Nest-Egg for the Baron Page 11

  Mannering straightened up, and took the glass away from his eye. Studying jewels like this did something to him, touched a spark which had turned into a flame in the distant days of the Baron. He had a passion for precious stones which really amounted to mania. Rare and beautiful gems affected him physically. He felt cold and shivery, as if touched by fever. This was a battle which he had to fight and win over and over again. At one time the sight of such jewels as those would have broken down all his defences; he would have felt the longing for them so great, so fierce, that he would have stolen them rather than let them go to another man’s possession.

  Temptation, not these days to steal but to buy beyond his means, kept him almost daily company. In this strong-room he was filled with the tension, and knew that until he had gone upstairs, thrusting the jewels out of his mind, he would feel like this. He had made sure they were here, and nothing else really mattered. At heart, he knew that he had not needed to make sure, that the nest-egg was safe. The beauty of the gems had lured him down, to gloat as a miser would gloat over his hoard.

  Once the doors of the safe were shut on them he would feel better, and when the trap-doors were in position, better still; and once he started looking through the morning’s post, with Sylvester, he would be back to normal.

  He went up the wooden steps towards the office, looked round at the safe once, gave a thin-lipped smile, climbed up the stairs, and for a split second had his eyes on a level with the floor.

  Something moved.

  It was beyond the desk; something bright and shiny which he saw through the opening of the desk, the spot where he usually sat. He stopped moving for a split second, then went on, but his heart pounded with a different kind of excitement.

  He had seen a polished shoe. Someone was on his knees behind the far end of the desk, hidden from sight, waiting for him to turn round and lower the trap-doors.

  Was the man armed?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Second Murder

  There were only seconds in which to decide what to do. Seconds, which were already ticking away. If the man crouching there were armed, then as soon as Mannering’s back was turned he was likely to shoot. A shot would settle the account, there would be no need to worry about a struggle or a shout of alarm.

  Mannering felt as if he were in the presence of death.

  The seconds were flying.

  He reached the floor. He couldn’t see over the top of the desk; the man was crouching in the one corner of the room where he wasn’t likely to be seen, unless Mannering first went to the desk. If he did, it was inviting a bullet. He needed time, and rime was against him.

  He stopped.

  He took out cigarettes, and flicked his lighter. He drew on the cigarette, coughed, and then muttered, “They’re magnificent. Magnificent!” He drew on the cigarette again. His mind was empty, couldn’t make up his mind which was the lesser danger. There was Sylvester and the other assistant, outside, probably hurt.

  Mannering realised the one hope, and jumped from a standing start.

  He reached the desk, saw the snout of a gun poking round the corner, thrust both hands against the desk and heaved. It tipped up on one end. The gun dropped lower. Flame spurted, a bullet roared out and shaved the carpet and smacked into a filing-cabinet. Mannering heaved desperately as he felt the end of the desk against the crouching man, who tried to brace himself to prevent the desk from turning over on to him. The gun still showed. Mannering saw the man’s fingers. He heaved until the desk fell on to the man. The man squealed in agony and the gun fell free.

  Mannering stooped down, clutched it, and snatched it up, then backed away. He was carried so fast by the momentum of his own movement that he fetched up heavily against the wall behind him and banged the back of his head on a bookshelf. His ears rang, tears started to his eyes, the picture of the crouching man and the desk, askew, was badly blurred. He thrust the gun forward, knew that he was holding it rightly.

  “Keep still!” he shouted; but even his voice was betraying him, a thin sound came out. “Don’t—move!”

  The man was moving.

  No, it was that blurred vision, he only seemed to be moving. Actually he was trapped, and staring up into Mannering’s eyes. He had a scarf round his face, but it had slipped, and he didn’t wear a hat. He had nut-brown, curly hair. His face looked deeply tanned, and he was good-looking in a boyish way. Now, he was terrified. His mouth was open, but he seemed to be breathing through distended nostrils.

  Mannering’s vision steadied.

  The man was at his mercy; and the door was closed. The shot would have been heard in the shop, but no one came. The only sound was of his own and the other man’s breathing. Mannering felt cold sweat on his forehead, and sweat at his back and his neck. He moved forward, and pushed the desk off.

  “Get—up,” Mannering said.

  The man muttered, “I can’t.” The words were only just audible from behind the mask.

  “Get up!”

  “I—I can’t. My back—” The man closed his eyes, and seemed to wince. “The desk must have squashed me.”

  Mannering said, “All right, crawl across the floor, go to the other side of the desk.”

  “I—”

  “Get a move on!”

  The man began to crawl, using only his arms and one leg. It was oddly, pathetically like a wounded crab. In two minutes, he hadn’t moved more than a few inches, and sweat was gathering like raindrops on his forehead.

  “All right, stop it,” Mannering growled.

  The man flopped down, arms by his side and head lowered. He made funny little groaning sounds. Mannering measured the distance between the outstretched man and the door, and moved slowly towards the door, but he was already convinced that there was nothing to fear from this man.

  Was there another, outside?

  If so, would the door have been closed?

  Mannering shut the strong-room, set the electric and the ray controls, then went to the outer door. The man wasn’t even looking up, there was no danger that he would attack. Mannering stood to one side, gun in hand, and opened the door a fraction. He saw no one outside; nothing but part of the dimly lit shop, old furniture, and close at hand, a lovely little Dutch panel of a river-side scene with magnificent colours.

  He opened the door wider.

  He caught his breath sharply.

  Sylvester lay on the floor, half-way towards the front of the shop, but hidden from the street by an old settle. His head was towards Mannering, and the silvery hair bathed in ominous red.

  There was a muttering sound.

  A woman was saying, “Isn’t it beautiful, dear.”

  That was the loud-speaker, which told the people inside the shop what was being said outside; and being planned. No shop in the world was better protected against such a raid as this, but a man had broken in, and Sylvester lay there like a corpse.

  Mannering turned to look at the injured man.

  He hadn’t moved.

  Mannering opened the door wider and stepped cautiously into the shop, but he saw no one else. He went to the door leading to the stairs, closed and locket it. Then he hurried to Sylvester; knelt by his side, and saw the bloody mess that had been made of Sylvester’s head. He dared not move him. He saw blood pulsing out at one spot, found the artery and pressed with his thumb; the flow stopped.

  Mannering looked up at the window. Two men and a young boy were looking at the single coronet on the purple velvet.

  Mannering beckoned.

  They didn’t see him.

  He shouted, and they did not hear him, but moved on. Mannering left Sylvester, grabbed the telephone and drew it near, dialled 999, then pressed the artery again.

  The brisk voice of a man at Scotland Yard came quickly.

  A patrol car arrived first; then a Squad car; then an ambulance with a doctor. Mannering, sitting at Sylvester’s desk, could see everything – in the office and in the shop. Police were walking about overhead, but had any
one else been hiding in the premises, they would have called out by now. Trevor, the junior assistant, had been out – sent on an errand by Sylvester. He came back, horrified when he learned what had happened.

  Sylvester was taken out on a stretcher. A doctor was muttering gloomily. Mannering, pulling at a cigarette, was trying to get his mind off the sight of Sylvester’s battered head. He did not think that the old man had much chance of survival.

  A police sergeant said, “And what time was this, sir?”

  “About twenty to one.” Mannering stirred himself, then saw the door open and Fenn come striding in, with Grimble just behind him.

  Fenn was in a hurry, and his lean body was so convex that he seemed to be leaning forward. He stopped by Mannering.

  “You all right?”

  “Yes—thanks.”

  “Suffering from a bit of shock,” the doctor said. Mannering hadn’t realised that he had come out of the office, away from the injured intruder. “He ought to be used to it by now.”

  “Sure you’re not hurt?” Fenn insisted.

  Mannering said, “I’m all right. Just feeling murderous.”

  He stood up. It wasn’t the forced entry; it wasn’t the shock of seeing the man; it wasn’t reaction after the swift burst of action: it was the sight of Sylvester’s head, a sight he would remember all his life.

  “I’m told you caught the man,” Fenn said.

  “In here,” said the doctor, a chubby middle-aged man. “There’s something badly wrong with his back. I’ve given him a shot of morphia. Sorry.” He knew that Fenn would have liked to question the man first; but wouldn’t have a chance now. “Mannering threw the desk at him.”

  “What?”

  Mannering moved towards the office.

  “I tipped it up,” he said. “He was crouching behind it. After the eggs, I suppose.” He moistened his lips, and then opened a corner cupboard and took out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. “Join me?”

  “Let me pour that,” Fenn said.

  “I’m still on the active list.”

  “Please yourself, but not for me,” Fenn said briskly. He brushed his sparse dark hair back from his forehead. “You understand I have to have a look round, Mannering?”

  “Of course.”

  “Better close the shop, hadn’t you?”

  “Yes,” agreed Mannering. “Yes.” Wainwright was out on his eager business, and Larraby on holiday, so three men were not available. Available! “In your hands now,” he said, “you’re supposed to be watching it. I thought you had someone here.”

  “We had by night.”

  “Thieves walk by day.”

  Fenn said, “All right, I can guess how you feel. Like to go home? Or—”

  “I’ll stay.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You won’t find stolen goods here,” Mannering said, very carefully.

  “I don’t expect to.”

  “Kind of you. Found Brash?”

  “No,” said Fenn, and gave him a sharp, almost hostile look. “We have not found Brash. It’s a good job for you that he isn’t Brash.”

  The prisoner, who lay unconscious but with his lips twisted as if he were still in pain, was not at all like Brash. He was well dressed, and wore a gold signet ring on his right hand. His brown shoes were highly polished; that high polish had given him away. It looked certain that he had come here alone, that he had attacked Sylvester savagely, and would have attacked Mannering with the same brutal ruthlessness.

  He looked young, wholesome, pathetic.

  An hour later, Fenn said, “That’s about everything we need worry about here, I think. I wish the doctor hadn’t been so quick with his morphia.” He looked broodingly at Mannering, who, feeling much more himself, was sitting at his desk. “You’re a pretty powerful man,” he said.

  “Am I?”

  Fenn said, “Look.” He stood up, went to the desk, placed both hands on the edge, and tipped it up. He lifted it two or three inches off the floor, and obviously it was a great effort. He let it down slowly, and grunted; even then, it fell the last inch with a thump. “See what I mean?”

  “You weren’t expecting every minute to be your last.”

  “Strength of desperation?” Fenn said almost musingly, then added sharply, almost with that angry note of hostility: “You weren’t feeling desperate last night at Dragon’s End, were you?”

  Mannering just looked at him.

  Fenn was certainly reminding himself that only a person with great strength in his arms and shoulders could have thrown that spear; and Mannering must have great strength, or he could not have hoisted the desk up and let it fall on the back of the man who had broken in. He could understand Fenn’s trend of thought, couldn’t blame him, wouldn’t blame him if he started looking for a motive.

  “The second time you went to Dragon’s End you were on your own, weren’t you?” Fenn asked.

  “Yes. No witnesses,” Mannering said, dryly. “No motive, either. If you’ve got me as Suspect Number One, why not see what Bristow said in his little black book.”

  Fenn didn’t smile.

  “I’ll reach my own conclusions,” he said, aloofly. “Two of my men will be on duty in the street and one at the back, until further notice. Ever seen the assailant before?”

  “No.”

  “All right,” Fenn said, and seemed to relax. “If I were you, I’d go home and take it easy.”

  “Thanks,” Mannering said. “What do you know?”

  “About what?”

  “Smith—”

  “He’s still unconscious,” Fenn said. “I’ve been down to Midham, and had a look round. The nest-egg belongs to the girl all right—I’ve seen the receipted invoice. Her father bought it fifteen years ago, in Bangkok. It’s fully insured, too.”

  “Something,” Mannering said. “Found out where Pendexter went, yet?”

  Fenn said, “No. We will.”

  He left soon afterwards, and the police went out, all their photographs and their measuring all their notes and all their searching done. The shop seemed empty; desolate. Mannering stood up from the desk, and moved into the shop itself. There was no silvery-haired man, and no eager yet punctilious youngsters ready to come and find whether he wanted them. He went upstairs. Here was the room where Miranda Smith had waited, where he had seen the terror which had come to her about the disappearance of Pendexter Smith. What had Smith done that day? Why had he not come back? How had he returned to Dragon’s End, and how had he been drugged?

  Mannering went downstairs.

  He was at the door of the office when the telephone bell began to ring; and it went on, sharply persistent, with the note of imperiousness which was quite detached from anything else. Mannering didn’t want to talk to anyone about business, but he lifted the instrument.

  “Mannering, of Quinns.”

  There was no answer.

  “Who’s there?” Mannering asked sharply, and then a girl operator broke in: “Just a moment, please. You’re through, caller. Press Button A please.”

  Mannering heard the hollow note of the pennies dropping. He waited, less antagonistic to the caller; who would call Quinns from a call box?

  “That Mr. Mann’ring?” a man demanded. His voice was rough, hoarse, and low-pitched, the words only just reached Mannering. “John Mann’ring?”

  “Yes, who—”

  “I’m Dibben, the chap you let orf last night,” the man muttered urgently. “Listen, look aht for yourself, they’re arter you. They mean to kill, see? Don’t—”

  “Who means to kill me?” Mannering asked, trying desperately not to shout. “Hold on, Dibben, I’ll make it it worth your while if—”

  But Dibben rang off.

  His hoarse voice echoed in Mannering’s ear.

  “Look aht for yourself, they’re arter you. They mean to kill, see?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Why Murder Mannering?

  Mannering went out in the heat of the afternoon. A middle-
aged man limped past him, carrying his jacket, collar and tie loose, braces taut. A few people stood and looked across as if they expected further sensations. Two Yard men, including the comfortable-looking Grimble, now dressed in brown serge and almost hot enough to collapse, were in Hart Row. Grimble nodded. Mannering went along to his car, got in, lit a cigarette, and waited.

  It was twenty minutes since Dibben had telephoned.

  Mannering had just heard from the hospital; Sylvester was dead.

  That was the harsh, cruel fact. The man who had served him loyally for years, gentle, patient, courteous, friendly to everyone, had been brutally attacked and murdered; and he had been protecting him, Mannering; protecting Quinns.

  He hadn’t even been able to sound the alarm.

  Beneath Sylvester’s desk had been a bell-push; once touched with the foot it would have sounded the alarm up and down Hart Row, upstairs in Quinns, down in the strong-room.

  Mannering switched on the ignition, pressed the self-starter, and moved off towards Hart Row. Why should “they”, why should anyone, want to kill him? Dibben had told what he believed to be the truth. Honour among thieves showed in expected guises and came from unlikely places; and he had used the right tactics with Dibben.

  But why should anyone want to kill him?

  He drove off, slowly until he was in the stream of traffic in Bond Street. He headed for Piccadilly and then New Scotland Yard. He watched the driving-mirror closely, but as far as he could judge wasn’t followed. His mind wouldn’t stop posing the question: Why did they want to kill him?

  Fenn was in his office, just after five o’clock; in his shirtsleeves, his tie loose, forehead and upper lip sticky with sweat. It was much hotter than it had been at midday, but the sun was behind a mass of almost black clouds. The cloud would open and the downpour come at any moment. Thunder rumbled some way off.