A Good Read

by John Creasey

  “I know,” said Mannering. “Couldn’t be lovelier, but we knew that. Is there anything you’ve found we don’t know about?”

  Caldecott smiled, impishly. “So impatient! I have looked. Come. See this.” He opened a book at the title page, which was beautifully illustrated. “This, my friend, is not the original. The colour faded, new ink was used—paint, I mean. Yes. Now beneath that new coat of paint—”

  “Yes?” Mannering asked sharply.

  “Nothing,” murmured Caldecott. “Oh, I have made sure. So! I try another gambit—no fool, old Caldecott. I have taken all the titles and authors’ names, and tried to find a code. But—”

  “No code,” said Mannering drily.

  “No, John, not yet. One thing I do know. Wilberforce knew little about books. Everything here—” he waved an arm round the great library—“shows me that. I am told that he is missing.”

  “Yes.”

  “A great pity,” said Caldecott. “I would have enjoyed telling him what I thought of him. Now, off with you. I must get busy!”

  Mannering went into his bedroom.

  Lorna looked round from the dressing-table.

  “Oh, hallo!” greeted Mannering.

  Lorna said: “Hallo, darling,” in a tone of voice which he didn’t like, which brought all his fears for Mary to a head. And then he saw that she was holding a sheet of notepaper by one corner – holding it gingerly, as if she were anxious not to touch the back or front of the paper. She was looking severe; almost sullen, with her thick, black eyebrows drawn together. This was the Lorna who had lived in fear when Mannering had been the Baron, and now felt a breath of the past steal over her.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She held out the letter.

  It was written in pencil, in block lettering, and on Lithom Hall paper, with the crest in royal-blue in the middle and the words Lithom Hall, Berkshire immediately beneath it. It wasn’t dated or signed, and it read:

  “If you want to see the girl alive again, be in the library, alone, at one-fifteen tonight.”

  Eyes seemed to watch Mannering everywhere.

  Outside in the grounds there were policemen, some in uniform, some in plain clothes. There were others inside, including two who were stationed by the door of the library. Bristow did not take Mannering into his confidence; Gadden showed his distrust plainly. The only relief to a trying few hours was that Lady Bream stayed in her room – until Caldecott came hurrying in, with an open book in one hand, excitement on his face.

  “John, look!”

  “What is it?” Mannering’s heart leapt.

  “A magnificent job—magnificent. The spine of this book has been cut open and repaired. I could hardly believe it, the repair was perfect—perfect.”

  “Did you find anything?” Mannering asked in a choky voice.

  “Eh? Oh, about your mystery. No, no. But this work—magnificent. Well, well. I must stop for tonight. I have an old friend in St. Malden and I am going to dine with him. I wish I could give Wilberforce a piece of my mind, while I’m there.”

  He ambled off.

  Bristow and Gadden did not leave the Hall until nearly nine.

  The policemen were taken from the library, but Mannering wasn’t told whether any were left in the house. Certainly there were several in the grounds. Wirral went about looking like a ghost, as if he had been sworn to a conspiracy of silence. Higby was on duty late in the evening, when Mannering and Lorna had a nightcap in the drawing-room, large and lonely with only the two of them. The huge chesterfield where Mary and Longley had sat on the past two evenings seemed to leer at Mannering.

  They went upstairs at half past eleven. There was nothing for them to say that hadn’t already been said a dozen times. Lorna went to bed; but not to sleep.

  At a quarter to one Mannering stood up, seeing Lorna stir as he moved from his chair.

  “Awake, darling?”

  “Yes.”

  Mannering went to the wardrobe and checked his gun, slipped it into his pocket and then pulled on a pair of thin gloves. No one could really be surprised if he prowled by night, he didn’t use disguise.

  Lorna said: “I’m coming with you.”

  “You’re staying here,” said Mannering, and his voice was sharp. “I might want your help later. I’ll shout if—”

  “John, I must come!”

  “We can’t both stick our necks out. If I’m not back by two-fifteen, yell out of the window. The grounds are lousy with police.”

  She was desperately anxious to be with him, but gave way.

  He kissed her.

  At two minutes to one, he stepped into the passage. A dim light was burning, as it had burned every night for many years. He went first to the head of the stairs and peered over the carved oak banisters. A man was sitting on an upright chair, in a position to watch both the front door and stairs.

  Would Bristow take that precaution, and neglect the library? Not unless he planned to give someone plenty of rope, in the hope that he would hang himself.

  The pencilled lettering on that note was written clearly on Mannering’s mind’s eye. It outlined the simplest of threats; an elementary attempt to coerce him, and yet – he couldn’t ignore it.

  He remembered Mary opening the door of the book-shop.

  He shut out the vision, and went to the corner of the passage. He peered round – and saw a man move into a doorway. The light was so poor that he couldn’t tell whether it was a policeman or not. It wasn’t; the man moved and came furtively towards him. It was a short fellow—

  Abel White passed him.

  Mannering crept out to follow – and heard another movement downstairs. He went back, believing that the police-guard was coming up. The man stayed downstairs.

  Abel White had gone.

  Mannering walked towards the library, remembering Abel’s face when he had found Leo. If Abel were Fenner’s man, who had killed the dog? And why? Had Abel felt compelled to strike the fatal blow? Had he been acting when in the thicket?

  Mannering reached Lady Bream’s door – and it stood ajar.

  He pushed it wider, and peered into the room which was in darkness, except near the door, where the faint light filtered through from the passage.

  The bed was empty.

  He went right inside the room.

  The room was empty.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A Pile of Books

  Out of the quiet room came a soft ticking – the small clock by the side of the bed. Mannering could see its illuminated dial; the time was eight minutes past one. He hurried back to his own room, and found Lorna by the fire-place. She jumped round, as if expecting Bristow; or disaster.

  “What—” she began.

  “Maggie’s missing. Cut down my time to half an hour. Keep the door locked, and shout out of the window when it’s time to call the police.”

  “Have you seen anyone else?”

  “Not yet,” lied Mannering. He went across and gripped her hands tightly. “You must keep out of it. If things go wrong, only you can get help. You’ve only half an hour to wait.”

  She said: “Only!”

  Outside, he heard her turn the key in the lock.

  He went straight to the library. A light was on in the great room, he could see the faint glow at the sides of the door and the top and bottom. He turned the handle and pushed – and the door yielded, so whoever was inside had been able to cope with the burglar-alarm; further evidence that it was someone who lived here.

  He opened the door a little wider.

  “Come in, Mannering,” a man said. “And don’t be rash, I’ve got a gun.”

  Mannering stepped into the library.

  Higby leaned negligently against a table, with an automatic in his hand. Tied to a chair, and with a scarf round her mouth to prevent her from crying out, was Lady Bream. On the floor, dead or unconscious, was Abel White.

  “Close the door and lock it,” ordered Higby.

  Mannering ha
lf-turned, conscious of the growing tension, knowing that if he made a false move now, the footman would shoot. He turned the key and it clicked noisily – but he didn’t turn it fully, the door wasn’t locked. He moved round, wondering whether Higby had seen through the trick or whether the noise had convinced him.

  Apparently it had.

  Mannering said: “True colours?”

  “My little piece this afternoon was just to gain time,” said Higby, and grinned; he looked – vicious. “I was assured that you had a lot of influence with the police. Now I’ve proved it. You must have pleaded with them very strongly to stop them from arresting me.”

  Mannering said: “Oh, very. I was almost in tears.”

  “You’ll be in tears before you’ve finished. Now I’ve got you, Abel and the old woman, that about finishes the job.”

  “One or two trifles still outstanding,” said Mannering. He went nearer to the footman, who stiffened. Mannering actually stopped by the side of the desk, with Higby swivelling slowly round, keeping him covered.

  Lady Bream moved on her chair but Mannering couldn’t see her now.

  “What’s Abel done to deserve this?” asked Mannering.

  “Tried to trap me,” said Higby. “So I sent him a message—from you! Another pencilled note, telling him to come here. He didn’t see who hit him, Mannering. If you don’t do as you’re told, I’ll make him believe it was you.”

  “So I am to obey orders,” murmured Mannering.

  “You’d better. First, you’ll help me. Then you’ll take the papers we’ll find here, to Fenner—or Fenner’s agent. Your influence with the dicks had better be good, if you were to be caught with those papers, you’d be in bad. My worry’s keeping away from them. I wouldn’t like to risk taking the papers out of the house, but I don’t mind taking a chance with you.” He slid his left hand into his pocket and drew out an instrument, like a large, chromium-plated knife. It was a patent knife, disguising a razor blade. Higby put it on the desk, and took out another. In every movement there was menace. His lips were twisted back, giving him a set sneer; ugly, threatening.

  Mannering was wary; probing. Higby wanted him to do the job, but wouldn’t risk letting him leave the house alive.

  “Pull up a chair and sit down,” ordered Higby.

  Mannering hesitated.

  “Need Lady Bream be so uncomfortable?”

  “Leave the old besom where she is,” said Higby harshly. “The two-faced bitch.” He didn’t glance at Lady Bream. “Sit down!”

  Mannering pulled up a chair. At the other end of the table there were the now familiar piles of books; the books.

  ‘You’re going to examine those books for me,” gloated Higby. “I can’t do it myself and watch you, and I prefer a lazy life, anyway. I’ve waited on you enough—too much.” Hatred hummed in his voice. “This is how to work: slit the edge of the spine at one side, and slit it top and bottom. The leather or the cloth and board binding will come away. In some you’ll find some paper—flimsy paper. Very precious, that paper. Each time you find a piece, put it on the table, and then get on with the next book. I’m in a hurry.”

  Mannering picked up a book.

  “It’s criminal,” he said, “these are precious.”

  “Some have been cut before,” said Higby, “or else they’re in a new binding, and haven’t any money value. Don’t argue, hurry. And don’t get any ideas about that knife. You could throw it—but a bullet would travel about six times as fast, and I’d put it where it hurt.”

  Mannering picked up the first book.

  His hand was steady, and he examined the book, to see the best way to set about it. Jeremiah Caldecott had reported that some of the spines had been cut.

  He cut at the leather of a copy of Valerius Maximus.

  It was surprisingly easy; soon the spine moved back, like a door opening, but there was nothing inside. He picked up a second book and repeated the work, and as he did so, he said: “All murderers get hanged.”

  “This one won’t.”

  “Which particular victim did you kill?” asked Mannering.

  “Wilberforce—with one of these knives,” said Higby, and picked up the second knife. There was a glitter in his eyes – of a man who was hardly sane. “I had to make the blade a bit bigger, by adjusting a screw or two. It did very well—one slash, and Wilberforce was out. He’s buried in a hill several miles from here, and one day an archaeologist will probably find the skeleton, and call him prehistoric.” Higby leaned forward; the gun didn’t waver. “And I hit you, Mannering. I didn’t know how much you’d seen. I’d have killed you and made you prehistoric, too.” The sneer and the glittering eyes made him vicious, brutal. “You tell yourself that all murderers have to confess to someone? You’re dead right, I want to boast about this. It can’t do any harm telling you because—”

  He broke off abruptly.

  “When my job’s done, I get bumped off,” said Mannering. “Slave labour—new version.”

  “Get on with the job!” rasped Higby.

  The second book contained nothing, and Mannering picked up a third. He had to look at what he was doing all the time, did not glance at Higby. He heard Lady Bream move again, and calculated that ten minutes or more had passed since he had left Lorna. He would not be half-way through these books when her half-hour was up. He wished he’d let it stay at the hour. Higby might talk freely; Higby was gloating and triumphant – and careless.

  “Slave labour’s right, and it’s time you did some,” said Higby. “I’m sick and tired of licking the boots of swine like you. You stick your noses in the air and think you’re God’s Own People. You’re no better than I am—why, by your own standards, you’re not so good!”

  “I wouldn’t question that,” murmured Mannering. “A Lithom, aren’t you?”

  Higby started violently.

  Mannering said: “Ashamed to admit it?”

  “Who—who told you?” Surprise took the glitter out of his eyes.

  “You did.” Mannering glanced up, and saw Higby shoot a glance at Lady Bream.

  “That’s a lie—she did, the cold-blooded shrew. She confessed—” he broke off, and Mannering looked back at his ‘work’, but he knew the truth now; he hardly needed Higby’s confirming words. “I’m her son and Lithom’s. Just a little peccadillo, the wrong side of the blanket. Lithom was married, so he couldn’t make an honest woman of her. She went off and had her baby—that was me—and farmed me out. But someone knew, someone kept an eye on me—a certain Mr. Wilberforce, you see. He was my foster-father.”

  “Need we go into all this?” Mannering opened the spine of a fourth book.

  He saw a fold of paper, paper so white and thin that it looked like tissue; and through it he could see writing. He put the book with the others, which had contained nothing, but placed it so that he could pick it out at a glance.

  Higby didn’t see the paper.

  “We’ll go on my way,” said Higby, and gave a little laugh, sure sign of tension. “Wilberforce dragged me up, and she didn’t care a tinker’s curse for me. Lithom had forgotten I existed. Until I came for a job—or rather, after he’d taken me on. My precious foster-father had blackmailed Lithom for the librarian’s job. Know why he blackmailed him?”

  “Presumably because Fenner told him to.”

  Higby said slowly: “You’re no fool. Yes, Fenner wanted these books—or what’s in ’em. Wilberforce took ’em out, one by one—but he wasn’t quick enough. Then Lithom got mad and sacked him, but he hadn’t reckoned on me. You hadn’t reckoned on me, had you, Mannering? You were thinking about Abel—I framed him nicely. I’ve always been able to do what I like with dogs—all animals, but especially dogs. There was a savage streak in Leo. I brought it out when he was with me. I made him jump at Lithom’s grey, and throw him. I didn’t think he’d break his neck, though, but it didn’t make much difference.

  “Everything would have been easy if the girl hadn’t suspected the truth. I had to lie low
for a bit. Then I had an idea. My dear sister—I hated her guts, Mannering, she’d had everything I ought to have had, and I’d nothing. Nothing! I had to wait on her. Yes, my lady, no, my lady, certainly, my lady—and my own sister! I could have murdered her a dozen times, but—I didn’t. I drove her crazy. Nice revenge, Mannering—don’t you agree?” His lips were quivering and his voice was unsteady.

  “Very,” said Mannering.

  He was on the sixth book, and twenty minutes must have passed. If Lorna raised the alarm on time, and Higby hadn’t finished, he might never know the whole truth. But he had these papers. It was over – except for two things. First, the chance of losing his own life; second – the risk that Mary would never be found. This man wasn’t as dangerous as Fenner. Higby couldn’t stop talking.

  “And then Fenner and I saw a way of getting what we wanted without taking the books out—not easy to get those books; you can’t slip them under your coat. We brought Wilberforce back at night. I let him in. We had the list of books, but knew only some had the papers—we didn’t know which ones. Wilberforce worked on some of the books, cut them to try to find if the papers were hidden there. He found one. Then he got restive, and wanted more money than we were paying him. Started talking about giving us away. We couldn’t risk a traitor, could we, Mannering? He went to the study one night, to get one of the books which was there, and tried to throw his weight about. So I knocked him out, put him on the rug and cut his throat. Then that damned girl—”

  “Pity you drove her crazy,” murmured Mannering.

  “Cut that out,” said Higby harshly. “You know what happened. Fenner and one of the other boys was with me. We got the body and the bloodstained rug away, and we took the books, too. I thought Gloria might have seen me, and so I had another go at her, using the dog. Pity you weren’t driving a little faster. Did she know anything?”

  “You wasted your time,” said Mannering. “But why did you kidnap Mary, when—”

  “You thought it was a case of mistaken identity, didn’t you?” Higby laughed again. “Your mistake. We had to get rid of anyone who’d examined those books, in case they discovered where the secret was. First the girl, and then Longley. I hoped I’d killed Longley.”