Taking the Blame Read online

  Larraby collapsed, and lay still.

  Bud said in a thin voice: “Have—have you killed him?”

  “What the hell if we have?” muttered Dale. “Now who’s bellyaching? Tommy, tie him up and gag him. Look slippy. Bud, go downstairs, I’ll come and give you a lesson in how to open a can.” He laughed, harshly. “Same way as I’ve given you a lesson in how to break in, mister. I arranged for Tommy to be around, just in case there was something you forgot.”

  “Yes, you’re good,” Bud said. “But Larraby’s badly hurt.”

  “Forget Larraby.”

  Tommy, short, bald-headed and thin, was already tying Larraby’s wrists together behind his back. Blood oozed from a wound in his head, and spread gradually over the carpet.

  Bud went down to the strong-room door and Dale, with his toolkit in one hand and the cowled lamp in the other, followed him and set to work.

  It wasn’t really dark when Larraby opened his eyes. There was a tiny light from the back of the shop, the light which showed passing policemen that all was well. He didn’t know whether the hole in the floor was open or closed, because he was huddled in a corner and couldn’t turn his head. He felt desperately ill. His head was burning, there was a sharp pain across his left ear and his left’ eye. He was thirsty, too. Waves of pain kept crossing his forehead, and he groaned aloud.

  He closed his eyes.

  Soon, he lost consciousness again.

  John Mannering, absorbed in the first leader in The Times, murmured thanks as the maid put his breakfast on the table and ignored it until he had finished the unemotional and logical summing-up of the present international situation. It did not cheer him up.

  This was the third Wednesday in October.

  As he ate, he looked out of the window. He could just see a stretch of the silvery, sunlit Thames and the ugly blots of wharves and broken buildings across the river. Close at hand was a row of tall, terraced houses. The bacon was succulent and the coffee excellent. Here was a bright morning with the promise of a fine day, after the rain of the day before and the dark clouds of the night. The roofs and windows opposite glistened, and the cutlery and the damask table cloth shone in the rays of the autumn sun that streamed in through the open window.

  The small room was furnished with antiques. He sat at a narrow refectory table, on a chair with a slung leather seat which had supported men and women from the days of William III. There was no sideboard, but a Jacobean chiffonier almost black with polishing. It gave him a glow of pleasure whenever he looked at it. So did several pieces of Georgian silver. On the painted walls were old prints, gems of their day and fashion.

  One thing, and only one, was needed to make the picture perfect; his wife. Lorna was late this morning, which meant that she was taking great pains with her appearance because she had an early appointment; pity; breakfast would spoil …

  He heard her walking across the hall, and stood up as she came in.

  “Sorry I’m late, darling,” said Lorna. “Had to get ready, I must be at Fotheringay’s by half-past nine.” She walked with easy grace across the room, tall, dark-haired, dressed in a stylish black suit with a long coat, a white blouse frilly at the neck and cuffs. She sat down with that same, unconscious grace, and the world was suddenly a brighter place. “How is the state of gloom this morning?” She glanced at The Times.

  “Stagnant,” said Mannering. “Coffee?”

  “Please.” Martha, the maid, came in with Lorna’s breakfast. “Thank you, Martha, I hope I haven’t let it get cold.”

  “So do I, ma’am,” said Martha, a cheerless but most efficient soul.

  “How do I look?” Lorna asked, when the maid had gone.

  “Wonderful! Far too wonderful. There’s probably a young Apollo at Fotheringay’s ready to tell you that you’re beautiful and adorable and all the things that an unimaginative husband forgets until he discovers there’s competition. You know—” he paused.

  “Yes?” asked Lorna.

  “It’s time you had your portrait painted.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Lorna. She was an artist both of repute and real achievement, spending much of her time in a huge attic studio above the flat. Some of her pictures were showing at an exhibition of modern art at Fotheringay’s, one of the more important private galleries.

  “I’m serious,” Mannering went on. “Self-portrait, perhaps, dressed as you are this morning—no, a self-portrait wouldn’t do, you’d be scared of doing yourself justice. Think Winship would have a go?”

  “What’s the matter, darling? Do you want to capture the little youth that’s left in me, before it’s too late?”

  “I’d like something to remind me how you look this morning,” Mannering said. “But I suppose you’ll say that you’re too busy with brush and palette or social occasions. You’ve just twenty minutes to finish your breakfast and be off if you want to be there by half-past nine.”

  He studied her as she ate.

  She was a creature of moods and contrasts, although lately she had usually been happy and contented. Her raven black hair was glossy. Her grey eyes were made more striking by rather heavy eyebrows which at times gave her an almost sullen look. Her complexion was as perfect as it had been when they had first met, ten years ago. In those days Mannering had been a dilettante by day and jewel-thief by night; today that hardly seemed real, but it had been so. He’d lived dangerously and recklessly – and caused her moodiness. That had never quite gone. She had read and heard of the man they called the Baron, and hated what they would do if they caught him. She’d known that bitterness after an affaire had almost turned him bad; seen him fight to get a hold on himself, watched as bitterness had died but love of the excitement and danger had lingered. For a while he’d robbed the rich and fed the poor, and gradually he’d become the man he was now – famous, as an amateur detective!

  The bad days were in the past; but the past cast a shadow. The past had its glories, too. There had been moments of ecstasy, when danger was past and he’d been gay and swept her off her feet. He’d often carried her to the heights of happiness, as he could now.

  They had risked much together. She had committed herself, when first fascinated by him, to helping him escape from the police. She had known the agonising thrill of being hunted and the joy of being safe. She had risked the shame and misery, prison; she had even been prepared to fly the country with him, leaving behind her family, her painting, everything.

  She would give it up now, if the need came.

  He finished his third cup of coffee and Lorna smiled at him. What fascinated her? It wasn’t quite right to dismiss him as simply a handsome man; in his brown eyes and the line of his face and the curve of his lips there was a rollicking, devil-may-care attractiveness, a hint of swagger, a suggestion that he belonged to a more colourful age. At times she thought that he surrounded himself with relics from the past because he knew that they suited him. A cavalier in the days of King Charles, an Elizabethan adventurer, a Regency buck – any of those, but not a businessman, albeit in an unusual business, in the days of atom bombs.

  “In to lunch?” Lorna asked suddenly.

  “Are you?”

  “No, darling. Fotheringay—”

  “I am becoming suspicious of Charles Fotheringay,” said Mannering firmly. “I refuse to come back and eat alone. I’ve a client, young and comely, who would love to let me take her to Quag’s. Sure you can’t make it yourself?”

  “Sorry, darling. But dinner—”

  “Yes, let’s dine out. Merro’s, at eight o’clock.”

  “Then Martha may as well have the rest of the day off,” said Lorna thoughtfully. “Tell her so, darling, will you? I must fly.” She finished her coffee.

  Five minutes later, his lips brushed her cheeks and he opened the door for her. She waved from the landing, then disappeared.

  Mannering turned back to the breakfast-room and collected The Times. Then he told Martha that the rest of the day was hers, which appeare
d to arouse neither interest nor gratitude.

  He went into his study. Over the mantelpiece was a portrait of a gay cavalier, painted, if tradition were right, by one of Lorna’s forbears.

  An old brass chiming clock, with cherubim and seraphim inlaid in pastel colours on the dial and which gave a startling whirrr when it began to strike, said it was nine o’clock. He believed it. There was nothing of interest in the post, and he decided to go to Quinns early. He seldom arrived before Carmichael, his chief assistant; he would give the old man a surprise. Larraby would be there, of course, but the shop wouldn’t be open; it was an unwritten law that either Mannering or Carmichael actually unlocked the door from the outside.

  Lorna had the car, so Mannering went by bus to Bond Street and walked from there to Hart Row. Everything was quiet and peaceful in the Row, although the morning bustle was stirring in Bond Street, where the road way was crowded. The little back-water which sheltered Quinns was passed by thousands every day, but visited by comparatively few; most of those went either to Quinns or to the salon, Estelle’s, next door. Estelle was the Dior of London.

  The narrow window of Quinns was empty. When Carmichael arrived he would take out a priceless casket or some rare jewel and place it on the dark-red velvet which lined the window and people would come to gaze and admire and a few to enquire the price, which would almost certainly be beyond their reach.

  The shop was centuries old, with the name in gilt Old English lettering on the fascia board. There were no bottle-glass windows, as once there had been, but that did not greatly detract from the quaintness. Quinns remained a relic of half-forgotten London.

  Mannering unlocked the door.

  It wanted three minutes to half-past nine, and Carmichael would be here at the stroke of the half-hour.

  The shop was long, narrow and gloomy, but there was a light; that gave him the first indication that something was wrong. Larraby usually switched off the safety-light as soon as he came down.

  Wasn’t he well?

  Mannering hurried past the antiques and lovely paintings and objets d’art, and saw that the dim light came from a battery-set which had nearly run down. He pressed a light switch at the back of the shop. No other light came on, so the main switch was off or the lamps were removed; no, the lamps were in position.

  The office door was open. Usually it was closed and locked, and he did not think that Larraby had a key.

  The office, dimly lit, appeared to be empty. Nothing seemed to have been touched. Mannering passed it, calling: “Larraby!”

  There was no answer.

  “Larraby!” Mannering called again, and hurried up the stairs, bending his head at the corners to avoid the low ceiling. “Larraby!” he shouted, but only the echoes of his voice answered him.

  Larraby’s door was wide open. Larraby’s single bed, pushed up against the wall beneath a sloping ceiling, had been slept in; his clothes were folded over a chair, his shoes, with the socks tucked into them, stood by the foot of the bed.

  Mannering heard a sound downstairs, and hurried back. Carmichael, tall, dark-clad, white-haired, was standing at the foot of the stairs. “Did I hear you call for Larraby?” asked Carmichael.

  “Yes. There’s been trouble.”

  “Perhaps—perhaps he isn’t well, sir,” said Carmichael hopefully.

  “I’m afraid that’s not the answer.” Mannering pushed the office door; it struck something and swung back. The door usually fell back gently against a door-stop.

  Mannering stepped inside, and saw Larraby’s huddled body, the blood on his head matting his curly, grey hair, the pallor of his face, the cords which bound his wrists and ankles.

  He was filled with a burning rage, but his voice was soft.

  “Call Scotland Yard.”

  He went down on one knee beside the little man, and felt for his heart.

  Chapter Three

  Heavy Losses

  Larraby’s flesh was cool – not as warm as it should be, but not really cold, as a dead man’s would be. Yet Larraby, who was facing the wall, looked dead. His eyes were closed and his lips were parted, and there was that ugly, bloody mess. Mannering pressed gently beneath his left breast.

  Was there a faint beating?

  Carmichael was at the telephone, watching, waiting.

  Mannering took out his pocket-knife and cut the cords, raised Larraby gently and carried him to an easy chair in a corner. Carmichael began to speak into the telephone. Mannering pulled up a straight-back chair and raised Larraby’s feet on to it, keeping him flat, then felt the man’s wrist with his forefinger. The wrist was ridged where the cords had been, and it felt very cold.

  “At once, please,” said Carmichael, and replaced the receiver. “Is he—” he began, and broke off.

  “A doctor,” said Mannering.

  “The Yard has promised to send a police-surgeon at once, sir,” said Carmichael. “I thought it better—”

  “That’s all right,” said Mannering. “He’s alive.” He was still touching the little man’s wrist. He took off his coat. “Get some blankets, will you? And put a kettle on for a hot-water bottle.”

  Carmichael hurried out.

  Mannering stood looking down at the injured man.

  Larraby had once been a fool; and a thief. Mannering had found him out and let him live here, among the beauty and the treasures of Quinns. Loyalty and gratitude had made Larraby a friend.

  Carmichael came downstairs with blankets over his arm. Mannering took them from him and covered Larraby, tucking the blankets in at the side of the chair, while Carmichael went off for the kettle and hot-water bottle. Mannering lit a cigarette. Even if Larraby weren’t dead, he was so badly injured that he might not recover.

  Carmichael appeared again, a wraith of a man.

  “The kettle won’t be a few minutes, sir. Do you think that his assailants reached the strong-room?”

  “Probably.” There were plenty of signs that the desk had been moved, the carpet shifted and oddments taken from the shelves.

  “There isn’t anything more we can do for Larraby at the moment, sir,” Carmichael said. “I really think you ought to look in the strong-room. We were keeping—” he paused, and passed his hand across his mouth, as if his lips were twisted in a spasm of dismay. “We were keeping the Swanmore Collection, that in itself would be enough to ruin us, sir.”

  Mannering almost smiled.

  “I don’t think it would quite do that.”

  “Was the insurance company notified that they would be moved from Lord Swanmore’s residence? It was on my mind last night. I think it doubtful, sir, and if they have been stolen—” he broke off.

  “We won’t jump our fences too early,” Mannering said. “See if the main switch is on or off, will you?”

  Carmichael went out again, and Mannering glanced about the room, noting little things. The possible gravity of his losses began to seep into his mind.

  He heard a bell ring. The front door opened, and men entered the shop. He went to the office door and looked along. Superintendent William Bristow and Detective-Sergeant Gordon of New Scotland Yard had lost no time. As Mannering went to greet them, a second car pulled up outside and the driver jumped out.

  Bristow, the first of the two newcomers, was a trim, grey man.

  “Well, John? What’s all this about?”

  “You know nearly as much as I do,” Mannering said. “I haven’t had a look round yet.”

  “Is Josh in a bad way?”

  “A hell of a bad way.”

  “Have you touched anything?” The routine question had a sharp ring.

  “Carmichael’s gone to have a look at the main switch, but I doubt if he’ll touch it. Is this the police-surgeon?” Mannering looked beyond Bristow to the third man, short, dapper, dark – a well-knit figure who moved energetically towards the office.

  “Yes.” said Bristow. “Dr. Warren—Mr. John Mannering.”

  Warren nodded. “Heard of you,” he said in a sh
arp, hurried voice. “Someone been hurt, eh?”

  Carmichael loomed up again.

  “The switch is off, sir.”

  “Oh,” said Mannering, and glanced at Bristow. “That meant they probably entered the strong-room, Bill. But let’s look at Larraby.”

  According to Dr. Warren, Larraby’s skull had been fractured; it was impossible to judge the full extent of the injury in a cursory examination, but he thought it grave. He estimated that the wound had been inflicted ‘several hours ago,’ but in all other respects he was non-committal. By the time he had told Bristow and Mannering that, the ambulance arrived.

  Warren went with the injured man to the nearest hospital.

  Photographers and finger-print men from the Division began their patient work. Bristow would not allow the desk to be moved or the carpet rolled up until they had finished their first job. Carmichael remained in the shop, agitated to the point of distress.

  “Anyone else on the staff?” asked Bristow.

  “My assistant is away ill, sir,” said Carmichael.

  Bristow grunted.

  “We’ve done all we need to for now,” Gordon said.

  “We’ll move that desk,” said Bristow.

  Gordon, a bulky, sandy-haired man with deep-set eyes and a marked Scottish accent, took one end of the desk; a grey-haired Inspector from the Division took the other.

  Bristow examined the locks on the strong-room door and the boards near the doorway, looking for finger-prints. He didn’t seem to find any.

  The strong-room door had obviously been opened. All the locks were electrically controlled, and they were the best obtainable. Only a brilliant cracksman could have forced them, and the forcing must have taken some time. Whoever had forced entry must have known a great deal about the layout of the place, and the locks.

  “All right,” Bristow said at last. “Open the door, will you?” He stood aside for Mannering, and whispered: “You couldn’t have done a better job yourself, could you?”