Shadow The Baron (19 page)

“Who let you out?” asked Mannering mildly. “I locked Mrs. Morant in.”

“You forget she had a telephone in her room.”

“Oh,” said Mannering. “The simple things.”

“That’s right.

Smith laughed; he was right back to normal, seemed thoroughly pleased with himself. He didn’t look away from Mannering, who continued to grip the golf club, knowing it wouldn’t be much use against a gun. Mick was taking things out of the safe and spilling them onto the floor; as yet, he hadn’t checked on what was missing.

Suddenly a roaring sound shattered the quiet. It came from the garage, an engine turning on a high pitched note.

Smith’s grin widened. He pitched his voice high, to be heard above the sound.

“Not bad, is it, Mannering? That’s to prevent anyone from hearing the shot.”

The gun covered Mannering’s stomach. Mick had emptied the safe, and was saying something that Mannering couldn’t catch. Smith went across to him. Mick straightened up, holding one of the guns while Smith inspected the books and bags. He didn’t take long. The whining note of the engine in the garage began to get on Mannering’s nerves; the room seemed to shake with the reverberations.

Smith wasn’t smiling now.

He came across to Mannering, standing so that Mick could keep Mannering covered. He shot out his left hand, and struck Mannering across the face; as he had once struck Celia.

“Now I’ll have the stuff back,” Smith said.

“You can’t very well,” said Mannering “pleasantly.”It’s gone.”

“Don’t lie.”

Mannering shrugged.

“Don’t lie,” Smith said again. “Where is it?”

“Safe enough,” Mannering said.

Smith’s high pitched voice had a deadly note. The gun raised, covered Mannering’s face. “I’m not going to waste any time, Mannering. Hand over those papers, or –”

“Too bad,” said Mannering. “Don’t forget you owe me a life.”

“I don’t always pay my debts.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Mannering. “What are you going to do when the police arrive?”

He strained his voice to make sure that Mick heard that; and smiled faintly as he finished. Mick’s eyes shifted uneasily. Smith wasn’t so sure of himself, either. His usual expression, the sardonic Mephistophelian half-smile, was worn with a certain amount of deliberation.

“You can’t bluff –”

“No bluff,” Mannering said. “I’ve the papers all right, they’re in my pocket. I am not the only one, apparently, who forgets that there’s a telephone. I called the Yard, just before you came in.”

“Now I know you’re lying. They’d be here if you had.”

“I asked Bristow himself to come,” said Mannering, “and he won’t be alone. You’ve about ten minutes, I should say.” He took out his watch with an air of nonchalance. Two guns covered him; and his only hope was to bluff.

“I don’t believe you.”

Mannering shrugged. “Just supposing they come, Smith. You may have time to hide the body, but you probably won’t. Bristow’s a wise old bird, and the garage is almost certainly being watched. You can’t take me away safely. When he finds I’m missing, he won’t be satisfied to look through the house, he’ll search the garage. Call it a day.” He moved towards the door, and both guns swivelled round towards him. He was only a yard from the door, and it was open.

“Don’t go any further,” Smith warned.

“Listen,” said Mannering, “Bristow’s a friend of mine; he knows I wouldn’t call him out at this hour for the fun of it. You’re stymied.” He raised the golf club, actually made a playful drive. “Too whippy, and a bit long for me,” he said. “What’s your handicap?”

“Just stay where you are,” Smith said. “I’m very patient. I’ll wait for your friend Bristow, and if he doesn’t come, I shall know what to do with the corpse.”

Mannering made another playful drive.

“If Bristow does arrive and you’ve still got the stuff in that safe, what do you think he’ll do? Touch his hat and apologise for troubling you?”

He swung for another drive – and this time let the club fly out of his hands. As it went, he jumped towards the door. He caught the edge as he went through and slammed it behind him. There was no time to lock it. He reached the head of the stairs as the door reopened, flung his cigarette case at Smith, who was in front, and raced down the stairs. A shot rang out, just audible above the roar from next door; he heard the sound as it hit the wall close by his head. The front door was closed, he really hadn’t a chance; unless they decided that he’d told the truth. He heard Mick say something. He didn’t look round, but wrenched open the door; and nothing happened.

He dashed out.

The street seemed empty, but a man appeared from the garage; the man who had been on guard at the back of the yard.

The man carried a big tyre lever in his right hand. He knew nothing of what had happened upstairs; he could smash Mannering’s skull with that lever. They were only a couple of yards apart, and the big man’s eyes were vicious and bloodshot. He raised his arm – and Mannering kicked out at him, caught him on the knee, and raced past.

The dynamo kept shrieking.

Mannering reached the end of the street, and slowed down. The big man was following, but several people were walking along here, and an open lorry trundled towards him. Mannering waited until it was level, and then took a running jump on to the back. He barked his knee on the tailboard, but kept a hold. His pursuer turned the corner, lever in hand, but didn’t see him. The lorry passed the end of Palling Street.

Smith was standing by the garage door. He moved back towards the house. Mannering waited until the lorry turned a corner, and then slid off. Two people noticed him, and a man called out: “No hanging on behind, there!”

Mannering waved.

He took the next turning which led towards Southwark Road. Now that the crisis was past, he felt overwhelmingly tired. He walked to the opposite pavement and waited with two or three shivering people for the next tram. He was exhausted; that probably accounted for his shivery feeling. He was elated, too, though fully aware that Smith hadn’t shot his last bolt.

He got off on the other side of the bridge, had a cup of hot tea and a sandwich at a snack bar, and then walked until he stopped an empty taxi. He went to Larraby’s hotel, obtained some paper and string, and parcelled everything he had taken from the garage and asked the porter to post it to the G.P.O. Victoria.

It was a little after seven o’clock when, observed by Bristow’s watching men, he let himself into his flat.

Lorna was asleep.

She hadn’t undressed, just thrown herself down and pulled the eiderdown over her. One arm lying over the side of the bed, and one stockinged foot showed beneath the cover. He could imagine, with a pang half tender - half irritable, that she had waited in a continual strain of anxiety; that she hadn’t undressed, in case he sent an S.O.S. There was no telling what time she had dropped off.

He lay and watched her for some time, and his eyes grew heavier and heavier. He didn’t want to wake her, and yet he wanted to tell her what had happened.

He closed his eyes.

He had no idea what time it was when he woke, but he heard voices; someone was laughing, too. He lay in a dream like state between waking and sleeping. It was broad daylight; of course it was - it had been daylight when he had reached home. He thought that Lorna was talking, was sure that the laughing man wasn’t Bristow; but it was a familiar laugh.

He looked at the bedside clock; it was nearly half-past one.

He sat up.

The door began to open. “Be quiet!” Lorna whispered to whoever was with her, and then she turned and saw that he was awake. She closed the door and tiptoed across. He held out his hands, and she caught them tightly.

“Any trouble?”

“Not to say trouble.”

“Can you prove where you were between eleven and twelve last night?”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Can you?”

“I left Chloe’s cottage about half-past ten.”

Lorna sat heavily on the side of the bed.

“So you couldn’t have been in London before twelve.

Not to have –” she broke off, as the door opened, and Cluttering stood there. “I told you not to come in!” She jumped up.

“Sorry.” Cluttering sauntered across the room. “I had to see what the great man was like when he first woke up, and having fox’s ears, I heard the whispering. Any alibi, John?”

“If Chloe and Jane make one, yes.”

“That’s a relief.” Cluttering tossed a copy of the Record on the bed. “You can read all about the Shadow’s latest burglary, discovered at five past twelve. The Shadow’s bed time is getting earlier.”

Mannering didn’t speak.

Lorna said: “John, what is it?”

“Could it be a guilty conscience after all?” asked Chittering lightly.

Mannering patted Lorna’s hand, absently, his thoughts whirling. If the Shadow had been busy between eleven and twelve o’clock, the Shadow wasn’t likely to be Smith. He didn’t think there was a chance that Smith would have broken into a Mayfair house last night, after discovering that Celia was missing.

“How I love strong, silent men,” said Chittering brightly.

“You could imitate them.” Lorna suggested. “Are you going to get up now, John?”

“Yes. Chitty – how long were you with Paul Smith last night?”

“I wondered when you would come to that. I left him at a quarter past ten. He could have had time to do the job, I suppose? Just?”

“He was at Guildford soon after, and before that, he tried to find out what had happened to Celia. No, if the Shadow was out last night, Smith isn’t the Shadow. Pity. That puts us back where we started. Has Bristow been?”

“Not yet.”

“A pleasure yet to come,” said Chittering sententiously. “Have any luck last night, John, apart from parking Celia?”

“Odds and ends,” Mannering said. “Well, we needn’t worry about Bristow, that’s a relief. What about lunch….”

Bristow came just after three o’clock, appeared to be satisfied with Mannering’s statement, and went off. Mannering telephoned the cottage. Jane and Celia were in; Celia seemed contented enough. He called George Lee, who said he had deposited the money, and had had a few hours sleep. He would stay at the hotel for the rest of the afternoon; he sounded sleepy. Mannering put the receiver down and looked across at the Rubens, which was still resting on a chair, identified now by all except the experts who mattered. But Mannering wasn’t thinking about pictures.

Smith, then, wasn’t the Shadow.

George Lee had a lot of money and had told a plausible story, but had he been out of England for the past few weeks? Or had he lied? There was still a lot to find out about George Lee and about the Shadow. Except that Mannering had discovered how the Shadow sold his pickings, he was no nearer solving his identity. Bristow’s theory of three or four men couldn’t be discarded, and if that theory now had substantial grounds for being right, it meant that Bristow no longer seriously suspected Mannering.

He picked up the telephone and asked for Toby Plender’s number.

“I tried to get you this morning, but Lorna wouldn’t wake you,” Plender said.

“Sorry, Toby. Have you see Fleming?”

“I have indeed.”

“Is he a good liar?”

“If he’s a liar he’s the best I’ve met so far.”

“So you’re satisfied that he told the truth?”

“I think so. His wife’s come round, and she’s confirmed part of it. I had a chat with her. The police have withdrawn the nurse, by the way. A little persuasion convinced Bristow that he was going further than the circumstances warranted.”

“Good work! Like another little job?”

“I suppose I’d better say yes,” said Toby.

“Thanks. I’m a little anxious to probe into the history of a Mr. George Lee, now at the Lithom Hotel, Aldwych. He says he’s been on the Continent for several weeks. If you’d have a chat with him, and just get a general impression as to whether he’s lying or not, I’d be grateful.”

“Distrusting your own judgment these days?” asked Plender.

“Second opinions add a certain flourish, especially when they coincide with one’s own,” Mannering laughed, and rang off. He stared at the Rubens again. It was a brilliant job; one of the best, although it would probably take the experts months to agree. As he leaned forward for a further inspection, the telephone bell rang.

“Mannering here.”

Sylvester’s voice travelled thinly across the wire. “I’m sorry to worry you Mr. Mannering, but a certain Mr. Smith called at Quinns to see you about an hour ago, and was most insistent, almost embarrassingly so. He seemed a somewhat – ah – mysterious individual, and left a strange message.”

Mannering’s hand was tight on the telephone.

“Yes?”

“He said that the lady’s parcel must be sent to Paris and the smaller one returned to its owner, and that you would understand what he meant.”

Mannering relaxed. “Thanks, Sylvester. Is there anything else?”

“Nothing requiring your personal and immediate attention,” said Sylvester. “Goodbye, sir.”

Smith wouldn’t expect him to take the message seriously; it was only the opening move in the battle of wits. It would be a desperate battle, for Smith would risk everything to get those papers back.

Someone came to the front door, and after a pause, Hetty approached the study. As she opened the door, Mannering saw Smith following quickly behind her.

Hetty said coldly: “It’s that man.”

“So you haven’t forgotten me,” said Smith, and put a hand on her shoulder. She drew away with all the hauteur of outraged stage aristocracy, confronted with impertinence. Smith smiled fleetingly.

“Did you get my message, Mannering?”

“I stopped delivering parcels some time ago,” Mannering said pleasantly.

“I should start again, just for these two. You may think you’ve got me where you want me, but you’ll find that that assumption is a mistake. I wonder where you keep the papers.” His gaze roamed round the room, and came finally to rest on Mannering. “You didn’t send for Bristow, you know, nor did the police turn up. That means that you’re playing a dangerous game of your own. It also means that you don’t confide in the police about everything. I wonder why.”