It would certainly have scared young Kenley. If he has no idea that his uncle is up to this business, he’ll have a shock.”
“He’ll have to find out sooner or later.”
Wirral brought in the papers. There was nothing about Gloria’s disappearance, and only a brief mention of the affair at Bayswater, with the familiar statement that the police expected to make an arrest shortly.
A bell began to ring, and went on ringing.
“That’s the telephone,” said Lorna. “I hope Gloria’s all right.”
“Gadden’s men will look after her.” Mannering looked up. “Call for me, Wirral?”
“Yes, sir. Will you take it in the study or the hall?”
“The study,” decided Mannering.
He wasn’t surprised that it was Bristow; and he wasn’t surprised to hear that Bristow had startling news about Dr. Chatterton.
Chapter Sixteen
Daytime Visit
Chatterton had been waylaid in a London side street, hustled into a taxi-cab, and driven out of London. He had been traced only half an hour ago, locked in a small room in a lonely cottage near Woking – a cottage so old and dilapidated that no one had lived in it for years. The specialist had no idea why the outrage had been committed, said Bristow, and he wasn’t injured. But he was anxious about Lady Gloria, and: “He’s coming out this morning,” said Bristow.
“Tell him he needn’t hurry,” said Mannering. “She’ll certainly be all right until this afternoon. Longley’s told you what has happened to her, hasn’t he?”
“Yes. Chatterton thinks that it might be a good idea,” said Bristow. “Is there anything else to report down there?”
“I don’t think so, Bill.”
“I never like it when I hear you speak in that tone of voice,” said Bristow. “Don’t do anything silly, will you?”
“With police to the right of me and police to the left of me, how can I?”
“Well, I’ve warned you. I’m going to telephone Gadden at St. Malden as soon as I ring off, and he’ll go to see whether he can pick up Halsted,” said Bristow. “I’ve already warned him to have Marchant House watched.”
“Wasn’t it watched last night?” asked Mannering innocently.
“It should have been,” said Bristow. “But you know what these country people are like.”
“Don’t you worry about Gadden,” said Mannering reassuringly.
But why hadn’t he seen the police near Marchant?
He had been glad enough at the time, but it might mean that Gadden and his men might have fallen down on the job. So they could have been equally careless about Gloria.
He was on edge until he put a call through to the St. Malden police, and was assured by the squeaky voice of Sergeant Wilkinson that the night-duty men at the Whites’ cottage had been relieved, and that there had been no incident.
That settled, Mannering went to the library. Mary and Longley, heads close together, were examining a book.
“Don’t you ever eat?” Mannering asked Mary.
“I think Wirral has a soft spot for me, and he asked me if I’d like breakfast in my room.”
“Unfair,” said Mannering drily.
“Quite right,” said Longley with spirit. “I must say you’ve picked out an odd lot,” he added, glancing at the piles. “You’ve got everything from an early Old Moore’s Almanack to a facsimile of the Gutenberg Bible. Queer customers, yours.”
“You know what collectors are,” said Mannering. He looked at Mary who had gone to the far end of the room, and was mounting a pair of steps. “I don’t know what rubbish you’ll find here and I don’t know what valuable books there are, but I’m pretty sure of this—the secret of all the trouble will be found in these books.”
“You’ve always felt that, haven’t you?” asked Longley.
“Yes. And I think it’s worth looking for a secret passage to the library or to another part of the house. I hope to be back later in the morning and may be able to lend a helping hand.”
“Where are you going now?”
“To Marchant House.” Mannering told him what Bristow had said.
“Wish you luck,” Longley said, a trifle wistfully.
Mannering grinned, and glanced at Mary, who was stretching up to one of the higher shelves.
“Look o
ut, you’ll fall,” cried Longley, and hurried to her side.
Mannering went downstairs, as the telephone rang. It was Gadden, to ask whether he was going to Marchant.
“I hope to be there in twenty minutes. I’ll wait for you if I’m there first.”
“You’d have a job,” said Gadden heavily. “I’m in Marchant village now. I’ll wait for you.”
Mannering drove through the dripping lanes, beneath trees which sent a constant shower of water over the road, and through the misty drizzle which cut visibility down to fifty yards. He had to slow down at every turning, to make sure that he didn’t miss the way. If this had started during the night, he would have been in trouble.
Was there much cause for satisfaction?
Halsted and Fenner would certainly be gone; an interview with Fenner might have yielded more dividends.
When he arrived at the village he saw two cars, including Gadden’s old one, standing in front of a cottage, outside which was a board headed: ‘Berkshire Constabulary’. Half-a-dozen villagers were gathered in the doorway of a shop across the road, watching the unusual scene.
Gadden caught sight of him from the front room of the cottage, and beckoned. He greeted Mannering gruffly, introduced him to the local constable, a brisk young man with a cockney accent, proof enough that he had been imported, and then said: “I’m afraid we’re not going to get much here, Mr. Mannering.” Gadden wasn’t so cheerful this morning.
“Why not?”
“The birds have flown,” growled Gadden. “This Dr. Halsted and the owner of the house, Wilfrid Kenley, were seen to leave in Halsted’s Rolls-Royce before dawn. I’ve put a call out for it. It wasn’t until this morning that we learned the owner was very like your man Fenner. That came from the men who watched during the night. They were both lured away from the house by two men who left in the early hours, and when they came back, there was a pitched battle going on between the servants and a chap on horseback. The servants overpowered my men, and locked them in a garden shed. Damned nerve!”
“These beggars mean business. But who was the horseman?”
“I don’t know. Cowley here heard a horse galloping past his window about four o’clock, and a car passed immediately afterwards.”
“We’ve put the wind up them, anyhow,” Mannering said.
“I wish we hadn’t. And just to complicate things, there was a young couple staying at the house—the wife in the family way. They may still be there. All the gates and gaps in the hedges are being watched. I’ve brought a lot of men out, but I’m afraid we’re too late.”
“We may pick up something,” said Mannering soothingly.
They drove to the house in their own cars, and pulled up outside the front door. Mannering glanced towards the hedge. The rain was more than just a nuisance; it might seriously damage the hidden books. He was worrying about that when a nervous-looking woman of middle-age opened the door.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
“I want to see Mr. Kenley,” said Gadden.
“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Kenley was called away early this morning, he—”
“The young Mr. Kenley,” said Gadden.
“Oh, Mr. Charles is in, sir, but he’ll have to keep you a few minutes, he’s only just got up.” She stood aside for them to enter. “What name shall I give, sir?”
“Just say the police.”
“The po-lice,” sighed the nervous woman, and her hands were shaking as she opened the door of the drawing-room and asked them to wait. There wasn’t a genuine period piece there; it was all reproduction.
They waited for ten minutes before Charles Kenley came in, limping slightly, dressed except for a collar and tie.
Gadden stared at the young man.
His left eye was discoloured, his lips were puffy, and there was an angry red bruise on the side of his chin. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was smoking a cigarette which he took rather gingerly from the corner of his mouth.
“You look as if you’ve been in the wars, Mr. Kenley,” remarked Gadden sharply.
“I have,” said Kenley abruptly.
“Recently?”
“Yes, last night. We had burglars.”
Gadden raised his eyebrows.
“Indeed, Mr. Kenley. You had burglars in the night, and yet by eleven o’clock in the morning, you hadn’t reported to the police. You tried to take the law into your own hands, presumably.”
“Supposing I did,” growled Kenley.
“Supposing you tell me why you didn’t think it worth reporting,” said Gadden sharply.
Kenley pressed his hand against his forehead.
“I didn’t have any choice.”
“Come, please!”
“Well, I didn’t. We had a guest here—a Dr. Halsted. Apparently he’s in some kind of trouble. My uncle asked me not to report what had happened until Halsted could get away. Maybe that’s against the law, but—well, I wasn’t in the mood to argue. I’d had a pretty rough time, and I went back to bed—I didn’t wake up until half an hour ago, and my uncle and Halsted had gone.”
“I see.” Gadden could be nasty.
“Then you’re a cleverer man than I,” said Kenley sourly. “I haven’t got it yet. I—”
“Supposing you tell me exactly what happened,” said Gadden, and as he spoke, Sergeant Wilkinson meandered into the room, performing his magic with his beefy hands.
“I will in a minute. I must pop up and tell my wife everything’s all right. Thank the Lord she wasn’t disturbed last night,” Kenley added fervently. “She’s—er—”
“So I understand,” said Gadden.
It was strange for Mannering to stand and watch Kenley, remembering what had happened the previous night and knowing that Kenley hadn’t the slightest idea that he had been the assailant.
Kenley was soon back.
“All right, she’s going to have breakfast in bed. Shall I be glad when this business is over!”
“I don’t think you’re likely to have another burglary,” said Gadden.
“I wasn’t thinking about that.”
He told his story; as far as Mannering knew, it was all true. He described the kitchen passage incident, and said that half-an-hour after he had been tied to the chair, he had heard shooting. Not until some time later had one of the staff come into the kitchen, and found him and the night-watchman. Kenley seemed confused and bewildered. He hadn’t known that his uncle had employed a night-watchman, had no idea that there was any mystery, and he blamed it all on to Dr. Halsted, who had been at the house only two days. Yet he was obviously uneasy. All the servants except the woman, a daily help, had left.
He hadn’t visited the study.
He looked aghast when he saw that the safe had been broken open, but Mannering was much more interested in Gadden’s reaction. Gadden examined first the gun, then the gas-pistol which had ejected the tear-gas, and finally the twine in the keyhole, all with increasing astonishment, which he made no attempt to hide. When he straightened up, he looked at Mannering dazedly.
“I’ve never seen anything like it! That thief was brilliant! I’ve seldom come across a better job. And the man knew just what he was about, was afraid that the safe was protected and kept out of the way of the bullet which came from that gun. Murderous contraption! Did you know that the gun was there, Mr. Kenley?”
“I can hardly believe it is there,” said Kenley hoarsely. “I was always telling my uncle that he ought to get a modern safe. And yet …” his voice trailed off.
“Well, someone made a clean sweep of the contents,” said Gadden briskly. “It may have been the thief or it could have been your uncle. How did the thief force entry?”
“I’m damned if I know!”
It was twenty minutes before they discovered the open window in the empty bedroom, and Gadden pointed to the scratches at the catch and the other signs that the window had been forced. Mannering looked out, seeing that the rain had almost stopped, but the books would be soaked through; if
he left them for another day, the damage might be irremediable. They mustn’t be left.
“We’d better have a look outside,” said Gadden. “Wilkinson!”
“Sir?” squeaked Wilkinson. He had followed them like a faithful dog from the study to the bedroom.
“See to the prints on the safe and in the study.”
“Yes, sir.” Wilkinson lumbered off.
It hadn’t quite stopped raining when they went outside but the sky in the west was brighter, and much of the mist had cleared. One of Gadden’s men was standing in the empty garage. The man led them away and pointed out that a horse had been beneath the oak tree; for the first time Mannering felt anxious.
Had the grey horse left hoof-marks, which might be traced?
Gadden agreed that a horse had been there, but thought that the hoofs had been muffled, and there was nothing they could learn from the marks. All of them, including Kenley, looked beneath the oak and up to the window, and saw where Mannering had forced entry. Meanwhile, Mannering, thinking only of the books, moved towards the laurel hedge, and made a great fuss of looking at the grass.
Gadden came over.
“Found anything?”
“A man moved about here quite a bit, I should say,” said Mannering. “The grass is crushed—nothing in the way of footprints, I’m afraid, but—why did he come to the hedge?”
Gadden rubbed his chin.
“Well, why?”
“I can’t imagine, but the horse was standing under the oak on the house side of the tree, not over here. Yet the man was here.”
“Something in that,” agreed Gadden. He began to poke about the hedge, using a small piece of fallen wood, and Kenley came up with the other detective.
It was Kenley who first saw the sacks.
Gadden suggested that the books should be dabbed dry and then taken to Lithom Hall, where the librarian might be able to help identify and value them. Kenley raised no objection, but wanted a receipt.
Gadden said that he wanted to go to the Hall, but didn’t explain why.
There was a subtle change in the Inspector’s manner. Mannering thought that he kept looking at him speculatively, almost suspiciously; he hoped it was only his imagination. Gadden and Wilkinson loaded the two lots of books into the back of the old car, after they had been roughly dried with a duster. Two men were left at the house, to continue the investigation and to examine all papers, although undoubtedly Fenner – or Kenley – had had ample time to take away incriminating documents.