Shadow The Baron (12 page)

“No. She’s perfectly all right normally, but if she gets at the bottle – Mannering, I’ve known Celia deliberately set out to make her drunk. Smith’s told Celia what to do, and she’s obeyed him. She’s no longer got a will of her own. God, how I hate that man!”

“Where do you think hate will get you?”

“Oh, you can talk. For years I’ve been repressing my feelings, keeping up a front, hoping that something would happen, that he’d tire of her – and all the time I’m getting nearer to boiling point. Lately, Smith has been sending messages through Muriel Lee.”

“What about?”

“Just reminding me to keep away from Celia. It’s a sordid business, Mannering, but now you have the truth. I thought I’d hidden my fear pretty well. Do you think Bristow realised it?”

“Probably, but he almost certainly thinks that it’s because you know more about the murder than you’ve said. What did Bristow say to you?”

“Not a great deal. He wanted to know my movements last night, and I told him everything, including the quarrel. He wanted to know how well I knew Muriel, and I said that she was a friend of my daughter. That’s all. He asked me if I were planning to return to Guildford. I told him that until my wife was better, I would stay here.”

“Did he question you closely about your movements before you left the hotel, and when you returned?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you return – a little after ten o’clock?”

“My wife left her powder compact behind.”

“Did you both come back to find it?”

Fleming closed his eyes, and went into one of those long silences; and again Mannering waited patiently.

Then: “I told Bristow that we both came back and both went into the room. That wasn’t so. We both came up in the lift. I waited while my wife came along here for the compact. I didn’t join her, because she was upset. She’d been reading over some of Celia’s old letters, written before Smith took an interest in her. It upset her, and I know from experience that she recovers more quickly if she’s on her own. She was here for about fifteen minutes I suppose. Bristow wanted to know why we took so long, and I made excuses. I –”

Mannering said abruptly: “I think I’ll change my mind, and leave you to work this one out for yourself.”

“Mannering!”

“Well, why not? If you’re going to lie to me, what can I do to help?”

“But this is true. I’m telling you that Margaret could have – killed the girl.”

“Earlier, you said, you hadn’t been separated except for five minutes at the Lulu”

Fleming raised his hands and dropped them, in an almost pleading gesture.

“Yes, I know. It’s so difficult to realise that I’m talking to someone I can trust and not to the police. But I’ve given you the whole story now, Mannering, this is true.”

Fleming’s grey eyes were clouded and anxious. It robbed him of something of his good looks but didn’t hide the likeness between him and his daughter. He had something of her intensity, too.

“Forget it,” Mannering said.

“You’ll help?”

“I’ll do what I can. And you’ve got to make sure that you tell the police exactly the same story today as you told them last night. There’s one other danger, too – that when your wife recovers, she’ll give a different explanation of the return visit.”

“I don’t think she will,” said Fleming. “I think it’s the true one. I know it is possible that she came back here and saw Muriel, but she wasn’t drunk or anything like it, she was just upset by reading those old letters. The police have a nurse with her, of course, as soon as she’s fit enough to make a statement, they’ll get it but we’ve nothing to worry about with that. I’m convinced that Smith killed Muriel.”

“Just to turn the screw on you?”

Fleming laughed; and it was an ugly sound.

“Oh, not just that I told you I hated him. He hates me, just as much. He knows that I’ll never stop trying to win Celia back. He also knows I’ll try to prove that he’s a rogue and a thief. I’ve made him look a fool in public several times, I’m doing all I can to make him lose his temper, if he once does that, he’ll start to weaken. After the last occasion, he said he’d put me where I couldn’t do him any more harm. This is what he meant,”

“It could be,” Mannering said. “I wouldn’t rate the chance very high. If he killed Muriel, it was because he wanted to get rid of her, and he framed you as an incidental. He took a big risk, if he actually did it. Is there anyone else who’s playing this hate game with you?”

“No.”

“Do you know anyone else who’s working with him?”

“Only a woman, a kind of housekeeper. Mrs. Morant – she’s quite harmless, as far as I know.

“What was the relationship between Smith and Muriel?”

“I don’t really know. Probably she was his secretary.”

“He has a legitimate job, then?”

“Oh yes, some kind of a mail order business. Personally, I think it’s a blind.”

“Do you know for a fact he’s a thief?”

“Indeed I do. He rifled the Mess funds. I made good the losses. That’s how it started – I found out what he’d done and was going to report, and he told me that he knew about Margaret, my wife. It’s seven years ago, now,” Fleming said. “Seven years. If it weren’t for Celia, I think I’d have killed myself long before this.”

“Well, if you commit suicide now, you’ll be confessing to the murder of Muriel Lee,” said Mannering, “so think again. Will you let me know when next Bristow come to see you, and make a careful note of the questions he asks?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Now, if I were you, I’d go and have a breath of fresh air,” said Mannering.

He left Fleming at the entrance to Hyde Park, and drove to Quinn’s. He was there for only half an hour, warned Sylvester that he might not be in much during the next few days, then drove to Larraby’s hotel. Larraby was in a small, pleasant room, looking rested and refreshed.

“Feeling better?” Mannering asked.

“A new man,” said Larraby. “What can I do?”

“Find someone reliable to watch Smith and Celia Fleming,” said Mannering, “and also try to trace a Muriel Lee, who worked for Smith, anything else you can about her.”

“And after that?”

“Sleep some more,” said Mannering, and left Larraby smiling with satisfaction.

He drove to the Record office, and found Cluttering in the middle of a vast room, surrounded by myriads of typewriters and telephones, all in violent operation. He alone was motionless, leaning back with his eyes closed and a half-smoked cigarette jutting from his under lip.

Mannering said: “You’re as bad as Larraby.”

“Never,” said Cluttering, opening one eye. “He has a great regard for you. Good morning, John. Thanks for the tip last night.”

“Pleasure. How is Chloe?”

“She telephoned half an hour ago. Apparently she and Jane adored their evening out. They could mean it.”

“Didn’t you say they live together in a cottage in the country?”

Chittering opened the other eye.

“Yes. Why?”

“What are they really like?”

“Oh, quite human,” said Chittering. “In fact, nice. They’re District Nurses, you know, near Winchester. Once the home of King Alfred.”

“Discreet, loyal and trustworthy?”

Chittering leaned forward. “What is all this?”

“If I wanted to hide, or someone wanted to hide, would they play?”

“I think Chloe would do practically anything you asked, short of murder,” said Chittering. “Who’s running from the law?”

“No one, yet. Will you warn them that such an event might happen?”

“Yes, indeed. It will make their day. Do you mean to say that’s all you want?”

Mannering laughed.

“Not quite, Chitty. I’m anxious to learn what I can about Muriel Lee, who died last night – you know she worked for Smith, I presume? And I’d like to know what Bristow has been doing at Buckley Street.”

“That’s better,” said Chittering. “He’s been asking lots of questions, but he hasn’t got anywhere. He is probably coming after you with an axe, too. He had a man watching Buckley Street, and knows you went to see Smith. He can’t understand why you wanted to warn the chap of what had happened. I think you made a mistake, John. Until then, Bristow was radiating friendliness and goodwill towards you, but this has got under his skin.”

“Don’t we live by mistakes?” asked Mannering lightly.

“And frequently die by them,” Chittering said. “I’ll send a note about Muriel Lee when I’ve got all the dope.”

“Between us,” said Mannering, “we’ll probably hit the front page headlines one of these days.”

Chittering was still seeking a Parthian shot of sufficient deadliness when Mannering reached the doors. He drove straight to Chelsea. The Yard man was watching from the house opposite, but no one had followed him. He realized that Bristow was trying to cramp him. It was a pity Bristow had discovered that he had warned Smith, but the dividend from the warning would probably be big, if there was any at all.

He let himself into the flat.

The dividend came hurrying across the hall towards him – Celia Fleming, smothered in mink.

She didn’t say anything as Mannering closed the door, just stopped in front of him, one hand outstretched and touching his. The kitchen door opened, and Hetty began to speak.

“Oh, Mr. Mannering, there’s a lady who –” She broke off, staring at Celia in disapproval.

“All right, Hetty, thanks.”

As Hetty withdrew, Mannering took Celia’s arm, and led her into the study. Beneath the makeup, there were signs of strain, but none, that he could recognise, of drugs.

He moved away from her.

“What is it, Miss Fleming?”

She said slowly: “How is my mother?”

“Badly shaken, but not seriously ill.”

“Are you sure?”

“I was told so, this morning.”

She turned from him, and he thought it was because tears had sprung to her eyes. She stared, unseeing, at the window.

“Can I give her a message?”

“Tell her, please, that I inquired.”

“I will.”

She hadn’t come for this alone, but now that she was here, she couldn’t bring herself to divulge the paramount reason.

“Why did she do it?” she asked abruptly.

“Do what?”

“Kill Muriel.”

“What makes you think she did?”

“Of course she did!”

“I still don’t know what makes you think so?”

“She’s – violent – sometimes.”

“She wasn’t violent and she wasn’t drunk last night. You ought to know that. Did Paul suggest that she’d killed Muriel?”

Celia bit her lips.

“So he did. Are you ever going to wake up to the fact that what Paul says might not always be true?”

“Oh, it’s true enough!”

“Did you tell the police this?”

“Of course I didn’t!” Her sudden anger drove away some of her fear, making her more natural. “Of course I didn’t!”

“Did Paul?”

“I didn’t come here to discuss Paul.”

“Why did you come?”

“I wanted to find out how she was. I wanted . . .” she broke off again. “That’s all. Thank you.”

“It isn’t quite enough,” said Mannering, and went across and took her hands. “Look at me, Celia.” She avoided his eyes. “Look at me,” he repeated gently, and she obeyed, but the fear was back; she was frightened of him, and perhaps also of something else. “Celia, why did you come to see me? What do you want from me?”

“Nothing!”

“That’s not true.” His pressure on her hands increased. “Tell me. I won’t pass it on.”

“There’s nothing,” she said, and wrenched herself free. “I must go. I shouldn’t have come. Just give that message to my mother.” She reached the door and opened it, and as she walked across the hall, the front door bell rang. Mannering didn’t think she heard it. She fumbled with the latch and had the door open before Mannering could help her. She pulled it wide and stepped blindly out – and a man stretched out a hand and pushed her back.

It was Paul Smith.

He didn’t look at Mannering. Smith closed the door with one hand, then suddenly moved the other, and slapped her across the face. It wasn’t a hard blow, but she cringed back, as if in terror.

Smith slid his hands into his pockets.

“What did she come to see you about Mannering?”

Mannering said: “I don’t know. She changed her mind about talking.” He went to Smith’s side and, without haste, closed his fingers round the man’s right forearm. Smith grinned, nastily, and tensed his muscles; then Mannering gripped and twisted, and Smith gasped with sudden pain. He shot back against the wall as Mannering released him.

Celia, who had flown like a wildcat at her father when he had laid a hand on this man, didn’t move.

Smith straightened up and shrugged his coat into position.

“Somehow I don’t think we’re going to be good friends,” he said. “You don’t seem to have done any harm, Celia, we’ll go now.”

“Not just yet,” said Mannering.

“I’ll go when I want to,” Smith said. His voice sharpened with a note of command. “Celia!”

She moved towards the door, without thought or volition. The man was watching her. Mannering frowned as he looked from one to the other. Celia’s hand moved slowly, reluctantly, but she opened the door and stepped onto the landing. Smith started to follow.

“Not you,” Mannering said.

Smith’s lip lifted in a sneer.

Mannering said: “Maybe I can use hypnotism, too.”

Smith started, and turned round. The girl went on. Mannering closed the door behind her, and ignoring Smith went to the study. By the time he was sitting at the desk, Smith was at the door. The two men stood looking at each other, in a strange conflict of wills.

Then Smith laughed.

“You get some fool notions,” he said. “I suppose it’s no use reasoning with you. Celia’s just a dope. But she’s wonderful to look at, and that isn’t the only way she’s good. She’ll do what I tell her, I don’t have to use any funny stuff with her. Forget it.”

“Not yet,” said Mannering, “but we’ll talk about something else.”

“What?”

“Apart from wanting to see Celia, why did you come here?”

“Now you’re thought reading. Why are you so interested in me, Mannering?”

“Strong personalities always fascinate me.”