A Sword For the Baron (3 page)

 

“Hallo, darling,” Lorna said lightly. “Doesn't she love you?”

“Not as much as I love you,” Mannering said. He put his hands at Lorna's shoulders, shifted her to one side, said: “See you,” and hurried towards the foot of the winding staircase which led to the upper floors of this building, which was three centuries old. The stairs, twisting like a corkscrew, and without sufficient head clearance, made haste almost impossible. Mannering did the best he could. He strode across a storeroom and showroom set aside for the glittering elegance of Regency furniture, and reached the tiny window. On either side of this was a mirror, fixed so that he could see the street without being seen.

Sara Gentian was walking quickly towards New Bond Street. There was vigour as well as vitality in her movements; she took long, raking strides. Her hair bobbed up and down with every step. There was something about the way she held her head up which suggested not arrogance but anger.

A taxi passed the end of Hart Row; she hailed it, but it passed. She reached the corner, and turned as if to look towards Quinns. She was biting her underlip. Another taxi came along, and slowed down; the last Mannering saw of Sara was her slender leg drawing into the cab.

Mannering turned round from the window.

“I think she could get you into a lot of trouble,” Lorna said from the doorway. She came in, a tall, handsome woman, not statuesque but not slender in the Sara Gentian way. The red suit set off her colouring, the still dark hair and almost olive complexion, to perfection. She looked lovely. The suit jacket had a trim mink collar and trim mink cuffs – she could not have been better turned out if she had stepped straight out of Dior or Balmain.

“I think she's in a lot of trouble already,” Mannering countered.

“Seriously, Sir Galahad?”

Mannering left the window, went up to his wife, slid his arms round her, and gave her a hug.

“I daren't kiss you,” he said. “That make-up wasn't meant for the likes of me. Where are you going?”

“I'm going to have tea with Topsy Lewis,” Lorna announced, “and I might need some money.”

“Doesn't sound like tea, it sounds more like a shopping spree. How much?”

“Just be generous, darling.”

Mannering took out his wallet, which was nearly empty, put it back, and said: “We'll ask Josh for some.” They went downstairs, holding hands, Lorna a step in front of Mannering; after twenty years of married life they could still behave like this, and take it for granted that they would. “Josh,” Mannering called, “can you find thirty or forty pounds in change? Mrs Mannering wants to cash a cheque.”

“Mean brute,” Lorna complained.

“Of course,” replied Larraby. “Will forty be enough, Mrs Mannering?”

“I think so,” Lorna said. “As I'm spending my own money.” She led the way into the office, but stopped before Mannering could follow, as if the vision of the sword blinded her. The light was different here, and picked out much of the glistening beauty. Mannering actually heard Lorna's intake of breath. At last, she moved towards it, very slowly; without looking round, she said: “This could get you into a lot of trouble, too.”

“It's getting someone into trouble already,” Mannering agreed. “Cup of tea, sweet? – oh, no, you're on the way to a slap up affair.” He contemplated the sword. “Striking, isn't it?”

“It—” Lorna hesitated, searching for the right word, looked round at him, then back at the sword and decided: “It's barbaric.”

“Precisely the right description,” agreed Mannering. “Barbaric.”

“Did she want to sell it to you?”

“If I told you all that Sara Gentian wanted I would make you late for tea and spending,” Mannering said. “I'll tell you the whole story tonight.”

Lorna looked at him, half frowning; then her face cleared. As Larraby came into the office with the money in five and one pound notes, she said: “I was going to warn you not to get too deeply involved, but it would be a waste of breath, wouldn't it? I'll be back soon after six. Try to be home.”

She touched his hand, turned, and hurried out; she seemed to take some of the brightness of the office with her, but the jewelled sword glowed and sparkled. Larraby stood at the doorway, looking at it. One of the younger assistants came and looked over his shoulder; he moistened his lips. This was David Levinson, who had been working as an apprentice at Quinns for a little over a year. He had many qualifications, apart from an inborn love of old, rare, and beautiful objects; he had a social background which gained him
entrée
anywhere, and he knew several languages. Now he looked rather young and awestruck. He was not particularly massive or stocky, but had a lot of wiry strength.

“Not bad, David,” Mannering remarked.

“Er—not bad at all,” Levinson gulped.

“Do you know Sara Gentian?”

“I've met her at the odd party, but I can't pretend that I know her.”

“Does she know you?”

“Shouldn't think she could tell me from a dozen others.”

“Then you're just the man we need. I think she shares a mews flat with a girlfriend. Check on that, will you, and then find out what you can about her, who are her real friends, how rich or poor she is, what her reputation is like.”

Levinson's eyes were already bright.

“Shall I start right away?”

“I can't understand why you haven't started already.”

Levinson laughed, spun round, and seized a telephone directory from Larraby's desk.

The other assistant then on duty, a smaller but rather older man with a pronounced limp, from childhood poliomyelitis, glanced at the front door as some people reached the window and started to talk. The second assistant, Morris Gadby, was dark and pale, with a very high forehead; he looked like an intellectual who had stepped out of the pages of Balzac.

“Are we keeping that here?” inquired Larraby.

“Yes,” said Mannering, “we'll tuck it away down in the strongroom when I've finished looking at it. Better call the insurance office and tell them that it's here, they like to know about the expensive items. When you've finished, come in with me, will you?” He turned towards the door, and added: “No one followed the girl away from here, although I half expected her to have company.”

“It's a puzzling affair, sir, isn't it?”

“Puzzling?” echoed Mannering.

“Yes, it's certainly puzzling,” he went on five minutes later, when Larraby was in the office, with the door firmly closed behind him. He held the sword in his hands while examining it closely beneath the lamp which was now pulled down as far as it would come. The brightness of the scintillas actually hurt the eye. Larraby screwed a glass up into his right eye, and drew closer. “Josh,” Mannering confided, after a minute of absolute silence. “It
is
real.”

“I'm sure there isn't any doubt about it, sir – there is no possibility of a fake. That is one thing established.”

“The girl wanted it back at Gentian House so badly that I thought there might be a special reason – that it might be a copy which she wanted to put back before I'd discovered the deception. Perhaps she really feels that if it isn't put back soon it never will be. I don't think she told me everything, by a long way.” Mannering talked as he placed the sword into Larraby's hands and picked up the leather sheath. This was an outer covering, used only for carrying or storing the weapon. Made of calf leather, it was pliable, and rather like a slender golf club bag, with a cap which fitted over the head of the hilt. Larraby pushed the sword into its scabbard, then slowly into this sheath, and the brilliance gradually faded.

Mannering fastened the cap. “It fits pretty snugly,” he observed. “The outer sheath is fairly new, I would say – made in the last ten or twelve years, I think.”

“Didn't she give any real reason why she was so anxious to get the sword back?” Larraby asked.

“Only sentimental reasons.”

“May I ask why Lord Gentian brought it here?” asked Larraby.

Mannering explained as he took the sword out again, and examined every inch of it, pressing it with his fingernails, looking and feeling for any kind of trick hiding place. He found nothing; the sword seemed solid. He examined the sheath as closely, pushing a long cane into it and moving it round and round inside, to make sure that nothing was inside the sheath.

“Still a puzzle,” he said, musingly. “Let's put it away, Josh.”

They locked the office door, then removed two books from a shelf behind the desk – the first step necessary to open the strongroom, which was electronically controlled. Very few people could open it; and Mannering did not think it could be opened except by someone who knew the secrets of its control. Soon, boards in a corner of the floor slid apart – the centuries-old floor had been cunningly adapted – and revealed a narrow flight of cement steps. Light came on automatically. Mannering went down, leaving Larraby upstairs in the office.

He had a strange feeling, which would not leave him; that he was holding danger in his hands.

Lorna had felt it, too, and Larraby had been uneasy almost from the moment that he had seen the sword. Call it premonition, call it excess of caution, call it foolishness – whatever the explanation, the fact remained that he wished the sword was not here.

He opened one of ten safes standing against the wall, using a key and two electronic control switches. There was ample room inside for the Mogul Sword of Victory. He placed it inside, stood back for a moment, closed the door and set the controls again. He was still uneasy; it was almost as if he expected to run into trouble when he reached the top of the steps.

Larraby, studying the leather-bound book, sat at Mannering's desk. His hair looked like a cluster of fresh fallen snow. He was reading quite small print without glasses, and was very intent. He glanced up, and jumped to his feet.

“I didn't hear you coming, sir.”

“Reading all about the sword's history?” asked Mannering. He watched as Larraby pushed the books back into position, and as the opening to the strongroom closed. There was a faint click before the room became quite normal again, looking as if it had not been disturbed for years.

“I recollect hearing more about the swords than it gives us in the book,” Larraby said. “I can't remember very clearly. I think there was some kind of scandal about them, when I was very young. When Lord Gentian was young, too. Do you remember reading about it?”

“No. Find out what you can, will you?”

“I will indeed. I've been thinking over what you told me, sir. This warning telephone call was quite remarkable, wasn't it – with this talk about a matter of life and death.”

“Very remarkable,” Mannering agreed.

“Could Lord Gentian have put him up to that?” suggested Larraby. When Mannering didn't answer, the manager went on: “Lord Gentian obviously wanted to get the sword away from his house tonight, and Miss Gentian was as anxious to get it back. There must be special significance in that.”

“Not a doubt,” Mannering agreed.

“May I ask you, sir, whether you are more inclined to believe his lordship or his lordship's niece?”

“I'd like to believe ‘em both,” Mannering said. “But there isn't much more we can do now, Josh. Let's forget it until we hear from David.”

It was not so easy to forget. First the old man, then the lovely girl, their conflicting stories, the tensions and fears – and his own and Larraby's disquiet. Mannering remembered Lorna's quick reaction – she would soon be uneasy if she let herself go. He wondered what she was buying, and what she had really thought of Sara Gentian.

A middle-aged secretary came downstairs with a dozen letters for Mannering to sign. Most were for airmail, some to America, one to Japan, one to Moscow, one to Teheran. All were in answer to inquiries or offers for the sale of priceless objects. There was romance and beauty as well as money in Quinns' business.

His telephone bell rang, and he lifted the receiver.

“Mannering speaking,” he said.

“Mr Mannering, it's David.” Levinson's voice was tense, as if with excitement. “Can you come to Miss Gentian's flat at once, sir. It's Number 3, Hillbery Mews, just behind Cadogan Square. I'm afraid that Miss Gentian has met with an accident.”

 

 

Accident? thought Mannering.

He was sitting in the back of a taxi, less than five minutes after receiving the message. London was warming up to its rush hour. The throb of engines was rising all the time, the clatter of footsteps and the cackle of voices was unceasing. He had never seen the pavements more crowded, nor the traffic much thicker, but they made progress, slowly as far as Park Lane, faster towards the new roundabouts at Hyde Park Corner, slowly again towards Knightsbridge. The driver turned off towards Cadogan Square, as if trying to remember exactly where Hillbery Mews was: Mannering had a feeling that it was not far from the big new Carlton Tower Hotel, Americans' home from home. His driver took some short cuts, and stopped at a narrow entrance to the mews.

“Won't be able to turn round if I get inside,” he announced.

“That's all right.” Mannering paid the man off and walked along the cobbled roadway leading to the mews. He saw three doors, two of them painted black, one of them powder blue – like Sara Gentian's two-piece suit. This door had a little porch, and looked rather like a country cottage; all one missed were red ramblers. All three doors were closed. There was in fact just room to get a small car in, but little to manoeuvre; the mews had been cut in two by the walls of a mammoth new block of flats.

There was no sign of David; no sign of anyone. The windows of two black painted houses had window boxes ablaze with geraniums and deep blue lobelia; there was no window box outside the blue painted window. Each house, or maisonette, was very small – tinier than most mews residences in London.

Mannering went to the door painted blue, and as he did so, it opened.

“Come in, sir.” David Levinson's voice was pitched at a whisper.

Mannering stepped into the tiny hall. There was barely headroom for a tall man, and he was over six feet tall. A short flight of steps led up from the end of the passage, and two doors led off to the right.

“Where is she?” Mannering asked, bending down slightly.

“In the bedroom, sir – I thought it best to take her up there.”

“Why take her anywhere?” demanded Mannering. “What happened?”

As he spoke, he sniffed; and immediately identified the smell of gas. He did not press Levinson any more but his heart began to beat fast. The second door on the right was ajar. Levinson looked pale, and was breathing hard. Usually he had rather a high colour. He was Jewish, although that was not immediately apparent, and when he filled out he would be a very impressive man. At the moment he was too thin.

“I found her sitting in the kitchen, sir, with—with the gas full on. The gas oven and the taps. I did my best to get rid of the odour without attracting attention. I don't think anyone in the other houses has any idea of what's happened.”

“How is she?”

“She'll be all right,” Levinson assured him. He led the way up the stairs and pushed the door at the top open. It was rather like a hotel. A bathroom led off on the right, and the bedroom itself had a big window, overlooking the side of another new building. But it was quite light and bright. It was furnished in contemporary style, with blues and yellows predominating; Sara Gentian had no doubt of her favourite colours.

She lay on the bed.

Mannering glanced at Levinson with a new respect and new understanding. The younger man had taken off the unconscious woman's skirt, unzipped her suspender belt, and unfastened the suspenders. She lay on her back, head turned towards the door, eyes closed, red lips vivid. It was one of two divan beds, and Levinson must have pulled it away from the wall so that he could get behind it, and give Sara the kind of artificial respiration she needed for this particular kind of emergency – the usual method, with her lying on her face, could have been fatal. Mannering stepped across and felt her pulse. She was breathing quite evenly, and the beat was regular. There was no sign of bruising.

“She couldn't have been under for long,” Levinson said.

“She can't have been home much more than an hour,” Mannering pointed out. “What do you make of it?”

“I keep wondering why she should come straight from Quinns and do this,” said Levinson, looking at Mannering as if for an explanation. “You didn't—you didn't do or say anything that would drive her to this kind of desperation, did you?”

“If a highly strung woman is at the end of her tether, even a casual word can end up in this,” Mannering reminded him. “She didn't get what she came to me for, it's true.” He was remembering that he had warned her of the consequences of slander; could that have tipped the scales? He remembered how she had changed, too; how frightened she had seemed when she knew that her uncle had said that the missing sword had been stolen. Could that have frightened her to this extreme?

In the short time that he had known her, nothing had suggested she was so distracted.

“How did you find her?”

“I broke in.”

“Why?”

“There was no answer when I knocked, but I was pretty sure that she was in,” the younger man answered. “I asked a workman repairing the electricity cable in the street if he'd seen anyone come, and he told me that a woman in blue had got out of a taxi and come hurrying here, about half an hour before I arrived. Then I looked through the letter box, and—well, sir, I have a very keen sense of smell. It didn't seem the right time to stand on ceremony, so I forced the door. You may remember suggesting that I learned the way to open the more common locks, in case we needed to open a lock of a cabinet or bookcase or a cupboard at the shop – and it intrigued me. This is a mortice lock, so all I needed was a skeleton key. I hope it was the right thing to do.”

“It was right,” agreed Mannering. “You could have sent for the police.”

“Did we
want
a scandal? The police would have led to the newspapers, wouldn't they?”

“Why didn't you think we wanted scandal?”

“Someone would find out that Miss Gentian had been to Quinns and come straight back here and tried to kill herself. I thought that the good name of the firm—”

Levinson talked very quickly, going red as he spoke; to Mannering he seemed very young. He had very big, black, curling lashes – a woman's lashes and a woman's eyes. As Mannering looked at him, he began to stammer, then suddenly gulped and burst out: “Well, I didn't want to get her picture in the papers, did I? You know what a sensation they would have made.
Society Jane Tries to Gas Herself.
But it was partly because of Quinns,” he added, defensively.

Mannering grinned. “You'll do. Now let's have a look at the kitchen.”

They went downstairs, leaving the bedroom door ajar so that a current of air passed through the room – fresh air that Sara Gentian needed so badly. She could not have been out long, and might wake up soon. Levinson, looking much broader at the shoulders when one was immediately behind him, led the way into a small modern kitchen. It was in black and white, with no blue anywhere. Every modern gadget seemed to have been squeezed in, from an eye level gas oven to a washing-up machine. A tall fridge stood almost as high as the ceiling. That modern gas oven, its door wide open, was ideal for suicide; one only had to sit on a chair, lean forward with one's head on one's hand, and breathe in the gas. A chair stood to one side, a spiky legged modern thing, doubtless more comfortable than it looked.

“She was sitting on that,” Levinson volunteered.

“Show me how.”

“Show—” the younger man began. Then he pulled the chair up, sat down, hesitated, slowly folded his arms on the front of the table top at the side of the gas oven, and faced the door. With the door half open, the full force of the gas would pour out on him as he faced it. After a moment, he moved his left arm to close the oven door so that the opening was very close to his face. He stayed like that for several seconds. Mannering watched, acutely aware of the residual smell of gas.

“Thanks,” he said at last.

“What's in your mind?” inquired Levinson.

“Have you touched the taps much?”

“Only to turn them off.”

“We ought to test them for fingerprints,” Mannering said.

“You mean—” Levinson's eyes rounded. “You mean this might not be attempted suicide? Good God!”

“So you took it for granted.”

“I suppose I did, rather. But—who would want—”

“That's one of the things we have to find out quickly,” Mannering said. “David, I'm going to talk to Scotland Yard, and have them come over here and test the place for prints. That's the only way to have the job done thoroughly. We can report a breaking and entering, needn't say what really happened.”

“But they'll know what happened if we ask them to test the gas taps!”

“It will still be on the record as a break-in,” Mannering assured him. “Go upstairs and make sure that if Miss Gentian wakes up she doesn't come down yet, will you?”

“Mr Mannering—”

“The quicker the better.”

“Mr Mannering,
she will come round within half an hour. It can't make any difference whether we wait for that long.” Levinson was very forthright, his voice a little too loud. “If she did do it herself, then we needn't have the police at all. She'll tell us as soon as she wakes up – she won't be able to lie about it if she's questioned without warning.”

It wasn't his day, thought Mannering; first the girl had outwitted and now this youngster outgeneralled him. Levinson was quite right. Levinson, on the other hand, had no reason to feel as sure as he that Sara Gentian had not tried to take her own life. She had been too vital, too intense in every way.

Or was he wrong?

“All right, we'll give her a chance to come round,” he conceded. “Do you know who she lives with?”

“No. I didn't have time to make any inquiries,” Levinson replied. “Good job I came straight round here. Good job you sent me, for that matter. Did you half anticipate—”

“I wanted to know if she was going to report to someone else as soon as she left Quinns,” Mannering told him. “Whether she had come to me of her own accord, or whether anyone had sent her.” He told Levinson the story which he had already repeated twice, and his thoughts roamed as he talked. He had nearly finished when there was a sound outside. He paused, and thought he heard someone approaching the front door.

“Someone's coming,” Levinson said hastily. “A man, I'd say.”

It was a man; hurrying. In fact he seemed almost to run the last few steps, and iron tipped heels click-clacked on the cobbles. After a second or so, there was a sharp ring at the front doorbell, a battery type which fitted to the back of the door; it made a loud rasping sound.

“Go and stay with the girl,” Mannering ordered. “I'll see who this is.”

“He'll want to know—”

“Go and do what I tell you.”

Levinson flushed, then stepped out of the kitchen and went up the stairs. Mannering waited until he heard his footsteps overhead. The bell rang again, harsh, urgent. He went slowly to the front hall, wishing that there was a way in which he could see who it was before opening the door. He waited until the third ring, then heard a metallic sound at about waist level. A streamer of light came in through the letter box, and he heard a man call: “Sara! Let me in. Sara!”

Mannering opened the door.

A man gasped in surprise, and backed away hastily, still at the crouch. The first thing Mannering noticed was his nearly bald head, the next his round, plump face, the next his untidy shirt, collar, and tie. He missed a step, stumbled, grabbed at the wall to save himself, and slowly straightened up.

“Who—who—are you?” he demanded. His voice was unexpectedly deep; he had the look of a man who was likely to squeak. “I—I want to see Miss Gentian.”

“Miss Gentian's not well,” Mannering told him. “I don't think she'll be able to see anyone for two or three hours. Would you like to—”

“Ill? Sara?
Ill
? She was perfectly all right this morning. What's happened? Are you a doctor?”

“No, but I can understand you wanting a doctor, if you still think it's a matter of life and death.” Before the man could speak, he went on roughly: “Why did you telephone me about Miss Gentian and the Mogul Swords of Victory?”

As he was speaking, he felt sure that this was the man who had telephoned and warned him against giving Sara her own way.