A Sword For the Baron (7 page)

 

“Well, what do you want to ask me?” Levinson made himself ask.

The bony man said: “Mr Levinson, were you at the home of Miss Sara Gentian, at 3, Hillbery Mews, this afternoon?”

Levinson's heart was already hammering. Above everything else, he wished that he could talk to Mannering; advice from Mannering would be invaluable. He remembered Mannering talking to a member of the staff who had been sacked, a few weeks ago, for lying to a customer about the date of a piece of Indian gold lace. The assistant had said it was
circa
sixteen hundred and in fact it was
circa
eighteen hundred and fifty. “If you'd told the truth you wouldn't be in trouble, would you?”

He, Mannering, had wanted to tell the police about Sara; he, Levinson, had dissuaded him.

The massive policeman, Belling, said sharply: “Well, were you at that place?”

Levinson said: “Yes, I was.”

“That's better,” said the Cockney. “Very wise to admit it. Why did you go there?”

The axiom that one should tell the truth seemed very easy to follow – but how far should he go? Should he name Mannering, and so involve him?

“What's on your mind, Mr Levinson?” demanded Belling. He looked like a heavyweight boxer. “You must have had a reason for going there.”

“Of course I had a reason,” Levinson said sharply. “Miss Gentian had been to see Mr Mannering – he's my employer – and—”

“We know all about Mannering.”

“I doubt very much if you know
all
about anyone.” It was a relief to be able to snap back. “He asked me to go and question her about her reason for coming to see him.”

“What was her reason?”

“You can ask Mr Mannering.”

“Don't be smart,” Belling said.

It would be easy to lose his temper, but Levinson told himself that it wouldn't help. These men had every right to make inquiries, especially since the girl was now at a nursing home, and the police had spent a lot of time at her flat.

“I'll tell you what I can as far as I'm concerned,” he said. “If you want to know more about Mr Mannering, you'll have to ask him. I went to ask Miss Gentian what she really wanted from Mr Mannering. He wasn't satisfied that she had told him everything.”

“Was she at home when you got there?”

“Yes, she—”

“Did she let you in?”

Levinson moistened his lips. “No,” he answered uneasily. “No, I didn't get any answer. I looked through the letter box, and smelt gas, and—”

“Smelt what?”

“Gas – g-a-s. Gas.”

“What did you do?”

Levinson flushed. “I tried the door, and as it was open, I went in. The smell of gas was very strong, and . . .”

“The door was
open
?”

“We want the truth,” interposed the massive man.

“Was it open?” demanded the other.

Levinson said thinly: “I tell you I pushed the door, and found it open. I found Miss Gentian in the kitchen, with the gas oven on, but not lighted. I carried her upstairs and applied artificial respiration until I thought that she was out of danger. Then—” he broke off, thinking desperately of Mannering. He must not incriminate Mannering; must not say that he had been at the mews – and he must find a way of warning Mannering. What a mistake it had been not to telephone the police from the mews!

“Then what?” It was Belling who had the most menacing manner. “Out with it.”

“I left her.”

“You
left
her?”

“I thought she was all right.”

“Well, she wasn't all right, was she? She's had a serious relapse, and is very ill,” the Cockney said. “Why didn't you telephone for us?”

“I—I didn't think she would like me to.”

“So you didn't think she would like you to – in her dreams, perhaps? She was unconscious, wasn't she?”

“Yes, but—”

“Why didn't you telephone for a doctor, even if you were scared of the police?” demanded the Cockney.

“I—”

“Let's have the truth.”

Levinson flashed: “I can't tell you the truth if you won't listen to me. For God's sake keep quiet!” He won a momentary silence. “I thought she'd tried to kill herself. I didn't want anyone to know. I thought if I called for the police or even for a doctor the truth might leak out. Her pulse was nearly normal and I felt sure she wasn't in any danger. I didn't think there was any need for a doctor.”

“Are you trained in first aid?”

“No, but—”

“What made you so sure she didn't need a doctor?”

“I tell you I thought she was all right!”

“I don't think you thought anything of the kind,” said Belling ominously. “I think you thought it was safe to have a look round her flat while she was unconscious, and that while you were rifling the place she came round and telephoned us – and we arrived and scared you off. Neat trick, nipping out of that window, wasn't it?”

“I don't know what you're talking about!” At first Levinson was too surprised to be frightened.

“Lying won't help you,” the Cockney said. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“Listen, Levinson,” put in the massive man. “We know you were at the mews. You've admitted it. You answer the description of a man who was seen forcing his way into that house – he was seen by two people who happened to look into the mews. We know you took the miniature sword. Don't waste our time. Where is it?”

“Miniature—” echoed Levinson. Now fear began to thrust its way into his consciousness. “I tell you I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't search the flat. I—I left the girl on the bed, and went—went back to the shop.”

“Lies won't help you.”

“I tell you this is the truth!”

“And I tell you you're lying,” the Cockney retorted. “We want to search this flat. We can get a search warrant without any trouble, but it would take a little time. You can give us your permission and make it easier for all concerned. What's it to be?”

“You can search as long as you like,” Levinson muttered. “You won't find anything that shouldn't be here!”

“Let's start, Jeff,” said Belling. He seemed eager at the opportunity. “It shouldn't take long. This room, eh?” He barged across towards a small rosewood kneehole desk with two drawers on either side, and a shallow middle drawer at waist height. “Is this locked?”

“Nothing's locked,” snapped Levinson.

He was feeling angry, scared, and baffled. He had always thought that he was capable of looking after himself in any situation, but this was beyond him. Two minutes talk with Mannering would make all the difference in the world. He glanced longingly at the telephone. Mannering might give him permission to tell the rest of the story, he certainly couldn't say that Mannering had been at the mews, now. But – he had left Mannering there, and if this miniature sword—

Suddenly, he remembered the man who had been here when he had arrived; the second assailant! He had forgotten him completely until this moment.

The bony policeman Jeff was pulling open the drawers in the desk; the belligerent Belling was shifting books from the shelves on the wall by the fireplace. They worked very quickly, as if they had been doing this kind of thing all their lives; it was an alarming demonstration of efficiency.

They found nothing.

“I tell you there's nothing here to interest you,” Levinson made himself say. “What—what's this miniature sword like?”

“It's an exact replica of the big sword which Lord Gentian took to Quinns this afternoon,” the Cockney stated flatly. “It's worth between ten and fifteen thousand pounds of anybody's money. Where is it?”

“I didn't even know it existed!”

“Didn't you?” sneered Belling. He was taking the cushions out of the chair on which Levinson had been sitting; they were tapestry covered cushions, rather threadbare. He thrust his thick hands down the side of the chair, pulled them out, thrust again – and then something made him stop moving for a long agonising moment. At last he moved his hand, very slowly, and turned his head to stare at Levinson. Levinson felt himself go cold.

“What—what have you found?”

“You know what I've found,” the detective growled. He pulled his hand from the side of the chair, cautiously; there was a sudden flash of light, like a red flame, then a yellow flash followed by a white.

Levinson lost all traces of colour as the Cockney stepped closer to him. The other man drew out the jewelled miniature, between his forefinger and his middle finger. He held it up like that, so that the jewels caught the light and made a kaleidoscope of flashing beauty.

“So you didn't even know it existed.” Belling's voice was rough.

“I tell you I didn't. Someone must have put it there. I tell you—”

Levinson remembered his assailant again, and felt sure that the man had come not to steal but to put this incriminating evidence here. He felt too stunned to understand, but kept reminding himself that Mannering had been at the mews flat when he had left. Mannering, Mannering—

The Cockney detective was saying with obvious satisfaction: “David Levinson, it is my duty to charge you with being in possession of a piece of antique jewellery knowing it to have been stolen, and to warn you that anything you say may be noted down and used as evidence. Have you anything to say?”

Levinson was thinking, desperately: “
Mannering
was there after me.”

 

Chittering had gone, and Mannering was sitting in the study, feet up on a pouffe, troubled, wishing that Lorna would come back yet wondering just how much he would tell her. He had not heard again from Bristow. He kept turning over Chittering's story in his mind, facing the inescapable fact that the big money battalions were involved in this; he was not yet sure how deeply involved. He had telephoned Lord Gentian's home, twice, but been told by someone who sounded very frail that his lordship was out, and was expected back at half past ten. It was now nearly ten o'clock.

The telephone bell rang.

He was sitting within arm's reach of it, legs stretched out; had Lorna been detained longer than she expected?

“Mannering,” he said.

“Chittering,” said Chittering, as briefly.

He had a way of conveying a mood with silence, and somehow he alarmed Mannering. He had left only an hour earlier, after warning Mannering not to take any active part in the Gentian affair. Why had he called so soon? He kept silent until Mannering made himself say: “Joke over.”

“This is no joke, John. You can't say I didn't warn you.”

Mannering thought:
The girl's dead.
Then he thought:
Something's happened to Gentian.

“All right, you warned me. What's happened?”

“Your hot-headed young assistant David Levinson has got himself arrested,” Chittering announced. “Our man at the Back Room at the Yard phoned the information in ten minutes ago. Levinson's been charged with stealing a piece of jewellery from Sara Gentian's flat. That's the piece Bristow told you about, I imagine. Nasty situation, isn't it? Either Levinson took it, so you're in trouble that way because it might be thought that you put him up to it. Or he didn't, in which case the police are going to pull out all the stops in the search for the real thief. You
were
at the mews, remember,” Chittering added ominously. “You and Levinson must have had equal opportunity.”

Mannering heard himself saying: “I don't believe that the charge will stick. Levinson—”

“Had the jools in his flat, I tell you,” Chittering interrupted. “Don't run away with the idea that this one is going to be easy.”

“It won't be easy. Where have they taken him, Chitty?”

“Cannon Row.”

“I'll go along and see him,” Mannering said. “Thanks. Thanks very much.” He hesitated, rang off slowly, and sat staring at the drawn curtains. Vividly, he remembered one positive fact.

The miniature sword had been at the flat when he had left; whatever the police believed, Levinson could not have taken it. It had been taken by Sara Gentian herself
or
by someone else hiding in her flat. He did not really believe that there was any likelihood that someone had been hiding there, so—

The girl must have reported it stolen, must be a party to the attempt to frame Levinson.

 

 

Mannering lifted the telephone and dialled Bristow's home number; Bristow's wife told him that Bristow was still at the Yard. Mannering called the Yard, to be told that Bristow was across at Cannon Row police station, close by; doubtless he was talking to David. As Mannering's finger poked into the telephone dial again, there was a sound outside. Ethel went hurrying across the hall as a key scraped in the lock.

“Good evening, ma'am, I thought I heard you,” Ethel said exuberantly. There was scarcely a pause. “Mr Mannering's in the study, I
believe
.”

Lorna said something. Mannering went to the door and opened it, to see her standing just inside the hall in that beautifully modelled suit, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed; lovely. She saw him.

“Hallo, darling!”

“Hallo, my sweet.”

Ethel took Lorna's umbrella and backed away, watching them as she might watch young lovers. Mannering felt the comfort which Lorna's presence so often gave him. He led the way into the study. Lorna took off her hat and shook her hair loose, sat down and kicked off her shoes. Mannering pushed a pouffe under her legs; lovely legs with slender ankles. He sat on the pouffe and ran his right hand up and down the shimmery nylon.

He could not come right out with the story, Lorna had to have a little respite. David would come to no harm at Cannon Row. A big question was rearing up in Mannering's mind about the assistant; why hadn't the lad sent for a solicitor? Any solicitor consulted would certainly get straight in touch with the owner of Quinns. David was a puzzle in more ways than one.

Ten minutes of idle talk would harm no one.

“Good time?” he inquired.

“Lovely.”

“How's Lucy?”

“As lively as ever,” Lorna told him and began to laugh. She talked quickly and amusingly for five minutes, said ‘no' to a drink and ‘yes' to some tea. Ethel brought in the tea and asked if there was anything else before she went to bed; she would
love
to hear the top ten on Luxembourg.

“You get off, Ethel,” Lorna said. When the door had closed, she asked: “What is it, John?”

He shrugged. “Not one of our best days.”

“I thought there was something when you telephoned. Darling, what—”

The telephone bell rang.

Mannering got up, hoping that it was Bristow. It was. Lorna sat upright in the winged armchair, watching him. Mannering tried to make sure that he saw the whole situation clearly; he had done the wrong thing so often today that he was over anxious to do the right one now.

“You called me?” Bristow sounded aloof.

“Yes, Bill.” Mannering was watching Lorna. “I'm told that you've arrested David Levinson.”

Lorna echoed in a whisper: “
Arrested
?” She took her legs off the pouffe.

“We have,” Bristow said.

“What's the charge?”

“He'll be up in court in the morning on a charge of being in possession of a piece of antique jewellery knowing it to have been stolen,” Bristow replied. “We can make that one stick.”

“I'd like to come over and have a word with him,” Mannering said. “May I?”

Bristow could say no; could play to the letter of the law and allow only a legal adviser to see David. If he did so, it would be a declaration of war; probably the answer would depend on how much he, Bristow, wanted Mannering's help with the Gentians. Bristow was a long time. Lorna came across and stood by Mannering's side.

“All right,” Bristow said at last. “But come right away – I want to get some sleep tonight, I've been hard at it all day.”

“I'll be with you in twenty minutes,” Mannering promised. He put down the receiver. “Darling, I'll tell you all about this as soon as I'm back. Bristow's in a reasonable mood and I want to take advantage of it. Will you—”

“You'll tell me about it on the way to the Yard,” Lorna decided.

Mannering's car, a grey Bentley, was parked in a lockup garage nearby; they were turning out of Green Street within five minutes and heading fast for Westminster. It was barely fifteen minutes after he had talked to Bristow that Mannering swung the car into Cannon Row, within the shadow of Big Ben on one side and New Scotland Yard on the other. As he opened the door, Lorna said: “I'll wait for you here.”

“Go and see if you can talk to Lord Gentian,” Mannering urged. “I'll come straight there. Tell him I must see him. If I'm to help I must know the whole story tonight.”

“All right,” Lorna said. “I'll try.”

She shifted from her seat to Mannering's as he got out, and started off before he stepped inside the gloomy hall of the police station. Two men in uniform were on duty in the hall, and a man in the charge-room kept singing in a high-pitched voice: “
I
wanna go home
.” Two detectives in plain clothes thudded past, obviously in a hurry.

A sergeant approached.

“Mr Bristow's expecting you, Mr Mannering. The messenger will take you along.”

The messenger was a grey-haired, rather frail-looking policeman in uniform but without a helmet; a helmetless policeman always had a kind of undressed look, like a man in his braces and shirt sleeves. This one was sprightly, though, and kept glancing at Mannering much in the way Ethel glanced at intriguing callers. They went downstairs to the cells. Bristow was standing with his back to the door of a cell which was open; the turnkey on duty was just outside. David was saying: “There's nothing more I can tell you.”

“You'll change your mind,” Bristow said. He turned round; obviously he had heard Mannering coming. “Good evening, Mr Mannering.”

Mannering said, formally: “Good evening, Superintendent. Thank you for this concession.” He went further into the cell. “Hallo, David. I don't know what's gone wrong, but we'll soon have you out of this mess.”

He expected to be greeted eagerly; expected David to have been waiting for him, sure that he could help. Instead, the young man stood with his back to the narrow, single bed, his lips pursed, his eyes dull. He looked as if he had a severe headache. His hair was untidy, and a thick black lock hung in a heavy wave over his right eye; he made no attempt to push it back. His chin was already showing black with stubble.

“Good evening, sir,” he said stiffly.

“Has a doctor looked at your head?”

“I don't need a doctor.”

“Why should a doctor be needed?” Bristow demanded.

Mannering said: “He had a nasty bump on the head this afternoon.” He wondered what was going on in his assistant's mind. David had been difficult with Chittering, showing far more temperament than he had ever done before; now his mood helped to explain his failure to send for legal help.

“If a doctor is necessary—” Bristow began.

“I tell you I don't need a doctor,” Levinson interrupted gratingly. “I just want to be left alone.”

“I'll allow you five minutes with the prisoner,” Bristow said to Mannering, and went outside. The cell door snapped to behind them.

“I don't know how this happened, but I'll help you in every way I can,” Mannering said. “Have you sent for a solicitor?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can't afford one.”

“Why didn't you ask the police to tell me what had happened? I would have arranged for help. The more I know about the problem so that I can brief my solicitor, the better.”

“You know very well why I didn't send for you,” Levinson said in a hard voice.

“David, what's got into you?” Mannering found his temper rising; it would be easy to be annoyed. There seemed no point in Levinson's attitude, it was almost as if he was being deliberately rude, as he had with Chittering. “If you don't talk freely I can't help you as much as I want to.”

“Don't be such a bloody hypocrite,” David burst out. “You got me into this. Why should you try to get me out?”

Mannering cautioned himself:
Take it easy, getting hot under the collar won't help.
He moved back and sat on the one wooden chair.

“You could try to be objective,” he said mildly. “Remember we haven't more than three minutes left. What makes you think that I got you into this?”

“You must have taken it.”

“The miniature sword?”

“Of course. What else could I mean?”

“It was there when I left, half an hour or so after you,” Mannering told him.

Levinson did not answer; the expression in his eyes showed disbelief.

“David,” Mannering went on softly, “you've got to believe this. If we're going to get the trouble cleared up, we've got to work together. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I did precisely what you told me,” answered Levinson, stiffly. “I went away from the mews, telephoned the
Daily Globe
and arranged an appointment with Chittering – a fat lot of use
he
proved to be. You then sent me away from your flat. I went
via
Hillbery Mews and Gentian House. When I got to my own flat, a man was hiding there – he took me by surprise and knocked me out. Well, nearly knocked me out. Nothing was missing from the flat, so I didn't tell the police and I didn't call you. Two detectives came along soon afterwards, searched the flat, and found—my God, why did you do it?
Why did you put the sword down the side of my chair
?”

Mannering said, in a bleak voice: “You should know that there is no reason in the world why I should.”

“Well, it happened.”

“Did you see this man in your flat?”

“Just.”

“What was he like?”

Levinson drew a deep breath: “Like
you
.”

“David, don't be a fool—”

“So
I'm
the fool, when I saw you with my own eyes. Oh, your face was covered, you made sure that I couldn't
swear
that it was you, but—”

“Get this into your head: it wasn't me.” When Levinson stood there in stubborn disbelief, breathing hard through distended nostrils, Mannering went on in a reasoning voice: “Apart from the circumstantial evidence, what put this idea into your head? You might have thought that I was the obvious person to take the miniature and the obvious one to put it in your flat, but in your normal frame of mind you would have known that was nonsense. Why don't you, now?”

“Everything is too obvious.”

“It may look obvious—”

“Oh, go away and leave me alone!”

Before Mannering could speak again, there was a tap at the door; a moment later the key turned in the lock, and Bristow stepped in.

 

Bristow and Mannering walked along Cannon Row and across the courtyard at Scotland Yard. The night was cloudy, and stars only sparkled occasionally through gaps in them; there was a spit of rain in the air, too, and it was cold for early August. Now and again a gust of wind swept from the Embankment gates into the Yard, up the steps. They went inside and along the wide, bleak passages, up the open-sided elevator, and along to Bristow's office. Once they were there, Mannering said: “I want you to know exactly what happened today, Bill.”

“That I doubt,” Bristow said. “But try me.”

Mannering had a feeling, while talking, that Bristow wasn't really paying attention. Bristow sat at a desk set slantwise across his small office; the blinds were down at windows which overlooked the Embankment. Except for the occasional gust of wind sweeping against those windows, it was quiet outside; the building itself seemed hushed.

Mannering finished: “And for some reason Levinson thinks that I am prepared to let him carry the baby.”

Bristow was rolling a cigarette from corner to corner of his mouth. He looked straightly, almost bleakly, at Mannering.

“Listen,” he said. “Levinson's fingerprints were all over the mews flat. There isn't a sign of yours. Levinson was seen at the flat; no one saw you. Levinson's been lying like a trooper ever since we pulled him in – his manner has been shifty and evasive, there isn't any doubt in my mind that he's got a load on his conscience. He's lied time and time again – one lie we can prove is that he said he left the mews for Quinns, whereas in fact he did not go back to Quinns. I telephoned Larraby to find out. He went to see Chittering. You've done a lot of crazy things in your life, John. Making this kind of fake confession in order to take the pressure off a young fool you've taken a liking to is one of the craziest. From what I've seen, you'll be far better off without him. Forget the heroics.”

That was the moment when Mannering realised what lay ahead. Levinson hadn't helped himself. He, Mannering, hadn't yet found the way to help him. As he sat there, Bristow opened a drawer in his desk and took out a small plastic bag, which was tied at the neck. The plastic robbed the miniature sword inside of its beauty, but it was still a lovely thing. Tied to the neck of the bag was a label:
Exhibit found inside a chair in front room of Levinson's flat at 17, James Street, W.C.1.

 

Mannering stood up, wondering whether Bristow really believed the case against Levinson, or whether he meant to use it as a way of exerting more pressure to make him, Mannering, help in the Gentian affair.

His thought switched from that to Lorna, wondering how she was getting on. He was looking out for a taxi when Chittering leaned out of one, near the court, and called: “Like a lift, sir?”

Mannering jumped in.

“Thanks,” he said. “How much shall I have to pay for that in inside stories?”

“You're too cynical about newspapermen, that's your trouble,” complained Chittering. “John, I've discovered the story which you and Bristow and everyone else half remembers. It happened fifty years ago but the story has been rehashed in the spectacular Sundays several times, that's why it sticks in your mind. Gentian had a brother, very like him in appearance and in habits. They went on explorations together, and were in Africa – in Southern Rhodesia – when the brother fell into the Zambesi. His body was half devoured by crocodiles before it was pulled out.”