Shadow The Baron (18 page)

“The less you know, the better it’s likely to be for you,” Mannering said.

Smith didn’t speak when they went into the kitchen. He looked tired and sombre. Mannering ignored him, went to a drawer and took out a clean tea towel, then went behind Smith and tied it over his mouth and nose. He knotted it securely, while Lee stood watching. Smith had been here for an hour, was probably stiff and uncomfortable. He grunted when Mannering helped him to his feet, but remained passive. Mannering and Lee lifted him, Lee taking his legs, as they moved cautiously out of the house. The darkness lent eeriness to the scene as they pushed Smith into the back of his own car. There was little sound.

“Good riddance to a rather nasty piece of work,” Lee said, loudly enough for Smith to hear.

Mannering chuckled.

He took the wheel and drove off. Lee was going to collect the Buick from the field, and keep it in the garage. Once Mannering reached the main road, he drove fast. There was no sound from the rear, he might have been alone in the car. He sped along the Kingston by-pass, and stopped at the London end of it, to light a cigarette. He kept the engine running, but it made only a gentle purring sound. There was no other traffic on the road. Mannering drew at his cigarette and seemed to have all the time in the world to spare. The dashboard clock in the powerful Chrysler pointed to half-past four.

The cigarette was half finished before Smith muttered something which Mannering couldn’t hear; the tea-towel muffled his voice. Mannering made no comment. Smith spoke again, and Mannering turned and pulled the gag down, so that it lay round Smith’s neck, like a scarf.

“Did you speak?”

“Damn you,” Smith said viciously.

“Is that all?”

“What are you going to do?” Smith hated asking the question, hated showing fear; but it was in him, now, and every minute was torment.

“I still haven’t decided. You don’t know any safe ways of disposing of a body, do you?”

“I –”

“You yourself always seem to leave them about rather untidily, so you’re unlikely to have any really brilliant suggestions I fear.”

“What good will it do to kill me?”

“Take a load off several people’s minds, and let Celia start living again,” Mannering said. “I can think of a dozen good reasons for killing you.” He laughed. “What’s your other racket’ Smith?”

“Never mind that! I’ll pay you anything you ask if –”

“Too bad,” Mannering said. “I’ve all the money I need.”

“What do you want?”

“To see you dead – hanged for preference, but the police might not be able to collect the evidence. What’s your racket?”

There was silence.

“Oh, well,” said Mannering. He turned round, tossing his cigarette out of the window, and let in the clutch.

“Mannering!” Fear sounded harsh and raw in Smith’s voice. “I’m in several rackets. One of them would be profitable to you; I could put a lot of jewels in your way. Old stuff, too.”

“Thief or fence?”

“The stuff passes through my hands,” Smith said. “I’m one of the biggest receivers in the game. I’d give you first choice, for Quinn’s.”

“Quinn’s doesn’t deal in stolen stuff.”

Smith said: “I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at Mannering.”

“I’m interested in your rackets.”

“I –”

“How much blackmailing have you been doing lately?”

“I suppose Fleming told you that I put the screw on him once,” Smith said sullenly. “That’s not my regular line, but I can squeeze –”

Mannering laughed,

Smith said: “To hell with you!”

Mannering drove on. Smith could shout, if he thought it worth the risk. He didn’t. Mannering glanced round at him. The blinds were down, and Smith sat staring straight ahead. He must know that they were now in London. He was eaten up with fear, but still fighting against showing it. Fleming had said that this man’s one weakness was a pride that could brook no humiliation; that was probably true.

They reached the West End; and then the Adelphi. Mannering stopped the car.

“You’re nearly home,” he said. “Listen, Smith. I’m looking after Celia Fleming, and I don’t want you poking around. I’m going to get you for Muriel Lee’s murder. If necessary, I’ll report to the Yard about what happened tonight. Lee and I, between us, can have you sent down for several years. You’re in a jam. Understand?”

Smith said nothing, but the tenseness in his attitude betrayed that he was listening.

“I’m going to unfasten your feet, and then we’ll go to your flat. You’re going to show me round. I propose to search it for all the evidence I can find of your various rackets, and I’m going to take that evidence away with me. If you start any funny stuff, the dossier will go to the Yard. Understand?”

Smith muttered an unintelligible assent.

There seemed to be no one in Buckley Street, but that might mean that the Yard man watching the place was keeping out of sight. Mannering helped Smith out of the car, and supported the man to the front door. Smith could hardly stand, and was gritting his teeth against the pain which went through his legs now that the blood was freely circulating. Without speaking he handed over his keys.

Mannering shut the flat door behind them as Smith staggered to a chair and dropped into it. Leaving the inner door open so that Smith was under constant observation, Mannering went into the study and began work on the desk. One of the keys opened the safe; he pulled back the hinged lid.

This time it wasn’t empty. Mannering pulled out two chamois leather bags, untied the string of one of them and shook the contents out. Diamonds, rubies, pearls, already taken put of their setting, lay before him. They made a shimmering heap at which Smith stared tensely.

“Not bad,” Mannering said. “The Shadow’s last haul, I believe.”

Smith muttered: “Supposing I am the Shadow?”

“Still think there’s doubt about it?” Mannering dropped the jewels back into the bag, and tossed it into the safe.

“Where do you keep your other stuff?”

“To hell with you!”

Mannering said: “Listen. I have only to go out, leaving you bound and gagged, and tip the police off about this, and they’ll be here in five minutes. You’d be in dock within a few hours and in jail within six weeks. Don’t make any mistake about that Where do you keep your other stuff?”

Smith muttered: “At the garage.”

“Where are the keys?”

“You’ve got them in your hand.”

“Where’s the safe at the garage?”

“In the room opposite the stairs. It’s built into the wall, behind a radiogram.”

“I’m going to have a look,” Mannering said. “If there’s any trouble, the police will be your next visitors.”

He went into the lounge. Smith, too unsteady on his legs to fight, allowed himself to be tied up again, and then gagged. Mannering left him, fairly comfortable, this time, and went across to the other fiat.

One of the keys opened the door.

Mrs. Morant was in a small bedroom, sleeping the heavy, rather pathetic sleep of the middle aged. The key was on the inside of her door. Mannering took it out and locked her in, then went downstairs.

No one appeared to be in Buckley Street, and Mannering wasn’t followed.

London was waking up. A stream of taxis passed him as he neared Palling Street. He pulled up a hundred yards away, and walked the rest of the distance. The Palling Garage was closed, its frontage blank, and without lights.

He let himself in with a key, going straight to the room where, as Brown, he had visited Smith. He went to the window and opened it, and looked out. There was a wide sill, and not a long drop to a square of concrete below. At the far end of the square was a door leading to a service road. He left the window open but pulled the curtains, then switched on the light.

The safe was where Smith had said he would find it.

He examined it for tricks; electric current was the most likely danger. There was none. He opened it with Smith’s keys. It was crammed with small books; there were five leather wash bags, wads of five pound and one pound notes, packets of most European currencies, and at least five hundred ten dollar American bills. He put all these aside. Behind them were two automatics, and several passports, each bearing Smith’s photograph, under different names. Two of them bore unrecognisable photographs, probably of Smith in disguise. The man had prepared every possible escape route.

There was at least ten thousand pounds in the safe, apart from the jewels.

Mannering glanced at one bag of these; they were the results of the Shadow’s recent hauls.

He looked through the books, and found one with a list of names and addresses, all of them in France, Italy, Belgium or Holland. In another book there were entries, showing the money which had been received from people overseas. The book purported to be a record of the transactions of the Mail Order business, and the sums quoted were small. Mannering found some pencilled figures on a slip of paper, and compared them with the last entries in the book. The trick entries were simple; if Smith received a thousand pounds from someone in Holland, it was entered as ten pounds. If the police ever queried his business dealings with the overseas people, he had a plausible answer.

Against most of the entries were letters. M appeared several times, C occasionally, and there were others. He guessed that these identified the messengers who had taken the stuff abroad. He looked at the labels on the chamois leather bags; each had an address abroad, and obviously these were to be taken out of the country. None was in Paris; apparently Celia wasn’t to have gone to Paris as an envoy.

Were the jewels taken out of England like this? The risk at customs was big, but –

He needn’t worry himself about that.

There were legal documents, deeds of houses and business properties; Smith was a wealthy man. There were several bank statements in different names, each showing high credit balances. One bundle of share certificates showed that under different names, he had big holdings in many gilt edged stocks and in most of the good industrials. It was all carefully and cunningly done, but Smith had made one big mistake; leaving the stuff here.

It had to be left somewhere. But why hadn’t he dispersed it?

Over confidence might be one of his faults, too.

Mannering finished the search. At his feet was evidence which would send Smith to jail for ten years, but there was nothing about Muriel; nothing to associate him with murder; nothing about the Flemings or Celia.

The wise thing might be to telephone the police. If Smith were inside for ten years, Celia’s troubles would be over. But there was more to it than that. Was Smith the Shadow? The only evidence here was that he handled much of the Shadow’s takings.

Bristow had suggested that there might be several men, working to give the impression that there was only one. Smith wanted “Brown” to help. The impression that the

Shadow did everything himself and kept aloof from others, was beginning to fade.

There was nothing in the papers, as far as he could see, to incriminate anyone else. Supposing Smith had several screws who could do a slick safe breaking job – what would happen if he were caught? At the ring leader’s arrest, the gang would break up, but it wouldn’t stop the activities of the others. It wasn’t even certain that here were several men; he was anxious to find that out.

He went through the books and papers again. Some he put back into the safe. Others, he slipped into the manuscript pocket of his coat. The bank accounts, the share certificates and title deeds didn’t greatly matter, but he kept a list, which was attached to each bundle, giving a summary of Smith’s holdings.

He put the jewels back in the safe.

Satisfied that he’d returned nothing which might be helpful, he closed and locked the safe. As he straightened up, he glanced at the window, and he saw the curtains billow slightly, as from a sudden gust of wind; or from a draught.

He straightened up, and glanced over his shoulder.

The door was opening slowly.

He went across to the window. The curtains still moved in the draught created by the opening door. He made little sound and showed no sign of haste. He pulled the curtain aside, and looked out. At the end of the yard, by the gate in the wall stood a heavily built man whom he recognised. He let the curtain fall, and strolled to that part of the room which was out of sight of the door. The man outside was still cautious. Mannering began the sporadic whistling of a man at ease, as he looked round for a weapon. He could have taken one of the guns out of the safe, three minutes before; it was too late, now. He had his knife; and wished he had the cosh.

There was no fireplace and no poker, but behind a chair was a set of golf clubs. He took out a driver, whippy and light.

The door creaked.

Mannering, creeping towards it, noticed that it was now open a foot. He couldn’t see who was beyond it.

Then suddenly the door flung back, and the little man who had admitted “Brown” darted into the room. He seemed to expect assault, and had a walking stick in his hand. He saw Mannering, with the golf club raised, and stood, without speaking, his teeth bared and his eyes glistening.

“Hallo,” said Mannering. “Something the matter?”

“Hallo to you,” said Smith.

He had a gun in his hand, as he came in.

Mannering backed slowly, still holding the club. Smith grinned at him, his poise fully restored. The little man having done his part by distracting Mannering’s attention, glanced at Smith, as if awaiting orders.

“May I have my keys back?” Smith asked, suavely.

Mannering put his hand to his pocket, watching the gun. Smith’s long, pale forefinger was on the trigger, and there was little doubt that he would shoot.

Mannering said: “Whose gun have you borrowed this time?”

“Now it’s my turn to ask the questions,” Smith said.

Mannering threw the keys, and Smith caught them with his free hand. He tossed them to his henchman.

“See what he’s taken, Mick.”

Mick grabbed the keys and turned to the safe,