A Sword For the Baron (12 page)

In the corner of a cupboard built onto the wall was some fine powder in a stiff cardboard box. He sniffed this, but it had no particular odour. He rubbed it between his fingers; it was something like salt, but a putty colour. He put a pinch of this into a matchbox, wrapped the box inside his piece of leather, took a last look round, and left the room.

Could he assume that Sara had made that sheath?

He went back into the other flat; it was still empty. He went out by the front door, seeing a car parked at the far end of the mews. He pulled the cap well down over his forehead, and limped towards the street. Once out of sight, he took off the raincoat and cap, bundled them into the back of the Rapier, and took the wheel. It was nearly two o'clock. He had just time to drive to Quinns, and as he pulled up outside, the crippled assistant appeared. He came outside, and Mannering said: “Good morning. Ask Josh to get this leather identified and the powder which is inside the matchbox. He'll know what to do.”

“I'm sure he will,” the other said, and gave a quick smile. �

 

 

Lorna looked at the girl lying in bed at the small private nursing home near Sloane Square. For the moment, Sara was calm and apparently composed. She had applied lipstick in a scarlet gash which gave a kind of gypsy garishness to a face which needed much more care in make-up. She had a fine bone formation and beautiful eyes, Lorna saw – quite exceptional eyes, of a colour that seemed hardly natural, a rare, soft blue. Her corn coloured hair was brushed and tossed carelessly back from her broad forehead. Doctors, nurses, and the sister here had said that she would not talk to them about anything except food and drink, and getting up and leaving here. Lorna had seen her expression when the nurse had entered; almost a hatred. The nurse had announced hurriedly: “Mrs Mannering has come to see you, Miss Gentian,” and left the room quickly.

The sun shone in at a corner of the window, reflecting on a glass of pink antiseptic on the bedside table, reflecting also from the thermometer sticking out of the jar.

“I think you know my husband,” Lorna said. “He asked me to come and see you.”

Sara lay on her back, staring.

“He thinks that you might be able to help him,” Lorna went on.

Unexpectedly, the girl spoke. “You mean that he wants me to help him. Why does everyone think that I'm a fool? I'm not ill, I am not a fool, I know exactly what I want – and most of all I want to get out of this prison.”

“It's quite a pleasant nursing home.”

“It's a home for the insane!”

“Don't be silly,” Lorna said sharply. “You're obviously not well, and you have to be looked after for a day or two. It isn't any use blinking at the truth any more than it's worth exaggerating your illness. My husband—”

“Who
is
your husband?” Sara demanded.

So she hadn't heard the name which the nurse had given.

“John Mannering,” Lorna answered.

The change came into Sara's eyes almost at once; it showed at her lips, too. They tightened, then parted very stiffly. For a moment she showed a glimpse of her teeth. Then she eased herself up on one arm, staring intently, eyes glittering. She had not yet uttered a word, and yet seemed breathless.

“
John
Mannering – of
Quinns
?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God, I didn't realise it!” Sara cried. She scrambled forward to the foot of the bed, kneeling on it, only a foot away from Lorna: she reminded Lorna of a young girl. “Mrs Mannering, he's got to take that sword back to Gentian House! You've got to make him. Do you understand me, he must take it back to Lord Gentian's house.”

“But why?” asked Lorna, gently.

“It doesn't matter why. I tell you that he's got to take it back, it's vital. Vital, don't you understand? Vital.”

Lorna saw the shimmering in those beautiful eyes, the way Sara's lips were parted, the way her provocative young bosom heaved; whatever else, she believed what she said. It mattered desperately to her, and was undoubtedly part of the reason for her fear.

“Mrs Mannering, you must make sure your husband takes it back!”

“I don't think I can persuade him,” Lorna said. “You might, though.”

“Where is he? Why doesn't he come to see me? Why can't I go to see
him
?”

“You can come and see him, at our flat,” Lorna assured her. “He's away from the flat and the shop for most of the afternoon but if you care to come and wait until he gets home—”

Sara caught her breath, and leaned back, still on her knees. Her hands were held in front of her, fingertips almost touching; she looked like a child in prayer.

“They won't let me leave here,” she said pathetically. “You'll have to help to smuggle me out.”

“They'll let you leave.”

“They won't, I tell you! I tried to get away last night. I went to beg my uncle to get the sword back, but they said he wasn't in.”

“
Who
said that?”

“His butler. And—and they gave me a cup of milk, and two aspirins. I must have been so exhausted that I went off to sleep – and I came round here. You'll have to smuggle me out. It's the only way.”

It was one way, Lorna realised – and it would serve John's purpose, too, by getting the girl to Green Street without anyone knowing. Once she realised that, she entered into the “conspiracy” with a will, found an excited Sara's clothes, lent Sara her own coat, watched while she was dressing and led the way to the lift, downstairs, and out by the servants' entrance of the nursing home.

It seemed to Lorna that Sara was doing the thing she wanted most in all the world.

 

Lord Gentian sat at the huge desk in the library when Mannering went in, earlier in the afternoon. It was exactly two fifteen. Orde had let him in, and the butler had hovered in the background. Coffee was on a corner of the desk, not on the low table where Lorna had had it the previous night. Orde looked fatter and more untidy than ever, and his lips kept working, as if he wanted to speak, but would not allow himself to – possibly because he was afraid of his uncle.

“Good afternoon, Mr Mannering,” Gentian welcomed. His eyes seemed very bright. “You have no objection to my nephew's presence, I imagine.”

Orde seemed to mutter: “I should damned well think not.”

“It might even help,” said Mannering.

“Good. What precisely do you want to know, Mr Mannering?”

“I want to know why you brought me the Mogul Sword of Victory, and why you told me the cock and bull story about its pair being stolen,” Mannering said mildly.

“My dear Mr Mannering—”

“I told you, all he would do is insult you,” Orde declared hotly. “You shouldn't have wasted your time.”

“Claude, if you can't control your temper you had better go,” Gentian said, but he did not force the issue. “I told you the simple truth, Mr Mannering. The pair to the sword was stolen from here three years ago. My niece stole it. I hoped that you would find this out, and that you would be able to bring enough pressure to bear on her to return it. I hoped that by coming to you I would avoid a family scandal, but it is beginning to look as if that is unavoidable. I trust you will understand why I said so little when I called at your shop. It is never pleasant to have to admit that a close member of one's family is insane, but – that is the truth of it. I hoped that if you could trace the lost sword to her – and I would have given you sufficient clues, I think – that this would have shocked her into returning it. I think she is as reluctant to go to the police as I. But after the two attempts at self-destruction – I don't see how the story can be hushed up any longer. The truth is that she has always been unstable. That is one reason why I made little attempt to control her extravagances, her association with a worthless set of Society people, but now – the truth
will
leak out, you know. And in view of that I think it probably better to tell the newspapers the whole story. There will be less risk of distortion.”

“You mean, tell the Press that she is mad, and that she stole the other sword?” demanded Mannering.

“Tell the Press that she is suffering from a serious mental ailment, and that she has delusions. She believes, of course, that the sword belongs to her.”

Mannering asked: “Does it?”

“Why don't you throw him out?” Orde growled. “Or else let me.”

Gentian ignored him.

“No, Mr Mannering, it does not. One Mogul Sword was part of my inheritance when I inherited the title, this house, and everything that goes with the estate, including a very sizeable portion of the City of London. Sara's grandfather, my brother, received the other sword and a considerable inheritance. He gave me his sword, knowing my love for it, and being indifferent himself. Sara is not poor. She is not by any means poor, in fact. However, she has some curious kind of fixation that one of the swords should have been hers. I tell you that it is a fixation, or a delusion. The second sword was freely given to me. Sara—”

“She's mad!” Orde blurted out.

“Who will inherit this house and everything you have when you die?” asked Mannering.

“That's no damned business of yours!”

“Claude,” interrupted Gentian, “I don't want to warn you again.” He talked to Orde as if to a schoolboy, but lacked the complete authority that he needed – as a weak parent might lack control over a child. “Why do you ask, Mr Mannering?”

“If your niece is likely to inherit, and if she should be certified as insane, then presumably someone will manage the estate for her, even if he doesn't inherit it. Who—”

Orde said in a strangled voice: “I'll break your neck for that.”

“Claude!” cried Gentian.

Orde ignored him, and launched himself at Mannering. Mannering thrust out his right leg, straight from his chair. Orde ran into it. He gasped with pain and staggered away, but as he fetched up against the table Mannering knew that he wasn't finished. Gentian shouted again. Mannering placed his hands on the arms of the chair and hoisted himself to his feet. Orde came rushing. Mannering rammed a clenched left fist to his stomach, and gave him a chopping blow on the back of the neck. Orde pitched forward, screeching, but managed to twist round before pitching into the chair. Mannering saw his right hand at his waist. Mannering also saw Gentian from the corner of his eye – half out of his chair, mouth wide open.

There was no time to worry about Gentian.

Mannering backed to the table, as Orde pulled out a knife – perhaps the one which had been used the previous night. It caught the sunlight at the window, dazzling.

“
Throw that down!
” cried Gentian.

Orde said in a thick, throaty voice: “I'll teach him. My God, I'll teach him.” He moved forward slowly, the knife held in front of him, thumb on top of the handle, ready to thrust it forward.

“
Claude!
”

Orde leapt, thrusting. Mannering stepped to one side and struck at the wrist of the knife hand, caught it, made the knife drop from nerveless fingers. Orde bent down, snatching at it. Mannering kicked it away, and as Orde went scrambling after it, tripped him up. He pitched forward, cracking his forehead on the parquet floor. Mannering went behind him, swiftly, bent down, and grasped his right hand. He brought it behind his back and forced it upwards in a hammerlock. Only an extra twist was needed to snap Orde's arm, and Mannering had never felt more like giving it. One ounce of pressure, one twist – and
crack
! He felt that he hated this man – and whatever happened now, surely no one could blame him.

Gentian was out of his chair.

“Mannering, you'll break his arm. Mannering!”

Sweat was beading Mannering's forehead. He would never know just how menacing he had looked, how the veins stood out like whipcord at his neck, how his body quivered. He felt Gentian's hand, and slowly relaxed his grip.

“Go and pick up that knife,” he ordered.

“Don't—don't break his arm.”

“I would much rather break his neck.” Mannering waited for Gentian to pick up the knife, held out his free hand, took it, and let Orde go. Orde pitched forward and lay on the floor, gasping, as if all the strength had been drained from his body. Mannering looked down at the bright steel of the blade with the knife on the flat of his left hand. “If anyone in this family is mad, Orde is,” he said. “He tried to kill me last night. He tried to kill me now.”

“No, Mannering, I assure you—”

Mannering said: “I've stopped believing anything you tell me.” He was breathing very hard as he moved, knife in hand, towards Orde. Orde was moving up and down on his flabby stomach, and making even more noise than before. Mannering took his right arm, hauled him to his feet, and twisted him round. Orde's eyes were filled with tears of pain, and his nose was puffy where he had banged it on the floor.

“You took the miniature sword from Sara's flat, and you used a knife on me at the window last night. Why did you do it?”

“
Knife?
”

“Why did you do it?” Mannering demanded. He held the knife as if he were prepared to use it. Orde glanced down at it, petrified.

“I—I didn't! I—I was in the courtyard all the time. I couldn't have done it.”

“You did it,” Mannering said. “You also stole the miniature sword. Why?”

“I tell you I don't know anything about it!”

“Gentian,” said Mannering, “dial Whitehall 1212.”

“The—police?”

“Try not to pretend that you're a fool, too,” Mannering said roughly. “Dial Scotland Yard and ask for Superintendent Bristow.”

“What purpose—” Gentian began.

“I want to tell him that I've got the man who stole the miniature sword. Orde went away from the mews, came back, entered the flat from next door – by the wall cabinet – stole the miniature and left the way he had come.”

Orde was quivering. “You—you
know
that?”

“I know,” Mannering said. “David Levinson is on a charge for that job, and I want him cleared. Dial the number.”

“Claude, can you know anything about this?” Gentian sounded as if it was unthinkable.

“He knows,” Mannering said roughly. “The police will, soon.”

Orde muttered: “Don't—don't call the police.” He was sweating freely, and looked a wreck. “I—I did—I did take it, yes. I didn't want—want you to find out what Sara was doing. I didn't mean to kill—”

“Claude, what are you saying?” Gentian's voice became shrill. “You were down here with me when Mr Mannering was climbing up to the roof last night. You couldn't have used—used a
knife
?”

Orde muttered: “I—I went up by the servants' lift. It's no use lying, I—I wanted to stop Mannering. Don't you understand?”