by John Creasey
“You mean, tell the Press that she is mad, and that she stole the other sword?” demanded Mannering.
“Tell the Press that she is suffering from a serious mental ailment, and that she has delusions. She believes, of course, that the sword belongs to her.”
Mannering asked: “Does it?”
“Why don’t you throw him out?” Orde growled. “Or else let me.”
Gentian ignored him.
“No, Mr Mannering, it does not. One Mogul Sword was part of my inheritance when I inherited the title, this house, and everything that goes with the estate, including a very sizeable portion of the City of London. Sara’s grandfather, my brother, received the other sword and a considerable inheritance. He gave me his sword, knowing my love for it, and being indifferent himself. Sara is not poor. She is not by any means poor, in fact. However, she has some curious kind of fixation that one of the swords should have been hers. I tell you that it is a fixation, or a delusion. The second sword was freely given to me. Sara—”
“She’s mad!” Orde blurted out.
“Who will inherit this house and everything you have when you die?” asked Mannering.
“That’s no damned business of yours!”
“Claude,” interrupted Gentian, “I don’t want to warn you again.” He talked to Orde as if to a schoolboy, but lacked the complete authority that he needed – as a weak parent might lack control over a child. “Why do you ask, Mr Mannering?”
“If your niece is likely to inherit, and if she should be certified as insane, then presumably someone will manage the estate for her, even if he doesn’t inherit it. Who—”
Orde said in a strangled voice: “I’ll break your neck for that.”
“Claude!” cried Gentian.
Orde ignored him, and launched himself at Mannering. Mannering thrust out his right leg, straight from his chair. Orde ran into it. He gasped with pain and staggered away, but as he fetched up against the table Mannering knew that he wasn’t finished. Gentian shouted again. Mannering placed his hands on the arms of the chair and hoisted himself to his feet. Orde came rushing. Mannering rammed a clenched left fist to his stomach, and gave him a chopping blow on the back of the neck. Orde pitched forward, screeching, but managed to twist round before pitching into the chair. Mannering saw his right hand at his waist. Mannering also saw Gentian from the corner of his eye – half out of his chair, mouth wide open.
There was no time to worry about Gentian.
Mannering backed to the table, as Orde pulled out a knife – perhaps the one which had been used the previous night. It caught the sunlight at the window, dazzling.
“Throw that down!” cried Gentian.
Orde said in a thick, throaty voice: “I’ll teach him. My God, I’ll teach him.” He moved forward slowly, the knife held in front of him, thumb on top of the handle, ready to thrust it forward.
“Claude!”
Orde leapt, thrusting. Mannering stepped to one side and struck at the wrist of the knife hand, caught it, made the knife drop from nerveless fingers. Orde bent down, snatching at it. Mannering kicked it away, and as Orde went scrambling after it, tripped him up. He pitched forward, cracking his forehead on the parquet floor. Mannering went behind him, swiftly, bent down, and grasped his right hand. He brought it behind his back and forced it upwards in a hammerlock. Only an extra twist was needed to snap Orde’s arm, and Mannering had never felt more like giving it. One ounce of pressure, one twist – and crack! He felt that he hated this man – and whatever happened now, surely no one could blame him.
Gentian was out of his chair.
“Mannering, you’ll break his arm. Mannering!”
Sweat was beading Mannering’s forehead. He would never know just how menacing he had looked, how the veins stood out like whipcord at his neck, how his body quivered. He felt Gentian’s hand, and slowly relaxed his grip.
“Go and pick up that knife,” he ordered.
“Don’t—don’t break his arm.”
“I would much rather break his neck.” Mannering waited for Gentian to pick up the knife, held out his free hand, took it, and let Orde go. Orde pitched forward and lay on the floor, gasping, as if all the strength had been drained from his body. Mannering looked down at the bright steel of the blade with the knife on the flat of his left hand. “If anyone in this family is mad, Orde is,” he said. “He tried to kill me last night. He tried to kill me now.”
“No, Mannering, I assure you—”
Mannering said: “I’ve stopped believing anything you tell me.” He was breathing very hard as he moved, knife in hand, towards Orde. Orde was moving up and down on his flabby stomach, and making even more noise than before. Mannering took his right arm, hauled him to his feet, and twisted him round. Orde’s eyes were filled with tears of pain, and his nose was puffy where he had banged it on the floor.
“You took the miniature sword from Sara’s flat, and you used a knife on me at the window last night. Why did you do it?”
“Knife?”
“Why did you do it?” Mannering demanded. He held the knife as if he were prepared to use it. Orde glanced down at it, petrified.
“I—I didn’t! I—I was in the courtyard all the time. I couldn’t have done it.”
“You did it,” Mannering said. “You also stole the miniature sword. Why?”
“I tell you I don’t know anything about it!”
“Gentian,” said Mannering, “dial Whitehall 1212.”
“The—police?”
“Try not to pretend that you’re a fool, too,” Mannering said roughly. “Dial Scotland Yard and ask for Superintendent Bristow.”
“What purpose—” Gentian began.
“I want to tell him that I’ve got the man who stole the miniature sword. Orde went away from the mews, came back, entered the flat from next door – by the wall cabinet – stole the miniature and left the way he had come.”
Orde was quivering. “You—you know that?”
“I know,” Mannering said. “David Levinson is on a charge for that job, and I want him cleared. Dial the number.”
“Claude, can you know anything about this?” Gentian sounded as if it was unthinkable.
“He knows,” Mannering said roughly. “The police will, soon.”
Orde muttered: “Don’t—don’t call the police.” He was sweating freely, and looked a wreck. “I—I did—I did take it, yes. I didn’t want—want you to find out what Sara was doing. I didn’t mean to kill—”
“Claude, what are you saying?” Gentian’s voice became shrill. “You were down here with me when Mr Mannering was climbing up to the roof last night. You couldn’t have used—used a knife?”
Orde muttered: “I—I went up by the servants’ lift. It’s no use lying, I—I wanted to stop Mannering. Don’t you understand?”
“I understand that you were prepared to do anything to stop me – even to framing one of my staff for the theft.”
Orde muttered: “I wish I’d framed you.”
“You’ve had plenty of experience in putting blame on other people,” Mannering said. “And as much in lying. You did it all too smoothly to be new to lying and cheating. You left her gassed, and hoped she was dead – and came back to the mews shouting at her to let you in. Remember? You tried to pretend you had warned her of danger, when you were the cause of it. You pretended to be frightened of her – whereas you were trying to drive her out of her mind. You tried to make sure I kept the sword because it would increase her tensions and her fears – but that was a mistake, wasn’t it? You would have been wiser to try to make me give up the sword and wash my hands of the whole affair. When you realised the danger you tried to keep me off by framing Levinson.”
“I only made one mistake,” sneered Orde. “Not killing you.”
“I simpl
y can’t understand this,” Gentian muttered in a quavering voice. “I simply can’t understand what has been going on. Claude, are you saying that you planted evidence of a crime against Mannering’s assistant? That you attacked Mannering last night? That you—but why? Why?”
Orde said: “I wanted him off the case.”
“But, Claude, why?” The old man looked frail and helpless. His hands were held out in front of him, palms outwards, as if beseechingly.
“There—there were a lot of things I didn’t want him to find out,” Orde said. “You should never have gone to Mannering’s shop in the first place. I know you went there to try to force Sara’s hand but you shouldn’t have gone.”
“I am so perplexed I hardly know what to say,” said Gentian. “Why—why were you frightened of Mannering?”
“In case I discovered that he was trying to drive Sara to commit suicide,” Mannering said.
“Oh, no!”
Orde was moving back from Mannering, looking less nervous, as if much of his courage as well as his spirit was back.
“She’s no use to you or me or anyone,” he said. “She’s been a thorn in our flesh for years – ever since I can remember. If she would get rid of herself—”
“It would help you, as you would become the sole heir,” Mannering said. “And if she wouldn’t commit suicide, then just a little help would be all that was needed. Such as suffocating her by putting a towel round her head, and then sitting her in front of a gas oven. Or making the servants dose her with veronal when she came back here to talk to your uncle. Or trying to get her pushed off the roof when she was unconscious. Who did the pushing?”
Orde said: “You can’t prove anything. This is only talk. Talk isn’t evidence.”
“No,” agreed Mannering coldly. “Talk isn’t evidence – but the communicating door between the two flats is.” He looked at Gentian. “Are you satisfied? Your nephew was so anxious to inherit from you that he tried to drive Sara to kill herself. When she didn’t succeed, he tried to help her on her way. And after that—” Mannering took a step towards Orde, who backed away. “After that, what? I suppose your uncle would have died of old age, or fallen down that circular staircase, or had some cardiac trouble induced by too much digitalin. How were you going to kill him?”
“That’s not true!”
“It’s true all right,” Mannering said, still looking at Gentian. “He wouldn’t have lived for six months after Sara had died.”
“Uncle, that’s not true! I’ve worked for you all my life, your interests are mine. Anyhow I—I would inherit everything on your death, wouldn’t I? There would be no need to—”
He broke off.
“Mr Mannering,” Gentian said, “this has been a great shock – a very great shock indeed. I know that there is no way of avoiding telling the police, but—but if I could have a little time to recover, a little respite, it would help me so much. I—I feel—”
He put a hand to his chest, and staggered. Mannering moved towards him as his eyes rolled and he pressed his hand against the left side of his breast. As he crumpled up, Mannering caught him – and while he was off balance, trying to keep him upright, Orde turned and ran towards the double doors.�
19
DECEPTION?
Gentian was clutching Mannering’s arms. It might be a kind of spasm, but just as likely it was simulated, with Gentian making sure that Mannering could not go after Orde. He was making little gasping noises, which sounded faked. The doors opened and Orde rushed out, letting them swing behind him. His steel tipped heels made a sharp clatter on the marble floor of the circular hall.
Gentian became a dead weight in Mannering’s arms.
Mannering placed him in one of the large armchairs. His eyes were closed and he was breathing stertorously. Mannering moved to the desk, opened a drawer, and found a list of telephone numbers. One was of a Dr Webb, of 14a, Park Place. He dialled, and a receptionist with a bedside-manner voice answered him promptly.
“I think Lord Gentian has had a stroke,” Mannering said brusquely. “Can Dr Webb come round at once?”
“He most certainly can,” the receptionist promised. “Will you please loosen all of Lord Gentian’s clothes . . .”
Mannering had a feeling that she was not surprised by the news. He turned from the telephone, and studied the old man. While he was doing so, the door opened again and the butler appeared.
“Come in and unfasten his lordship’s collar and waistband,” Mannering ordered. “I’ve sent for Dr Webb.” He watched this frail old man come forward, obviously anxious. “Which way did Mr Orde go?”
“Out—out of the back, sir. I wondered what—” the butler broke off, but quickened his pace towards Gentian, who hadn’t moved.
Mannering said: “I’ll be back.”
He went out, still not sure of the truth about Gentian’s collapse. Even if it were faked, Gentian believed he thought it genuine. The more he pondered, the more likely it seemed that the old man had given his nephew a chance to escape. Was Gentian as innocent as he had tried to make out, or had he and Orde been involved together? What could make them work together to try to drive Sara to kill herself?
A taxi came crawling along. He hailed it, and sat in the back, legs stretched out straight. He had the answers to many of the questions but not necessarily the most important one. Sara Gentian probably held the key to that. If Orde was to be believed, he had simply wanted to be next in line for the inheritance, but was that the real answer?
Mannering kept glancing through the back window, to make sure that he wasn’t followed. He wondered how Levinson was getting on, and when he would report. He lit a cigarette, and watched the passing scene, but in his mind’s eye he saw only Gentian and Orde. If Gentian had given Orde the chance to escape, what could the reason be? Did he think that his nephew could escape? On the face of it, Orde would be arrested and tried. No one could seriously hope that he would stay free for long.
Was there something Orde wanted to do before he was arrested? Something Gentian wanted done, too?
Supposing they wanted Sara dead – that could be the urgent objective. Gentian might have given Orde a chance to go and kill her?
Mannering leaned forward: “The nearest telephone kiosk, as quick as you can make it.” He thrust his hand into his pocket for coppers as the taxi turned into the kerb and began to travel more slowly.
Orde might not know where to find Sara, Mannering told himself. Certainly he shouldn’t know. But did he?
Sara Gentian smiled across at Lorna as they sat in the study of the flat. She was much better. No one meeting her now would suspect that there was anything seriously the matter with her. They might believe she was highly strung, and notice that she was trying to suppress agitation. Now she sat in a sewing chair, long legs stretched out in front of her, moving her feet round and round in a steady movement, hands folded in her lap. She had on the powder blue twin set which she had worn at Quinns. She had made up rather better, but had never really mastered the art of applying lipstick; Lorna had the impression that she didn’t care how it was daubed on.
“I feel a different person,” Sara declared. “I wouldn’t have believed I could feel so different in a few hours.”
“You’ll feel better still when John’s home.”
“I quite believe I shall,” Sara said. “Mrs Mannering, do you think he will believe me?”
“About what particular thing?”
“There is only one that matters,” Sara said. “The sword – it must go back to Gentian House.”
“Why is it so important?” Lorna asked.
It was the third time that she had tried to trick the girl into an explanation, and the third time that Sara simply replied: “That is beside the point.”
She leaned forward, hugging her knees and looking about the room. The p
ortrait of Mannering as a Regency Buck hung over the carved mantelpiece, and she studied it for a long time, before jumping up and saying: “Of course, you’re the artist, aren’t you?”
Lorna laughed. “I paint, yes, but—”
“Oh, don’t be silly. There’s no point in false modesty.” Sara looked and sounded excited. “I’ve not only heard about you, I’ve seen a lot of your portraits. My uncle actually has one. He—” She broke off.
Lorna noticed the way she frowned, and the tightening of her lips; as if some unpleasant thought had crossed her mind. She jumped up, went closer to the portrait, and stared up at it.
“He’s very handsome,” she observed. “Do you know what I think?” She turned round with easy, natural grace. “I think you ought to have your portrait of my Aunt Anne. It’s a beautiful one, it really is. My uncle couldn’t care less about it, and as for Claude—” she moved forward, eyes glistening. “Couldn’t you get it back? For an exhibition or something? Couldn’t you?”
“I expect I could, if there was any reason to.”
