A Sword For the Baron (10 page)

“I don't think anyone would be able to prove that it was a knife thrust,” Mannering remarked. “Now do you see why I didn't tell the police?”

“I want to know the real reason,” Lorna said. “And I want to know why you handled Gentian and Orde with velvet gloves.”

 

 

It would not be long before Lorna was angry. She was suffering from a form of delayed shock, of course – the moment when she had looked up and seen him clinging like a spider to the side of the house must have been terrifying. She could not understand what had influenced him; until now, he could not fully understand himself. He had acted as he had believed best; instinctively. To give a rational explanation of an instinctive action was never easy.

“Let's dab some antiseptic on that and stick on a dry dressing,” Mannering suggested. “Then I'll try to explain.”

Ten minutes later, undressed, lying in his bed and looking across at Lorna, he went on: “I wanted time to find out what the police know about Sara Gentian. They were so insistent on taking her away that they may have thought she was in danger at the house – and they may give her a blood test for drugs. That's one reason. For another – Orde seems to be scared out of his wits, whether he's the would-be killer or not. I'm not sure of Gentian yet, but doubt if he feels very secure. They will have had a night to worry. In the morning they'll be on edge wondering how much I know or guess. They won't know whether I realised that I was attacked, either – they'll think I probably do, and will be worked up wondering why I didn't say so, and whether I've told the police. I want them to stew in their own juice for the night.”

He wondered if that would satisfy Lorna. It was as far as he could go.

“I suppose I see what you mean,” she conceded. “It's just like you, but sometimes I agree with Bristow,” she went on almost angrily. “You take wild risks for anyone except for yourself. When I saw you on that wall—”

“Here, my sweet!” exclaimed Mannering. “Don't start crying!” He pushed back his bedclothes and slid out of his bed and into hers. “It's all right, darling. I'm still around!”

She was half crying.

“I know you are,” she said hoarsely. “But it might have been fatal. Don't you see what it means? You're in danger, as well as the girl. David Levinson is, too. Where is it going to end?”

Half an hour later, when she lay asleep next to him, Mannering found himself asking the same question.

 

Lorna was bright enough in the morning, as if he had soothed and she had slept away her fears.

Ethel was her lively self.

The newspapers, including the
Globe,
carried the story of David Levinson's arrest, but none of them made it a front page headline – only the
Globe
appeared to have realised that David worked at Quinns, and Chittering had managed to tone down the story. The
Daily Picture
carried a full-page coloured photograph of the Sword of Victory with a potted history of it, and an equally potted history of Lord Gentian's career. Mannering himself was not mentioned in any of the Press reports.

“What are you going to do this morning?” Lorna inquired; the undertone in her voice suggested that she meant to have a say in the answer.

“See Plender, hear the case in Court, go bail for David, see Bristow and Gentian if I've time, but he may have to wait, after all. I shall lunch with my wife, who will have spent the morning among her friends finding out what she can about Sara Gentian. The smart set should know.”

“I ought to keep you in chains,” Lorna said.

At half past nine, his knee still a little stiff, Mannering called at the Holborn offices of Toby Plender, an old friend and his legal adviser. The office was in a new modern block, all light, glass, silent lifts, and silent passages. Toby looked like an overgrown Punch transplanted out of his Victorian age.

He never minced words.

“I don't know what's got into Levinson, but he seems to think that you deliberately let him in for this. I persuaded him to say nothing in court, just plead not guilty, and to reserve his defence; I hope he won't make any outburst against you.”

“Is there a serious risk?”

“I wouldn't leave it out of account,” Plender warned. “I'll be in court myself, but I don't think you should be.”

“If I'm not, he'll probably think that it means I'm not really interested,” Mannering said. “I'd better be there. What time is the hearing?”

“I managed to make sure that it won't be before half past eleven,” Plender said. “John, I had a call from Chittering of the
Globe
last night.”

“Oh, did you,” said Mannering, warily.

“He thinks that you're out of your depth in this. Are you?”

Mannering grinned. “Way out,” he admitted. “Did Chittering talk about Gentian being squeezed by some of the big financial interests in the City?”

“Yes.”

“How serious is that?”

“If they want to squeeze Gentian out they'll find a way of doing it,” Plender declared. “And yet—” he shrugged. “I don't believe that any of these interests would use the methods that are being used. I doubt if Chittering's right when he says that he thinks some of them might employ men who will use violence. What's your opinion?”

“When I know for certain why Gentian brought me the Mogul Sword of Victory, I might have one,” Mannering replied. “Do you know Gentian's lawyers?”

“Yes. Hebble, White, and Hebble, of Lincoln's Inn.”

“You might ask them if they can tell you what happened over Gentian and the Mogul Swords in the Gentian family,” Mannering said. “I've got Chittering searching the newspapers. If you could slide in a question about whether Gentian ever told them that one of the swords had been stolen – that might help too. I'm not sure whether those swords are the cause of this, or a red herring. I need to find out.”

“They're a pretty stuffy firm,” Plender said. “They won't go an inch beyond the protocol. I'll see what I can do, though. I wish you wouldn't come to court this morning. In the mood Levinson was in last night he's quite capable of standing up and accusing you.”

 

Levinson's eyes were glittering, his cheeks were pale; he gave the impression of a man who hadn't slept. He looked round the court twice before seeing Mannering; then his eyes narrowed, and he stared as if accusingly. Plender, down in the well of the court, shuffled his papers as if to try to distract his attention. The greying, black-clad magistrate's clerk read the charge in a fussy manner. Levinson stood in the wooden dock, gripping the brass rail as if oblivious of the warder behind him and the two policemen nearby.

“And what have you to say to this?” the magistrate inquired. He was a man in his early forties, gentle-voiced, sandy-haired.

“My client—” began Plender.

“I would like the accused to speak for himself, if you
don't
mind.”

“As your honour pleases,” murmured Plender.

“Well, have you anything to say?” The magistrate shifted his glasses closer to his eyes.

“I'm not guilty,” Levinson answered sharply.

“Thank you – enter a plea of not guilty, please.” The magistrate seemed almost too anxious to be pleasant and polite. “What witnesses have we, now?”

The tall, lanky Cockney detective stepped into the witness box, took the oath, gave his name as Jeffery Hickson, and simply deposed that he had gone to the accused's flat, searched it with the accused's permission, and found the stolen property.

“Have you any questions, Mr Plender?” the magistrate asked.

“On a point of clarification, your honour,” Plender said. “Did I understand the witness to say that he searched Mr Levinson's flat with Mr Levinson's permission?”

“Is that so?” the magistrate asked the witness.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you satisfied, Mr Plender?”

“Fully satisfied that my client had nothing to hide,” Plender said, and smiled warmly. “My client has pleaded not guilty and is quite confident that he will be able to establish his innocence. I would like to ask the court for bail.”

“Bail. Ah, yes.” The magistrate spoke as if “bail” were something new and intriguing. “What—ah—what do the police think about bail?”

The Cockney Inspector twanged: “We would not object, sir, provided it was large enough.”

“A substantial surety, eh? Yes. I think I will allow bail, in these circumstances, in the sum of, say, two thousand pounds. Yes. Two recognizances of one thousand pounds each would satisfy the Court.” He glanced at Hickson, who made no comment. Mannering was thinking that Bristow must have laid this on and must have a strong motive. “Have you such recognizances, Mr Plender?”

“Yes, sir,” Plender said. “With your permission—”

Levinson was staring at Mannering, and looked as if he could keep quiet no longer. Plender seemed uneasy, too. The men squeezed together in the Press box sensed excitement, and all five looked up eagerly.

Mannering said: “I would like to be one of the sureties, your honour, if I may.”

Levinson opened his lips as if to cry out, but closed them again. The magistrate began to ask the usual questions, the magistrate's clerk to make the usual notes. Mannering went round to the back of the court to sign the necessary papers. Levinson was there, but too many people were about for them to have any word in confidence.

The worst thing was that Levinson seemed to be as hostile as ever.

 

“Bill,” said Mannering, into the telephone at Plender's spick and span office.

“Well,” said Bristow.

“What is the latest report on Sara Gentian?”

“She is recovering.”

“From what?”

“Coal gas poisoning,” Bristow answered. “What else?”

“Did she have another relapse?”

“She ran away from the nursing home, after being allowed to get up and dress – the nurses wanted to humour her, and she was so insistent.”

“I thought your chaps were watching her.”

“They had been. She seemed safe enough where she was.”

“Why didn't Hickson think she would be safe enough at Gentian House last night?”

“We wanted her back where we could keep an eye on her all the time,” Bristow said. “And you needn't say it – we will take better care of her from now on.”

“Bill.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think she's deranged?”

“That's not a question for me to answer – it's one for the doctors.”

“Let me put it another way: she tried to kill herself yesterday afternoon, didn't she?”

“So it appears.”

“Have you taken charge of her in case she tries again?”

“You could put it like that.”

“Or could I put it that you're very anxious to get a full statement from her and you think this is a good excuse to keep her in a nursing home until she will talk to your people?”

“John,” Bristow said, thawing, “the medical advisers say that she must not be moved. She's suffering severely from shock, and from an overdose of veronal which she could have taken herself – she had a supply. I don't know what she will say when she comes round.” After a pause, he went on: “Did you get anything from Lord Gentian?”

“I'm going to see him this morning.”

“Before you do, I want to see the Sword – the big one,” Bristow said. “Where is it?”

“At Quinns, as I told you.”

“I hope it is,” said Bristow.

There had been no word from Quinns during the morning, nothing to suggest that the sword might have been stolen. But Bristow's cryptic comment made Mannering uneasy. He called the shop as soon as he had finished talking to Bristow, staring out of wide glass windows to other wide glass windows where men and women sat at desks as if in another planet.

Larraby answered promptly: “No, sir, there has been nothing untoward. It is true that I have not been down to the strongroom this morning, there has been no occasion to, but if you would like me to go and make sure—”

“Bristow will be at the shop at twelve-thirty,” Mannering said. “We'll go down together.”

He rang off, looked across at Plender's cubist-shaped empty chair, upholstered in a delicate pale pink colour, then dialled Gentian's number. The ringing sound seemed to go on for a long time, but at last Orde answered. Orde seemed incapable of keeping his voice low; it reverberated over the microphone.

“Lord Gentian's residence. Who is that?”

“This is Mannering,” Mannering said. “Will you tell his lordship that I will call on him at two-fifteen, not this morning?”

“Who did you say—” Orde began to bluster.

“Mannering, at two-fifteen,” Mannering repeated, and rang off.

Ten minutes later he took a taxi to Quinns, and as he turned into the street, he saw a police car further along, and Bristow getting out. It was five minutes to half past twelve. Bristow waited for him at the narrow doorway, looking at a magnificent piece of sixteenth century Venetian glass, a peacock of indescribable delicacy and beauty.

“How much is that little ornament?” Bristow inquired.

“Eleven hundred guineas,” Mannering answered easily.

“Daylight robbery,” Bristow declared.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Mannering opened the door and stood aside for him to enter. Any idea that the sword might be missing was absurd, yet the fear was deep in his mind.

It took only three minutes to open the strongroom and the safe in which he had placed the sword. For a second the dark brown sheath fooled him; but it was there, half hidden by shadows. He drew it out. The sword itself seemed solid inside the pliable leather. He still had a feeling that he might have been fooled, but his hands were steady when he opened the flap, and drew out the sword.

Flaming brilliance in all the colours of the rainbow lit up the strongroom.