Hide the Baron (6 page)

He did not open the box.

He had been in the house for five minutes when the telephone bell rang.

“Hallo,” he said, and listened carefully. “Yes, come at once. Make sure you are alone.”

He put the receiver down, and then went slowly to another room at the front of the house. This was also curtained so that it couldn't be overlooked, but he could see out. The front garden was long and narrow, and on the other side of the road there were the walls of a large garden surrounding a big house, darkening in the evening light. No one stood watching.

When the small man who had been with him at Horsham station arrived, he drove up in a small car.

He wasn't followed.

He also let himself in with a key, and the two men met at the head of the stairs.

They made a sharp contrast.

The large man's face was very thin, had a bony, almost hungry look. His high cheekbones suggested that his ancestry wasn't all British. He had a curious stealth of movement, and a fixed gaze. The impression that strangers had of him was his lack of humanity. He hardly looked real, but he was real enough, no one was ever likely to like him as a person.

The other was round-faced, chubby, rather a pleasant-looking little man, with round eyes and a soft little mouth, and a bald spot in dark hair. He would have been at home in any bar or night club, or on any dance-floor. There was nothing robot-like about him, yet when he met the large man, there was similarity; one of tension.

“Heard from the others?” the chubby man asked.

“No.”

“They'll be all right.”

“I am not at all sure that they'll be all right,” said Lucien Seale. “I see no point in refusing to see the possibility of danger. If it had been handled properly, all would be well. I had arranged for Merrow to be attacked, and that the old man would do everything he could to save Merrow. And he would have. But when Pete lost his head, and killed Gedde and nearly killed the old man, we were in trouble. We wanted the old man alive, and—”

“You know how it was,” Greer said slowly. “Gedde came along, Pete lost his head and hit the old man too hard. But you worry too much, Lucien.”

“I always worry enough,” Lucien Seale told him, and his lips moved with great precision; greatly exaggerated, it would have looked like a ventriloquist's doll talking. “And whether they are safe or not, we still have a grave problem. Mannering and the girl saw me.”

‘Me'.

The man named Greer didn't speak.

“I dare not risk being recognised,” Seale said. “There is enough in that box to put me inside for the rest of my life. You know that. Mannering probably knows, as the old man sent for his help. The woman Joanna might know. I can't take risks on being recognised. We have to decide how best and how quickly we can kill them.” That came out quite flatly. “Mannering must be dealt with first; he could be as dangerous as the police. He would search for me, I wouldn't dare show my face. The girl—she can wait for a little while.” Seale placed one large, knuckly hand on the top of the newel post at the head of the stairs, and went on coldly: “We should deal with Mannering tonight.”

“But he'll be on the look-out,” Greer began. “He may not have
seen
the photostats, may not know—”

“Tonight,” Seale said coldly. “It's too big a risk, we can't wait.”

 

 

Lorna Mannering heard the car turn into the street, looked out, recognised John's Rolls-Bentley and stood at the window, looking down and feeling almost as eager as she had done when they had first come to live here; after their honeymoon. She craned her neck, so that she could see him get out, watched the way he closed the door and turned, glancing up as if hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

He felt just about as she did.

She was wearing a black cocktail dress, trimmed with red. She looked lovely, and knew it. If a few strands of grey touched her wavy dark hair, it didn't matter; if there was a hint of wrinkles at her eyes, that didn't matter. There was the quality of youthfulness about her. She moved to the door, and opened it as he came up the last flight of stairs. This studio flat was at the top of a narrow, four-storied house in Green Street, and it overlooked the distant Thames, for houses rased by the bombing hadn't been rebuilt.

Mannering paused, eyes widening. “My, my! Who's been taking years off your age?”

Lorna laughed; if he'd tried for a week he couldn't have touched a better phrase.

“Approved?”

“Dior himself would approve.”

“It's a new dressmaker at a quarter of the price,” Lorna said; “I hope she isn't discovered too soon, it'll go to her head.” She kissed him. “We're going out to dinner.”

His face dropped.

“Oh, Lor'. Not social?”

“Alone,” said Lorna. “Ethel twisted her ankle this afternoon. It's nothing serious, but she ought to rest up for a few days. So we'll snack whenever we're at home, and have the main meals out.”

“Oh, well,” said Mannering resignedly. “I suppose we can't have everything in one seductive body, painter, wife and cook.” He went into his study and opened a cocktail cabinet which was in fact an old Jacobean court cupboard. “Need I change?”

“No. You look a bit down, darling.”

“Things went wrong, and I can't see any way of putting 'em right.” Mannering poured whisky for himself, sherry for Lorna, and as they drank, told her what had happened and what conclusion he had reached. She knew that the case would nag at him until it died a natural death or until he saw some way of helping the injured man or Joanna Woburn.

“As far as I can tell they've got what they wanted, and they'll lie low for a bit and then come up for air again,” Mannering said. “If the police pick 'em up I'll be able to identify them, but—” He shrugged.

“'Nother?”

“No, thanks. You have a quick one, and I'll drive!”

He grinned. “We'll go by taxi.”

In fact, they went by taxi, so that there would be no parking problem. The ‘Lion and the Lamb', in Grex Street, Soho, was small, reputable, amiable and had excellent food and a really good band. But Mannering wasn't dancing as he could and should be. By half-past eleven, Lorna said:

“Let's get home, darling.”

“Mind?”

“I could do with an early night, too.”

“Fine,” Mannering said, and paid the bill and left, with the proprietor begging him to return and half a dozen youngsters pointing him out as
the
John Mannering, “the antique-dealer detective, you know”. They stepped into the warm, starlit evening, and Mannering hailed a taxi. They got in.

 

A man on a motor-cycle followed them.

 

The one cure for the doldrums, Mannering knew well, was Lorna. The dancing hadn't helped; sitting back in the cab, with Lorna's hand in his, helped a lot. The simple delights. They were near Chelsea Town Hall when he tapped at the glass partition, and told the driver to take them to the Embankment. It was a good night for a walk; cool, pleasant. He noticed the motor-cycle roar past them, and had been vaguely aware of one pop-popping in his ear for some time. Motor-cycles were two a penny and he didn't give this one a second thought.

A motor-cycle was parked against the wall of a house when they reached the Embankment. He noticed this, without giving it a thought, either. The massive block of the Battersea Power Station, just across the river, was showing clearly in floodlighting. Dense white smoke rolled from one of its huge chimneys. The floodlighting reflected on the Thames. So did the fairy lights at the Pleasure Garden, sole surviving relic this far up river of the great Festival. Lights of all colours were still on their stands, but seemed to dance in the water.

Lights from the bridges in sight were reflected too. A launch, probably with police in it, was moving slowly up-river. Odd traffic passed up and down the Embankment, including several motor-cycles; and he gave none of these a thought.

They strolled towards Green Street, watching the river.

 

They did not see the man who walked on the pavement across the road, sometimes ahead of them, and sometimes a few yards behind them.

 

“It's a perfect night,” Lorna said quietly. “Just right.” She spoke for the sake of speaking, for words didn't really matter. Mannering's arm was round her waist, his hand resting lightly. They walked in step, very conscious of one another's nearness. Mannering murmured something which didn't count. The stars looked down on them, the traffic passed, and death drew nearer.

Green Street was only a hundred yards away. Had there been a light in his study, the kitchen or the studio, they would have been able to see it; but they could not yet see even the outline of the top of the house. They kept near the parapet, where it was reinforced after the floods of a year or two before, reluctant to cross over. The mood would probably break as soon as they got indoors, and Lorna longed for some way of preserving it.

Reluctantly she said: “Case still on your mind?”

“It is, rather.”

“You might see daylight tomorrow.”

He smiled unexpectedly: “Ever the optimist! I don't think so, I'm afraid—”

He didn't finish.

The spell was broken, and without another word, they turned towards the road. Mannering still had Lorna's arm in his, and was thinking as much about her as the case. He didn't notice the man on the other side of the road, lurking in the shadows. They crossed, stepping out as a car approached. Green Street was only twenty yards or so away from here. There was a large waste patch, where the houses had been rased; this was now in utter darkness; darkness which could hide murder.

They neared it.

The man behind them drew closer, and still made no sound. When he drew his knife, he hid the blade up his sleeve. He was only two yards behind, near enough to strike, when they actually reached the corner; a low wall prevented them from crossing the waste patch. He turned, also. In the distant fight of a street lamp, he could see Mannering's figure clearly, and he knew where to strike, knew exactly what thrust was needed to reach the heart.

Two yards …

He kicked against a stone.

The noise broke startlingly across the quiet. It burst upon the Mannerings, who were ambling, sharing those troubled thoughts. It made Lorna exclaim, with the alarm that unexpected noises always created; and it made Mannering spin round.

He saw the man, with the raised knife glinting.

“John!”
screamed Lorna.

The man lunged.

Mannering knew that he couldn't avoid him, could only lessen the viciousness of the blow. He jumped forward. The knife swept down, and cut into his coat sleeve with a slicing movement; the sharp pain hardly counted. He tried to close with the man, who realised that he'd lost his first chance, and swerved to one side, knife raised again. He slashed.

Lorna was in the way.

“
Jo
—” began Lorna, and then her voice died away.

Mannering could see her face, pallor in the darkness, could even see the glitter in her eyes. She swayed. The man with the knife was racing along the emptiness of Green Street, and Mannering let him go, having no possible choice. Mannering didn't speak, but moved to Lorna. She fell against him, a dead weight.

He felt an awful fear.

“Lorna, where is it?” he heard himself say. “Where did he hurt you?”

She didn't answer.

“Where is it?” he asked savagely, but it was with the savagery of his own helplessness. He raised his voice: “
Help!
”
he shouted. “
Police, police!
”
Now, Lorna was leaning against him, and his hands were exploring desperately, fearfully. There was no blood at her back, none at her neck, none on her arms.

There was blood at her breast.

“Police
, police!
”
he shouted.

She was still a dead weight against him, and would fall if he moved. He did not know what to do; just felt distraught. The suddenness of it, the fact that she had been cut down and might be dead.

“
Fetch
the police!
”
he cried desperately, but he wanted a doctor, and he wanted to be able to pad whatever wound there was. The numbness of the shock vanished as a man in a small car drew up, and got out nervously. “Get to a telephone, doctor wanted urgently!” Mannering cried, and the words nearly choked him.

Then he found the wound, on Lorna's left side.

 

Three-quarters of an hour afterwards he walked out of the hospital in Tite Street, moving stiffly, looking straight ahead at the car park with a few cars dotted about. His own Rolls-Bentley wasn't there, for he'd come with an ambulance.

They were operating, and there wasn't a thing he could do. There was hardly a thing he could feel.

A car came along, swung round into the hospital car park, and drew up at the foot of the steps. A man jumped out, vivid in the light from the main entrance. He was tall, brisk-moving, dressed in pale grey. He saw Mannering and stopped. Mannering looked at him, knew who it was and, without a change of expression, went to meet him.

This was Superintendent Bristow, of New Scotland Yard.

 

 

That's right, Mannering said savagely. She's in the theatre now. There isn't a man alive who can tell me whether she'll ever come round. That's how bad it is. An hour ago I was telling myself there wasn't a thing I could do in this job, and now—” He broke off, swung round, and splashed whisky into a glass. “Another?” he barked.

“Mine'll do, thanks.” Bristow was very quiet.

Mannering tossed his head back, the drink down.

“As it is now,” he went on as if he hadn't paused, “I'll live it and sleep it. Waking and sleeping, dreaming, thinking, eating and walking, I'll be after them. This is
my
case. I don't give a damn what you and every addle-pated ape of a policeman at the Yard says.”

“See what you mean,” said Bristow mildly.

Mannering said thinly, chokingly. “And you can see—” He broke off again. He looked at his half-empty glass for several seconds, then put it down with great care. As carefully, he lit a cigarette. All this time, his expression was unchanging; had a hardness but lacked the savagery he had shown a few minutes before. The glitter had gone out of his eyes, too, and hardness replaced it. His voice had changed, was flat and harsh. “All right, Bill. Sorry. What I'm saying is that I'm going after them with all I've got. You are, too. Never was a better job to work together.”

Bristow was looking at him steadily.

“Yes,” he said. “And no. There have been times when I've wished you in Timbuctoo, anywhere off a case. This one—” He shrugged. He had square shoulders, and was nicely tailored. He had rather a pale face because these days he spent most of his time in the office. His eyes were pale grey. His features were good, but seemed to lack character; in fact, he didn't. His small, close-clipped moustache would have been iron grey like his smoothly brushed hair, but for the dark stain of nicotine at the centre, paling towards the corners of his lips. “What I mean, John, is that I almost wish they'd got you, too, instead of just your sleeve. Not badly; only enough to make you rest up until you'd got over the bad stage. Because in this mood, you'll probably get yourself killed. That won't help Lorna.”

Mannering said: “Straight from the shoulder, eh?”

“That's right.”

“Bill,” Mannering said, “I saw those two men on the road near Orme. That's the only possible reason for an attack. I know them both. So whatever I do, they're after me. If I sit back and wait for it, they'll have an easier job.”

“Don't intend to argue,” Bristow said. “When you telephoned, you asked me to tell Aylmer, down at Orme. I did that, and he's sending a man to watch Joanna Woburn. She should be all right.”

There was another pause, before Mannering said: “Under police protection, she ‘should' be all right. Touching faith!” Mannering drew at his cigarette and stubbed it out, half-smoked. He sipped his whisky again, then put it down. He looked at the telephone, and although he had been warned that hours would pass before he could hope for news, the longing for it was in his eyes. “Know anything about this, Bill?” he asked abruptly.

Bristow tapped the side of his nose.

“
Only
what Aylmer told me. I'd warned him that you knew George Merrow, and that you didn't always behave yourself, but that doesn't matter now. What do
you
know? And if you hold anything back—”

“Nothing I knew helped.” Mannering told the Yard man about the story of a heavy weight on Jimmy Garfield's conscience for twenty years, and went on: “Garfield knew that a crisis was coming, but didn't expect it so soon. It came as soon as they got George Merrow out of the way. Merrow's the one man who might be able to tell us something. And Merrow—”

“John,” Bristow interrupted, “I can't stop you from trying to find who did it. I don't even know that I want to. I only say that you'll be crazy if you start while you're in this mood. You're half crazy with anger and you're terrified in case Lorna should die. Plan what you like, say what you like, rage as much as you like, but don't
do
anything yet. Cool off.”

The telephone bell rang.

Mannering, quite motionless just before the first sound, went to it like a bullet. He had the receiver off the platform as Bristow was turning round. Yet with the earpiece close to his head, he hesitated. Then he said slowly: “This is John Mannering.”

He paused, and relaxed. He pulled up a chair, and ropped on to it. “Yes, I'll hold on,” he said, and looked across at Bristow. “It's a call from Orme.” He waited without speaking, but fidgeting in his chair. He read Bristow's attitude correctly; it was a kind of exasperated commiseration. He knew that all that Bristow said was true, the advice was sound, but –

“Hallo, is that Mr. Mannering?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“Miss Woburn would like a word with you, sir,” a man said. “Hold on a moment, please.”

There was another pause. In it, Mannering pictured the great house, with its grace, its spaciousness and its beauty. He could see the pictures, the tapestries, the suits of armour, the breastplates, the chain mail, the pikes and the huge swords which looked too massive and too heavy for a man to wield.

“Mr. Mannering,” Joanna Woburn said, “I just felt that I had to telephone you. I—I've heard about what happened. Is—is there any news of your wife?”

“No, not yet,” Mannering said, and found it easier to speak than he had expected. “It'll be several hours before I hear. Everything all right down there?”

“Oh, yes, it will be now the police are watching.”

Mannering said: “Don't take a thing for granted, Miss Woburn. Watch what you do, where you go, whom you meet. Don't go anywhere alone, don't evade the police, don't be fooled by false messages. You've seen what these people are prepared to do.”

“I'll be careful,” she said. “I only wish I could help.”

“Don't start blaming yourself,” Mannering said sharply. She had lifted him out of himself, although he didn't realise it then. “Take care, and—” He paused.

After a moment she said: “Yes?”

“I think it would be a good idea if we had a talk about George Merrow,” Mannering said slowly. “Tomorrow, some time. Soon, anyhow.”

“Why about Mr. Merrow?”

“Would Jimmy Garfield confide in him?”

Joanna confessed: “I just don't know, I'd only be guessing if I said one way or the other.” She sounded flat and miserable; and there was nothing surprising about that. “I do hope that—”

She just couldn't finish.

Mannering put the receiver back; and automatically lit another cigarette. He filled in the outline which Bristow had already heard. He felt less restless, and saw Bristow and his arguments more clearly.

He could drink himself into forgetfulness and it wouldn't help. He could take some wild chance that would bring another attack, and if Lorna did recover –

He had to accept the possibility that she might not.

He moved from spot to spot, aware of Bristow's steady gaze, and saying nothing. Tension came into the room, and both men were sharply aware of it.

Bristow broke the silence.

“All right, John,” he said. “You're going to feel like this for a long way. Hot and cold. Now I'm going to tell you what
I'm
going to do. One of the best men I've got will be on your tail every minute from now on. If you slip him, it will be your own fault, and I shan't mourn so much at your funeral. Now for one or two general principles.” He gave a quick, unamused smile. “We know they are killers. We know that they plan very carefully. We know that they're daring. We know that they wanted that box of Garfield's desperately enough to kill, plan and take big risks. I don't know of anyone running loose at the moment who fits all those categories, which means that we're probably up against someone we've never come across before. They'll have new tricks, new hide-outs, possibly new methods. That's going to make it tough. They want to be able to move about freely, or it wouldn't matter so much to them that they'd been seen. Whatever they're doing isn't finished yet—if it were, they'd almost certainly have made plans to get out of the country as soon as this job was over.” Bristow lit a cigarette from the stub of the one he was smoking, and when it was drawing smoothly, went on in the same level voice: “So when we say we don't know a thing about these people, we actually know a lot. There are some other things you may have forgotten about. We've got the big black Packard, and we're working on that. We know that this Woburn woman fired a shot at a small car, and scored a hit, so somewhere or other there's a little car with a bullet mark in the back. We have the descriptions of the men, which you can give, and while they may not be all that detailed they'll help.” He paused again, and then flung out: “Ever taken the trouble to estimate the number of policemen in this country?”

He looked so aggressive that it cracked Mannering's stiffness.

“No, Bill.”

“It runs into a hundred thousand odd. Every one of them is getting ready to go for these people. Don't run away with the idea that if you can't catch 'em, no one can. Now and again, on a highly specialised job, you can pull out that little extra that we haven't got. I'm not sure you can on this. And,” added Bristow, moving closer and compelling Mannering to look straight into his eyes, “if that isn't enough, I don't want you dead. Will you help us to keep an eye on you?”

Mannering said: “All right, Bill. Thanks.” He was much more himself, and a hint of a smile played at his lips. “Impressive tally you've made, and there's only one thing you've missed.”

“What's that?” Bristow looked taken aback.

“Whatever was in that box, it wasn't miniatures; at least, not only miniatures,” Mannering asserted. “I've been checking. I may have missed a few rare collections, but the box was about twelve inches by fourteen, according to Miss Woburn, and quite flat. Miniatures of any value wouldn't be packed without protection, so there isn't a big collection. The biggest one in the world wouldn't be valuable enough to justify what's happened.”

Bristow rubbed his nose. “See what I mean by your specialised knowledge?”

“There may be half a dozen collections worth a fortune, but not money enough to justify the risks these people take,” Mannering went on, as if he wanted to emphasise that reasoning for his own benefit as well as Bristow's. “I suppose it's arguable that Garfield's whole fortune would be worth the gamble—any idea how much he's actually worth?”

“No.” Bristow shrugged. “Millions.”

“Two or twenty?” Mannering asked. “That's something to find out. Do we know whom he'll leave it to, who would have the handling of it when he's dead? He's seventy now. Would a man of seventy be careless enough to leave no will? Any will found?”

“None reported yet,” Bristow said. “What do you know about Garfield?”

“Not much. He used to be a customer of mine, but stopped buying from me about ten years ago. He had an accident, and injured his spine. When he recovered enough to be wheeled about, he went to Brook House, which he'd bought a year before but never lived in. He took in a big staff, mostly local people; the only one of his old servants was his butler, Gedde. He turned the place into a museum, and seldom left it. He didn't ever come to London, just shut himself up with his hoard.”

Bristow asked: “D'you think he has a hoard of stolen goods?”

“I just don't know,” Mannering said evenly.

“I'm
going to find out,” Bristow announced.

“Take a look at other aspects of the set-up,” urged Mannering. He wasn't anything like so restless now that his mind was working and probing. “A seventy-year-old man living in a house fit for the Middle Ages, one butler, a housekeeper and several local servants, and a nephew who appeared out of the blue about two months ago—just before Joanna Woburn arrived, I gather. Finally, Joanna herself. There's so much to work on that there's ample room for us both, Bill, whether Jimmy Garfield cut himself off from reputable dealers because of stolen goods or not.”

Bristow said slowly: “That sounds more like you. But don't have a relapse.” He hesitated. “I must get back to the Yard, there's another job needing a lot of attention. Have you told your friends the Plenders about this yet?”

“They're in Italy.”

“Larraby?”

“He flew over to Paris for a sale for me, and it'll last a week.”

“Not a man with many close friends, are you?” Bristow remarked. “I don't think you're the right man to be here on your own. Anyone you can think of to call on?”

“No wet-nurse, thanks,” Mannering said, and unexpectedly clapped Bristow on the shoulder. “Sometimes I think you're a better man than the Yard deserves! Thanks.”

Bristow shrugged.

He went out, and Mannering watched him from the front door. Bristow's grey head vanished beneath a turn in the stairs. His footsteps sounded clearly, gradually getting quieter. Soon, they echoed from the hall, and a moment afterwards the front door opened and closed.

Mannering turned back into the flat.

As he closed the door, he knew exactly what Bristow meant. Its emptiness seemed to strike at him. Fear of bad news was like the engulfing wave of a boisterous sea. He fought against the mood and beat it back, but knew that it would never be faraway.

Now, he had to wait.

He looked at the telephone in his study, then pulled up an armchair and sat down. In his mind's eye there was a picture of white-coated surgeons and white-clad nurses, the bright light over Lorna, the flashing of steel, the quiet.

And somewhere in the sprawling mass of London was the man who had struck her down, and those whom he served.