by John Creasey
Fenn, thinking fast, could remember the shock which the name had given him; could remember, ten years or so ago, when he had been on the beat, hating the sound of the name Baron, dreaming a dream of catching the thief red-handed, yet forced into reluctant admiration for a thief whose exploits had set London by the ears, and given the police in Paris and Rome, Berlin and Budapest, too much to think about. The Baron had previously won a place in the heart of most people, for those he robbed had been not only wealthy but also of ill-repute; and the desperately poor had received great gifts from the man who was known as the Baron.
It was many years since he had worked as the Baron, and he had never been caught. As far as Fenn had then known, no one ever knew who he was. He had vanished off the pages of the newspapers, and the police had lost a thorn in the flesh.
“I’ve heard of the Baron all right,” Fenn had said softly.
“Take it from me,” Bristow had told him, “Mannering was the Baron. The Man in the Blue Mask, as we called him sometimes. He had the courage of the Devil, was as slippery as an eel, and—oh, but you know. Then he settled down, after marrying Lord Fauntley’s daughter. But if you study the records, you’ll see that as the Baron faded out, so Mannering came in as a private eye. Natural development—he turned a new leaf, but crime and jewels held him like a magnet. I’d trust him anywhere and with anyone now, but—well, he was lucky he didn’t go inside.”
Fenn hadn’t spoken.
“If you get anything that looks like a Mannering job, let him in,” Bristow had advised. “Especially if it’s a sticky one. He’ll take chances and risk his neck doing things we can’t. And once he gets moving—phew!”
Just for ten minutes, Fenn had seen Mannering moving. He wanted to see more.
Fenn went down to see the prisoner, who was scared but refused to talk. He had no papers on him, and wouldn’t give his name and address. Fenn worked on him for twenty minutes, then left him to stew. Back in his office, Fenn telephoned Lancelot Nash, a psychiatrist well known in London and the provinces.
Nash didn’t need reminding about Miranda Smith.
“As a case, a complete failure,” he said. “There’s nothing organically wrong, but her nerve-centres just don’t work. She can’t articulate or hear, at times I wonder if she’s really half-witted. Electric-shock treatment has failed, everything’s failed.
“Still trying?” Fenn asked.
“She’s with a Swiss chap now,” Nash said. “Or she was two months ago. Why—what’s her trouble with you?”
“I want to find out if she’s under undue influence.”
Nash said, “You mean Pendexter Smith? She’d be in a mess without him; he’s almost the only person who’s able to establish communication with her. Afraid I can’t help you there.”
Fenn said, “Well, thanks for trying,” and rang off.
A picture of Miranda Smith hovered in front of his mind’s eye.
Chapter Nine
News From Wainwright
Mannering’s flat was quiet.
Miranda was in the small spare room, Lorna with her. Richardson, a psychiatrist and family friend, had spent an hour with the girl, said little, promised to see Nash and left – giving the Mannerings the impression that he wasn’t very hopeful. Soon after he had gone, Fenn telephoned to tell Mannering what Nash had said about Miranda, to say that there was still no news of Pendexter Smith; or news of any kind.
Miranda had behaved quite naturally, showing a little distress at times. Mannering seemed to have the trick of making her understand a little, and she was quicker to grasp what he tried to tell her.
Lorna showed signs of the strain – and of sharp distress for the girl. In the bad moments her beauty and her freshness made the tragedy more appalling.
Richardson had left some veronal tablets, to make sure that Miranda slept that night.
It was nearly ten o’clock.
Mannering felt a strange tension; as if he were being held on a leash. The unheralded appearance of Pendexter Smith, the girl, the gold nest, and the jewelled eggs had been enough for one day. This disappearance of Smith bordered on the fantastic. The attack on Lorna and the girl was easier to understand; but would the prisoner talk? And if he did, would Fenn pass on what the man said?
In retrospect, Bill Brash’s interruption had its comical side. But that had also ended in a burst of action, a puzzle swiftly posed, and then – swish, and the scene changed, something else distracted his attention.
The telephone bell rang.
Mannering jumped, nearly upset a big bowl-glass of brandy that was by his side, and snatched up the receiver. That was an indication of the tautness of his nerves.
“There’s a call from Midham for you,” the operator said. “Hold on, please.”
Midham, Sussex, where the girl and Pendexter Smith lived. Mannering knew it wasn’t Fenn, and wondered if it were Smith. He waited, impatiently.
“Hallo,” another man said, “is that Mr. Mannering?”
It was Wainwright!
“Speaking, Ned,” Mannering said. “What’s taken you into the country?”
“Well, sir, I don’t mind admitting I was pretty mad,” Wainwright said, earnestly. “About that crack over the head, I mean. And—well, that girl did something to me. I felt that I had to try to help.”
That was how Miranda affected everyone.
“So what?” asked Mannering.
“Well, I followed this chap, Brash,” explained Wainwright. “I had a chat with a sergeant from the Yard, nice young chap” – he did not know how that naïve remark made Mannering grin – “who told me the man’s name is Brash. He came straight down here.”
“By road?” Mannering asked sharply.
“Yes.”
“And you followed in a taxi?”
“I know it’s a bit expensive,” said Wainwright, defensively, “but I felt it was worth it, sir, and of course I shall pay my own expenses. I wouldn’t dream—”
“If I were you I’d dream about that plenty,” said Mannering, dryly. “What happened when he got there?”
“He’s staying at a hotel in Midham. He hasn’t been out, and I’m rather puzzled about it. I thought you ought to know, especially—” Wainwright broke off.
“Yes?”
“I’ve heard of you in action a great deal, sir,” said Wainwright with some diffidence, “and I know you wouldn’t take anything for granted, you’d always want proof, but—I think it was Brash who clouted me. I can’t be sure, but it wouldn’t surprise me. I didn’t tell the police, I hardly thought that was justified, as I couldn’t swear to it. I hope I did right.”
“Perfectly right,” approved Mannering softly. “What makes you think it was Bill Brash?”
“I caught a kind of glimpse of him. It was after the blow, when I was falling down and twisting round. I hadn’t quite blacked out. I saw a face, just a blur—it was all pink and rosy, if you know what I mean.” Wainwright hurried on: “Then I had a look inside his car just now. The Yard man said he thinks I was clouted with a cosh. Well, Brash has one—shiny leather thing, filled with lead shot. It was under the front seat. I left it there, of course.”
“Have you told the police about that?” Mannering asked.
“Well, no. Do you think I should?”
“I do not. Ned, listen to me. I’m coming down as soon as I can. If you have to leave, make sure I can pick up a message. Where are you speaking from?”
“A call-box just opposite the Horsebox—that’s the name of the pub where I’m staying,” Wainwright explained. “Brash is at the Swan, a much bigger hotel down the road. I’m not very used to this kind of thing, Mr. Mannering, but if I can make a suggestion—”
Mannering was grinning. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve discovered that Pendexter Smith lives in a big house down here. I had a chat with the barmaid. I think I ought to have a look at the place,” Wainwright went on earnestly. “It’s got an odd name—Dragon’s End.” He paused. “I haven’t my
car down here, but I’ve managed to borrow a bicycle. I ought to go at once, and watch to see if Brash arrives. Don’t you think so?”
“Ned,” said Mannering warmly, “you’re doing fine. How far is the house from the village?”
“Oh, you can’t miss it. Straight through on the Horsham Road, then up the hill, then along the drive through the white gate-posts. That’s the place, I had a look round on the bike just before dark. I can expect you then, Mr. Mannering?”
“I’ll see you at Dragon’s End, or else at the Horsebox,” Mannering said. “Take it easy.”
“You know, Mr. Mannering,” said Wainwright almost wonderingly, “I wouldn’t have thought I’d be interested in this end of the business, but that girl—” He broke off, then added hurriedly, “Is she all right?”
“Sleeping sweetly.”
“Thank the Lord for that!” breathed Wainwright.
Mannering rang off, and was very thoughtful. Wainwright might be naïve and over-earnest, but he was on the spot, and he’d shown both guts and initiative. He mustn’t be left to fend for himself.
The door opened, and Lorna came in. She was frowning, for a moment she looked almost sullen. But Mannering knew better. She came across to him. They didn’t speak at first, and he was glad of the respite, to let what Wainwright had said settle in his mind.
“Who was that?” Lorna asked at last.
“Ned Wainwright, turned detective.”
“He’s a nice-looking lad, isn’t he?” Lorna said, although obviously she wasn’t thinking much about Wainwright.
“Is he?”
“Don’t you ever notice anything?” Lorna relaxed, actually smiled. “You’d know if it were a nice-looking girl! He’ll be really handsome when he’s a bit older and more solid. Miranda’s asleep.”
Mannering said, almost awkwardly, “That’s fine.”
Lorna eyed him speculatively.
“John, do you know any more than you’ve told me?”
“Not a thing.”
“Are you going to leave it to the police, or try to sort it out for yourself?”
“What would you like me to do?”
She sat down slowly on the arm of his chair and looked at him, with her head a little on one side. It was a moment of true intimacy. Mannering knew what was in her mind; she was pretty sure what was in his.
“For once, go to it yourself,” she said quietly. “I’m scared, for that girl.”
“I know what you mean,” said Mannering. “I’m going to have a shot. I don’t think Fenn will go to Dragon’s End tonight, but he’s probably told the local lads to be on the look out.”
“And you’re going there?”
“I’d like to find out why Brash has gone,” said Mannering, and told her what Wainwright had reported.
The journey to Midham was an hour and a half ’s run through the deserted country roads. Mannering stopped for nothing, slowing down only when he saw a sign-post reading: Midham. The only sign of life was a solitary policeman trying the handles of doors in the wide High Street. The signs outside two hotels were illuminated, and Mannering could see the painted sign hanging from the wall of another pub – the Horsebox. This was in darkness. He pulled into the car park at one side, and walked round the little pub, with its low, tiled roof and its white walls and dark oak beams. There was a slight smell of beer, but all the windows on the ground floor were closed, and the three doors were shut and locked.
If Wainwright had come back here from Dragon’s End, he would have been waiting.
Mannering drove off. In his driving-mirror he saw the flash of the constable’s torch.
He drove straight through tire town, a huddle of houses with a square-towered church at one end. Soon the headlights swung up a steep hill. Half-way up, he saw the white posts of a drive.
He slowed down, and turned off the road on to a grass verge. He fitted some thin adhesive tape to his fingers, to prevent finger-prints, then switched off all the lights, got out, and walked up to the gates. The stars were out, but there was no moon and he could see very little.
He walked briskly up the gravel drive.
He expected to hear a call from Wainwright, but none came. There were the rustling sounds of the night, that was all. At last the curving drive straightened out and, a black mass at the end of the drive, he saw the house, blotting out the stars.
Manning drew nearer.
There were no lights at the window, nothing to suggest that Wainwright or anyone else was here. But Wainwright wouldn’t let him down, he would have been waiting if he were able to wait.
He had been attacked once. One man had used a gun. There might be others, also armed. Wainwright might have walked into trouble. Mannering, hand in his pocket about a small automatic, kept to the side of the drive, making little sound, and drew nearer to Dragon’s End.
Then he saw something move, and heard the scrape of footsteps on gravel. He stopped abruptly, and strained his eyes to see who it was.
A man.
The man was coming nearer, but unless he switched on his torch Mannering wouldn’t be able to see who it was. He stood in the blackness of the side of the tree-lined drive, and the other drew nearer, walking stealthily, a dark shape against the light of the stars.
Then he stopped.
“Mr. Mannering,” he whispered. “It’s me, Wainwright. Are you there?” His voice sounded husky, as it would be if he was scared out of his wits.
“All right, Ned,” Mannering called, and stepped out of the cover. “Take it easy. Who—?”
He heard the movement behind him as he spoke. His heart leapt wildly when he realised that he’d been watched, followed, fooled. He spun round. He felt a heavy, glancing blow on his shoulder, then saw two men leap forward.
Wainwright threw himself bodily at one of them, while Mannering fought to keep his balance.
Chapter Ten
Dragon’s End
Wainwright collided with the man he’d rushed at. The man who had attacked Mannering struck again, his weapon whistling through the air. Mannering swayed to one side, took out his gun, was half-prepared for shooting. None came. He heard the gasping and grunting from Wainwright and the other man, and saw his own assailant raise the weapon. He thrust out his foot. The man tripped over it and dropped the weapon, which clanged on the ground. Mannering went for him, but the man turned and fled. He didn’t cry out, didn’t wait to see what had happened to his accomplice, just fled down the drive.
The other two were still battling it out.
They parted, and Wainwright’s face became visible. The other man turned and started to run, but almost fell into Mannering’s arms. Mannering jabbed him beneath the chin.
“Catch, Ned,” Mannering called mildly.
Wainwright grabbed the falling man.
Mannering chuckled, partly in relief. “We’ll get along! No need to be too gentle with him. Did you know they were about?”
“No, I—” Wainwright was gasping for breath. “No, I thought I saw a car’s headlights, just now, and thought—thought it might be you. You all—right?”
“Fine.”
“Brash—” began Wainwright, and then paused for breath again. “Brash is in—the house.”
“Sure?” Mannering asked sharply.
“Yes, he—he broke in. Climbed through a window.” Wainwright’s voice was a hoarse, excited whisper. “It was only ten minutes ago. His car’s on a cart-track near by. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to follow or not, but decided I’d better not let myself get caught on enclosed premises. I thought if he stole anything we’d find it at his hotel.”
“Or in his pockets,” Mannering said softly. “Ten minutes ago?”
“Yes.”
“Which window?”
“I’ll show you,” said Wainwright, “but—” He looked down at the man who was lying on the ground, a dark shape against the light gravel. “What about him? We can’t let him get away, can we?”
“I’ll break his neck if he does,
” Mannering said as if he meant it. “You didn’t think to bring any cord with you, I suppose?”
He couldn’t see Wainwright’s face; but he could imagine what the youngster looked like, judging from the tone of his voice.
“Well, no, I didn’t think—”
“You do his wrists,” Mannering said, “I’ll do his ankles.” He took two small twists of cord from his pocket. “And we’ll see if he’s in a mood to talk.”
He went down on one knee – and the prisoner darted up, struck at his face, tried to scramble to his feet. Mannering clipped him on the side of the jaw again, and he dropped back.
“Be careful, Mr. Mannering,” Wainwright urged.
The prisoner exclaimed, “Mannering! It’s not—” He broke off.
“Next time you try any tricks, you’ll get hurt,” Mannering said. “What were you after?”
“Listen, Mannering. If—if I squeal, will you let me go?”
“Squeal, and find out.”
“To hell with that! Will you?”
Mannering hesitated. He didn’t want a prisoner; taking the man to the police would mean admitting that he had come to Dragon’s End, could lead to complications that certainly wouldn’t help. Bill Brash was inside this house, and probably Bill Brash was much more significant than this prisoner.
He said, “I wouldn’t be able to prove whether you told me the truth, would I?”
“Mr. Mannering, you can’t—” began Wainwright, in what sounded like a shocked whisper.
“Give me a break,” the prisoner whispered. “I’ve heard plenty about you, got a good name, you ’ave. Never thought I’d talk to Mr. Mannering. Listen, I’m working with Bill Brash, see. He’s inside. Two of us were keeping cave. Thought—thought you were a copper.”
It was very smooth. Too smooth?
“What does Brash want?” demanded Mannering.
“He’s after anything he can get. Knows Smith’s away, it’s a good chance, never be a better.”
“Brash and who else?” demanded Mannering.
