by John Creasey
“They might.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Wainwright said, “I spoke to that Sergeant Grimble about a licence for a gun. He said Fenn said I could carry one, provided I’d applied for the licence. I have.”
Mannering found himself smiling; and more cheerful.
“All right,” he said. “It’s half-past three now. I’ll be leaving Chelsea at five, and should reach Dragon’s End about half-past six. I’ll drive straight up to the house. You stay at the entrance to the drive unless I send for you.”
“Right ho,” Wainwright said, then gulped and spoke more quickly; almost nervously. “I suppose you’re right about letting Miranda go back there.”
“I hope I’m right.”
“If anything happens to her,” said Wainwright, very softly, “I’ll murder the man who does it.”
Here was more evidence of the effect of Miranda on young men. Brash would follow her anywhere, make any sacrifice for her. Wainwright was in a very similar frame of mind. There might be others, several others.
What had he, Mannering, seen at Dragon’s End to justify the attack on him?
Or had it been at Dragon’s End? Could it have been something Miranda had made clear to him?
He telephoned Fenn, told him where he was going, and added, “I hope you won’t have me followed, but you could keep track of me en route, and warn your Midham people to stand by. Pendexter Smith might talk more freely if he doesn’t expect the police are at his ear, but I’d be happier to have them fairly handy.”
“Bristow wouldn’t recognise you,” Fenn said, dryly.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dragon’s End Again
Miranda looked straight ahead of her.
Mannering drove through the wide High Street of Midham about half-past six, and glanced at the girl, but she took no notice of the people walking up and down, the buses parked in the big market-square with queues waiting for others; the red-roofed buildings or the white-faced, oak-beamed houses and the ancient gables.
Since he had told her that she was coming back here, to see her uncle, she had seemed calmer, almost happy.
They reached the outskirts of the town, and slowed down. Wainwright, in a little Triumph, had been held up by traffic-lights. His car came into sight in Mannering’s driving mirror, and Mannering moved off again.
He reached the gates of Dragon’s End.
Miranda was staring straight ahead of her. Hopefully?
He said abruptly, “Miranda, don’t look like that!”
Not even by the flicker of an eyelid did Miranda show that she had heard.
Twice they had passed a car backfiring so loudly that it had made Mannering jump. She hadn’t stirred. He did not think there was any chance that she had heard a thing; was quite sure that she was deaf.
Nothing had happened on the road.
While Brash had been free, Mannering had been attacked, there had been acute danger. The same was true while Crummy Day had been alive.
Mannering drove slowly up the winding drive. The grass verge was newly cut, there was a smell of new-mown hay. Flowers, shrubs, and bushes, farther back from the drive, were kept in perfect symmetry. Tall trees sheltered them from the warm evening sun.
They came within sight of the house.
Mannering was thinking, “If Brash killed Revell, does it matter if he hangs for Crummy Day’s murder?” and it was some time before he managed to drive the thought out of his mind.
The house stood huge and ugly against the clear-blue sky, but the beauty of the trim lawns and the flower-beds took away something of the ugliness of the building itself. The drive turned into a circular carriage-way in front of the house, and the other obviously led to garages or stables at the back.
No one was in sight.
Mannering stopped the car and got out. He helped Miranda. The only sign of emotion that she gave was in her eyes; of satisfaction? Mannering thought so.
They stepped on to the wide porch. Mannering pressed a bell, then waited, glancing back down the drive. Some way off he could see the main Midham Road, and could make out the spire of a church; elsewhere there were meadows and wooded land, and two gently sloping hills topped by copses. There was no sign of Wainwright or of the watching Midham police; but Mannering was quite sure that Fenn would not miss this chance.
Footsteps sounded. He turned to the door, and Miranda moved, clutching his arm.
An elderly woman whom Mannering hadn’t seen before, wearing a faded blue smock and big black shoes, opened the door. She started, at sight of Miranda. Mannering glanced at Miranda, and saw recognition in her eyes, but no particular pleasure.
“I—I didn’t expect anyone,” the woman said busily, and now her gaze searched Mannering’s face. “Does Mr. Smith know you’re coming, sir?”
“I don’t think so,” Mannering said.
The woman stood to one side.
“Well, sir, you’d better come in,” she said. “He’s up and in the study today, with his nose in a book. Burglary and murder don’t make any difference to that.” It was hard to say whether she was being critical or whether she was showing admiration for Pendexter Smith’s strong nerve.
“May we go up alone?” asked Mannering.
“I’ll be glad if you do, sir, how anyone can expect one pair of hands to see to everything in this house—” She broke off. “It isn’t so bad,” she amended unexpectedly, “there’s daily help, and when Mr. Revell was alive it wasn’t too bad at all.”
“Do you sleep in?” asked Mannering.
She didn’t seem to find the question surprising.
“Oh, no, sir, I come from Midham, nine till six, usually, but someone has to cook Mr. Smith’s dinner for him. He always eats at seven sharp,” she added. “Will you be staying tonight?”
“Don’t worry about dinner for me,” smiled Mannering.
He led Miranda up the stairs. She held his arm lightly, as if determined to make sure that he didn’t forget how helpless she was. He remembered every turn in the passages, and every door. The library door was closed. He went towards it briskly, and had a feeling that Miranda was as eager.
Mannering didn’t tap; just thrust open the door.
Pendexter Smith was sitting at a small desk in the far corner, writing. It was gloomy in the room. Miranda, by Mannering’s side, stared at Smith – smilingly. He looked up obviously lost in what he was doing, and expecting to see the woman in the blue smock.
He saw the visitors.
His mouth fell open slowly, his eyes seemed to thrust themselves out of diose deep sockets. Here was ugliness itself – beast to Miranda’s Beauty.
“Ma-Ma-Mannering,” he croaked. “What—?” He didn’t finish, but the pen dropped from his fingers, as if they had suddenly become nerveless. “Miranda,” he gasped, as if with a great effort. “Miranda!”
He started to get up.
“Sit still, Pendexter,” Mannering said, and the little old man stopped where he was, crouching above the desk, leaning against it. “Just one or two questions, and this time let’s have the truth,” Mannering went on. “Why did you bring Miranda and the nest-egg to me?”
“But—but you know!”
“Why leave her with me?”
“You know,” breathed Pendexter Smith. “I was going to see the solicitors, I got a taxi, I was walking along the narrow lane in the City when I blacked out. Mr. Mannering, that’s everything I know. I just blacked out. The very next thing I remember, I was back here, and the police were talking to me. I don’t remember a single thing of what happened after I’d left that taxi.”
“You don’t lie well,” Mannering said.
“It is not a lie!”
“Pendexter Smith,” said Mannering, very softly, “you lied to the police and to me yesterday, and now you’re lying again. Why did you bring Miranda to Quinns?”
“I told you,” said Pendexter Smith shrilly. He had got over the shock of surprise, but didn’t lower himself to the desk. He moved round towards Miranda, an
d stretched out his old, claw-like hands, with their liver-brown spots and the sharp sinews. “She needed to sell the nest-egg, she—”
“Why?”
“She needed the money to invest—”
“She’s a wealthy young woman.”
“I tell you she needed the money!” insisted Pendexter Smith. He reached the girl, and took both her hands. He stood on tip-toe, and she lowered her head, so that he could kiss her. It was strangely touching. “Hallo, my dear,” he said, very slowly and clearly as if she could hear and understand. “So you’ve come back. It’s early, but I think it will be all right, now.”
Mannering said sharply, “Why? What’s changed?”
“I believe that a lot of things have changed,” said Pendexter Smith. “Mr. Mannering, I’m sorry, but there isn’t anything more I can say to help you.” His voice was soothing and pleasant, still a startling contrast to his hideous looks. “I just can’t say any more than I have. Except—that on reflection I think Miranda has reason to be very thankful to you and your wife, for giving her shelter when she needed it so much. I hoped that she would be with you for a little longer, although I can understand that it wasn’t possible. But I think she’ll be all right now. The danger is past.”
Mannering moved slowly, and deliberately gripped Smith’s thin, bony wrist. The man was nothing but a bag of bones.
“Why should she be all right now, and not when she came to see me?” Mannering asked softly.
“People have died, Mr. Mannering, and things have changed. Just for a moment, when you appeared without warning, I was reminded of all the fearful things that have happened. Earlier, I’d told myself that Miranda was safe and happy with you, and I was disappointed at seeing her back. But it doesn’t really matter. Not now. I only wish there was some way in which I could help her to hear and to speak again.”
He looked as if that mattered more than anything else to him.
Mannering said, “Do you know what caused the shock?”
“But surely you know, too. An accident—”
“It was more than an accident.”
Pendexter Smith said, “Was it, Mr. Mannering? I can’t stop you from guessing, but I am sure that it will not do any good at all to reconstruct the accident, to go over all the old ground. Poor, poor Miranda.”
He was holding her hands, but looking at Mannering. It was all oddly impressive; and as he stood there, Mannering found himself believing good, not bad, of Pendexter Smith. But the old man knew much more than he had said, and his knowledge might save the life of young Bill Brash; and Mannering from disaster.
Studying him, Mannering began to realise that there might be one way, only one way, to make this old man talk.
If anything were certain, it was that Pendexter Smith loved the girl; his love, clear and bright, showed in his buried eyes, in the way he held her hands.
“Smith,” Mannering said gently.
“I hope you will stay to dinner, Mr Mannering. Meg downstairs is a bit rough, but she is an excellent cook, and I am sure—”
“I’m not thinking of dinner,” Mannering said. “I don’t think you know what you are doing.”
“I know very well,” Pendexter Smith assured him quietly. “I can only repeat that I think it is for the best. Don’t waste your time trying to make me change my mind.”
“You still don’t know what you’re doing,” Mannering looked at Miranda’s profile.
Something seemed to tell the girl that he was staring at her, for she turned towards him. Her eyes were still shadowed, there was no gaiety in her manner, and yet she smiled. That more than anything else convinced him that she was truly deaf.
“You’re making a new kind of hell for Miranda,” Mannering finished, very quietly; for he knew that this was his last hope.
Pendexter didn’t speak; but he let the girl go and moved back so that he could look more squarely at Mannering.
“What do you mean?”
“Miranda is in more trouble than she’s ever been.”
“No,” said Pendexter Smith, sharply. “That is impossible.” But he was shaken. “If you think you can frighten me—”
“Listen to me, Pendexter Smith,” said Mannering harshly. “I don’t care whether I terrify you, frighten you, or haunt your dreams. You don’t matter. But Miranda matters, and I mean to help her.”
“You have done, more than you know. Indirectly perhaps, but—”
“Do you want to see her hanged?” demanded Mannering.
Pendexter Smith did not speak at once; just stood there with his hands raised in front of his pigeon breast, his little eyes suddenly afire. The word “hanged” seemed to echo about the room. Miranda moved towards the window, and stood looking out; Pendexter Smith did not look at her.
“Because she could be,” Mannering went on. “It’s a greater danger than you know.”
The old man’s voice seemed to break. “What—what do you mean? What can you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. The police have reason to believe that Miranda is working with the murderer of Revell and Crummy Day.” He had left Day’s name out of the conversation until then; now he flung it at Pendexter Smith. The old man flinched. “They think she works with Brash, that Brash carried out her orders. If you know she didn’t, if you know what the killings are all about, now’s your time to talk. You can save Miranda from arrest, charge, misery, trial—you might save her from hanging. What’s the truth of it? Come on.”
After a pause, Smith said hoarsely, “I don’t believe it.”
“All right, let her hang.”
“They wouldn’t be such fools.”
If he recovered from the shock, and began to think clearly, he would know that this was bluff. The one chance of making him talk was to keep up the pressure, work on his frayed nerves.
“They think they’ve plenty of evidence,” Mannering rasped. “Come on, let’s have the truth. Why did Miranda go to Crummy Day so often? What went on between a notorious London fence and pretty Miranda? The Press knows about that, the police know too. They think that Revell and Day could have betrayed Miranda, and were ready to—that she worked with Day, that she had them both killed to stop them from talking; that she made Brash kill them. If it isn’t true, what is the truth?”
Pendexter Smith said, “Oh, no, no! It’s a travesty of the truth, Miranda is goodness itself, she always has been.” He was in despair. “Mannering, you can’t mean this!”
It was working; turn the screw a little harder, and Smith would talk yet.
“I brought her away from London because I thought the police would detain her if I didn’t,” Mannering flung at him. “I hoped I’d have a chance to save her, if you’d see sense. Let’s have it, Smith. If you care anything at all for her—”
He looked deliberately at Miranda.
She was staring out of the window, quite calmly, as if she found some kind of balm for her troubled spirit in this house. She did not look towards Mannering, but her lips were curved gently, as if what she gazed upon was good.
Pendexter Smith looked at her, too; fearfully.
“Miranda,” he breathed, “my darling Miranda. It is wicked, evil, and all they want is to rob and cheat her.”
“Who?” demanded Mannering.
“There was Day, and there’s Brash and that other man. I get so confused,” Pendexter said, and pressed the heels of his thumbs against his forehead. “Mannering, don’t let them do this awful thing to her. I’ll tell you all I can, everything. Her father began it, my brother Mortimer—oh, he wasn’t bad, not bad like Day, but they were partners. No one knew, no one suspected—but my brother Mortimer was a thief, and all his stolen goods were sold through Crummy Day. Then years ago, he reformed, broke the partnership, and made much money legally. He began to collect many beautiful things. But Crummy Day hated him, wanted him back, and then planned to get control of his treasures. He sent one of his murdering beasts after him. That was—that was when poor Miranda had the terrible accident.”
Miranda was looking out of the window, with that strange calmness.
Pendexter Smith went on hoarsely, “It was in France. Mortimer was driving. A man with a gun sprang out on them. He fired, shattered the windscreen and made Mortimer lose control, and the car crashed down a steep embankment. You know what happened. You know—”
“How do you know this?” Mannering asked, softly.
“How do I know? Day boasted of it. Boasted, gloated! But I was still left to look after Miranda, and I controlled all the treasures that she inherited. I fought—how I fought. I knew Brash was a friend of Day’s, that Day wanted him to marry Miranda, just to get his hands on those lovely things. But it became too much for me, Mannering, I had an illness, I became so frail. I couldn’t go on. They were just waiting for me to die, just sitting and waiting and gloating. And if I died and Miranda was left alone, then Brash or that other man who worked for Day, together they would—they would pretend to help her. But they’d rob her, Mannering, I knew they would, and I couldn’t tell the police. There was no physical threat to us, they were just waiting for me to die.”
“But if Miranda had stocks and shares, documents and certificates which they couldn’t cash, that would be very different, that would give her a chance. So I decided to sell. The nest-egg was the biggest single treasure she had. It was the one which Crummy Day desired above all others. The day before I brought it to you, there had been an attempt to steal it. That decided me—”
Mannering broke in, “Did you tell the police?”
“No,” Pendexter Smith answered, and went on steadily: “Some of the treasures at Dragon’s End were not legally ours—were stolen years ago. I was afraid to go to the police. I wanted, God forgive me, I wanted to spend my last days in freedom. So—I had to find a man whom I could trust. Knowing your reputation, I came to you, needing action quickly—oh, so quickly. Every single moment seemed vital. I was going to ask you to visit Dragon’s End, once I was satisfied that you were honest, but—I was followed from your shop. I didn’t realise it until I was in the narrow lane near the solicitors’ office. A man overtook me, pressed a gun in my ribs, terrified me. He made me go with him to Crummy Day’s. Day wanted to know what I was doing at Quinns, and what I’d said to you. Then he drugged me. I was astounded, astounded, when I came round, when I realised that I was alive.”