by John Creasey
Horroby frowned as he finished.
‘If we three can have a chat without the others, I’d be glad, my lord.’
‘Of course.’ Sharron led the way to the small library where the display had been held a few hours before.
Horroby looked gravely about him.
‘As far as you’ve told me, my lord, the downstairs rooms were closed at half-past twelve. Is that right?’
‘Yes. By then Forbes had shut the windows and retired.’
‘And the first shot was heard at approximately one-thirty.’ Horroby looked at Mannering as though seeing in him one more likely to understand what was coming than Sharron. ‘I’m prepared to say, my lord, that the work on those doors was started about midnight. It was first-class Landon work, and would take an expert cracksman, with the proper tools for that type of lock, fully fifteen minutes each. No question of them being forced, of course, the marks of the tools are there.’
‘But those locks should stand up to anything,’ Sharron protested.
Horroby grunted.
‘Normally, yes. But whoever did this job knew the type of lock, and was able to get a skeleton key specially constructed to open them.’
‘But, damn it, the makers—’
‘You can’t blame them,’ interrupted Horroby. ‘Every safe-making firm has to have these skeleton or master-keys. If you lost your keys, for instance, they would send a man with one of them, and he would get the doors open. Unfortunately, an expert safebreaker can examine a Landon lock – of this type – and get a special tool made as like a master-key as makes no difference. It means our men knew the type of lock, that’s all.’
Sharron nodded, but did not immediately comprehend. Horroby glanced at Mannering, and then went on: ‘Then the electrical control of the final door was cut – taking another fifteen minutes. After that, the three safes. Assuming there were two men, we can average the safes at ten minutes each, with the special tools mind you. That’s an hour and a quarter’s work, while the stuff had to be taken out and packed away. Altogether I would say that from the start of the burglary to the time Errol raised the alarm nearly two hours passed. It would be impossible for the work to have been done in much less time.’
Sharron was staring.
‘But—good lord, that means it started before midnight, when we were all downstairs. It’s impossible!’
Horroby shrugged, as if to say facts were facts.
‘I’ll have a locksmith’s opinion in the morning, but I don’t think there’s much doubt. The very familiarity with the locks suggests someone who had an opportunity of examining them. Well now, I can’t imagine a job of this size being done by local thieves, and it isn’t wise to waste time. I’d like to call in Scotland Yard. The Chief Constable won’t object, I’m sure, if you don’t.’
Sharron still looked dazed.
‘No, no, of course not. But you can’t suggest there was help from someone inside the house!’
‘But that is exactly what I am doing,* Horroby said grimly.
‘Then … Armstrong—’
Horroby fastened on to the name, and Mannering held his peace, more concerned with that quick decision to consult the Yard. The shadows were closing in on him, and the devil of it was he could not prove that he had stayed in his room. It was useless for him to try to console himself with the fact that there had been plenty of witnesses to his chase after the thieves. Knowing the Baron, and bearing in mind the possibility that he had used accomplices, the police could say that his chase had been for effect.
And Sharron would be bound to disclose, sooner or later, that he had shown Mannering the whole system of the strong-room control.
Whether he liked it or not, he was at the heart of the inquiry, and would be among the Yard’s first suspects. That problem would be solved if Armstrong’s guilt was established, but he could not rid himself of a feeling that Armstrong’s disappearance was due to a different cause.
Yet someone in the house had assisted in the robbery: Horroby had been quick to see that, and the Baron’s knowledge of safe-breaking supported it. The special tools for the robbery had been essential, and from that someone the thieves had learned the essentials of the locks. Twenty-four hours would have been enough to get the keys made, a fact which meant each member of the house party was a possibility.
If Armstrong was innocent, which one was it?
It was nearly half-past ten when Mannering left the breakfast room of the Towers.
He had managed to get five hours sleep before Chief Inspector Bristow of Scotland Yard arrived. The Inspector had acknowledged him politely – almost too politely – and asked for no interview.
Mannering had been on tenterhooks ever since.
The atmosphere at breakfast had been strained. The Mendlesons and the Cranes had been there, but the others had kept to their rooms – Reggie Sharron, it transpired, had a chill. Sharron himself had breakfasted early, with the two policemen.
Mannering went up to his room, expecting a call from Bristow at any moment. Looking out of his window, he was confounding the robbery, trying to weigh up his own position …
Then he saw Fay.
She was walking away from the house, and he frowned as he snatched up a mackintosh and hurried towards the hall. Only Forbes was there, sorting the post, and he opened the door with a quiet good morning. Mannering nodded, and hurried out.
Fay was between the house and the shrubbery, walking towards a thick laurel hedge perhaps a hundred yards from the drive. Beyond the hedge, Mannering knew, was a sunken garden, a drop of fifty feet or more, approached by a steep path of crazy paving.
Mannering wondered whether he was jumping too freely to conclusions, but he could not rid himself of an idea that Fay might be meeting Armstrong. The thick hedge provided an excellent cover from the house and the drive, and his heart quickened at the thought that he might see the missing man.
She was walking along the narrow path at the top of the sunken garden which, shaded from the sun, was still white with frost. She turned, and saw Mannering.
Her start of surprise was genuine, and her cheeks flooded with colour as Mannering approached, without smiling.
‘What—what are you doing here?’
‘Following you,’ said Mannering frankly.
‘Why should you?’
‘I wanted to find out whether you were meeting Armstrong.’
Her anger blazed.
‘You too? I thought you were—’
‘Well-disposed towards him? I am.’ Mannering took out his cigarette case, and was glad when she accepted a cigarette. A match flared. ‘Fay, it’s no business of mine, but the police obviously suspect him.’
‘The police aren’t alone in that,’ she retorted bitterly.
‘No.’ It was a damnable interview, but he sensed the girl’s feelings. She was brittle and on edge, obviously fighting for fear that Armstrong was guilty. ‘Fay, I lost heavily last night, but all the stones were insured and it isn’t a loss to worry me much. I’m not after my pound of flesh.’ He smiled, seeing the slight relaxation of her manner. ‘You’ve some idea in your mind, and it’s better shared.’
‘I—I don’t know what to say, to think!’ She was very close to tears, and her voice was shaking. ‘Bill was bitter about it all, that display last night made him mad, and I’m afraid he may have done some crazy thing.’
She broke off.
‘I’ve been broke, Fay,’ Mannering said. ‘I know what it feels like.’
‘You?’ She looked startled. ‘But that’s absurd, he had only three hundred a year, nothing more. Father disapproved, made it clear that he thought Bill was after my money. I think sometimes he hated Father, would do anything to—to revenge himself.’
‘Yes,’ said Mannering. ‘I know that feeling.’
She was beginning to believe him, although she could not read the thoughts in his mind, the memory of a day when a woman he had believed loved him had learned that he was comparatively poor, and the bittern
ess of her rejection had brought about the birth of the Baron.
‘Bill was desperate! Last night he said he was going to get money, somehow. John—’ She stepped towards him, her cold fingers trembled on his hand. ‘I’m frightened! I feel like running away, so that the police can’t make me talk, can’t make me say anything that might hurt Bill.’
‘It wouldn’t help,’ Mannering said quietly. ‘Fay, if you’re really stuck for someone to talk to, Lady Fauntley is the one.’
‘But I hardly know her!’
‘Try her,’ Mannering urged. “When the police have finished this morning, go to London with her. The party is breaking up, anyhow, and it’ll be easily understood.’
She turned about quickly, to hide the tears in her eyes. Mannering stood silently, feeling desperately sorry for her.
He stopped thinking.
They were almost at the edge of the hollow, and he had glanced down, over the rymed, plant-covered rocks, and shrubs. At the bottom there was something else coated with white, and he recognised the huddled body of a man.
Chapter Four
Found
‘Fay,’ Mannering said quietly, ‘what made you come here?’
She stopped crying: perhaps something in the tension of that question had made her respond at once.
‘We—we often did. It’s—secluded!’ She had made a big effort, faced him, and saw his expression. ‘John, what—’
He had been wondering whether to get her away on some pretext, but he decided that it would be wiser not to. From what he knew of her he believed she would take whatever was to come quietly, courageously.
‘Someone’s fallen over here,’ he said quietly. ‘I must go down and see who it is.’
She followed the direct of his gaze, her body rigid. She saw the fallen man, and gasped, but he knew he was right, for her voice had an altogether different tone.
‘We’ll both go down. There’s a path, but it’ll be slippery.’
She led the way to the edge of the hollow, where Mannering went in front of her. The path was dangerous, and they gripped shrubs and trees to help the descent. When they were at the bottom she hesitated, still staring at the cramped figure. She knew with Mannering that the chance of the man being alive was small. No one could have lived through the night lying there.
Mannering stepped forward. As he knelt down he saw the herringbone pattern of the light tweed coat, and knew that it was Armstrong’s. One arm, bent in front of the face was stiff and difficult to move. He had it aside at last, and he saw two things at the same time.
It was Armstrong: and there was an ugly wound in the side of his head.
A bullet wound?
He was startled to find Fay standing immediately behind him when he turned, and there was no need for him to tell her. Her face had frozen into a mask of immobility. He put his arm round her in support and comfort. ‘We’d better get help.’
Glancing up towards the top of the path he saw one of the plain-clothes police.
The man scrambled down to them.
‘I’ve sent a man back to the house for help, sir. Is he dead?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Mannering said. ‘Can you manage? I’d like to get back.’
‘If you’ll just wait a minute, sir.’ The man bent over Armstrong’s body, and Fay turned away with a sharp intake of breath. An interval that seemed interminable passed before the man straightened up. ‘I’m afraid you’re right, we can’t help him, sir. You’ll be at the house?’
‘Yes. Have you recognised him?’
‘From the description given, sir, of the clothes, it seems like Mr. Armstrong.’
Mannering nodded, and turned away. He had to help Fay up the slope, and when they began the walk back to the Towers she went on blindly, sometimes stumbling, looking neither right nor left.
Although she had never allowed it to be known, several strange things had suggested to Lady Fauntley the possibility that Mannering was the Baron, and that Lorna knew it.
But she kept her thoughts to herself, and continued to look on Mannering as one of the family.
Her placid eyes held a hint of concern as Mannering spoke, and when he had finished she nodded quickly.
‘Of course I’ll look after her. I felt so sorry for her last night, so lonely I thought. What a pity her own mother—oh well, I shouldn’t say things like it I suppose, and if she’s disapproved of the engagement it probably made things difficult, such a pity. And Sharon seems to be a little unsound over this business, John, don’t you think? Where is she, dear?’
‘In her room – I told her to expect you.’
Lady Fauntley’s eyes sparkled.
‘Isn’t it strange how things happen when you’re about, John? I remember three or four remarkable affairs, although perhaps they happened first and you arrived afterwards,’ She beamed. ‘I’ll go at once, and you might ring Portland Place and tell Parker we’ll be back some time this evening. Hugo is still worrying about the jewels, and it would be an added annoyance to him not to have dinner ready.’
Mannering did as she had asked, tempted to ring Lorna also, but as he replaced the receiver and waited he saw that the drawer of the table on which the telephone was standing was a little open.
Mannering stared at it, his lips pursed: he remembered very well, when he had last opened the drawer, closing it firmly.
He was frowning when he returned to the dressing-chest, and examined drawer after drawer.
For a long time he had been used to having his rooms searched, particularly at those times when the Baron had been busy, and the police had tried to find missing jewels at his flat. As he drew back from the chest, he knew that he had had visitors. A search had been conducted neatly yet hastily, and he needed no telling that Bristow had been at the bottom of it.
He could have found nothing, but it was confirmation of the way Bristow’s mind was working, and as such made the need for finding the thieves more acute. Mannering poured himself a weak whiskyand-soda, and as he drank it slowly and thoughtfully there was a tap on his door. It opened before he could answer, and he was not surprised to see the neat figure of Chief Inspector Bristow.
Inches shorter than the Baron, who was six feet two, Bristow was something of a dandy. In his buttonhole was a pink carnation – Bristow without his flower was as unthinkable as Clara Mendleson without her jewels. Frank grey eyes regarded Mannering watchfully.
Mannering steeled himself to show no concern.
‘Hello, Bristow. Come in and close the door. The wind is positively whistling down the passages.’
He was watching the man lynx-eyed, but from Bristow’s manner he judged that there was no immediate cause for worry, and his tension eased. Though Bristow had sworn to find evidence to convict the Baron, he would always fight fair. They possessed a mutual liking as strong as their mutual distrust.
‘Can you spare me ten minutes, Mannering?’
‘Of course. Sit down.’
Bristow accepted a cigarette and a drink. He had cause to be grateful to the Baron. Once he had saved his life; and twice he had enabled the police to make captures of considerable importance. If the Baron would only retire, for good, Bristow would be inclined to forget the past: but would the Baron ever really retire?
‘Bill,’ said Mannering, leaning an elbow on the mantelpiece and smiling, ‘let us come into the open. Forget your assumption that I’m the Baron, and look on me as an ordinary citizen robbed of fifty thousand pounds’ worth of precious stones.’
Bristow stroked his moustache.
‘I will say it doesn’t look like a typical Baron job, Mr. Mannering.’
The Baron’s tension eased.
‘Nevertheless,’ Bristow went on carefully. ‘You were on the spot, and it’s obvious Armstrong didn’t do the whole job himself. For all I know you may have helped him.’
‘I didn’t. And why are you so sure that Armstrong was in it?’
Bristow shrugged.
‘There isn’t much doubt of that.
He had a pocket full of the smaller stuff – Lady Sharron’s personal jewellery mostly – but I’m more concerned with the big stuff, and his accomplices. This was an expert job.’
Mannering said nothing. Through his own great relief came a picture of Fay’s face as she had told that passionate story, and he knew how this discovery would affect her. On the face of it there was no doubt of Armstrong’s complicity: the one thing the Baron had needed for his own freedom from suspicion seemed to have been presented to him, and yet—
Could Armstrong have known enough about the strong-room to have helped the thieves? It seemed unlikely. They must have had accurate information, and, more than probably, inside help. It was that fact, as clear to the police as to him, which explained his own anxiety.
‘I’m hoping to prove,’ Bristow said, ‘that the bullets which hit Armstrong are those fired from Errol’s automatic. They’re the right calibre, and from the same gun. One lodged in his shoulder, and the other was found near where Errol first fired. It struck Armstrong’s head first, I think. He went on to the hollow, getting away while you were preoccupied with Errol’—there was a hint of malice in Bristow’s tone—‘and the other two men.’
‘Yes. But what made him fall, Bill? Or haven’t you got that far?’
‘I don’t know. Miss Sharron tells me that he knew the garden well. Yet on a night when it was clear enough to read a newspaper he fell over the edge. Strange.’
‘How badly would the wounds affect him?’
‘The local surgeon says that neither would have rendered him unconscious. The fall doesn’t fit in easily, Mannering. What did you know of him?’
‘Practically nothing.’
‘Everyone’s the same!’ Bristow said irritably. ‘Here’s a man engaged to the daughter of the house for two years, a familiar of several of the guests, and yet no one knows more than that he’s an engineer in an obscure factory in London.’
‘There’s another puzzle,’ Mannering said. ‘We don’t know why the two men visited the shrubbery twice.’ Bristow eyed him thoughtfully.
