Nest-Egg for the Baron Page 10

  “I can imagine that Wainwright wouldn’t have much time for Brash this morning,” Mannering said dryly. “Go and keep him occupied for a few minutes, will you?”

  Lorna didn’t ask why.

  Brash was trying to get to his feet, looking dazed, and with a bruise beneath his chin which was already red and swelling. To win in that fracas, he had needed a knowledge of boxing, not archery. Mannering held him up. He stood swaying, feeling his chin and licking his lips; a little blood smeared one corner.

  “Brash,” said Mannering, very quietly, “the police are after you.”

  Brash’s eyes, as clear a blue as Miranda’s were a clear blue, wavered for a few seconds, tried to focus, and then succeeded. Alarm seemed to stiffen him.

  “What—what’s that? What do they want me for?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I can’t imagine—” Brash began, and then stopped; as if he knew only too well why the police wanted him. “How do you know?” he muttered.

  “I’ve just come from Scotland Yard.

  “What—what did they say?”

  “They’ve put a call out for you—you’re wanted for murder.”

  Brash was becoming much more composed; still scared, but not so badly frightened: nervous was the better word. At the sound of “murder” his expression changed. He was astounded and incredulous; and if he were acting, he was acting brilliantly.

  “Murder.”

  “That’s right. The crime they hang you for.”

  “Hang?” echoed Brash. “Murder? I—Mannering, I haven’t killed anyone. I’m sure I haven’t!” He didn’t seem to realise how ludicrous that “I’m sure I haven’t” was. “Look here, you’re trying to frighten me!” Anger pushed the incredulity out of his eyes, he became the pugnacious young man again. “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re playing at, but—”

  “By now, there’s a warrant out for your arrest,” Mannering said. “Were you at Dragon’s End last night?”

  “Was I at …?” began Brash, and then his voice trailed off, the last sounds were only gibberish. He gulped. Then he grabbed Mannering’s wrists and held them in a vice-like grip. “It isn’t Pendexter? He isn’t dead? Is he?”

  “Someone at Dragon’s End is dead. Were you there?”

  Brash let his arms fall, and backed away.

  “Oh, God, yes,” he muttered. “Yes, I was, but I didn’t kill—” He reared up, his eyes flashed. “Someone else was there, I saw them, someone came rushing after me. He must have done it, I didn’t. I—”

  He stopped abruptly.

  “Mannering,” he went on, in a different voice, as if he were trying very hard to keep himself from going to pieces, “look after Miranda. That’s all that matters, looking after Miranda. I can’t—I can’t help her now. Not until I’m cleared of this. I didn’t kill Pendexter, but—”

  “Why did you go there?” Mannering demanded.

  Brash said, “I was looking for—looking for some papers. I wanted to see if Miranda’s been cheated or not, but I didn’t kill—kill anyone.”

  He broke off again.

  He backed to the door, hesitated, then opened it and went out. His little green car must have been beckoning him. Mannering let him go, and watched the street through the window.

  Fenn couldn’t have put the call out for Brash yet, because there was a Yard man in a doorway opposite, and he made no move to stop the youngster driving off. Brash showed up clearly in the open car, with the hood down; his face wasn’t red, but very pale. The sun shone on his fair hair. He started off slowly, then trod on the accelerator. The car shot forward.

  If he were the killer he’d put up a good show.

  Mannering turned towards the study, and to Wainwright, but hadn’t reached the room when footsteps sounded on the landing. He turned round, and opened the door before the caller touched the bell.

  It was Richardson, stocky, broad-shouldered Roy Richardson, with a big reputation and a past which included a season or two as a Cambridge blue at cricket and Rugger, and whose wife was a close friend of Lorna. He had a brick-red face, dark-blue eyes, rather deepset, piercing.

  “Hallo, Roy,” Mannering greeted. “You’re prompt. Nice of you to come yourself.”

  “Don’t want to scare the patient more than she’s scared already,” Richardson said. “Strangers frighten her at first. If she comes willingly, is Lorna coming with us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Both of you seem to have a calming effect on the girl,” Richardson said. “Can’t understand it!” He gave a broad, attractive grin. “All right, let’s get moving.”

  Mannering went to the drawing-room.

  Five minutes later, Richardson, Lorna, and Miranda went out together. Mannering didn’t go with them, but stayed to study Wainwright’s reaction. The young man had come out of the study in time to see Miranda. He had watched Miranda every moment, had not been able to look away from her; it was as if she held him under some spell, swiftly exerted, impossible to exorcise.

  And he was good-looking, with a square chin, good mouth, a short, straight nose; a frank, open kind of face. He watched out of the window until the last minute, didn’t move away until the car must have gone out of the street. Then he swallowed a lump in his throat and turned round, groping in his pocket for cigarettes. He met Mannering’s eyes steadily, although there was a strange expression in his own; almost as if he were dazed.

  “She’s—so beautiful,” he said.

  Mannering said briskly, “There aren’t many lovelier, but she isn’t our worry at the moment. Why did you try to break Brash’s neck?”

  “Eh?”

  “Pull yourself together!” Mannering was sharp.

  “Er—sorry, Mr. Mannering,” Wainwright said hurriedly. He lit his cigarette, and his fingers weren’t quite steady. “He—er—he made me mad. Talked about taking Miranda away, and after what he did last night—”

  Wainwright stopped abruptly, looked as if an electric shock had run through him. He stared at Mannering with something like horror leaping into his expression. He gulped, then choked, his eyes watered—and yet the look of horror remained. “But you don’t know, do you? We’re in a hell of a spot!”

  Mannering said coldly, “Don’t talk out of the back of your neck.”

  “But we are! Chittering came round to Quinns to see you, you know Chittering, the Record chap. He told Sylvester he’d just heard that—that a murder was done at Dragon’s End last night. Someone was killed with a spear, an assegai. Of course Brash did it, but we were there, too. We could have—”

  He didn’t finish, was almost incoherent.

  “You sure about this?” Mannering swung towards the telephone.

  “I’m certainly not making it up! Chittering was quite definite. He knew something about Pendexter Smith, knew he’d been to see you, that’s why he came round to Quinns. He said he’d be in again later. We said you were out seeing clients, didn’t want him to throw this in your face without you being forewarned. That’s why I came round here. And to think that Brash had the nerve to say that Miranda wouldn’t be safe here. I could break his ruddy neck!”

  “You nearly did.”

  “Oh, to hell with Brash!” growled Wainwright. “What are we going to do?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  Wainwright stubbed out his cigarette, and then wiped his forehead and his neck. It was warm, but not so warm as that. He didn’t look away from Mannering.

  “I’ll be guided by you,” he said carefully. “We didn’t do it, so our consciences are clear. If the police start questioning us, it will stop us from doing anything much, won’t it? I’d advise, keep mum. But I wouldn’t like to say what would happen if the police started questioning me. I might make a fool of myself, and give everything away.”

  “You’ll get yourself into trouble one of these days,” Mannering said. “All right, Ned. Don’t say anything to the Press, even if it’s Chittering. Refer all inquiries to me. Who wa
s killed, do you know?”

  “It must have been that dwarf we saw. It’s a man named Revell, anyway, a family servant, been there for years.” Wainwright hadn’t forgotten much of the newspaperman’s story. “And Pendexter Smith was found there, Chittering said that he was drugged. But you can never really believe the Press, can you?”

  “Not if they want to get information out of you,” Mannering agreed. “Now, I’ve a new job for you.” He paused. “That’s if you want to carry on.”

  “I’m game,’” Wainwright said naïvely. “I’m not so good as Larraby, but I’m thirty years younger, that would be a help if it came to a scrap. What do you want me to do?”

  “Go to the East End and find out what you can about Crummy Day the pawnbroker,” Mannering said promptly. “Talk to the trade scouts, second-hand jewellers, other pawnbrokers, anyone who might give you the dope. Do they think he’s trustworthy? That’s the only thing you’re trying to find out. If you’re asked, say you’re getting the dope for me. Crummy’s offered me some stuff, and I won’t touch it if it’s hot. All clear?”

  “You know,” said Ned Wainwright, with a glow in his eyes, “I think I’m going to enjoy this side of the business! Er—any need to go armed?”

  “I shouldn’t think so, by day.” Mannering kept a straight face.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” promised Wainwright. “Oh, I ought to telephone Sylvester, to let him know that I won’t be back.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Thanks,” said Wainwright warmly, and hurried off. The door closed on him, and Mannering heard his footsteps on the stairs, then heard them stop; there was a pause and a puzzling silence.

  Next moment, the bell rang softly.

  Mannering opened the door, standing on one side, hardly knowing what to expect. It was Wainwright, back, looking eager, bright-faced.

  “It’s that chap Chittering,” he whispered conspiratorially. “On his way up. Thought I’d warn you.” He pushed past Mannering into the hall. “He won’t know I’ve been here if I keep out of sight,” he added, and made a bee-line for the kitchen.

  Then the door-bell rang again, and the fair, curly head of Chittering of the Record appeared; he beamed, his face was plump and round, like a baby’s, his cheeks were covered with down, and he looked much younger than he was.

  “What’s that clod-hopper Wainwright creeping about for?” he demanded.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Missing Man

  Wainwright must have heard the newspaperman’s comment, but he didn’t appear from the kitchen. Mannering led the way to the study. Two minutes later, he heard the hall door close; Wainwright had gone.

  All this time, Chittering had been watching him narrowly, one eyebrow raised slightly above the level of the other, china-blue eyes suspicious.

  “What is on?” he demanded. “Were you at Midham last night?”

  “Don’t make wild guesses.”

  “I verily believe you were,” declared Cluttering, and grinned a mighty grin. “Magnificent! Bold, bad Mannering at scene of savage crime. Ever done any spear-throwing, tossing the caber, or anything like that?” He took out cigarettes. “You are not yourself,” he added; “you haven’t denied it yet.”

  “Give me half a chance,” Mannering said dryly. “No, no, no. Thanks.” He took a cigarette. “What’s on?”

  “Don’t tell me that Ned Wainwright didn’t tell you that I’ve been grilling him and Sylvester,” said Chittering. “I had Wainwright under the microscope for fully five minutes. Sylvester kept fluttering in the wings, trying to come to the rescue, but a photographer was with me, and he dealt with Sylvester. Sweetly, you understand. As a matter of fact,” Chittering went on, “Wainwright isn’t bad at all. I didn’t get a thing out of him. Training him to be Larraby’s successor?”

  “In what capacity?”

  “Legman and all the rest,” said Chittering comfortably. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he turns out very well. He was quite bland with me half the time, with a little more experience he’ll almost be able to make a lie sound the truth.”

  “Why don’t you take him in hand?” Mannering asked sweetly.

  “Okay, John, I give up. What’s blowing?”

  “My chief worry is a girl who’s deaf and dumb,” Mannering said, in a tone which made it clear that he had stopped being flippant. “And yes, there is a job you can usefully do. Fenn—”

  “I was going to ask about Fenn. How do you find him?”

  “Unexpectedly co-operative.”

  “Be wary of Nicholas Fenn,” warned Chittering, with obvious sincerity. “He of the smooth voice and the gentlemanly manners is cunning like a fox. And he’s comparatively new; we don’t know his methods yet. I suspect he’s one of the ‘come into my parlour pretty maiden’ type, and that when he gets nasty he can be pretty foul. Still, you also have eyes and little grey cells. What,” went on Chittering, sweetly, “is the dirty work you want this noble son of Fleet Street to do for you?”

  Mannering rounded his eyes.

  “You ask Wainwright how noble you are! Three things, Chitty. Find out all you can about Mortimer Smith and Pendexter Smith of Dragon’s End. Discover all you can about their collection of head-hunters’ pieces and museum left-overs—and see if you can get a line on a nest of jewelled eggs. The clue is Indonesia, Ba-Kona dynasty. Yes, I am quite serious.” He described the nest of spun gold and the eggs that went with it, and something of his love of precious stones crept into his voice; and impressed Chittering.

  “I’ll do what I can,” the newspaperman promised. “And report later, sir.”

  He gave a mock salute.

  He hadn’t been gone ten minutes before Fenn was on the line; and Fenn’s voice was sharper than Mannering had heard it before – the voice of a man who wasn’t going to stand any nonsense.

  “Did you tell Brash that we wanted him?”

  “I did,” admitted Mannering.

  “You damned fool. It’s as bad as wilfully obstructing us.” Fenn’s voice could cut like a knife. “He’s run for cover, his car’s been stranded. If you’d kept your mouth shut, we could have picked him up in half an hour. Now it’s a man hunt. I hope—”

  “Fenn,” said Mannering, in a voice so honey-sweet that it stopped the Yard man in full flow, “I apologise, humbly and abjectly. A complete misunderstanding. If Bill Bristow had told me what you told me about Brash, I’d have taken it for granted that he wanted me to pass the news on—wanted to get Brash on the run. And it worked that way. But I repeat—”

  “I’m not Bristow,” Fenn said; and then gave himself and his game away. “What impression did you get when you told him he was wanted for murder?”

  “He was surprised.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes. Surprised, shocked, shaken. Whether because he didn’t kill or because he didn’t think you’d get on to him so quickly, I don’t know, but they were his emotions. Any idea where he is?”

  “Not yet,” said Fenn, “but we’ll get him.”

  The receiver went up with a loud and deliberate snap.

  Mannering smiled faintly as he looked at the ceiling and a solitary fly bumping against it in a series of futile assaults. He did a lot of thinking. He hadn’t finished when he told Ethel that if anyone wanted him he would be at Quinns, and left the flat. He wasn’t followed, although a man from the Yard was still on duty watching. He got into the Rolls-Bentley, and drove to Hart Row, left the car outside, and went in.

  Sylvester and another assistant came forward from the shadows, but had no startling news to impart.

  “I’m going to have a look at the nest-egg,” Mannering said. “You haven’t unlocked the strong-room this morning, have you?”

  “No, sir, it hasn’t been necessary to touch it,” Sylvester said. “Would you like any help?”

  “I’ll manage,” said Mannering. He went into his office.

  The strong-room was electrically locked and sealed with rays which gave warning of anyone�
��s approach; everything the Baron had learned about safes and strong-rooms and locks and burglarproof systems had been used to make this as near impregnable as it could be. Once it had been raided; it was now three times as strong as it had been then.

  He closed and locked the door, pressed control electric buttons and switched ray-control levers. Now he could begin to get into the strong-room. Next he shifted a filing-cabinet, and rolled back a corner of the carpet, revealing polished boards. These were so cleverly fitted that they looked quite solid and unbroken; but at the touch of another switch a trap-door opened. Beneath this was yet another steel trap-door; he needed two keys to open this.

  He started down the short loft-ladder to the strong-room, which had once been a cellar. The walls had been strengthened with reinforced concrete, over a foot thick. The ceiling was the same. There were two small ventilation shafts, but neither led directly to the street or the tiny yard at the back of Quinns.

  A dozen safes were almost as impregnable as the strongroom. Round the walls, some in crates and some unpacked, were treasures which connoisseurs would pay a fortune to possess; all lovely things, each a delight to any expert eye, something to brood over and to love. Men did love these things; the lustre of a Ming vase, the fire that seemed to be burning in the heart of a diamond, the perfection of a master’s touch with a brush – this was a storeroom of treasures worth an incalculable sum; not all Mannering’s, for much was held for sale on commission; but a great deal was his.

  The nest-egg was in the middle safe of five along one wall.

  Mannering opened this. The keys scratched against the metal. He pulled the great, heavy steel door open. His heart began to pound. There was much that he didn’t understand about the case, in some ways it was almost uncanny; and suddenly he was afraid. It was impossible – but had some one broken in, had the nest-egg—

  The case was there.

  Mannering said, “Idiot,” and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then took the leather travelling case out. He carried it to a small table, unlocked and opened it, and looked down at the superbly spun nest and the lovely jewelled eggs. When he switched on a powerful light, the jewels seemed to catch fire. He screwed a watch-maker’s glass to his right eye, and examined each egg and each stone set round it, and he held his breath. All of these were perfect gems, the value was even greater than he had thought the night before. The nest might have been made by golden birds which could lay bejewelled eggs. It looked so soft to the touch, too, but in fact was hard and cool.