by John Creasey
Had she been hurt already?
The gun felt cold to his fingers.
The other driver was good; he’d steady the car and probably save it from overturning. They were still in the tunnel of trees, Mannering couldn’t see another bend yet, so this was the time to catch up with his quarry.
Faster!
The speedometer needle crept towards seventy-five, but the leading car was travelling as fast, Mannering couldn’t draw any nearer. Soon they’d take a pot-shot at him. He mustn’t shoot until he was a little closer. If he put a bullet through that window, it might go through Mary’s head.
Why kidnap Mary?
Was he gaining?
The car was no longer just a dark blur, but a clear shape in front of him. The number-plate was easy to read, the letters very clear; it was probably a false plate, but it was worth noting the number BOR 91212. He thought that the car was a Vauxhall. At the next corner he would be able to look for the fluted bonnet, and if it was there, then—
He saw a flash.
That was all; no sound, unless it was a faint explosion merging with the hum of the two engines.
Another flash.
So one of them was leaning out of the window, shooting at him. He daren’t shoot back for fear of hitting Mary.
Flash—crack!
He heard another sound this time – a crash in front of him; the windscreen was suddenly starred with white lines. The flashes came more quickly, three in succession; he heard them clang against the wing.
They neared a corner.
A low hedge showed clearly, they were out of the avenue of trees.
Flash!
Then the leading car swung round the corner.
Mannering pulled the wheel over, scraped against a hedge, and got back on to the road, but the car was pulling badly towards the side – and he realized with a sickening sense of failure that one of the tyres was punctured. He saw the red light, much farther away now, and the fading glow of the headlamps. The red light disappeared, the glow remained.
He’d lost them.
There wasn’t a chance now.
He jammed on the brakes, flung open the door and jumped out. The nearside tyre was flat. He took off the spare wheel and began to work, leaving the headlights on and placing a torch in the hedge, to show him the wheel. Although he knew there was no chance of catching up with the others, he worked feverishly, broke a nail and swore beneath his breath. The light wasn’t good enough for him to work really quickly; he fumbled with the bolts, the brace kept slipping. Nearly ten minutes had passed before he had finished. He pushed the wheel with the flat tyre into the back of the car, threw in the tools and got into the driving seat again.
The only hope now was to have that car traced – if there were radio patrol cars anywhere in the neighbourhood, it might be done. He drove swiftly, feeling a sharp reaction. Presently he saw an A.A. box at the side of the road. He pulled up, brakes squealing, just beyond the box, got out his A.A. key and in a few seconds was at the telephone.
The man who answered him at the St. Malden Police Station was brisk and efficient, and didn’t need telling twice.
Mannering saw from a signpost that he was only two miles from St. Malden, and it was possible that the car had passed through the town. He went on, backed into a side road, and turned back towards Lithom Hall.
He had only one thought.
Why Mary?
It wasn’t until he was near the North Lodge that the obvious truth occurred to him.
She had been kidnapped in mistake for Gloria.
If that were so, then whoever had raided the Hall didn’t know Gloria by sight.
There was a light on at the side of the house, Mannering drove to that side, and saw two men standing by the stables, staring at him. They moved forward, and he recognized both Abel and Higby. Then a third man appeared, the keeper of North Lodge. All of them had overcoats over their pyjamas.
Abel reached the car door and opened it for Mannering.
“Who called you?” asked Mannering abruptly.
“Fred Mason, from the lodge,” said Abel promptly. “He heard a car, and looked out of the window—and then he saw two cars. So he came to see if anything was the matter. Was yours one of the cars?” There was a hint almost of suspicion in Abel’s manner, and Higby and the lodge-keeper appeared to be staring intently, almost accusingly.
Mannering said: “Yes. The other one got away. I had a puncture. Do you know what happened?”
“We know a ladder was taken from the garage and left outside,” said Abel. “But it was on the ground, we don’t know where they used it. We’ve been up to the library but everything seems all right there, sir.”
“It probably is,” said Mannering, and told them what had happened.
They seemed dumbfounded.
Abel broke the silence with a soft: “Did they think she was Lady Gloria, I wonder?”
Either he knew – or he was very quick on the uptake. Mannering realized with a sense of shock that there was clear indication that the kidnappers had not worked with anyone inside the house. Abel, Higby and anyone here could have told the men that Mary wasn’t Gloria. If it had been a case of mistaken identity, then neither Abel nor Higby was working with Fenner – and probably Fenner hadn’t a spy in the house.
“We must tell the police,” said Higby.
“I telephoned them,” said Mannering.
“Is there anything we can do?” asked Abel.
Mannering said: “Yes, Abel. Look for that dog—the dog that scared Lady Gloria the other evening, and also scared you.”
“Is it about?” asked Abel sharply.
Mannering said: “Yes. And it’s been missing from your father’s cottage since this morning.”
For the first time he saw Abel really taken aback. The groom moved away from him, while the lodge-keeper and Higby backed away, as if frightened of him.
Chapter Nineteen
Grim Morning
“Not—not Leo!” gasped Abel.
Mannering said: “Didn’t you guess?”
“Not Leo!” repeated Abel in a strained voice. “No, it can’t—”
“It’s Leo. I saw him yesterday. He’s got a wound, caused by a bullet—and someone had attended to it,” said Mannering sharply.
“I—I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe that Leo would—” Abel broke off.
Mannering said: “You can’t believe that he would have kept away from you in the thicket, can you? I find it hard to believe, too.”
Abel cleared his throat.
“Mr. Mannering, I tell you truly, I didn’t know. I still can’t believe that it’s true, that Leo was that dog. You say you saw the wound?”
“Yes. No doubt about it.”
“What wound are you talking about, sir?” asked Higby.
“I wounded the dog which scared Lady Gloria,” said Mannering. “It was at the end of the drive not long ago—see whether you can find any trace of it, but be careful. The man with it had a gun.”
“We could take shotguns,” said the lodge-keeper.
“Take what you like, but find it,” said Mannering.
He turned to the open door, and went into the house.
Was Abel as shocked by the news as he made out? Was Higby as calm inwardly as he appeared outwardly?
If the kidnappers had taken Mary by mistake, wasn’t it practically proof that they’d had no help from the inside?
He couldn’t be absolutely sure that it had been Mary in the car.
He hurried up to her room – and when he saw the empty bed, hurried to tell Longley. Shock brought the sergeant out of his drowsiness – shock to a policeman and a lover. The policeman was uppermost; he was soon on the telephone, ordered the door to be locked, refused to be panicked; but there was a cold glitter in his eyes as he worked.
Next morning, just after nine o’clock, Longley sent a message asking Mannering to see him in the library. The sergeant’s eyes were clear, he had recovered from his sh
ock – but there was a cold, accusing aloofness in his manner. This seemed to take away something of his good looks, making him look older.
He had asked Mannering few questions the previous night. Now he looked at Mannering’s grave face, as if he detested the sight of him. Mannering showed no outward sign of his two late nights, and was determined not to let the sergeant rile him.
“What were you doing out at two o’clock in the morning?” Longley asked abruptly.
“Didn’t I tell you? I was worried about Lady Gloria and drove over to the cottage.”
“That’s a fine story,” said Longley, in a tone not far removed from a sneer.
“I saw several of Gadden’s men there. She was all right. Coming back, I saw a car on the road and the gates closed. I gave chase, they put a bullet in my front wheel.”
Longley said: “I don’t believe you.”
“Don’t be a fool. I know you’re upset, but don’t pick on me as a scapegoat.”
“I don’t like the way you’ve been going on,” growled Longley. “Why are you so interested? How did you really get to see Fenner the first time? How was it they let you get away if they really shot at you? And if they stopped you last night, why didn’t they come back and finish you off—can you tell me that?”
“Yes. I had a gun.”
“You’re pretty slick,” said Longley, “but I don’t trust you—can you get that into your head?”
Mannering said: “You’ll find that Bristow does, and that should encourage you. There’s just a chance that because I was out last night, the St. Malden people will trace that car. If I hadn’t been out, there wouldn’t have been any chance at all. There are other things, too. The dog was in the grounds. I set Abel, Higby and the lodge-keeper on to look for it, but they tell me that they didn’t have any luck. Do you know anything more about Abel?”
“He seems all right,” said Longley grudgingly. “Does he know which dog it was?”
“Yes.”
“You could have saved that, to spring on him,” said Longley.
“I sprang it when I thought best,” said Mannering. “I’m going down to have some breakfast. I’ve been on to Gadden and there’s no news of the car yet, but there’s a general call out for it. He promised to ring up if there’s the slightest news.”
Longley nodded, and seemed to be finished.
Mannering turned and went towards the door, but before he went out, Longley called: “Mannering.” His voice lacked the sarcastic tone, but when Mannering turned to look at him he saw nothing to suggest that Longley had overcome his suspicions. The sergeant’s face was drawn and strained.
“Yes?”
“Do you know why they took Mary?”
“By mistake, presumably.”
“They couldn’t mix her up with Lady Gloria—they aren’t a bit alike.”
“Can you think of any other reason?”
“I’m damned if I can!” Longley’s voice was hoarse.
There were other possibilities, thought Mannering; he’d jumped to conclusions the night before, he mustn’t again. Supposing Mary had stumbled upon something important in the library. Possible. And if so, Higby or Abel might have learned of it and told Fenner. That would do away with the mistaken identity theory and bring Abel and Higby well into the limelight again.
Could Mary have learned anything which Longley hadn’t?
Lorna was already at the table.
“What did Longley want?” she asked.
“He thinks I’m the villain of the piece.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“He knows he can’t do much.”
“Was Mary mistaken for Gloria?” Lorna asked.
“The question on everyone’s lips,” said Mannering. “Darling, we don’t know much about Fenner, but—”
“I know everything about Fenner,” said Lorna, with unexpected sharpness.
“Oh. Everything?”
“Everything that matters. He’s bad.”
“I’ll grant you that.”
“Please don’t jest,” said Lorna. “I can’t help it, John, but—I hate that man. He’s been so devilishly successful. He’s nearly driven Gloria mad, he has everyone on tenterhooks, and—”
“Steady, my sweet!”
“I can’t be steady, John. The man frightens me. He’s pulling strings and we’re the puppets. We haven’t any idea what he’s after, he’s even kept that secret safe. He ignores burglar alarms and all precautions, he—”
Mannering interrupted.
“He’s a man who’s made mistakes and will make others.”
Lorna threw up her hands.
She wasn’t often affected like this; and Mannering could understand the influence which Fenner exerted – understand and hate it.
The door opened, and Lady Bream came in.
“Good morning!” She seemed much more cheerful. “Isn’t it a lovely morning again, I think we’re going to have a really beautiful summer. John, have you heard from the cottage?”
“Yes, all’s well,” said Mannering.
“Oh, that’s wonderful, wonderful!” cried Lady Bream. “Sending her there was a stroke of genius on your part, John. I admit that I wasn’t very happy about it when you first made the suggestion, but I’ve been thinking a lot about it—I’m sure that it’s just the thing for her. Be a good soul, and give me some bacon and an egg—no, two eggs. I feel so hungry this morning, I suppose it’s because I’m not so worried as I was.”
“Grapefruit?” asked Mannering, getting up.
“You can keep the things,” snapped Lady Bream. “In my young days we had porridge or nothing for the first course, I’ve no time for these new-fangled ideas. Grapefruit—oh, are there any grilled tomatoes?”
“Heaps.”
“I’ll have some of those. John, what are those two young people doing in the library all day? I don’t mind if they’re working, but if they’re billing and cooing, well, I think it’s going a little too far. A couple like that would have had a chaperon in my young days, and there was a lot of good in the old ideas.”
“I’m sure there was,” murmured Mannering.
“Well, be a bit more cheerful about it,” said Lady Bream. She looked at him narrowly, as he studied her thoughtfully. She looked better and younger – as if a great worry had been lifted off her shoulders. It surprised him that she should feel quite so secure about Gloria now. “And you, Lorna, you look as if you’ve been up all night.”
Mannering said: “Lorna was awake a long time, I was out. Maggie—”
She looked up from her plate.
“Now what is the matter?”
“There was more trouble. It looks as if Fenner mistook Mary Scott for Gloria. She’s been kidnapped—”
A fork clattered to the table.
“No!” cried Lady Bream. “No!”
Mannering said: “It’s true, and—”
“No, no, it can’t be true!” cried Lady Bream. “Not that charming girl, no harm can have come to her! John! You’re trying to frighten me, that’s what you’re doing! Tell me it isn’t true!”
She was almost screaming.
Lorna went to her side.
“She’ll be all right,’ she said reassuringly. “If they’d intended to hurt her, they wouldn’t have kidnapped her—they wouldn’t have taken the trouble. She’ll be all right.”
Lady Bream clutched the edge of the table, and stood up, her eyes blazing.
“It’s true—it’s really true?”
“Yes,” said Mannering.
“Sit down, dear,” said Lorna.
“Sit down? Now? When I thought everything was over, and this happens. We’re none of us safe, we can’t be safe, we—”
She broke off, and sat down heavily.
Lorna moved into a chair next to her.
After a few minutes, she picked up her cup and drank a little coffee, complaining in an undertone that she was cold, and the coffee was only lukewarm. Gradually she perked up, and was soon eatin
g her breakfast, grumbling, fretful, looking out of the window as if she were frightened of what she might see.
Mannering left the two women together.
He went up to the library, but it was empty – Longley might be at the telephone, telling Bristow of his latest reasons for suspecting Mannering. Mannering went downstairs again, but heard nothing from the switchboard. Higby came out of the passage near it, and stopped in the middle of a step when he saw Mannering, as if he were startled.
“Good-morning, sir.”
“You had no luck last night, I’m told,” said Mannering.
“I’m afraid not, sir.” The footman slipped past quietly.
Mannering had never heard him raise his voice, and last night he had shown admirable self-control.
Mannering pushed the door of the cubby-hole containing the switchboard, but it opened only an inch or two. When he pushed hard, the door was still jammed.
He called: “Anyone there?”
There was no answer.
He put his head round the door.
Longley was sitting in front of the switchboard, his head resting on the little ledge in front of it, his fingers touching the keys, his feet pressing against the door. Blood turned his fair hair to crimson, and dropped on to his hand and on to the keys.
Mannering telephoned Gadden, then gave first aid. Longley wasn’t dead, but the wound was serious. It had been caused by a heavy, sharp weapon, and had obviously been made as Longley was about to telephone someone – probably Bristow.
Bristow was on his way to Lithom Hall.
A sergeant, not ungainly Wilkinson, but a smooth-tongued man, arrived from St. Malden with a detective-officer. Gadden was in court, and would come later. The search for the weapon was started, the switchboard thoroughly examined for prints and clues, but none was found.
The great library was deserted when Mannering went in an hourand-a-half after finding Longley, and seemed emptier because of what had happened to Mary and Longley. The new crime increased the possibility that they had made a fateful discovery. Most of the books mentioned on the list were on or near the library desk at which Longley had been working. Four were open, and had slips of paper at other pages. Mannering looked at each marked page. Some of the paper was thick and yellowish; there were coloured illustrations. The books were German, Dutch and Italian, and one or two were old English. None of the titles was important; they were all of value to a collector, but not one appeared to be worth big money; the same story. Longley had marked different pages; Mannering could not see any connection between one and another. An expert might be able to see something which he couldn’t detect.
