by John Creasey
Gadden hadn’t sounded too convinced.
It was easy enough to understand why. He knew little about Mannering, except his reputation as an amateur detective and a dealer in rare antiques. He didn’t know, for instance, that Mannering was wealthy, and his wife as wealthy in her own right; and he certainly didn’t know that Mannering had been the Baron.
No, thought Bristow sourly, you couldn’t trust Mannering to behave. He took scarifying risks, and sometimes laid himself wide open to suspicion. Many a policeman had wondered whether Quinns was an honest business; even Bristow sometimes wondered whether Mannering’s reformation had been lasting. But the night’s escapade might solve the riddle. If Gadden proved it had been Mannering, that would be Mannering’s own funeral, but there was no need to encourage Gadden.ft
Damnation on Mannering! He always blinded others to the real issues.
The death of Lithom, the ordeal of Lady Gloria – and, behind those two things, the clear evidence of a powerful gang of armed men.
They’d probably killed Lithom; better face that.
They’d certainly tried to kidnap Lady Gloria.
They’d had one go at Mannering and would probably have another. Did Mannering realize the danger to himself?
Not much doubt of that. But he’d accept it and walk into it, if he could help Lady Gloria by doing so. Quixotic, gallant fool, in spite of his air of nonchalance.
Better go down and see what was happening.
The telephone bell rang.
Bristow, still alone in the office, picked up the receiver.
He was sitting in his shirtsleeves, for it was stiflingly hot in London.
“Bristow speaking.”
“Sergeant Longley, asking for you, sir.”
“Put him through,” said Bristow, and groped for a cigarette. He lit it.
“That you, sir?” Longley’s voice was pitched low, rather like Mannering’s had been the previous day.
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to be long, sir, but something pretty queer has happened. It concerns Mannering—he obtained a list of books from Lady Gloria, books which Fenner wanted. Most of the titles were found beneath a hedge near Marchant House this morning—you’ve probably heard about that.”
“Yes, go on.”
“I’d better start from the beginning, sir. Mannering was in the library early this morning, and told me he’d been picking out some titles for Quinns’ customers. I didn’t question it at the time. Then later I found two haversacks stuffed behind some books. They weren’t very dusty, and there were one or two fragments of oak leaves sticking to them.”
“Yes,” said Bristow.
“Then I discovered something that shook me pretty badly, sir. The books Mannering had picked out were the other titles on the list—follow me—the titles not found under the hedge.”
“Yes,” said Bristow, for the fourth time.
“So I’ve had a careful look at them,” said Longley, and his voice rose a little. “One of the books has been damaged quite recently—it’s got a shallow groove in the leather binding. No doubt about it being new, and not much doubt that it was caused by a bullet. The thing is, sir, that the man who broke into Marchant House got away on horseback, and if he were carrying these books on his back, they might have stopped a bullet. That’s what I think happened, and I’m wondering why Mannering picked ’em out? Or did he? I’ve been wondering whether it’s possible that he went to Marchant House last night.”
Longley’s voice was now almost shrill.
Bristow said slowly: “You haven’t tackled him about this yet, I hope?”
“Great Scott, no!”
“Then don’t,” said Bristow. “I’ll find an excuse for coming down. Don’t let him think you suspect anything.”
“So you think—”
“I don’t know what I think, but possibly Mannering has been playing the fool, and he may know more than we realize. You ought to know what these amateurs are like, and Mannering thinks he’s good. He did give you that typewritten list, didn’t he?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then it doesn’t look as if he wants to keep anything from us, does it?”
“Er—no,” said Longley. “No, that’s true enough.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Nothing urgent,” said Longley, sounding a little disappointed. “Mannering’s asked me to go through the books to try to find out why Fenner wanted ’em—to find out if there’s a code message in them. Seems likely, and I’m just going to have a shot at it. But as Fenner had the things, it’s possible that he’s taken any important pages out. I’ll check them, page by page, sir.”
“Yes, do that,” said Bristow. “Have you traced all the books on the list?”
“All except one,” said Longley. “That’s a chunky thing, an early Life of Johnson—I know the edition well.”
That chunky thing was on the top of Mannering’s wardrobe; and it mustn’t stay there much longer. There was no point in keeping it hidden now; Longley was on to the fact that the books had stopped bullets, and the quicker it was returned to the library, the better.
Mannering heard Longley’s last words as he moved away from the alcove, and he was in the downstairs library, with the door closed, before Longley passed. Longley went straight upstairs, while Mannering sat down in an easy chair, looking at the place where a body had lain – and wondered what Bristow was thinking. Undoubtedly he guessed who had broken into Marchant House; if he could prove it, he could make things awkward.
Better to keep this from Lorna for the time being.
The main problem remained. Proof of Lithom’s murder – and the motive for it.
And – what would Fenner do next? He wouldn’t take this setback lying down, but would certainly strike – at Gloria, or at Mannering.
Fenner had someone at Lithom Hall who would carry out his orders. The fact that Higby was of Lithom stock heightened suspicion against him. Supposing he was Lithom’s illegitimate son, and knew it? He might be possessed by a bitterness which could easily turn to hatred of everything Lithom, including Gloria.
But – Fenner’s spy might be Abel.
There was the dog, too.
Would the brute be used to strike again?
At least Gloria was well protected at the cottage; and he himself was prepared for any form of assault.
At the end of the day, Longley and Mary had discovered no pages missing from the books. Some appeared to have been rebound, which reduced their value.
Mannering had slipped the damaged book into the library; so that wouldn’t be found in his room.
While Abel had been exercising the horses, Mannering had gone into his clean and tidy room and searched it, finding nothing of interest.
He sent Higby out on an errand and, just before dinner, went through the footman’s room. Nothing he found implicated Higby.
There was no news of the dog.
Just after ten o’clock, Gadden telephoned to say that he had just visited the cottage, and all was well.
Lady Bream was restless, doubtful whether they had done the wise thing, although Dr. Chatterton had visited the cottage and approved of Gloria being there.
Yet Mannering was uneasy; the day had been a calm one, but the ‘all’s well’ had a hollow ring. Fenner would move soon, where it was least expected, and Fenner had them all on the defensive. Longley couldn’t conceal his changed attitude; Mary seemed affected by it, because Longley had locked up the library and kept the keys himself. Gadden certainly viewed Mannering with some suspicion; and that made a double anxiety. Yet he pretended to notice nothing different in Longley’s manner, and went with the sergeant on a tour of the house, seeing that all the doors were locked, and a burglar alarm system set ready against burglars.
Everyone felt the strain – worse, because none knew for certain that there was any need for it. Lady Bream was affected more than any of them; nervous and fidgety, she went to bed early.
At a quart
er to eleven, Longley said that he thought an early night wouldn’t be a bad idea, and went up with Mary. Mannering wondered whether Lorna had noticed Longley’s preoccupation, but Lorna was smiling when the drawing-room door closed behind the sergeant.
“I don’t think he’s concentrating on his work,” she remarked.
“No?”
“He’s fallen head over heels in love with Mary, and I don’t think Mary’s exactly indifferent to him! Darling, you’ve turned matchmaker.”
“I’ve turned very tired,” said Mannering. “Let’s get upstairs.”
Strange that Lorna had missed the real reason for Longley’s manner.
The sense of near-trouble went with him upstairs, and the thought of Gloria began to obsess him. He started to undress, but gave it up. No use fighting against the inevitable; he wouldn’t rest until he’d been to the cottage.
Chapter Eighteen
Fenner Strikes Again
“Good-night,” said Mary Scott.
Longley was holding her hand very tightly.
“Sleep well,” he said.
“I usually do,” said Mary.
“Er—yes, good. I—er—” Longley stammered, then grinned and dropped her hand. “Sorry. I’m making a damned fool of myself! Must say this, though—I’m glad we’re in this together. ’Night!”
“Good-night, Ted.”
He took her hand again – and then Lady Bream appeared at the door of her room, and he turned and hurried away; his room was in another wing of the house.
Higby walked along the passage.
Mary went to the window of her room. It was very dark outside. Her curtains hadn’t been drawn, and she stood by the open window, looking up at the bright stars and over the shadowed parkland. She saw something move, caught for a moment in the light from the window – a dog, she thought. At any other time she might have thought more of it, but just then she was thinking of Ted Longley. He was – so good-looking. But it wasn’t only his good looks; there was something about him—
Absurd!
She’d known him for little more than twenty-four hours.
She needed no telling what he felt; that was equally absurd. She couldn’t alter facts; she felt different since leaving London, and it wasn’t simply because she was back in the country.
She turned away from the window, then went back to close the curtains while she undressed. Ten minutes later, she pulled them back, and got into bed. She didn’t go to sleep at once, but was pleasantly drowsy and comfortable. She heard a car move down the drive and wondered who was going out so late at night, but it didn’t really disturb her. She was drugged by her thoughts into forgetting that she had come here as a companion to a girl who was no longer here, into forgetting that she might not see Ted again when he left here – and he’d behaved almost as if he wanted to leave that afternoon! He might even have gone, but for Mannering. That was because of his work, of course, he would always put his work first. Rightly.
Quite rightly.
She went to sleep.
She was sound asleep, at one o’clock.
All was quiet.
There was no wind; nothing to rustle the trees outside. The night was clear and the moon was just rising, to spread its gentle light.
There was a sound.
A slight, gentle scraping noise, at the window, as if a ladder were being put into position against it.
Mary stirred in her sleep, but didn’t wake.
A man’s face appeared at the window.
The silhouette of his head and shoulders was very clear and dark, blotting out some of the stars. He rose higher, and put a hand inside the room, every movement stealthy. There was a slight creaking sound. He pressed his hand against the side of the wall, to steady himself, then put a leg into the room. Soon he was standing by the window, staring at the girl.
He turned and looked out.
Another man appeared at the top of the ladder.
The first put his hand into his pocket, drew it out holding a small rubber bag. The bag was tied at the neck with a piece of cord, and he unfastened it and then took out a pad of cotton-wool and a tiny, dark-blue bottle. As he uncorked the bottle, the other man joined him – and the pungent smell of chloroform stole into the room.
The second man went to the far side of the bed, creeping on tiptoe.
The man with the chloroform approached on the window side.
Mary lay on her back now, one arm outside the bedclothes, one bare shoulder showing just above the sheets. The man held the pad of cotton-wool in the palm of his hand, spread a piece of gauze over it, and went a step nearer – so near now that he had only to put out his hand to touch her. He went a little closer, then moved swiftly, thrusting the pad over her mouth and nose, pressing tightly. Her eyes opened, but the light was too dim to show her terror. She tried to strike out but the other man held her arms. She kicked and struggled, one bare foot poked out of the bed, she writhed desperately – but soon grew weaker as the chloroform took effect.
She lay still.
“Hurry,” said the man with the chloroform pad.
The other tossed back the bedclothes, lifted the girl and flung her over his shoulder. Then he went to the window, turned his back to it and, helped by the first man, climbed out and then went slowly down.
Mannering was on the road and the police were at the cottage.
Longley slept.
Making no attempt to conceal himself, Mannering walked about near the Whites’ cottage – and five times in ten minutes, he was challenged! It was nearly one o’clock, and he began to wish that he had stayed at the Hall. Gadden certainly hadn’t taken any chances. The back and front of the cottage was closely watched. One of the guards was Wilkinson, who told him in a shrill whisper that eight men were within call.
Just after half past one, Mannering decided to go back. He could be in bed by half past two, and would be able to catch up a little on his lost sleep. The reaction made him even more tired; he yawned incessantly as he drove. The road was too narrow and winding for him to drive fast, and the twenty miles from the cottage to Lithom Hall took him more than half an hour.
As he neared the North Lodge, he saw the lights of another car in front of him. He had passed nothing else on the road, the whole countryside was asleep; so the lights puzzled him. They were going in the same direction, which was odd, because he should have seen the glow before; the car couldn’t have been in front for long. He hadn’t passed a turning for the last two miles.
The beam of his own headlamps fell on the gates.
They were closed: usually they were kept open.
His foot went down on the accelerator, and the car shot forward. The other must have come out of the drive, or been parked near it; someone had closed the gates to hold up possible pursuit. But the people in the car hadn’t closed it; someone on foot must have done, for if anyone had got out to close the gates, it would have delayed them.
He cast quick glances right and left – and in the glow, saw the shaggy shape of a dog.
Leo!
A man was running along the grass verge.
Man and dog appeared in the headlights, the man pushing his way through the hedge. His back was towards Mannering, who couldn’t see his face.
The men in the car mattered most.
Why had they come? What had they taken away?
The books – what else could it be? Not Gloria, thank God!
The dog went out of sight, and Mannering flashed past the man; next moment he heard something strike the back of the car. There was another noise, a loud clang; a wing was hit. He didn’t turn round, but crouched low over the wheel.
The man he had passed was shooting at him.
That soon stopped.
The driver of the car in front was going fast, taking great risks. Once Mannering heard the squeal of brakes as it went round a bend. His own car held the road well, better than the one in front. The two seemed to be going at about the same speed, but gradually the Sunbeam-Talbot beg
an to gain. The driver in front must know that he was being followed.
The road widened.
Just here there was a long, straight stretch, and there was a chance of gaining more, but little of catching up with the first car yet. Mannering took the automatic out of his pocket and rested it on the seat beside him, so that he could pick it up more quickly. He might get a chance of a shot or two; if he could puncture one of their tyres, he would have them. He thought quite coolly of the odds. There would be at least two men in the car in front, perhaps three or four; but they wouldn’t know how many were with him.
He had to see this through on his own.
He put his foot down hard, and the speedometer needle touched seventy, but the leading car was still fifty yards ahead. A hedge showing up in the headlamps told him that it had reached the end of the straight stretch. He didn’t know the district well, couldn’t be sure when there would be another chance to overtake it. If he could get alongside, he might force it into the hedge.
Faster, in spite of the winding road.
Faster!
They turned another corner, and he saw a second long, straight stretch of road – different from the first because there were great trees on either side, making a tunnel of foliage and branches. The bright green of the leaves seemed vivid, otherwise he could only see the dark shape and the red light in front.
The green was dazzling.
He narrowed his eyes.
There was less than twenty yards between the two cars now, and the road was wide enough for him to pass – or would have been, had the other car kept at the side. It didn’t, but held the crown of the road.
Fifteen yards.
Now he could see a man’s head and shoulders through the rear window. He saw something else, something which puzzled him – it looked like a man with chestnut hair. He could only just see the top of the head, and the hair looked rather long – as if someone were lying sideways.
It wasn’t a man. It was—
Mary Scott!
God!
She was in the car; leaning sideways, so that her head just appeared in the window.
Caution and fear for her drowned the tumult of his alarm. If he forced the car to crash, she might be hurt.