Shadow The Baron (11 page)

“When you find him, tell him to get in touch with the Milne Hotel, Knightsbridge as soon as possible.”

Mannering went outside. There were few people about, but a straggle of late buses was rumbling along Kensington High Street. He got into the car, and drove through the dimly lit streets, parking eventually at the corner of Buckley Street.

Three quarters of an hour later, Paul Smith and Celia arrived in a taxi.

Mannering waited until the taxi had gone, then walked to Number 13. A light in the hall, visible through a small fanlight, went out. He lifted the knocker and let it fall with a hollow reverberation. Smith opened the door, the girl hovering in the dimly lit background.

“Good evening,” Mannering said, and stepped inside.

Smith barred his path.

“It’s rather late for casual visitors,” he said shortly. “Who are you?”

“We met at Lulu’s tonight.”

Smith stood in shadow, allowing the light to fall on to Mannering’s face. He stood utterly still, as if willing Mannering to withdraw.

Mannering said pleasantly, “Delightful though circumlocutory preambles may be, I cannot help thinking that the time, the place, are a little ill chosen when the police are at one’s heels.”

Smith said dryly, “Your heels or mine?” But he stood aside, nevertheless, and allowed Mannering to close the door.

“Suppose we talk upstairs,” he said. “My name is Mannering.”

“This is the second time tonight you’ve interfered with my private affairs.”

Mannering moved towards the stairs, the girl going before him. Smith followed. When they reached the first landing, Smith turned down a switch; for a moment they stood in utter darkness. Mannering’s muscles tensed; he was prepared for anything. Another switch went down and a light shone out above them.

Smith laughed softly, with insolent understanding.

The girl reached the top landing, and turned right, towards the second flat. Mannering turned to follow her.

“Not that door,” Smith said.

“You’re both in this,” said Mannering.

“We’ll discuss it between us, first.”

“Oh, no,” said Mannering. “It must be a threesome.”

Smith was now on a level with him.

“I could throw you out,” he said speculatively.

“Into the arms of the police, waiting for an excuse to interrogate you, yes,” said Mannering.

Smith said: “You’d better come with us, Celia, but leave when I tell you to.”

Automatically the girl turned, and came back, leading the way into the opposite flat. The electric fire was glowing, and the room struck warm. Smith closed the door and stood with his back against it and his hands in his pockets; too much the picture of nonchalance for it to be entirely real.

“Well, what’s it all about?”

Mannering said deliberately: “You had a difference of opinion with Miss Fleming’s father this evening. I took him back to his hotel. In the room was a dead girl. She’d been strangled.”

Smith’s smile faded and his lips set in a straight line. The girl moved forward with a shocked exclamation.

“Murdered,” Mannering said.

“Who – who was it?”

Smith said sharply: “There’d be more point in asking what this has to do with us.”

Mannering said: “Fleming quarrelled with you in front of a couple of hundred people. The police will want to know what that quarrel was about, bearing in mind that it might be linked with the murder.”

“Why?”

Mannering shrugged his shoulders.

“It does not need very much imagination to foresee that Superintendent Bristow will be interested to learn that Fleming quarrelled with a man whose flat was mysteriously burgled recently.”

“Why did you trouble to come and warn me?”

“I thought you’d like to know.”

“What do you expect to get, in return?”

Mannering said: “Personally, nothing. My interest is in Fleming. I don’t believe he killed that girl, but I think he might find himself accused of it.”

“I couldn’t care less.”

“Does that stand for Celia?” asked Mannering lightly.

“I hate him!” Celia’s voice was low pitched. “I don’t care what happens to him.”

“Is this all you’ve got to tell me?” Smith demanded.

“There is a little more. Fleming knew the girl.”

“Is that so?”

“So did you, if Fleming told the truth, and I think he did. The police are aware of this.”

Smith said gently: “Now you’re making it interesting.” He crossed to a cocktail cabinet. “What will you have?”

“Whisky, please.”

“Celia?”

“Nothing,” she said, “I think I’ve had enough tonight. Who was the dead girl?”

“The name is Muriel Lee,” Mannering said.

“No!” cried Celia.

Smith’s hand was quite steady as he poured the drinks, and his voice was even as he added: “Soda?”

“Please.”

“It couldn’t be Muriel!” breathed Celia. “Why, I saw her tonight, she was here!” – she caught her breath.

“To the death of the murderer,” said Smith, raising his glass, “Celia, darling, I think you’d better go and lie down. It’s been a difficult evening for you.”

“I – I’d like to hear what happened.”

“I’ll tell you, later.”

“Very well.” Without glancing to left or right, she walked automatically to the door. Smith opened it for her. He waited until the door opposite opened and closed, before returning to his chair.

“Now tell me why you came,” he said.

“I’ve told you. A friendly warning.”

“Why be friendly towards a stranger?”

“You never know when strangers might come in useful,” said Mannering. “I wanted to get to know you better, anyhow. That was an impressive entry you made at Lulu’s and I liked the way you behaved after Fleming took a smack at you.”

“I still haven’t been told the truth,” said Smith.

“Possibly,” said Mannering, “but you know as much as I’m going to tell you tonight. It’s quite a lot. As Muriel was here earlier this evening, the police will have a double reason for wanting to see you. Also, they’ll probably discover that you weren’t at Lulu’s until late. They probably won’t state in so many words that you had time to kill Muriel, but the suggestion will be there.”

“They’d be crazy if they thought that.”

“I’ve had a lot to do with the police,” Mannering said. “Their craziness quite often pays off.” He finished his drink and went to the door. “Mind if I go? I’d rather not be here when Bristow arrives. Of course, you could tell him that I’ve been, but that’s up to you.”

He went to the door.

Smith said: “I’d like to know what’s in your mind.”

Mannering opened the door, slowly. “I’m to be found at Quinn’s by day – Hart Row, Bond Street – and River Walk, Chelsea, by night. If you want to know how to cope with Bill Bristow, let me know. I might even work for you, for a stiff retainer.”

He beamed, waved, and went out.

He heard the opposite door click; and knew that Celia had been listening.

No one was in the street when he reached it, and he drove straight to River Walk. There were no telephone messages. He left a note for Hetty, to say that he didn’t want to be disturbed in the morning, and went to bed. He was curious but not dissatisfied. He owed Chittering a big debt; he had puzzled Smith, and would probably get a visit from him. He was likely to become a confidant of the Flemings, unless they were charged with murder, and he doubted whether Bristow would feel justified in taking that step yet.

Then he remembered he had forgotten his nightly call to Lorna.

Next morning, all the newspapers had the story of the murder, but the most detailed was in the Record. The article was signed: Record Star Reporter, Chittering had obviously been first on the spot He had mentioned Mannering, like two of the other newspapers, but there was no mention of Smith or the incident at the club.

Mannering glanced through them all as he drank his tea, and was thoughtful while he shaved. An unusually silent Hetty brought in his breakfast. There was no doubt she disapproved of these late nights while the mistress was away. At half-past ten Mannering telephoned Bristow.

“Now what is it?” Bristow was abrupt.

“How’s Fleming?”

“You can read, can’t you?” asked Bristow.

“But my papers don’t say what happened after he’d been questioned.”

“He’s at the Milne Court Hotel.”

“Good. But why so sharp with me, Bill?”

“One of these days I’ll get sharper,” growled Bristow. “I’m going to see you later in the day, anyhow. If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll keep out of this affair.”

“I heard you,” Mannering said gently.

He did not believe that Smith had talked, but it was possible that Bristow had sent a man to watch Buckley Street, and that the man had taken the number of Mannering’s car. He telephoned Major Fleming, but was told that he was not taking calls. He rang up Sylvester, was assured that there was nothing of importance in the post. It was eleven-fifteen when he entered the Milne Court Hotel.

None of the day staff recognised him, but as he passed the open office door, the manager leapt to his feet.

“Mr. Mannering!”

Mannering waited, smiling.

“Mr. Mannering, have you come to see Major Fleming?”

“I’d like to.”

“He won’t take telephone calls; he won’t answer when we knock at his door. He’s moving about, but – it’s worrying, Mr. Mannering, very worrying.”

“Have you told the police?”

“I’m not sure that I’d be justified, although from our point of view the whole affair couldn’t be more unfortunate.”

“Yes,” agreed Mannering. “It couldn’t be more unfortunate from the dead woman’s point of view either. Where is Mrs. Fleming?”

“In her room, with a nurse – quite prostrate. Quite prostrate.”

“Thanks.” Mannering moved towards the lift, leaving the manager staring distractedly after him.

The second floor was deserted. He went to Fleming’s room, and listened; there was no sound. A maid came along, looking at him curiously, and paused, as if she were about to speak. Mannering put a hand to his lips. The maid went past, and Mannering tapped sharply.

There was no response.

Mannering said: “Fleming, this is Mannering. I want to see you.”

Immediately there was a move inside the room, and the key turned in the lock. Mannering expected to see a haggard man and saw instead that Fleming was spruce, distinguished, freshly shaven. There were scratches on his cheeks, and his right eye was slightly bloodshot, but these were the only signs of his daughter’s attack.

He closed and locked the door.

“Why the precautions?” asked Mannering.

“I’m tired of being asked to find another hotel,” said Fleming brusquely. “I shall do violence to that man if he comes again! I’ve enough on my mind. My wife’s in a state of prostration. This murder is hanging over me, and – “he broke off, shrugging his shoulders.”Mannering I’m extremely glad to see you. I doubt if the police will be persuaded that Smith knows anything about this murder. I’m quite sure that he will have an alibi. I’m equally sure that he committed it. If that could be proved, his holdover my daughter might be broken. Will you take the case?”

“Which comes first – proving Smith a murderer or saving Celia?”

“Celia.”

“I’ll take the job,” said Mannering.

Fleming lit a cigarette, and smoked for some minutes without speaking. At last he said: “That’s a great relief. I believe you can do a lot that the police can’t.”

“I didn’t make any conditions, but there is one,” said Mannering. “That you tell me all the truth.”

“Naturally.”

“Without any reservations. For instance, why are you so nervous of the police?”

“Wouldn’t you be, in a spot like this?”

“That isn’t your only reason. If it were, you’d be anxious but not really worried. If you didn’t kill Muriel, you’ve nothing to fear in the long run, and you know it. Your nerves spring from one of two things – a guilty conscience or a skeleton in the cupboard.”

Fleming said stiffly: “I’m not anxious that the police should probe too deeply into my domestic affairs.”

“Why not?”

“I suppose I’ll have to tell you, Mannering, but I’m taking a chance. There is something that no one else knows, except one man. My wife . . .” Fleming hesitated, and when he went on, the words came reluctantly. “My wife has a criminal record.”

That statement was so unexpected that Mannering simply said: “Oh.”

“I thought it would surprise you.” Fleming’s lips twisted wryly. “I hope I needn’t go into details. I didn’t know it myself, at the time of our marriage. I didn’t know until I saw an example of it, myself. I’m terrified, and I don’t use the word lightly, in case the police take her fingerprints. Do you happen to know if Dominion criminal prints are held at Scotland Yard?”

“Not unless the criminal’s been active over here, or the inquiries for him have been made here.”

“If you’re sure, that’s another relief,” said Fleming. “Mannering, I know that my wife didn’t kill Muriel, although you may not be so sure. I’d been with her, all the evening. We weren’t separated for more than five minutes, at the Lulu Club. But she served a sentence of imprisonment for manslaughter in South Africa. When she has had too much to drink she loses her self-control completely. She isn’t sane. I’ve had specialists, psychiatrists – they can do nothing. The only thing that helps is to stop her from drinking.” The words came out slowly and painfully. “I hope you can see why I’m nervous.”

“And who is the other man who knows this? Smith?”

“Yes,” said Fleming.

“How has he used the knowledge?”

“Blackmail. It started with money, when we were in the same regiment. That is why I blame myself for Celia. I let them meet, and when Celia showed that she was being dominated by the man, I should have let him do his damnedest to me. Instead, I tried to reason with him. He stopped demanding money, and started to threaten that he would tell the truth about my wife unless I let him have his way with Celia. I thought he meant marriage.” Fleming laughed, harshly.

“Has your wife thrown any of these violent fits lately?”