Without Lawful Authority
by Manning Coles
First published in 1943
This edition published by Reading Essentials
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
WITHOUT Lawful Authority
by Manning Coles
To
C.A.J.Y.
Although He (Remembering Old Days)
Still Likes the First One Best
1. On the Evidence
Warnford sat in an armchair before the fire in his flat in Pight’s Mews, off Gloucester Place. He had on his knee a handbook, Engineering Practice for Small Workshops, but he was staring at the fire instead of reading. Nice little lathe, that 3½″ Drummond, and the drilling machine wasn’t too bad, considering it was secondhand; he’d always wanted a workshop of his own and now he’d got it. A set of milling cutters would be necessary if one were going to turn out anything worth doing; he would get them in the morning. Yes, and anything else he wanted, too; it was so very nice for him, wasn’t it, to be able to buy himself anything within reason he wanted; anything, that is, except the one thing he really desired, reinstatement and the black mark wiped out. His mouth twisted and he moved uneasily in his comfortable lounge suit because it was too comfortable, no pressure from the strap on the shoulder, no constriction round the waist from a stiff Sam Browne belt, no more, no more. And Rawson had resigned his commission; why? Very queer. There was no reason why he should resign, nothing at all against Rawson, unless . . .
No use brooding like this; think about something else. It would be interesting to make a model steam locomotive, 2½-inch gauge; take up rather a lot of room, but it gives one more scope for detail than a smaller size. Steam-driven boats required a pond, but a scale-model Foden steam wagon would be interesting, or an exact model of one of the early steamcars; probably drawings were obtainable somewhere. Anything but a tank; no more scale-model tanks, no more. “Where’s that model now?” he thought. “One of these days I’ll ask Rawson, and if he doesn’t want to be taken to pieces like a jointed doll I think he’ll answer me.” Warnford’s jaw stuck out and his dark eyebrows met over his nose.
There was a dull thud from the room next door which attracted his attention. “Sounds as though Ashling’s dropped the telephone directory, unless the poor chap’s been taken ill himself.” He listened intently and heard sounds of movement; evidently his servant was still capable of activity, and Warnford returned to his thoughts. Those engine parts advertised by Bassett-Lowke which only wanted some machining and assembling were rather nice; it might be as well to start with one of those; it would provide a lot of experience. He made a long arm for the Bassett-Lowke catalogue on the top of the bookcase beside the fire and stopped halfway at the sound of a peculiar dragging noise outside the room. The next moment the door was kicked open and Ashling came in, towing behind him the unconscious body of a man whose arms and legs trailed limply on the floor. Ashling himself had an air of quite unusual ferocity owing to the fact that he was carrying a heavy round ruler between his teeth, having no hand to spare. He dropped the body on the carpet, took the ruler out of his mouth, shut the door quietly, and explained himself.
“Look what I got, sir! Found ’im burgling your safe and dotted him one with this.” He flourished the ruler.
“Good lord, man, you may have killed him!” said Warnford, getting up hastily.
“No fear, I didn’t ’it ’im in the right place for that, only to put ’im to sleep. I didn’t know but what ’e might be armed, sir.”
“Quite true, he might have been,” said Warnford, running his hands over the man, “but he isn’t. He’s breathing all right. Pour some water on his head.”
This was done, and the burglar gasped once or twice, opened his eyes, and struggled to a sitting position, rubbing the back of his head. “What——?” he mumbled. “Who are you——?” Then in a clearer voice, “Which of you dotted me that one? My soul, what a clout. I shan’t get a hat on for days when the bump comes up.”
Warnford and Ashling looked at each other in surprise, for the voice was pleasant and cultured, nor did the burglar resemble in the least what one expects burglars to look like, now that he was in his senses again and no longer a crumpled heap on the floor. He was more like a Boat Race night reveller at Vine Street next morning, a little the worse for wear but unmistakably a gentleman.
“I did, sir,” said Ashling gruffly, adding by way of excuse, “You didn’t ought to’ve been burgling our safe.”
“Believe me,” said the burglar, still feeling his head tenderly, “I wish from my heart I’d left the damn thing alone.”
“Have a drink,” said Warnford, pouring him a stiff whisky and soda. “Not that this is going to stop me from telephoning for the police in a few minutes, but have this one first.”
“Thanks awfully,” said the burglar, struggling unsteadily to his feet, “awfully decent of you. Probably saved my life, if the idea appeals to you. Well, here’s luck.” He took a pull at the whisky, and the colour began to return to his face.
“Sit down,” said Warnford, turning a chair towards him, “and have a cigarette. Feeling better?”
“Much, thanks. I wonder if you’d mind—er—disarming your servant. That blunt instrument makes me nervous.”
Warnford laughed. Ashling put the ruler down on the table and fidgeted a little. The burglar was so calm that he made the other two feel awkward. “Will you be wanting anything else, sir?”
“I don’t think so, thanks,” said Warnford, and Ashling withdrew. The uninvited guest lay back in his chair and closed his eyes. Probably his head was aching, thought Warnford, and took the opportunity to look him over. Not a young man, forty at least, but evidently very fit and active; rather on the small side, but strong and wiry. Rather shabby clothes, but one wouldn’t put one’s best suit on to go burgling. Queer case; wonder what made a man like that take to burglary in the first place. The visitor opened his eyes and smiled.
“Yours must be a pretty exciting sort of life,” said Warnford as an opening.
“Interesting, in its way,” agreed the burglar. “Lots of psychology in it, you know. After a certain amount of experience you can tell the moment you look round the house whether they’re the sort of people who keep their money in the safe, leave it lying on the mantelpiece, or hide it away among their clothes. It’s usually women who do that, middle-aged single women.” He yawned suddenly. “Sorry. Must be the whisky acting on the clout.”
“Have some more,” said Warnford, who had suddenly been seized with an idea. “You’ve been at it some time, then.”
“Since soon after the last war. I was demobbed, like everybody else; my people had died, and there wasn’t any money worth mentioning. Nobody wanted to employ me. Why should they? I didn’t know how to do anything except kill Germans, and nobody wanted anybody killed after November ’18. Othello’s occupation gone, what? So I drifted into this and I’ve been pretty lucky; only caught once, and then of course I got off lightly—first offender, you know. I don’t know why I’m babbling to you like this; hope I don’t bore you. Effect of ebony ruler on the brain, no doubt. I thought this job was going to be so easy, too, all nice and quiet till your batman drifts in and bangs me on the head,” he went on in a comically pained voice. “Don’t you people ever go to bed? It’s past one o’clock now. Which reminds me, if you’r
e going to send for the police——”
“I don’t think I am,” said Warnford. “I’ve got another idea. I am going to ask you to put me wise about this burglary business. Opening safes, particularly; are you an expert on safes? I suppose there are different methods for all the various different makes. I am a fair mechanic, used to handling tools.”
The burglar had been regarding him with growing horror. “But, my dear good chap,” he burst out, “are you bats? Here you are, apparently pretty well off, very comfortable flat, Bentley car in garage below, faithful devoted servant, and all that; why in the name of holy Mike throw it all away? Are you hard up? Why take up burglary, of all things? I suppose you’re bored. Better be bored than jailed, believe me; I’ve tried both. You’re sure to be caught sooner or later; think of the disgrace.”
Warnford burst out laughing, but it was laughter of a nature to silence his guest completely; he merely sat and stared.
“I’m not doing it for money,” explained Warnford, “and the disgrace doesn’t frighten me, strange to say. I am doing it for a purely private reason.”
His guest’s face lit up with the gleam of sudden recollection and immediately darkened again with sympathy. “Of course,” he said slowly, “I remember you now. I was wondering why your face was familiar; saw your photograph in the papers at the time the case was on. I never remember names.” He lit another cigarette and stared thoughtfully into the fire.
“I haven’t changed it,” said Warnford harshly. “It is still Warnford.”
“No business of mine to comment, but it struck me at the time you’d had a raw deal. In fact, I thought you’d been framed.”
“Just fancy that,” said Warnford sardonically. “Whatever made you think that?”
“I dunno, just an idea I picked up. But probably you’d rather not talk about it.”
Warnford hesitated. It did seem absurd to talk about one’s very private affairs to a total stranger and a burglar at that; on the other hand it is often easier to talk to a stranger, and this was a man of his own caste, burglar or no. It came over Warnford suddenly what an immense relief it would be to talk to someone about it again; he and Ashling had dropped the subject long ago, and there had been no one else. When you dive down a side turning every time you see an old friend coming you don’t make new ones either. But this man was different; he also was outside the pale, and in spite of his profession there was something about those steady eyes which inspired confidence.
“I don’t want to bore you with an old story,” he began.
“It won’t bore me.”
“Well—I was in the Tank Corps, if you remember. I took a lot of interest in the experimental side—always been keen on engineering. Ultimately I came to have a lot to do with the new stuff; had one or two little ideas of my own adopted, as a matter of fact. Then we had down a complete set of plans for a new tank—very hush-hush. I had to get the hang of them and explain them to a selected few. It was a good design in many ways; I was very keen about it.” He paused.
“The plans were in your charge, were they?”
“Yes. I had one key to the safe; the C.O. had the other. There were only two keys. The design was rather complicated, so I made a small scale-model to make it easier to understand. As you probably know, it’s not always easy to follow a design on paper if you’re not used to engineers’ drawings.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said the stranger. “I’m not an engineer myself.”
“Of course I kept the model locked up too. Nobody saw it who wasn’t entitled to, till one morning I opened the safe and found plans and model missing.” He paused again, but his visitor merely lit another cigarette and waited.
“There isn’t much more to tell. I was court-martialled of course; I expected that. What I didn’t expect was that evidence would be forthcoming which suggested I’d sold the stuff to agents of a foreign power. Of course there’s no doubt that such agents did get it.”
“What I didn’t understand at the time,” said the burglar frankly, “was why, if the evidence was true, you weren’t sent to the Tower.”
“It wasn’t very convincing evidence,” said Warnford. “I was alleged to be hard up. I wasn’t really, but I saw no sense in blueing good cash on the sort of damn follies most of our fellows go in for, you know. Then, two days before this happened, I bought the Bentley. Again, I was supposed to be in the habit of driving up to Town and meeting mysterious people; I was seen in quiet restaurants with men of un-English appearance. That was pure invention, though I did run up to Town pretty often. In point of fact, I went to see a lady, but one can’t say so. They could not find any corroborative evidence about my mysterious friends, so they let that drop, but the suggestion had its effect. Left a nasty taste, you know.”
The burglar nodded. “Who produced this evidence?”
“A brother officer, fellow named Rawson. Always been rather a friend of mine, too; that is, as much as he was a friend of anybody’s. Not a very popular bloke, actually, but dashed keen on his job in the same way I was. On the engineering side, rather than tactics and field exercises.”
“Know anything about his antecedents?”
“Not much. His people were dead, I gathered, and he didn’t seem to have any near relations, but lots of chaps haven’t. Told me once he’d been privately educated as he’d been considered delicate when he was a kid; I always put down any little differences to that.”
“What sort of differences?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Sort of lack of background, I think, as much as anything. If you’ve been to a big school it’s always cropping up; old so-and-so out in Rangoon or somewhere, of course, he was in my form; that sort of thing, don’t you know? Nothing of that about Rawson; you’d think he wasn’t born till the day he joined us. Small differences in outlook, habit of mind—oh, I don’t know. But there was something.”
The burglar nodded. “Speak many languages?”
“I don’t think so. Always said he was a fool at languages—and yet——”
“What?”
“I remember a little incident once. I came into the mess bar one day and Rawson was there. He didn’t see me come in, and I smacked him on the back and made him spill his drink, you know.”
“Well?”
“He swore, as anybody might. Only he said it in German.”
“He did, did he? You speak German yourself, do you?”
“Oh yes. My father was with the Army of Occupation, and my mother went to live with him at Wiesbaden. I went too. I was quite a small kid at the time, about ten or so, and you pick up languages easily then. I went to a German school for some time.”
“Rawson is still with the regiment, I suppose.”
“No, he isn’t,” said Warnford in a puzzled voice. “I saw in the paper that he’d resigned his commission quite soon after I left. I’ve no idea why, and of course I don’t hear any news now except occasionally through Ashling. He was my batman nearly all the time I was there, but he left, time-expired, about four months before my affair came on. He wrote to me after the case, and I came up to Town and saw him. Then when I moved in here I took him on again. But of course Ashling’s correspondents in the regiment wouldn’t know anything except gossip. Ashling says Rawson was always very much disliked by the men, too much of a martinet. Hadn’t quite the right manner, I always thought. Ashling did suggest that Rawson wasn’t too happy with the other officers after I left, for what that’s worth.”
“Perhaps they resented his evidence,” suggested the stranger.
“They may have done. In point of fact, his remarks weren’t too well received at the court-martial, I thought; there was rather a purple silence, if you know what I mean. But the damage was done all the same.”
“Wonder where he is now.”
“So do I. I should like to know,” said Warnford. “I should very much like to know. Then I should like to take him somewhere private, where no one could overhear us, however much noise we made, and talk to him.
”
“Better not, perhaps.”
“Why ever not?”
“Don’t you see? Suppose he came to pieces in your ’and, as the housemaids say; nobody would believe it wasn’t murder. Look at your motive.”
“Revenge, ha-ha? I suppose they would say that. I don’t want to kill him; I want to—to unmask him is, I believe, the correct phrase.”
“Is that why you want to study burglary?”
“Not only that, for it’s quite on the cards I shall never see or hear of Rawson again. No. The point is this. Whether Rawson really had much to do with it or not, there’s no doubt that they were spies of some sort who had my plans and the model. My idea was to keep my eyes open for what you might call suspicious characters; if we’re as riddled with spies as they say, there must be plenty of them about. Then I propose to investigate them closely. It is possible that one thing might lead to another and eventually to Rawson, but if it doesn’t I shan’t be wasting my time.”
“Sort of unofficial counterespionage?”
“Oh, I know it sounds mad, but——”
“If you find papers or things like that—maps—you send ’em to British Intelligence, I suppose?”
“To the Foreign Office, I think. I don’t know where British Intelligence hangs out—does anybody? The F.O. will do.”
“It’s a hideous risk you’re running,” said the burglar thoughtfully.
“Not so much as you think. If a man loses papers he’s no right to have he won’t call the police, will he?”
“You might take quite innocent papers by mistake, or——”
“Then he can have ’em back by return of post.”
“Or you might find yourself up against people compared with whom our police are doting aunts and indulgent grandmothers.”
“Make life quite exciting, won’t it?” said Warnford casually. “Have another spot?”
“No, thanks, I don’t drink much. I still think——”
Without Lawful Authority Page 1
