by John Creasey
Should he send for Jeremiah Caldecott?
Or take the books to him?
The secret was in these books. The secret – and the danger.
Could Fenner still hope to get them? Would he dare to try again? Had Fenner ordered the attack on Longley? If so, how had he sent instructions?
There was a tap on the door, and Higby appeared. It wasn’t usual for a footman to tap, but he didn’t look normal. He was pale, had lost his poise, and came forward hesitantly.
“What is it?” asked Mannering sharply.
“Superintendent Bristow is downstairs, sir, asking for you.”
“Show him up.”
“Very good, sir, but—can you spare me a moment, please?” Higby’s hands were clenching and unclenching.
“What about?” Mannering was still sharp.
Higby said: “Well, sir, I feel that you might suspect—that is, that I might be suspected of—of injuring Mr. Longley. But I swear it wasn’t me, sir, I give you my word on it!”
Mannering said coldly: “What makes you think that anyone suspects you?”
“Well—well, Abel White does! He as good as said so, not long ago. And you passed me near the telephone switchboard, just before you found Mr. Longley. I was upset at the time, I’d just come away from Abel White, and—I must have looked upset. But it wasn’t I who attacked Mr. Longley.” Higby’s voice was humble, pleading.
“I hope it wasn’t,” said Mannering still coldly.
“I swear it wasn’t! Things might look black against me, sir, but—but—I—I wanted to make—” he blurted that out, but stopped.
“Yes?”
“I wanted to make a confession, sir?”
“But you say you didn’t attack Longley.”
“Not about that. About—about my post here, sir. When his lordship took me on, I produced false references, sir. And I know how black that might look.”
He stood rigidly to attention, his face pale and his eyes very bright; and he looked very much like Gloria. Remorse hadn’t spurred him on to this; fear had. The problem was how to deal with him now. Harshly? Or would that drive him back into a shell hardened by fear?
“What was the trouble, Higby?” Mannering asked, and his voice changed, became gentle and almost friendly. He leaned against the desk, determined to reassure the man and perhaps gain his full confidence. “Hadn’t you satisfactory references?”
“Not—for this kind of work, sir, and I spent my childhood in this part of the world. You—you know how it is. You remember a place, and you just long to come back. I left when I was quite a boy, sir, some friends brought me up, I did fairly well for myself until the war, but after I was demobbed I had a bad time, sir. I took a job as a waiter, because I wasn’t skilled in anything and—and then I saw the advertisement. I felt that I had to try to get the post, and—and I forged the references.”
“That doesn’t seem very serious. The police weren’t after you, were they?”
“Of course not! Oh, no, there wasn’t any trouble of that kind! I just felt that I had to get the job, and—well, I’d heard about Lord Lithom, I didn’t think he would take on a waiter from a second-rate restaurant, and—and I wrote two references for myself, giving the names of men I knew were dead—officers in my regiment, sir. His lordship didn’t question them, and I’m sure I’ve given every satisfaction.”
“Apparently you have. But what about this business, Higby? What has Abel been saying?”
“He—he’s never liked me,” said Higby, trembling. “I don’t know why, but he took a dislike to me from the first. Now he says there’s someone in the house who’s been helping these—these criminals, sir. All the rest of the staff has been here for years, except one or two of the girls and they don’t count in this. I can deal with Abel White, sir, but if he should say anything to the police, they might—”
He broke off again; a really frightened man.
Mannering said smoothly: “If that’s all the trouble, I shouldn’t worry about it. I’ll have a word with the police.”
“Thank you very much, sir!”
“That’s all right. Now bring Mr. Bristow up here, will you?”
Higby disappeared, as if anxious to hide his face.
Mannering lit a cigarette, and contrasted Higby’s manner with Abel’s – Abel’s apparent disbelief that Leo could be the dog concerned, with Higby’s frightened denial. He thought of a third thing. Maggie’s reaction to the news about Mary.
Maggie was an unpredictable old woman. She hadn’t really approved of Mary and Longley, had shown no great liking for the girl, yet had seemed as upset when Mary was kidnapped, as if it had been Gloria – well, not quite so upset, perhaps; it was doubtful whether she would have recovered so quickly and eaten a hearty breakfast, knowing Gloria to be in Fenner’s hands.
Bristow was a long time.
Mannering went into the passage but did not see him. He crossed to a small window and looked out over the parkland. At least a dozen men were moving about the grass, eight or nine of them in a line, their hands almost touching. Most were policemen, but some were in plain clothes. He recognized Abel and the groom’s assistant.
They were searching for the weapon, of course.
They were near the thicket now.
Abel and two policemen went into it – they were not in the line of men who were searching the grass. Mannering recalled what had happened in the thicket; the second indication that Gloria hadn’t seen a dead man in a nightmare.
He heard a shrill sound – a whistle, blown some way off. Next moment, one of the police came out of the thicket with his whistle at his lips, and the others turned and hurried towards him.
Mannering moved from the window and looked into the hall. Bristow was there, talking to Lorna. The Yard man seemed about to come upstairs, but stopped when he saw Mannering.
“John—”
“Come on, they’ve made a find,” said Mannering, running downstairs. He passed Bristow quickly, opened the door and went out into the drive. Bristow’s car, a green Morris, was just outside. He got into the driving seat and Bristow slid in beside him.
Lorna stood on the steps, watching them as they neared the thicket.
Only two policemen remained in sight, the others were hidden by the trees.
Mannering and Bristow got out of the car and thrust their way forward, saw a little group of men – and through a gap, saw one man on his knees beside a dog.
The man was Abel; the dog Leo.
Chapter Twenty
Threats
The dog’s head had been smashed in. There was blood spattering its shaggy fur – and there was blood on Abel’s hands. He looked round, and then stood up, and his movements were slow, like those of an old man. He turned – and Mannering was shocked by his expression. Grief? Or horror at finding proof that his father’s dog was involved?
He saw Mannering.
The smooth-tongued St. Malden sergeant came forward, carrying a hatchet.
“Superintendent, we’ve found—”
“Be careful you don’t smear finger-prints,” said Bristow sharply.
When Mannering joined Abel, the groom didn’t speak, but sniffed and then blew his nose vigorously into a bright-blue handkerchief. He spoke in a low-pitched, grating voice.
“If I find who did it, I’ll kill him with my own hands. That’s what I’ll do, sir. I’ll kill him with these …”
He held out his browned, strong hands, with the fingers hooked, like claws. He clenched them slowly, the muscles in his leathery forearms working; and it was easy to believe that he imagined the neck of a man between his fingers. Every man within earshot turned and looked at him.
“I should let someone else deal with him,” said Mannering mildly. “Have you any idea who it was?”
“No, sir, not for sure.”
“If you’ve any suspicions, tell us,” snapped Bristow.
Abel said: “I don’t know who you are, sir, but whoever you are, I’ll say this: I won’t
name any man because I think he might have done this. I’ll name him as soon as I can be sure.”
He turned and walked away; at a nod from the sergeant, two policemen followed him. Mannering and Bristow turned to the slaughtered dog and to the hatchet. The blade was dull, blunt and blood-stained; a similar weapon as had been used on Longley. There was sticky as well as dried blood on it; probably one was Longley’s and the other Leo’s. The police-chemists would go into that. Did it help them now?
Bristow wrapped the hatchet up in brown paper provided by a policeman, and they took it to the house. A quick test showed that there were no finger-prints; whoever had killed the dog had wiped the handle clean. Nor were there footprints from which a plaster cast could be taken – nothing to guide them.
Abel himself, two of the gardeners, Higby and the lodge-keeper, had been near the thicket at various times – all, ostensibly, looking for the dog.
The two gardeners had been here when Higby had come to tell them of the attack on Longley; they had left Higby here alone for a few minutes. They’d heard nothing to suggest that the dog was being killed.
Mannering, Bristow and Gadden went up to the house. Wirral, looking nervous and speaking in a husky voice, reported that Lady Bream had swooned when she had heard that the dog had been killed, and that Mrs. Mannering was with her.
They went up to the library.
Gadden had said very little so far, and gave Mannering the impression that he would have liked a private talk with Bristow.
Bristow was pulling at a cigarette.
“This man Higby,” he said abruptly. “He had the opportunity. Apparently someone had control over the dog, and he could have called it and hit it as it came up. It wouldn’t have had time to realize there was danger.”
Gadden said: “I agree, Mr. Bristow—I think we ought to detain Higby. He was near the switchboard just before your sergeant was found, and in the thicket about the time that the dog was killed. No doubt Longley was attacked first and the killer went off and killed the dog. Is there?” he demanded, when neither of the others spoke.
Bristow said: “I don’t think there’s much doubt about that. Any ideas, John?”
Gadden frowned; he looked burly and disapproving.
Mannering said: “Yes, look at these books. The cause of all the bother is still here. They contain something or conceal something. I think there’ll be another attempt to get at them. Not to take them away, but to find their secret and get away with that. I wouldn’t charge Higby—I’d wait and see if there’s another attempt to get these books.”
“No man would be such a fool as to try again,” growled Gadden.
“Hardly likely,” Bristow looked at Mannering thoughtfully.
Mannering said: “Look what they’ve already done to get their secret. Murdered Lithom—I don’t think there’s much doubt about that. Driven Gloria nearly crazy, then tried to kidnap her. Kidnapped Chatterton. Staged two gun-battles, kidnapped Mary Scott, attacked Longley under our noses, killed that dog. No lack of daring, and they’ll come again. Don’t forget that someone in the household attacked Longley. There hasn’t been a stranger here this morning, we’d have known at once if there had been, you can’t get to that switchboard without being seen. We’re after someone in the household, and—”
“Higby,” said Gadden flatly. “I can see no sense in wasting time.”
“You might hold Higby on circumstantial evidence,” said Mannering. “If you wait, you might catch him red-handed—he, or whoever’s in it.”
Bristow’s voice was sharp and accusing.
“What are you keeping back?”
“Nothing. I’m pinning my faith on the lure of those books. Fenner’s spy will have sent him word that all the books are back. Can you doubt that?” Mannering moved aside, raising his hands almost resignedly. “But you’re the policemen, I’m just the stooge! If I were you, I’d get Jeremiah Caldecott or any expert book-dealer to go through those books. He might find what Longley missed. And I’d get it done quickly—Caldecott will come if he thinks it will help Mary. Any news of her?” he asked abruptly.
Gadden shook his head.
“I think we’d better get Caldecott,” Bristow said.
Gadden didn’t argue; but it was clear that he disliked taking Mannering’s advice.
Caldecott arrived in a police-car just after lunch, and was soon busy with the books.
“I ought to tell you, Mr. Bristow,” said Gadden formally, “that I’m not happy about Mr. Mannering’s part in this. Since I guessed he was the man to break into Marchant House, I’ve wondered a great deal about him. Could he be gaining time for himself, not just to trap the criminal?”
Bristow grinned.
“You really mean, is he Fenner’s agent?”
“That’s it,” said Gadden dourly. “And before you say no, Mr. Bristow, look at some of the facts. I’ve lived in this part of the world a long time. I’ve always known the Lithoms, the same as I’ve known other big families. There are men who won’t stop at anything, not even murder, to save a family’s name. There’s some mystery about the Earl’s death, as well as about his daughter—and Mannering, a distant relative, might set himself above the law to protect their reputation. These people haven’t really stopped believing in a form of divine right—if you’d lived around here as long as I, you’d know it. The Lithoms were always a bold family, proud and aloof—behaving like demi-gods. This Mannering, he has a manner with him I don’t always like. He wasn’t hurt by Fenner in London, was he? Part of that story could have been a lie. He was outside when Mary Scott was kidnapped—”
“He brought the girl here,” Bristow interrupted.
“She may have discovered something he didn’t want her to know.”
“But he installed her in the library,” objected Bristow. “He asked me to send Longley here too.”
Gadden said stubbornly: “There’s something strange about the man, Mr. Bristow.”
“He’s one of his own kind, but I don’t think—”
Higby appeared in the study, where they were talking. He came in without tapping, and Bristow looked at him frostily. “Well?”
“There is a telephone call for you, sir. Will you take it in here?”
“Yes,” said Bristow. “Put it through.”
Higby went out, closing the door softly. Gadden rubbed his bulky chin, and said that Higby was another man he certainly didn’t like – and there was something about him which reminded him of the late Earl.
The telephone rang shortly, and Bristow lifted the receiver.
“Hold on, please, the surgeon of St. Malden Hospital would like a word with you,” said a girl at the other end.
Bristow said: “I’ll hold on.”
“Who is it?” asked Gadden.
“The surgeon—news of Longley,” said Bristow.
The minute which followed was one of the longest of his life. He could hear voices in the distance, and now and again footsteps, but it seemed an age before a man whose voice sounded surprisingly young, spoke quietly: “Mr. Bristow?”
“Yes. How is Sergeant Longley?”
“Oh, he’ll pull through,” said the surgeon. “He came round just before he went into the theatre, and asked for you. He wasn’t really responsible for what he said, but you ought to know.”
Bristow said slowly: “Yes, what was it?”
“He kept saying that he had some information about a man named Mannering. And he mentioned a woman named Mary a great deal. It’s just possible that he means that one or the other attacked him. I thought it might help you in your investigations, and in any case I promised him that I would tell you.”
“I see,” said Bristow heavily. “Thank you very much. You’re sure he’ll pull through?”
“We’ll have to keep him here for several weeks,” said the surgeon, “I don’t want you to think that it’s a trivial job, but he’ll be all right.”
“Thanks,” said Bristow, and rang off. He looked at Gadden, shaken now.
He couldn’t refuse to accept the indications of that statement – Longley wouldn’t talk lightly. This wasn’t evidence, but it might point to the truth. All his old doubts about Mannering, his latent suspicions, crowded upon him. As a class, people like Mannering did stick close together; and yet – Mannering had come to him; hadn’t tried to handle this case alone.
Gadden asked bluntly: “Did Longley name anyone?”
Bristow said: “Yes, he—”
He broke off, staring at the door. Gadden also watched it – seeing it was ajar, yet both of them knew that Higby had closed it when he had gone out, they had watched until it clicked.
Bristow put a hand to his lips, and tip-toed to the door. Before he reached it, Mannering pushed it open and stepped into the room. He smiled brightly; but both of them knew he had been listening. Deep hostility existed now.
“Hallo, Bill,” Mannering said. “Any bright ideas?”
Bristow said: “No. Have you?”
“I wouldn’t call ’em bright, but I can’t get Mary Scott off my mind. Any news?”
“None.”
Mannering said: “There must be something we can do.”
“We can do,” Gadden said, and hostility sparked from him.
Mannering had an obsession – Mary. His responsibility for her was greater than that of any of the others. Gloria had a claim on him up to a point, so had Longley, but he had brought Mary here; but for him, she would still be working with Caldecott – and the old dealer would be in London, and not upstairs poring over the books.
Lorna had the same obsession.
Mannering went up to see Caldecott, who appeared to be reading one of the old books, and looked up blankly when Mannering asked him whether he had discovered anything. Then he shook his head, and began to talk about the beauties of a page of the original Gutenberg Bible.