Hide the Baron (13 page)

 

Mannering studied his face in the mirror, two mornings after the murder of P.C. Wilberforce, of which he had read almost casually, and decided that the stain was wearing off slightly; he would have to scrutinise his disguise and touch it up where necessary.

He didn't like the idea.

He had hoped to finish the job here within forty-eight hours. It was one thing to live the part of another man for a day or two, another to go on doing it indefinitely. The strain was greater than he had expected, and was worse because everyone watched him all the time.

Mrs. Baddelow, after the early hostility, seemed to be coming round; she was more amiable, and she had a habit of slapping his arm and going off into a burst of laughter at one of his least amusing witticisms; yet there was often a sharp glint in her eyes, and he knew that whatever he did, she noticed; at least, she tried to.

The police also watched him intently. Here was a private inquiry agent who, in a way, seemed to be claiming to be able to teach them their job. White had now developed a mock humility, overdid the ‘sir' and at any request went off at an exaggerated double. Chief Inspector Hill hardly troubled to conceal the fact that he thought Mr. Richardson's position to be superfluous. By far the most amiable of the police was big Superintendent Aylmer, but he was seldom at the house. The Orme police were finding the watch on Brook House more of a strain than they liked; the total force wasn't large, and duties which were almost as essential as those here were being neglected.

Mannering had checked everyone.

He had spent an hour on the past two evenings at the ‘Grey Mare'. Mine host was not a particularly hearty type and certainly wasn't servile, but he seemed friendly and genuine. His dog was handsome and aloof. Mannering examined the old barn, now a bar-cum-museum, and some of the relics were interesting even to the casual visitor. A pair of stocks, a gibbet used in far-off days when Orme had been a highwayman's paradise, some old agricultural implements, some bronze coins, a few early Saxon flints, Roman vessels dug up from earthworks between here and Orme, made it genuinely of historical interest. There were a lot of pictures, too, including pictures of the animals which had roamed the district centuries ago. Everything was clearly marked with neat notices in red and white.

The only black spots on the old oak walls were those where the big traps had been hanging.

Mannering went again that midday.

“Don't mind admitting, sir,” said Jeff Liddicombe. “It didn't occur to me that anyone would ever want to lift them off the walls. They were secured in anyway, had little chains fixed to 'em—like that old plough over there, and the matchlock beside it—and hung from two nails. Must have nipped in, parked his car right up to the door with the boot open, lifted the traps off—and there you are. Half a minute would be time enough.”

“Isn't the barn kept locked?”

“Well,
it
is and it isn't, if you know what I mean,” said Liddicombe. He had a pale, even coloured face and rather dull eyes – there was just his hair to remind one of Priscilla. “It ought to be kept locked, but we're a bit careless about things like that round here. I've come across it unlocked several times in the past few weeks, and I always tell Ted about it—that's the barman who looks after this bar, sir—but what's the use of dressing him down too much, if
I
forget too, when I'm on duty.”

“Fair enough,” agreed Mannering. “And the police have worried you enough about it already. I only came for a glass of your excellent beer and to have a look round here. Whose idea was the museum?”

“Well, sir, mine as a matter of fact. I've always had a liking for old things, and when I took over the old ‘Grey Mare' two years ago, it gave me my chance. Hardly cost a pound, either. I do all my own lettering, and what stuff wasn't on the premises I've picked up for a song.”

“The British Museum should hear of you,” Mannering said.

Liddicombe looked pleased.

“That's kind of you, sir. You're welcome to that beer, sir,” said Liddicombe. “Mr. Merrow comes most nights when he's at home. Old Mr. Garfield often says he'll come. Proper life of the party, isn't he?” They went together into the main saloon bar, inside the three centuries' old inn. “It's a very bad business, and I can't tell you how sorry I am for that Miss Woburn. Very nice young lady, by all accounts.”

“Very.”

“Wonderful job she did, opening them steel traps, the springs on them take some forcing if you don't know the trick. And Mr. Merrow wasn't much help, from what I hear, must have been pretty well unconscious. Funny way to end a row.” There was a moment's pause, hardly noticeable, before he went on: “And she's had a lot to put up with since. I know what I'd do, if I were in her shoes.”

“What?”

“Get out just as fast as I could,” said Liddicombe.

Mannering said: “Ah, yes.” He didn't add; “And your daughter Priscilla would like that, wouldn't she?” In fact, he hardly gave it a thought. He entered the low-ceilinged bar, nodded at the dozen people standing or sitting about, and took the beer in a pewter tankard when Liddicombe offered it to him, and no one could have noticed that he was in any way unusual.

Inwardly, his heart was hammering, his excitement was bottled up.

No one but Aylmer, Merrow, Joanna and he knew about the quarrel before the traps had been sprung.

How did Liddicombe know?

There was a plan of the roof of Brook House beautifully drawn; and Liddicombe was an excellent draughtsman, one who did all the lettering for the exhibits here.

Liddicombe must be checked, urgently.

 

It was nearly half-past twelve, as dark now as it had been on the night when Brill had come down the chimney. No stars shone, but there was no wind. The police, wearying now in their vigil, were on the move outside. All the ground-floor lights were on, to make it more difficult for anyone to approach without being seen.

It was almost as difficult to leave.

Mannering, wearing an old raincoat turned up at the collar, and a slouch-hat pulled low over his eyes, worked at a window overlooking the garage and the stables; this was the easiest way to leave without being seen. He had disconnected the alarm wires here, and opened the window. From the outside, he hooked the wires together, so that no one looking at them casually would notice that they had been touched. Then he closed the window.

He stood quite still.

His tool kit was round his waist, and he carried a 32 automatic. He had recovered from the pulsing excitement of early evening, but the heaviness of spirit had eased; he believed that he was on the way.

Patience rewarded …

He heard the policeman on duty on this side of the house walk past; then he slipped out, and for a few seconds was visible in the light from the kitchen windows. He reached the shadows of a beech hedge.

No alarm came.

He walked to the end of the walled vegetable garden, then into the parkland beyond. He had used this path several times, and knew it well; it was the path which Joanna and Merrow had used on the day the traps had been sprung.

The walk to the village took him twenty-five minutes.

He kept on the grass at the side of the road, until he was opposite the old barn near the ‘Grey Mare'. No light shone anywhere, but there were rifts in the clouds now, and he could see the stars.

The inn, with its low uneven roof, its outbuildings, its beamed walls, stood squat and solid. The clean gravel and tar yard made it easy to walk with little sound. Mannering went along one side, between the old barn and the main building. He felt cool, yet the excitement still affected him. He reached a spot where he could not be seen from the road if a car passed with its headlights on, and then reached up to a small outhouse, near the back door. In spite of the thick clothes and the big shoes, he climbed up easily, and stood for a moment on the sloping roof, with a gabled window in front of him.

He drew a cotton scarf up over his face, so that only his eyes showed.

The window was closed.

He took out a pencilled torch, with a specially diffused beam, and studied the window; it was latched, but did not seem to be wired for burglary. He took a slim tool from the kit in his waistband, and inserted it between the two halves of the window, then prised at the catch. It moved slowly. He could hear no other sound, not even from the nearby woodland; there was just the scraping of metal on metal, and the sound of his own breathing.

The catch moved sharply; and the window boomed. Mannering stopped working, and listened; but the seconds brought him relief, and no alarm was raised.

He opened the window.

He shone the torch inside, and found that this was a narrow passage, with bare boards and cream walls; a staircase head was at one end, a dark door at the other. He put a leg over the window, and climbed through. The danger of night marauding in all old places was always the same; loose floorboards which creaked; and in inns particularly they were often left to creak, so as to add to the atmosphere.

A board creaked.

He stepped as close to the wall as he could, and there was no sound. He waited for a few seconds, with a soft wind coming through the window, striking cold on his damp neck. Then he heard a noise a long way off, and gradually it grew louder; the head lamps of a car lit up the road, the telephone wires, the swinging inn sign, the old barn.

The car flashed by.

One could never be sure that one was alone.

Mannering didn't close the window, but stepped towards the head of the stairs. Once or twice boards creaked faintly, but he stopped most of the noise by keeping close to the wall; it slowed him down, but minutes lost now might save disaster.

He actually let that word pass through his mind.

Remember, they were killers.

If he were right, and Liddicombe was involved, Liddicombe was also a killer.

Someone who lived near by, someone who knew what went on at Brook House, someone who could find out what was happening indoors; Liddicombe measured up to all that. He was often at the big house; Priscilla his daughter could tell him what he wanted to know, perhaps without realising why he needed the information.

As Mannering reached the head of the stairs, he reminded himself again – they were
killers.

He must not make a mistake.

He studied the staircase. It went down only half a dozen steps before reaching a half landing. There were glints from bronze and copper, warming-pans and oddments fastened to the walls; a gem of a place, this ‘Grey Mare'.

Where did Liddicombe do his diagrams and his lettering?

There would be an office downstairs, but he probably worked somewhere else.

Find out!

Mannering crept down the stairs. He kept by the banisters, putting part of his weight on them, and made hardly a sound. Downstairs, it wouldn't be so dangerous. He shone the torch all round, seeing the signs on the doors – Bar, Saloon Bar, Residents' Lounge, Lounge Bar, Reception – Office.

He went to the office.

It was locked.

He took a pick-lock from his pocket, studied the keyhole and then slid the dull steel in. A few twists, and he felt the barrel of the lock going back. He opened the door, very cautiously; it didn't squeak. He stepped inside.

A dog growled deep in its throat and leapt at him.

 

 

The green eyes glinted in the glow from Mannering's torch. He had just that split second of warning, heard the growl, felt his heart leap wildly – and then saw the huge, dark shape coming.

Instinctively, he covered his face with his hands.

Teeth tore at his coat.

He felt the cloth rip, felt a painful tear at his right forearm. By then he was over the worst of the shock, and knew that if he had a chance he had to make it now. The dog's first leap was over, it was dropping back; the deep growl might become a wild bark any moment.

Mannering shot out his hands, snatching at the thick neck. The dog snapped, and missed. Mannering's fingers buried themselves in the fur and the flesh. He felt the heavy body writhing, the powerful sinews working up and down. He didn't know whether his thumbs were at the right spot. He pressed harder and still harder, keeping the dog at arm's length.

He felt its struggles weaken.

It went limp.

He lowered it, and stood for a moment in the middle of the office, sweat dripping from his forehead, mouth wide open as he gasped for breath. He couldn't do a thing. He knew that he had only seconds in which to work, but he couldn't start yet.

The dog was quivering.

He hadn't broken its neck and hadn't choked it; it might come round in seconds; or it might lay there for minutes. He dropped to his knees, heavily, took a stretch of cord from his kit, and tied it round the big, wet muzzle; the cord wasn't tight enough to hurt, but would stop the dog from biting. He bound the legs together, leaving the cord slack, and then stood up.

He felt better and far less desperate; no sound came from above, nothing indicated that he had raised an alarm. The dog had been trained to silence; trained to bring his man down, not to bark.

Mannering looked round, easing his collar.

There was a desk and, in a corner, a small drawing-board with a light immediately above it; so, this was the right spot.

He wiped his forehead as he stepped to the drawing-board. Pinned to it was a sheet of paper with the outline of a house sketched in, and Mannering recognised it as one end of the ‘Grey Mare'. Forget that! He looked through the paper in a rack, finding dozens of unfinished sketches, some lettering, some tracing paper; there was no sign of the plan of the top of Brook House. The lettering was not unlike the plan, the ink looked identical, so did the stiff, white drawing paper.

There was nothing else, no way of proving beyond doubt that the plan Aylmer now held had been drawn here; if he were to give the police evidence, he had to find a copy of the plan.

The safe was in a corner.

He heard the dog moving and grunting.

He went to the door, stepped into the passage, and listened intently; he heard no sound at all, and felt confident that no one was disturbed; he still had time. He closed the door of the office; that would keep the sound the dog made inside. He spoke to it softly, but it only growled; he could feel it struggling.

He turned to the safe.

It was an old Cobb, and he had opened dozens like it; but many modern gadgets could make a fool of the expert safe-breaker. He studied it closely; it looked as easy a crib to crack as he could have hoped for; child's play for the Baron. He tried his keys, but none was good enough. He found one which seemed to get a little purchase, withdrew it, smeared the surface with a thin tacky white paste from a flat tin, and put it in again carefully.

He turned this as firmly as he could, then let it fall back into its proper position, and withdrew it. Faint marks showed, made by the barrel of the lock against the paste. He put the key in a small steel hand vice, took out a file, and began to work on the key; the noise was negligible.

He had to file three edges.

The lock didn't turn when he tried it again; he touched the key with the file again, and put it back.

It opened.

He saw the bags with the day's takings, the cash boxes, the account books; and none of this mattered; he put all of it aside. He found a large envelope which had no marking on the outside; it wasn't sealed. He took out the contents.

There were two copies of the plan of the roof of Brook House. Several of the chimney stacks were marked, including one serving Joanna's room, one the library; and under that was a note: ‘Strong-room through here'. He studied them quickly, and felt quite sure what they implied. Someone had been planning a burglary on a large scale at the house, had studied it closely and decided that the only way in was through the chimneys.

Liddicombe would have a job to get out of this. Mannering didn't put the envelope back at once, but glanced through other papers with the plans. There were notes about Merrow, Joanna Woburn, Gedde and Garfield; notes about Mrs. Baddelow; the half-days of the servants; the habits and customs of the residents, the staff, all the day's routine. Whoever had studied Brook House had meant to make quite sure that he knew everything.

Only one other document interested Mannering. It was a death certificate of a man named Holden, dated just over ten years ago.

Mannering studied it, shrugged, then put it back, with all the oddments he had taken out of the safe, closed and locked the door. No one would know that it had been open. The next thing to do was to tell Aymer that it would be worth looking into the safe.

Should he tell Aylmer?

He could worry about that later; first, he had to get away.

The dog was growling, deep in its throat; if it could have barked it could have brought the house down. Mannering actually stooped down to pat its head, then went to the door.

He opened it.

He heard someone coming down the stairs.

 

As Mannering opened the door, he put out the torch; so there was no light. He made no sound, and in that moment the dog was also silent. Whoever came down did not stop. He might not be coming into the office, might not have been disturbed, it could be a routine check.

Nonsense!

The footsteps drew nearer.

Mannering drew back into the room. He pulled the door to, but didn't latch it; a clicking latch would give all the warning the man wanted. The danger now was from the dog; it had gone strangely quiet, as if it had also heard someone else.

He yelped!

The door opened.

Mannering was behind it; the handle actually pushed into his padded stomach. Light flashed on, flooding the room, showing the huge Alsatian on the floor, the safe which looked untouched, the desk and drawing-board.

“Jumbo!” Jeff Liddicombe cried, and darted towards the dog. He was wearing pyjamas, red and white stripes, and he looked huge. “What the hell—”

Mannering stepped from behind the door, for as easy a job as he was ever likely to have. He rapped Liddicombe on the back of the neck with the side of his hand, and as the innkeeper started up, arms raised convulsively, Mannering took his right wrist and thrust his arm up and behind him in a hammerlock.

“Don't move, don't shout,” he breathed.

Liddicombe tried desperately to turn round; but he couldn't see who it was. He back heeled, and Mannering jerked his arm up sharply; he gasped with the pain, and went still.

Mannering said: “Now we'll talk. Who'd you work for?”

Liddicombe was gasping for breath.

Mannering pushed the arm a fraction further. “
Who do you work for?
”

“Let go—my
arm!
”

“I'll break it if you don't answer.
Who d'you work for?
”

Liddicombe's breathing was coming in short, sharp gasps. The dog was whining while trying desperately to get out of its bonds. There was too much noise, and only seconds to spare.

“Come on, let's have it,” Mannering rasped, “when I say I'll break—”

He didn't hear a sound behind him.

He just felt the terrific blow on the back of the head.

The blow didn't knock him out, but it knocked him silly. He let Liddicombe's arm go, staggered to one side, came up against the drawing-board and set it rocking. He steadied, but he didn't have time to save himself from another attack. He just saw the face of the man who was striking at him, and recognised one thing for certain; the cold, deliberate pleasure the man took in striking.

He still didn't lose consciousness.

The blows stopped.

Mannering leaned against the drawing-board, gasping for breath, feeling his cut lips, his bruised cheeks, one eye swelling rapidly. The savagery of the attack made it hard to realise that it had stopped. He could only see a blur, but gradually shapes sorted themselves out.

Liddicombe was on his knees, by the side of the dog. The other man was standing in the doorway, watching sardonically. He'd been in the bar, Mannering knew.

The cords fell to one side, and the dog got slowly to its feet.

“Want to feel its fangs?” Liddicombe asked roughly. “Want them buried in your throat?”

The white teeth were shiny, the dog's mouth was wide open with saliva dripping; and it was straining to leap at Mannering.

“If you don't talk—” Liddicombe began but he didn't finish. The other man snatched the scarf off Mannering's face, and Liddicombe's mouth drooped in surprise. “
Richardson!
From—” he gulped.

“Richardson, is it?” asked the other man softly. “What's he got in his mouth?” He stretched out and hooked just a finger inside Mannering's mouth; one of the cheek pads, dislodged by the blows, fell out. “Cheek pad,” he said, as softly. “Tie that dog up and go and hold this guy, Lid.”

Liddicombe said: “He doesn't want tying up. Stay there, Jumbo, guard him.”

Mannering saw him let the dog go.

It looked as if nothing could stop it from leaping, it actually crouched back on all fours.

“
Guard him!
”
Liddicombe cried.

The dog didn't leap.

Liddicombe went behind Mannering, grabbed him by the wrist, and thrust his arm up in the hammerlock.

It wasn't so much pain as despair which filled Mannering then.

The man who had struck him was of medium size, heavily built and pale-faced, moved with restrained roughness. He forced Mannering's mouth open, and hooked out the other pad; then looked at his teeth. He took a bunch of keys from his pocket and scraped the teeth; the plastic covering wrinkled. He worked this loose, and tore it away.

Staring, he said: “Permanganate, probably, the usual stuff. We can soon rub that off. See anything familiar about him?”

Liddicombe let Mannering go. The dog growled. Liddicombe stepped in front of Mannering, and stared. Then: “No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

The other man laughed on a deep, satisfied note.

“You're slipping, Jeff! Won't old Bony Face be pleased? We've found Mr. Ruddy Mannering, and he won't get away. All we want now is the Woburn woman, and then Bony Face can do what he likes.
I
won't be sorry when it's over.” He paused, lit a cigarette slowly, and puffed the smoke into Mannering's face with cruel insolence. “You're a worker, I'll say that for you,” he said, “it's almost a pity you're on the other side. What did you come for?

Mannering said heavily: “For a plan of the roof of Brook House.”

“What the hell made you come here for that?”Liddicombe demanded.

“You're a good draughtsman, aren't you?” Mannering said.

There was no point in refusing to answer, for obviously they daren't let him go. The attack had been so savage and fierce that he was still feeling the effect. The speed with which his assailant had spotted the disguise, once the cheek pad was loose, took hope away.

For those few minutes, he saw no hope at all.

“Told the police about this?” Liddicombe snapped.

Mannering didn't answer. He just saw the possibility of worrying them, of lying, of making them think the police were after them.

The stranger said: “He wouldn't tell the police about a job like this, he wants the kudos. Famous amateur 'tec beats the cops!” The gibe came sneeringly. “We don't have to worry about this. We've only got one thing to worry about—do we kill him now or do we try to use him to get the woman?”