Hide the Baron

by John Creasey

  They went out of the front door, and walked round to the side; it seemed a long way. Suddenly, a small light appeared, swaying up and down; soon it was apparent that someone was walking up a secondary drive, swinging a torch. The light seemed to get brighter and whiter. Soon, they could see the outline of two people, a man and a woman. Mannering left White, went inside, and contrived to be at the back entrance when the couple came in.

  Jake was elderly and reliable.

  Priscilla was flushed, as if she had had a drink or two, and her eyes were very bright. Like that, she looked more than provocatively attractive; she was positively seductive. She was small and virile and vivacious, and it was easy to imagine a man finding solace in her arms.

  Solace for what?

  Mannering gave the girl time to get to her room, after having a cup of cocoa in the kitchen, then asked Mrs. Baddelow to take him up to the staff bedrooms. Mrs. Baddelow was primness and propriety itself, but didn’t object too much when Mannering said that he wanted to talk to Priscilla on her own.

  Mrs. Baddelow opened the door, keeping Mannering outside.

  “You’re not undressing yet, Prissy, are you?”

  “Just going to start. Can’t I go to bed when I like, or—”

  “Now I don’t want any sauce from you,” Mrs. Baddelow said sharply. “Mr. Richardson wants to have a word with you.”

  “What, that old—” Priscilla broke off, and that was obviously at a sign from Mrs. Baddelow. A giggle, quickly stifled, suggested that Mannering wouldn’t get much sense out of her; but if he were going to get any at all, tonight was the night.

  “You can come in,” Mrs. Baddelow said; something in her voice was enough to set Priscilla giggling again.

  She was grinning when Mannering went in. Mrs. Baddelow closed the door, but was almost certainly standing just outside it. Listening? Mannering didn’t yet know. He stood looking at the girl, who wasn’t at all put out; two more drinks, and she would be as drunk as could be.

  “I don’t know what you expect me to tell you,” she said. “Coming to something, isn’t it, police by day and you by—” She broke off, with a giggle. “See what I mean?”

  “Fond of Mr. Merrow?” Mannering asked abruptly.

  That shook her, and helped to sober her. She hesitated for what seemed a long time, then relaxed; but she didn’t sit down, and she was very wary, with a spiteful look.

  “Any of your business?”

  “No,” admitted Mannering, almost wearily. “Nothing to do with me, Priscilla. I just don’t want him hurt any more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He won’t tell anyone why he was attacked. If we don’t know—and I mean the police as well as me—we can’t help him much if he should be attacked again.”

  “Why should he be?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  Priscilla moved slowly towards Mannering. She walked with a slight sway, which must have been impressively undulating from behind. He wasn’t sure whether she was putting up an act, or whether her carriage was natural. She had the look of a gamine, it was hard to see her as a country girl, the daughter of the keeper of an old hostelry in a village as small as Orme Hill. She put her head on one side. Her lipstick and her eyes glistened. She had touched her eyes slightly with mascara; at one corner, her lipstick was smeared, as it might have been after kissing. She wore a shimmery green dress which was a shade too tight. He knew that she was nineteen, but nineteen could easily mean full maturity.

  “Look, mister,” she said, “I don’t know what you’re trying to suggest about Mr. Merrow and me, but I’ll tell you something. He’s a gentleman, and anything he does is okay by me. You might not think I’m good enough for him, and nor might Miss Woburn, but why should I let that worry me? If I can get him, I’m going to—and I don’t mind how I do it. See what I mean?”

  She did it so well, with great effrontery; but beneath all that there was ample evidence of nervousness.

  The last thing she expected was a laugh.

  She got one.

  “What’s funny?” she snapped.

  “Very charming,” said Mannering dryly, “and as far as I’m concerned, good luck to you, my dear.” He wanted her as an ally, not an adversary. “But that’s beside the point. I don’t want Mr. Merrow to get hurt any more.”

  “He won’t get hurt while he’s in hospital.”

  “Aren’t you guessing a lot?”

  She shook her head emphatically.

  “I’m not guessing,” she said. “George told me that as soon as I got back you and the police would probably be pestering me with questions; I knew what to expect.

  Let me tell you something. George didn’t say a word to me that would interest you or the police, and if he had, I wouldn’t say a word. I want him to know that he can trust me, see. Tell that to Miss High and Blooming Mighty Joanna, and see whether he trusts her.”

  Mannering raised his eyebrows; and then chuckled again. That startled her. Taking her completely by surprise, he chucked her under the chin, then patted her cheek.

  “Spirited wench, aren’t you? Wouldn’t do any man any harm! But don’t make any mistakes about it, Prissy—your George might be in danger, and if you can find a way of helping you’ll do more good than harm.”

  She gulped.

  “Why don’t you take a walk?” she asked, and turned away.

  Outside, Mrs. Baddelow was looking annoyed because Mannering had kept her there so long. He apologised, humbly, and she went off. He watched her thoughtfully. According to White, Aylmer had checked everyone, and all the staff were local, except Mrs. Baddelow. But they were also approachable, and it was surprising what a supposedly loyal servant would do for money.

  He went down to his own room.

  He listened at the door of Joanna’s room for a few seconds, and heard nothing. He would have liked a word with her, to reassure himself and her, but wasn’t sure that it would be wise to disturb her if she were asleep. He closed his own door, and looked out of the window. He could see one of the policemen; the other, presumably, was on the other side of the house.

  The policeman showed up in light from a window.

  Beyond the range of the light, it was very dark.

  When the lights went out, it was pitch. No one could possibly see the man whom Seale and Greer had sent.

  Mannering lay between sleeping and waking. He wasn’t sure what the time was, or whether he had slept at all. He felt pleasantly drowsy, perhaps a little too warm. The window was open, and he could see the faint greyness of the sky, but there were no stars; clouds had blown up since the afternoon. Wind came up, suddenly, rustling nearby trees, one gust hit the side of the house quite noisily; and then it died away.

  A clock struck.

  One – two – three.

  He couldn’t get off to sleep again. He couldn’t be sure that there was no way of breaking into the house, and had a feeling that he had missed an obvious way, perhaps one that he would use in the days of the Baron.

  Two men to patrol these grounds weren’t enough; if a killer came here, he could wait until both were out of sight and earshot, then get to the window. He would have to spend a lot of time at whatever window he chose, though; and he might set off the alarm. It was one thing to break into a protected house, another to do so when the police both inside and outside were on the alert.

  But it could be done.

  The Baron had done it.

  If he wanted to get into this house, knowing what he did of the precautions, what would he do?

  He turned over, restlessly, and reminded himself that it wasn’t only a question of getting into the house, it was one of getting into Joanna’s room.

  If he left his own door open, so that he would hear the slightest sound, it might give him more pea
ce of mind. He got up, opened the door a fraction, placed a chair against it so that it couldn’t be opened wider without disturbing him, and then went back to bed.

  How would he get in?

  From the roof, of course, but …

  A small, nippy man who had worked for Lucien Seale over many years, and who set no limit to the kind of crime he would commit, watched the dark shape of Brook House as Mannering lay restlessly, and all the others were silent. Two or three lights were on, and that was a nuisance, because he might make a mistake, and be seen. But when one worked for Seale, one didn’t fall down on the job. There were two reasons; Seale paid well – much better than most – for success, and reasonably well for the attempt. He also paid very thoroughly for wilful failure.

  Seale could give you away to the police, or could arrange a little accident which would put you to sleep and make sure that you didn’t wake up any more. There were all kinds of ways to fix these accidents, and Seale was a specialist in them all.

  The little man, whose name was Brill, watched the policemen as they moved on their regular rounds, now and again silhouettes against the lighted windows. It was so quiet that he could hear their footsteps. There was never complete silence, it was surprising how far the sound travelled by night.

  He closed in.

  He knew that the house was wired for a burglar alarm, knew the system which had been installed, and was well aware that he couldn’t break through it. But burglar alarms had their weaknesses, and few people ever worried about wiring up the top windows.

  According to his information, they didn’t here.

  He reached the wall, between two lighted windows, and the darkness shielded him. He heard footsteps, coming from each direction, the men would meet not far away from here, talk for a few minutes, and then go the rounds again. He had chosen the spot well; there was a buttress, built to hide a drain-pipe which ran down from the castellated roof. He climbed it quickly, with as much ease as a Samoan islander shinning up a tree for coconuts.

  He reached a false window-sill; it served no window but was there to break the flatness of the wall. Standing on it, he was level with the first-floor rooms; flat against the wall, there was no risk of being seen.

  He heard the policemen meet and talk. They went on talking for what seemed a long time. He shifted from one foot to the other, cursing them silently, until they moved off. He let them get some distance away, and then started to tackle the most difficult part of the climb up to the roof. The buttress was more slender here, and there were few hand – or footholds.

  He climbed up nimbly.

  He reached the castellated roof.

  He swung himself over, making hardly a sound, and then peered over. He could see the yellow light from the windows. The policemen weren’t back yet. He moved away, able to walk quite freely. His company were hatches which could open and lead to the attic floors, and the chimney stacks. He had been carefully briefed, and soon took a diagram of the top of the house from his pocket. Up here, away from the walls, it was safe to shine a torch and to light a cigarette. He did this, just as free from anxiety as he would be in a crowded room.

  The wind was very strong up here.

  He checked the position on the diagram, then looked for a chimney stack marked with a cross. Like all of them, it was large and square. He moved round, smoking, and checking the position of the stacks, until he found the one which he knew would take him down into Joanna Woburn’s room.

  He didn’t know what the condition would be like.

  No open fires were burned in the bedrooms, these days, but that didn’t mean that the chimney had been properly swept. Big chimneys like this were never thoroughly cleaned these days; small boys wouldn’t go down them with their brushes.

  He didn’t think of that very deeply.

  He finished his cigarette.

  He took out a mask, into which was fitted a pair of goggles, and placed it carefully into position. It had no breathing apparatus, but it had a filter, and it would keep dirt, dust and soot out of his eyes, nose and mouth. He adjusted it for comfort, then felt in his pockets for gloves; he put these on, and pulled out a knife.

  It was sheathed.

  He didn’t take it right out, but slid it into his waistband, through a slot which would hold it securely. Then he flexed his muscles, just as an athlete might before a race.

  He moved towards the chimney.

  Here, he took the rope, and looped it round the stack, making sure that the knot was secure, and then unwound it, and made another loop. This he slid over his head and one shoulder. It was slack, and quite long enough; it wouldn’t get in his way.

  Next he took a piece of chewing-gum from his pocket, stripped off the paper, let it fall. The wind swept it away. He put the gum in his mouth. He was chewing rhythmically by the time he reached the stack, and climbed up. He used his torch, and located the foot and hand holes which had been put there for the chimney boys when the house had been built.

  He began to climb down.

  Below, Joanna Woburn slept, troubled even in her sleep, with one bare arm outside the bedspread, and outflung, the other hidden. The sheet covered her up to her shoulders. Her hair was loose, for she always uncoiled it at night; it almost covered the pillow.

  She had been a long time getting off.

  In a room on one side, was the detective, with the door unlocked.

  In the room on the other side was Mannering, with his bedroom door open an inch.

  Below, the two policemen met just beneath Joanna’s room after each of their patrols.

  Outside, there was no sound.

  The faint rustle in the chimney did not disturb her.

  Brill found it easier to get down than he had expected. The air in the chimney seemed quite clean, and there was good foothold. There were two vents in the walls, which carried some of the smoke to other chimneys, and he did not know that these had been adapted into a ventilation system which was one of the many things that Jimmy Garfield had spent his money on.

  It didn’t matter, either.

  Now and again, he loosened a little plaster, and heard it fall. At first, he heard only the first slight rustle; then nothing. But as he drew nearer the hearth, he heard each tiny piece hit the bottom of the fireplace. For the first time, he began to wonder if he would get away with it.

  He knew exactly what he had to do.

  Get into the room. Kill the girl; there were to be no half-measures, he just had to kill her. If she were asleep, that would be fine. Then he was to climb up the chimney, get to the roof, climb down the way he had come, and get away.

  In theory, and when he had planned it, after being given the diagram and assured that the chimney was easy for climbing, he hadn’t given it much thought. But now he was closely confined, the sides of the chimney brushed against his shoulders and his hands. Tension grew; with every step he found it more difficult to get a foothold, because of his nervousness.

  But he went down.

  At last, he trod on the hearth itself.

  Now, he had to get down on his knees and then crawl out. He was breathing hard, and that was something he hadn’t bargained for; it might disturb the woman.

  Nothing disturbed her; she lay sleeping.

  He crawled from the hearth, and stood up. He was still chewing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Rustling

  Mannering heard the wind strike against the wall and window, and then fade. A long way off there were rustling sounds, but that was all. He lay on his back, eyes closed, willing sleep to come. He had not given up his anxieties, but he could see nothing else that he could do. Entry through the roof was possible, but the top floor had been sealed off; what was there to worry about? He was super-sensitive, partly because of what had happened to Lorna. He saw more clearly what Bristow had been getting at about his mo
od.

  Wise bird, Bristow!

  He was almost asleep when he heard another rustling sound, which wasn’t quite the same as before. He raised his head, so as to listen more intently. It was very slight, and seemed to come from opposite the foot of the bed, near the chimney.

  He sat up.

  He heard another slightly different sound, as if something had dropped on the hearth; something so tiny that it made practically no sound at all.

  Was it raining?

  Ah, that was the sound; rain dislodging plaster which was coming down the chimney. He got out of bed, but could not hear the sound of rain, although the window was open. He went to it; the clouds were there, hiding the stars, but there was no rain.

  There it came again.

  He went to the fireplace, and was not yet sure that he had cause for worry, there were a dozen possible explanations; an owl in the chimney; the wind, setting up vibration which was sending down tiny chippings of plaster that were already loose. Even the fall of plaster which had been on the verge of falling for some time, but – why was it going on for so long?

  It stopped.

  He knelt down by the fireplace, and studied the big brass dogs, the swept hearth, the pine logs which made it look as if a fire would be lighted soon. He saw nothing to explain the sounds; no tiny pieces of plaster, no marks of soot, nothing smearing the cleanliness of the hearth.

  He frowned as he stood up, feeling worried and uncertain.

  He heard a rustling sound again, then stretched out on his stomach and put his head close to the back of the fireplace. He heard rustling and slight creaking.

  He scrambled back, making hardly a sound, sprang up and strode to the door. He pulled the chair aside. His breathing was coming so fast that it almost choked him. He pulled open the passage door, and stepped into the lighted passage, the carpet muffling all sound. He stepped past the girl’s door, towards the policeman’s. He still felt choked. If someone had got in that way, a shout would probably make them slash –