by John Creasey
‘Perhaps that’s a good thing. What was your real reason for sending for me?’
She gave him a look of indescribable cunning.
‘To see if you could tell good pictures from bad ones, of course.’
‘The truth, Eliza.’
‘What makes you think I haven’t told you the truth?’
‘Eliza,’ Mannering said, ‘Joanna Cunliffe is in a private ward here. She was nearly killed.’
‘But she wasn’t killed, sir—and she’s quite safe now.’
‘Eliza.’ Mannering leaned forward. ‘Did you send for me because you knew she was in great trouble and you thought I might be able to help?’
The bright, deep-set eyes were wary.
‘Supposing I did.’
‘And did you arrange it with Lady Markly?’
The old woman scowled, and for a few moments he thought that she was going to refuse to answer. He leaned nearer, looking very straight into eyes both surprised and angry.
‘And did your grand-daughter know?’
‘That prattling little brat!’ Eliza burst out. ‘Listening at doors, too! Why, if she was my child—yes, she knew all right. She overheard her ladyship and me talking. Her ladyship seemed to think you might be able to help; goodness knows what put such an idea into her head.’
Mannering was smiling grimly.
‘Now tell me the rest. Did Joanna ask if she could hide those paintings in your attic?’
‘None of your business!’
‘And had she hidden other paintings there?’
‘I never said she hid any.’
‘But she did, didn’t she?’
‘No, she didn’t,’ cried Eliza, ‘and I don’t—’
Mannering interrupted her. ‘Did you hide the paintings there, for Joanna, and leave them until someone came to take them away on your days out?’
Eliza tossed her head. ‘If I can’t do a little thing like that for a child I once dandled on my knee—’
‘Eliza,’ Mannering said gravely, ‘Eliza—if you love Joanna, tell me the truth now. She’s still in very great trouble.’
‘Lady Violet told me she’d made sure she would be brought here and looked after until—’ Eliza stopped short, and caught her breath as she realised the significance of what she was saying. Her stare became a wary probe to judge whether Mannering had noticed it.
He let it pass.
It meant, of course, that Lady Markly had given Joanna the morphia, believing this to be the best way to make sure she was taken away from the Manor; there had been no attempted murder.
‘The truth, Eliza, about Joanna,’ he insisted.
‘She’s been in great fear for a long time,’ declared Eliza, ‘and I’ve helped her any way I could. But last week she seemed more frightened than ever, and that brute Lobb came back. Whenever he was in the district she was worse, he frightened the life out of her. We knew the Colonel would never forgive us if we went to the police, but Lady Violet thought you might help.’
The old woman paused, and after a moment took Mannering’s hands, drew him towards her and went on in a quick but husky voice: ‘You’ve got to make the child talk. You’ve got to. I’ve tried, her ladyship’s tried, and we haven’t managed to get any of the truth out of her, but you’ve got to find it out. She’s the only one who knows, don’t you understand? She’s the only one.’
Mannering thought: You’re probably right, Eliza.
And then he wondered: How can I make her talk?
As he was asking himself that question there was a sound behind him, and Dr. Ignatzi appeared. One moment Mannering felt pleasure at seeing him, the next he felt a searing surge of alarm, for there was livid fear on the doctor’s face.
‘Joanna has been taken from her ward,’ he said harshly. ‘The ambulance driver had written authority signed by Colonel Cunliffe. I’ve just telephoned the Colonel, who says he knows nothing about it.’
Chapter Nineteen
Joanna Lost
Mannering, Chief Inspector Fishlock, Ignatzi and several policemen and hospital staff were in the small courtyard at the side of the hospital. A short man in a white smock, with a round head and a very pale face, spoke with a north country accent.
‘No, he wasn’t one of our drivers, sir.’
‘What did he look like?’ demanded Fishlock.
‘He was a big man, with strong features and very thin lips.’
‘Lobb,’ Fishlock said, grimly. ‘You should never—’
‘But he did have a letter from Colonel Cunliffe, sir!’
‘Yes, so it seems,’ Mannering said. ‘How long ago was this?’
‘I put it down in the book, sir. It was at five twenty-seven.’
‘Twenty minutes ago,’ muttered Ignatzi. ‘She could be dead by now.’
‘It isn’t my fault,’ said the round-headed man, ‘it really isn’t. We often have patients called for by private ambulances. It can’t have gone far.’
A policeman with a walkie-talkie radio broke in excitedly. ‘The ambulance has been seen, sir.’ He was listening intently, earphones at his ear. ‘A converted Humber Super Snipe, yes … didn’t get the number but it started with PRV … Where? … Well, get after it and—’
‘Give me that.’ Fishlock grabbed the radio. ‘Chief Inspector Fishlock here. Concentrate all cars on that area and call for assistance from Hampshire and Dorset. Right.’ He switched off. ‘The ambulance was heading for Marlborough on the back road. There are several cuts across towards the Manor.’ He touched a sergeant on the shoulder. ‘Raid The Kettle. Send a car out to the head office of the tree-felling company. I’ll alert Colonel Cunliffe.’
‘You surely don’t think he’d take her to the Manor, do you?’ demanded Ignatzi.
‘Don’t you think it’s possible, Mr. Mannering?’
‘Just possible,’ Mannering said. ‘If he’s making a last coup he might use Joanna to bring pressure on her father. Coming with me, doctor?’
‘I wish I could, but I must see some patients,’ Ignatzi said gruffly.
‘I’ll be with you later.’ Mannering was already moving to the back of the hospital where he had parked his car. The late afternoon sun shone brightly on the cathedral spire as it rose high and pure above the roofs of the city.
‘I’ll see you there!’ called Fishlock.
Mannering swung out of the parking place, trying to remember exactly how to get to The Kettle. Stopping the car, he hailed one of Fishlock’s men.
‘Guide me to The Kettle, will you?’
‘Right, sir.’ The man clambered in beside him.
As they approached the narrow gateway which led into the Close, a car, just in sight, stopped and waved them on.
‘Luck’s with us, sir.’
‘I hope to God it’s with that girl.’ Mannering accelerated as he spoke, and two or three people who were standing in the road, their cameras pointing at the cathedral, skipped out of the way.
‘Shouldn’t overdo speed here, sir.’
Mannering grunted.
They turned left, out of another wider gateway some distance from the cathedral. Two more turns and they were pulling up outside The Kettle. The Closed sign was up at the door. Mannering took one look at the lock, and knew that he could force it in two minutes with his picklock, but such dexterity practised under the eye of the law could have repercussions.
The policeman shouldered him aside.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ Mannering stood, tactfully idle, as the man bent over the door. The lock clicked, and he turned the handle and pushed. The door opened. ‘It was closed from the outside, no one’s in,’ he remarked in a tone of disappointment.
Mannering strode forward to the inner room, found it empty, then went on to the kitchen.
Dora Jenkins lay back in a rocking chair, as if she were fast asleep. Her husband, whom Mannering had seen only for those few minutes at Quinns, was on an upright chair, lolling against the sink. Mannering stepped to Dora and felt her pulse, then dropped her arm, for he could see that she was breathing. The policeman gave a long whistle as he raised Jenkins’s eyelid.
‘Morphia, sir.’
‘Get ’em to hospital,’ Mannering said.
‘Right, sir!’
Mannering ran across the road between two cars approaching from different directions. One man glared, the other’s horn shrieked in protest. Mannering took the wheel of his own car and started the engine almost in the same movement. Swinging into a clear road he settled back. It was no use taking wild chances to save a couple of minutes, he must discipline himself. Once he was beyond the city outskirts he could put on speed.
Lobb had made sure his sister and brother-in-law could not talk for a few hours, which meant that he thought he needed only a few hours for a getaway. Everything he had done in the last few days suggested a desperate determination to gain time for some vital purpose.
He had killed Anstiss.
He had tried three times to kill him, Mannering.
He had not killed his sister or Jenkins.
What special reason did he have for wanting Anstiss and himself dead? The obvious one was that he thought they knew enough to damn him – or to stop him from what he was doing.
What was he doing?
Dealing in faked old masters and possibly with other treasures, but what had given such urgency to the situation? Simply the threat from him, Mannering?
Mannering drew near the drive gates of the Manor and in the distance saw a car coming towards him. It was coming very fast, its blinker went on and it beat him by twenty yards to the gates and swung through them; there were two uniformed policemen in it. Two men working with chain saws stopped and gaped, and a little knot of gardeners gathered in the drive. The police car drew up, and Mannering stopped just behind it. He was getting out when the men came up to him.
‘I’m Mannering,’ he said.
‘Thought I recognised you,’ one man said. ‘Mr. Fishlock told us to be guided by you.’
‘Get all exits covered,’ Mannering said. ‘Lobb may be in there.’ Hurrying towards the front door, he stopped to speak to one of the gardeners. ‘Has Miss Joanna been brought back?’
‘Yes, sir, by the side entrance,’ the man told him.
That was something.
‘And Lobb—the driver?’
‘He carried her in, sir.’
Mannering strode into the hall.
Standing at the foot of the stairs was Violet Markly. At the top was Colonel Cunliffe. Both had their backs to Mannering. Middleton, hovering in the hall, was the first to notice Mannering and turn towards him.
‘What’s going on?’ Mannering demanded.
‘Something—something dreadful, sir.’
Violet Markly glanced round, and said in a very calm but distant voice: ‘Lobb is in the library, with Joanna. He says that he will set fire to the child if he isn’t given clear passage.’
‘Why did he come back here?’
‘I—I simply don’t know.’ Lady Markly gripped Mannering’s hand. He felt her tension as well as saw it in her face. ‘I just don’t know. Can’t you—?’
Mannering went quickly up the stairs, to Colonel Cunliffe. Cunliffe did not seem to notice; his face was the colour of white marble, his eyes like glass. When Mannering gripped his arm he felt the icy coldness through the sleeve.
‘What does he want?’ Mannering demanded roughly.
Cunliffe muttered: ‘He mustn’t kill her. He mustn’t kill her!’
‘What does he want?’
‘My—my keys,’ said Cunliffe.
‘Keys?’
‘Keys to—my strong-room in London. He—’
‘What’s in the strong-room?’
‘A fortune,’ cried Cunliffe. ‘Everything—everything.’ He pressed a hand against his forehead. ‘If—if I don’t give them to him and—and help him get away, he’ll—he’ll burn Joanna to death.’
‘Where are the keys?’ demanded Mannering.
‘I—I have them here. He—he thought they were in the library, he—’
‘Who are you talking to?’ Lobb called out, his voice so powerful that it boomed even through the closed door.
Cunliffe’s right hand was at his pocket.
‘You heard me!’ Lobb roared. ‘Who’s out there?’
Footsteps sounded very softly on the stairs, and Fishlock whispered from just behind Mannering: ‘We can’t let him go. You know that.’
‘You might have to.’
‘Who’s talking out there?’ demanded Lobb. ‘Tell me, or I’ll strike a match!’
Mannering called: ‘This is Mannering.’ He paused, to let this sink in, then added: ‘What do you want, Lobb?’
‘I want Cunliffe’s keys, and I want a clear passage back to the car. Hear me?’
‘I can hear you.’
‘And if you’re such pals with the police, you tell them I’ll have the girl in the car with me and if they try to stop me anywhere on the road I’ll start a fire with her.’
‘You’d only kill yourself,’ Mannering pointed out.
‘Do what I tell you, or I’ll start it now!’ Lobb roared.
‘He will,’ muttered Cunliffe. ‘He’s quite capable of it. He’ll kill himself rather than be caught. I’m sure of it’
‘Don’t be a fool, Lobb,’ Mannering called. ‘Come and give yourself up, they don’t hang you these days.’
‘I’m not going to argue. You fix the police, now, or I’ll kill Joanna. Colonel—I want those keys. Don’t try to fool me, I’ll recognise them all right. Put them in the anteroom, and then go out and lock the door.’
‘It’s no use having the keys if you can’t get away,’ Mannering called. ‘I’ll talk to the police—’
‘Don’t try any tricks, Mannering. Once I start the fire it will be all over in a few minutes. It’s up to you to make them understand that.’
‘I’ll talk to them,’ Mannering promised. He motioned to Fishlock and spoke quietly to Cunliffe. ‘Stall as long as you can. Take the keys into the ante-room and plead with him there. Do you understand?’
Cunliffe simply looked dazed but Violet Markly, now on the landing, nodded to Mannering.
‘Leave it to me,’ she said. ‘You go on.’
Lobb began to bellow his orders as Mannering and Fishlock went downstairs. Fishlock said jerkily: ‘We can let him out of the house. Stop him on the road. Obviously can’t let him go. Man’s a murderer. And insane. My God, what a situation.’
‘You start stalling when Cunliffe comes out,’ Mannering said. ‘Give me a quarter of an hour at least.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going in by the window,’ declared Mannering.
Fishlock stopped short. ‘But that’s our job!’
‘No time to argue,’ Mannering told him. ‘I know the wall, I was examining it last night—I can get up there. I’ve all the tools I need and a tear-gas pistol in a waistband.’ He tapped his flat stomach briskly.
‘Mannering, don’t you understand? He will start that fire!’
‘If I give him time.’
‘He’ll kill you on sight!’
Mannering said stiffly: ‘Get your men round the place, in sight of the window. Cause any distraction you like.’
‘If there’s even a chance of getting that girl out—’
Fishlock began.
‘Not a ghost of a chance,’ Mannering said. ‘If there were, I’d be with you, but she knows far too much. He’ll use her as a shield to get away, and then ki
ll her. If she’s got a chance, it’s while she’s in that room.’ They went outside and he went on: ‘Don’t make a point of looking—but do you see that ledge which runs all round the house?’
Fishlock nodded.
‘I know the one you mean.’
‘I can get up to it without a ladder and work my way round,’ Mannering said, adding with a laugh: ‘There are some advantages in mountaineering! Then I’ll climb above the window and get in from there,’ he continued. ‘If Lobb gets suspicious he might look down, but he isn’t likely to look up.’ They were walking close to the house, out of sight of the upper windows. ‘The vital thing is to make sure your men are in sight but don’t look towards me. Better clear the area of staff and locals, they’d be sure to give the game away.’
‘I’ll fix it,’ Fishlock said. ‘And I’ll have a couple of ladders handy in case you get into difficulties. Good luck, sir.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mannering.
Fishlock hurried off to begin his part of the operation, while Mannering went to the south side of the Manor to a spot where there was a recess, built as a sun-trap, with garden seats close to the wall. Here there were ledges of masonry running horizontally from the ground to the roof, and these would give him foothold. If the place had been designed for cat-burglars it could not have been more convenient.
He could climb up the inner wall of the recess without being seen.
He waited only two or three minutes, then took off his coat, secured a length of rope around his waist and put the tools he needed into his trouser pockets. Then he began to climb. Almost at once he discovered one danger – lichen had gathered on some parts of the ledges, making them very slippery. But luckily he was wearing rubber-soled shoes, which gave him a fair grip, and soon he was more than his own height above the ground.
He was just able to get a finger-hold’ on one ledge while standing on the other, but the climb was going to take him longer than he had thought. He needed thirty minutes, not fifteen.
How far had he to go? Two more ledges, he judged, and then he would be on the level above the library.
His fingers slipped. He leaned heavily against the wall, breathing hard. But there was no time to relax, he must hurry – and haste in these conditions could send him crashing to the ground.
