Hide the Baron (11 page)

According to his information, they didn't here.

He reached the wall, between two lighted windows, and the darkness shielded him. He heard footsteps, coming from each direction, the men would meet not far away from here, talk for a few minutes, and then go the rounds again. He had chosen the spot well; there was a buttress, built to hide a drain-pipe which ran down from the castellated roof. He climbed it quickly, with as much ease as a Samoan islander shinning up a tree for coconuts.

He reached a false window-sill; it served no window but was there to break the flatness of the wall. Standing on it, he was level with the first-floor rooms; flat against the wall, there was no risk of being seen.

He heard the policemen meet and talk. They went on talking for what seemed a long time. He shifted from one foot to the other, cursing them silently, until they moved off. He let them get some distance away, and then started to tackle the most difficult part of the climb up to the roof. The buttress was more slender here, and there were few hand – or footholds.

He climbed up nimbly.

He reached the castellated roof.

He swung himself over, making hardly a sound, and then peered over. He could see the yellow light from the windows. The policemen weren't back yet. He moved away, able to walk quite freely. His company were hatches which could open and lead to the attic floors, and the chimney stacks. He had been carefully briefed, and soon took a diagram of the top of the house from his pocket. Up here, away from the walls, it was safe to shine a torch and to light a cigarette. He did this, just as free from anxiety as he would be in a crowded room.

The wind was very strong up here.

He checked the position on the diagram, then looked for a chimney stack marked with a cross. Like all of them, it was large and square. He moved round, smoking, and checking the position of the stacks, until he found the one which he knew would take him down into Joanna Woburn's room.

He didn't know what the condition would be like.

No open fires were burned in the bedrooms, these days, but that didn't mean that the chimney had been properly swept. Big chimneys like this were never thoroughly cleaned these days; small boys wouldn't go down them with their brushes.

He didn't think of that very deeply.

He finished his cigarette.

He took out a mask, into which was fitted a pair of goggles, and placed it carefully into position. It had no breathing apparatus, but it had a filter, and it would keep dirt, dust and soot out of his eyes, nose and mouth. He adjusted it for comfort, then felt in his pockets for gloves; he put these on, and pulled out a knife.

It was sheathed.

He didn't take it right out, but slid it into his waistband, through a slot which would hold it securely. Then he flexed his muscles, just as an athlete might before a race.

He moved towards the chimney.

Here, he took the rope, and looped it round the stack, making sure that the knot was secure, and then unwound it, and made another loop. This he slid over his head and one shoulder. It was slack, and quite long enough; it wouldn't get in his way.

Next he took a piece of chewing-gum from his pocket, stripped off the paper, let it fall. The wind swept it away. He put the gum in his mouth. He was chewing rhythmically by the time he reached the stack, and climbed up. He used his torch, and located the foot and hand holes which had been put there for the chimney boys when the house had been built.

He began to climb down.

 

Below, Joanna Woburn slept, troubled even in her sleep, with one bare arm outside the bedspread, and outflung, the other hidden. The sheet covered her up to her shoulders. Her hair was loose, for she always uncoiled it at night; it almost covered the pillow.

She had been a long time getting off.

In a room on one side, was the detective, with the door unlocked.

In the room on the other side was Mannering, with his bedroom door open an inch.

Below, the two policemen met just beneath Joanna's room after each of their patrols.

Outside, there was no sound.

The faint rustle in the chimney did not disturb her.

 

Brill found it easier to get down than he had expected. The air in the chimney seemed quite clean, and there was good foothold. There were two vents in the walls, which carried some of the smoke to other chimneys, and he did not know that these had been adapted into a ventilation system which was one of the many things that Jimmy Garfield had spent his money on.

It didn't matter, either.

Now and again, he loosened a little plaster, and heard it fall. At first, he heard only the first slight rustle; then nothing. But as he drew nearer the hearth, he heard each tiny piece hit the bottom of the fireplace. For the first time, he began to wonder if he would get away with it.

He knew exactly what he had to do.

Get into the room.
Kill
the girl; there were to be no half-measures, he just had to kill her. If she were asleep, that would be fine. Then he was to climb up the chimney, get to the roof, climb down the way he had come, and get away.

In theory, and when he had planned it, after being given the diagram and assured that the chimney was easy for climbing, he hadn't given it much thought. But now he was closely confined, the sides of the chimney brushed against his shoulders and his hands. Tension grew; with every step he found it more difficult to get a foothold, because of his nervousness.

But he went down.

At last, he trod on the hearth itself.

Now, he had to get down on his knees and then crawl out. He was breathing hard, and that was something he hadn't bargained for; it might disturb the woman.

Nothing disturbed her; she lay sleeping.

He crawled from the hearth, and stood up. He was still chewing.

 

 

Mannering heard the wind strike against the wall and window, and then fade. A long way off there were rustling sounds, but that was all. He lay on his back, eyes closed, willing sleep to come. He had not given up his anxieties, but he could see nothing else that he could do. Entry through the roof was possible, but the top floor had been sealed off; what was there to worry about? He was super-sensitive, partly because of what had happened to Lorna. He saw more clearly what Bristow had been getting at about his mood.

Wise bird, Bristow!

He was almost asleep when he heard another rustling sound, which wasn't quite the same as before. He raised his head, so as to listen more intently. It was very slight, and seemed to come from opposite the foot of the bed, near the chimney.

He sat up.

He heard another slightly different sound, as if something had dropped on the hearth; something so tiny that it made practically no sound at all.

Was it raining?

Ah, that was the sound;
rain dislodging plaster which was coming down the chimney. He got out of bed, but could not hear the sound of rain, although the window was open. He went to it; the clouds were there, hiding the stars, but there was no rain.

There it came again.

He went to the fireplace, and was not yet sure that he had cause for worry, there were a dozen possible explanations; an owl in the chimney; the wind, setting up vibration which was sending down tiny chippings of plaster that were already loose. Even the fall of plaster which had been on the verge of falling for some time, but – why was it going on for so long?

It stopped.

He knelt down by the fireplace, and studied the big brass dogs, the swept hearth, the pine logs which made it look as if a fire would be lighted soon. He saw nothing to explain the sounds; no tiny pieces of plaster, no marks of soot, nothing smearing the cleanliness of the hearth.

He frowned as he stood up, feeling worried and uncertain.

He heard a rustling sound again, then stretched out on his stomach and put his head close to the back of the fireplace. He heard rustling and slight creaking.

He scrambled back, making hardly a sound, sprang up and strode to the door. He pulled the chair aside. His breathing was coming so fast that it almost choked him. He pulled open the passage door, and stepped into the lighted passage, the carpet muffling all sound. He stepped past the girl's door, towards the policeman's. He still felt choked. If someone had got in that way, a shout would probably make them slash –

Slash.

He turned the handle of the detective's door, and a new fear crowded in on the others; that the man would wake up with a start, and shout for help.

He wasn't asleep; he was sitting in an easy chair, with a book on his knees, and a revolver in his hand. It covered the door. He looked scared, even behind the gun, and his eyes were huge in a broad face. Mannering put a finger to his lips, and took a step towards him.

“
Keep back!
”
the man whispered.

“Someone in her room,” Mannering breathed. “Down the chimney.”

The man didn't have to believe him; might even suspect his intentions; if he were trigger happy, it wouldn't help much to have explanations afterwards.

Mannering turned towards the door, and prayed.

He mustn't alarm the man in the girl's room.

If there was no man –

He didn't think seriously of that possibility as he turned the handle slowly, acutely conscious of the police man just behind him, gun at the ready. He opened the door a crack. He saw the faint light, and knew that light would go from this room into the other, and that if a man were in there and looking towards the door –

Mannering opened the door wider.

He looked round, and saw the small man, torch in one hand, the other hand hidden. The man's bent back was towards Mannering. He was close to the bed. His right hand seemed to be raised, as his arm would be if he were going to strike.

“
Turn round!
”
Mannering rasped.

It still might be too late –

He saw the tension, the movement, the small body half-turn. He saw the knife, out of its sheath, the torch light glittering on it. He saw the breathing mask. Then the little man swung round, moving the knife, as if at all costs he had to finish his job before he was caught.

The policeman fired.

The knife flashed down, the little man cried out in pain, and staggered away from the bed. Mannering rushed towards the bed, seeing Joanna Woburn as the little man moved.

She woke up.

 

Mannering, still ‘Mr. Richardson' to the life, watched as the little man stood in the room next door, with White questioning him, the other policeman standing by. The bullet had caught the man in the shoulders, and they had given him first aid; but the white bandage was already showing signs of crimson.

The prisoner didn't say a word.

With his mask off, he was just a pale-faced, plain little creature, with dark eyes and a nervous manner, thin lips, and the rather raw look that some killers had. His hands and knees were scratched, where he had come down the chimney.

He hadn't said anything that mattered, just insisted on seeing a doctor and a lawyer. He wasn't truculent, in fact he was scared; but he was adamant, and none of White's cajolery or loud-voiced threats or reasoning had the slightest effect on him.

“What about a doctor, my shoulder's hurting.”

“I hope it hurts a damned sight more. Who sent you?”

Silence.

“Look here, it won't do you any good in the long run, and if you help us all you can now, it'll go easier for you,” White said. “Where did you get that diagram of the roof?”

“It was given to me.”

“Who by?”

“Listen,” the little man said, “where's that doctor, I'm losing an awful lot of blood.”

Mannering went out of the room. He heard a low-pitched voice in the next room, which was Joanna's, and the door was ajar. He tapped, and when Mrs. Baddelow said “Come in” he opened it wider. Mrs. Baddelow, in a dressing-gown and with her grey hair mousy and untidy without its bun, was sitting in an easy chair by the side of Joanna's bed; there was a tray with two glasses of hot milk in metal holders on it. Joanna picked up a glass.

“Feeling more yourself?” Mannering asked.

“The things Miss Woburn's had to put up with while she's been in this house is something awful,” Mrs. Baddelow said. Her voice was strident, as if she resented being gazed upon by a male in such a state of untidiness. “The police actually let a
man
get into her room! If I had my way I'd tell them a thing or two. I think she's
marvellous
,”
Mrs. Baddelow went on, and glowered as if she expected the remark to be challenged. “The way she stands up to all
this.
”

Mannering said: “You're not alone in thinking she's marvellous. How are you, Miss Woburn?” He went to her.

She said in a low-pitched voice: “More frightened than I ever thought I could be. If they can get in here—”

“It was obvious, really, down the chimney,” Mannering said. “The problem” – he looked at Mrs. Baddelow thoughtfully – “is how he knew what chimney to choose. Had them swept lately, Mrs. Baddelow?”

“No, not since I've been here, except the ones in the library and the dining-room.”

“Who sweeps them?”

“A man from Orme. All electric, but don't you believe it when he says there's no soot, the place was
smothered
! And I don't mind telling you that he's been sweeping chimneys in Orme for twenty years to my knowledge; I don't know what you're getting at.”

Mannering said: “Just trying to help.” He went out, convinced that it was pointless to say anything else to Joanna Woburn. There was just one good thing that might come out of this: Merrow might be persuaded to talk. A visit to Merrow was on the agenda for first thing in the morning.

He looked at his watch. It was nearly six, and he hadn't slept for more than three hours, if as much. The police were handling the prisoner, and even if he had any constructive ideas, they probably wouldn't be welcome. He went back to his own room. The wind was much louder, and he could hear it sweeping across the parkland, howling now and again on a high note which was almost frightening.

If the wind had been up like this an hour or so ago, he wouldn't have heard that rustling.

It was getting near daylight; the pitch darkness had gone, and he could just make out the shape of trees and the pale outline of the gravel drive. He heard the policeman talking, down below.

He went back to bed.

It was impossible to be sure what would happen next; impossible to be sure that any precautions were good enough. The unknown man was going to kill at all costs.

And he was going to use men who were ready to take the risk, and wouldn't talk when they were caught.

This one might crack –

Mannering knew that it wasn't likely. You could pick out men who were likely to break down under pressure, and those who would hold out.

He stretched himself out in bed luxuriously. At least there was nothing more to worry about tonight.

He willed sleep; and now, it came.

 

Seale knotted his brown tie in front of the dressing-table mirror of his Hampstead house, tugged it too tightly, and then looked out of the window. It was nearly ten o'clock. The rush of traffic into London had really started. A string of buses went noisily, splashing and shimmering in the heavy rain. A cyclist in oilskins pedalled on, obviously unable to see more than a few yards ahead of him because of the big sou'wester.

Seale went downstairs.

His face was set and looked more unreal than ever; shiny, too, where he had washed. His eyes were dull. He reached the foot of the stairs and turned slowly and with deliberation which a robot might have used. He heard the yellow-haired woman, Nancy, talking to someone out of sight. That was in the kitchen. The telephone was in a room which faced the stairs.

He moved towards the kitchen.

The telephone bell rang.

He turned round, and it was almost painful to see his movements – it would have been easy to believe that each one hurt. He clenched his teeth and parted his lips as he stared at the door of the room where the telephone was. Then he moved towards it, but before he was inside Paul Greer came hurrying from the kitchen, in a puce coloured shirt and cream tie and flannels with a beautiful sharp crease.

“You going to take it?” he asked.

“No. You.”

“Okay.” Greer pushed past the big man. The telephone was on a table just behind the door. Seale watched as Greer lifted the receiver, and said: “Hallo?”

He paused.

He flashed a glance at Seale, and told him that it was a call that mattered. Both men seemed to go stiff; and sweat broke out on Greer's forehead.

He said thinly: “
What?
”

There was a long pause, but his expression told Seale what there was to know. Seale clenched his hands so tightly that his nails hurt his palms; and the veins in his neck stood out like whipcord. His breathing came hissingly through his broad nostrils.

“You sure?” Greer asked.

There was another pause.

“Okay,” he said. “Nothing—no, nothing yet. I'll call you.” He put the receiver down slowly. Then he rubbed his hands together; they were sticky. He stared into Seale's eyes, and he was afraid.

“He missed her,” he said thinly.

“Where is he?”

“On a charge.”

“On a—
charge?
”

“That's right. They caught him. He did everything, got into the room, was just going to kill her, and they caught him. It was the police and the Richardson guy. They caught him.” Greer kept repeating that as if he couldn't really believe it. “He's on a charge, at Orme Police Station. Aylmer's sent for the Yard, dunno who's going there, but someone is.”

Seale didn't speak.

“There's one thing,” Greer said, with a grotesque effort, “Brill won't talk. He's good that way, he won't talk.” His expression changed, it was as if he had said something which he knew might please Seale. “None of the boys will talk.”

Seale began to move again; creakily.

“Mannering?”

“No news of Mannering,” Greer said. “He's just vanished. We've got a couple of men working all the nursing-homes, but that'll take a hell of a time, you can't go in and ask. We're doing the West End ones first. The thing about Mannering is, he—”

Greer stopped.

“Let's have it,” Seale demanded.

Greer moved, and eased his neck. The news had come as a severe shock, had affected him as badly as it had Seale, but he seemed to have recovered more quickly.

“Mannering might be dead,” he said.

“When I know someone who's seen Mannering buried, I'll believe he's dead,” Seale told him gratingly. “Dead, nothing. Lying low. Is he a fool?”

“We can't do a thing if we don't know where he is.”

“We don't seem to be able to do a thing if we know where anyone is,” Seale said. “That girl's moved about, hasn't she? She's been up and downstairs, she's eaten, she's had a bath, maybe she's taken a walk, maybe she's been out for a drive.”

“She saw Merrow yesterday.”

Seale moistened his lips. “She gets herself a nice time, and the men I pay good money to watch her move around. Maybe they like her figure.”

“Listen, Lucien, it was all laid on—”

“It wasn't done,” Seale said. “It's got to be done. What do we have a stooge down there for if it isn't to take risks? Come on, tell me.”

“We can't take too many chances. We haven't all that number of men.”

“We can take chances,” Seale said. “We've got to finish them both. Find Mannering, find the girl, finish—” He paused, and then went on very softly: “Do you think I'm doing this for fun?”