Hide the Baron (5 page)

 

Mannering was obviously a man to like; and looked a man to trust. His manner and his movements reminded Joanna of George Merrow, but he had something that Merrow lacked; complete assurance. George had a chip on his shoulder; this man hadn't.

He put her at her ease in a word or two.

“I've been asking Inspector Hill if I could worry you for a few minutes' talk, Miss Woburn. When is a good time for you?”

“Whenever you like.”

“That's fine,” Mannering said. “Do you think—”

“Let me get a question in first,” interrupted the detective named Hill. “Did you know that Mr. Garfield was in touch with Mr. Mannering by telephone last night, Miss Woburn?”

“I'd no idea.” Joanna was astonished.

“Did you expect him to send for Mr. Mannering?”

“No.”

Hill seemed to shrug. “It's a puzzle, Mr. Mannering—but unless Mr. Garfield comes round, I'm afraid we shan't know what he wanted you for.”

Mannering explained: “He asked me to come and see him this afternoon, Miss Woburn, and presumably it was on business. Perhaps he was thinking of buying or selling through me at Quinns.”

“I just don't know,” Joanna said. She wished that Hill would go; two minutes would be enough for her to tell Mannering about the box, but getting it to him might not be too easy. She began to wonder whether it would be wise to talk to him now; the police seemed to be everywhere.

“Nothing more we can do to help, Mr. Mannering,”

Hill said. It might have been Joanna's imagination, but he seemed antagonistic to Mannering; as Aylmer had been to the name. “If anything that affects you does transpire, I'll let you know.”

Mannering grinned attractively.

“Thanks.”

“If you'll come into my room,” Joanna said, “I'll send for some tea.”

She led the way. Three of the plainclothes men looked intently at Mannering, and one was obviously pointing him out to the others. The impression that they were antagonistic, perhaps wary, remained; in spite of her liking for the man, her doubts of him rose. Yet Jimmy had been emphatic.

She offered him a chair and cigarettes, and rang the bell for a maid; Priscilla came. The girl looked pale and her make-up was conspicuous by its absence, but at sight of Mannering her eyes lit up; the handsome male would always raise her spirits. She glanced round from the door.

Joanna felt that she positively disliked the girl.

“How can I help you, Mr. Mannering?”

“I'm not a bit sure that you can,” Mannering said, “but I'd like to find out what Jimmy wanted me for.” She was surprised at the ‘Jimmy'. “You've really no idea at all?”

She hesitated.

He watched her, smiling, giving her the impression that he guessed the cause of her uncertainty. He didn't try to hurry her, but sat in a winged armchair as if he were thoroughly at home.

She said at last: “Yes, I have an idea. I'm worried about it, but he—he was quite definite.” It was very easy now that the ice was broken. “He came round before the police reached here last night, and asked me to give you a box—he said that it contained miniatures.” She was sitting at her desk, one hand resting lightly on the table, honey-brown eyes almost the same colour as Mannering's. “I have the box in my bedroom.”

“And you haven't told the police about it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Jimmy said I was to tell no one.”

Mannering looked at her hard, and then said softly: “Lucky Jimmy. Have you opened the box?”

“No.”

Mannering said: “It would be a mistake to let me have it here. You may not believe it, but the police get peculiar ideas about my integrity, and
might
search my car.” He smiled broadly. “One of the drawbacks of being an interfering amateur! Is there any chance of you coming to London in the next day or two?”

“I want to come this evening, and stay in town overnight, if the police have no objection.”

“They won't have,” Mannering assured her. “No reason why they should.” His smile encouraged her. “Have you any sound reason for visiting London?”

“I thought of pretending to have an appointment with a prospective employer,” she said. “My month's trial was up today, it—it sounds reasonable.”

Mannering nodded.

“I don't want to tell them about Jimmy and the box,” Joanna went on. “Do
you
know more than you told the police?”

She could understand Hill's silent antagonism, now.

“Possibly just a little more,” admitted Mannering, and something in his manner made her want to laugh. “The police certainly regard me with the darkest suspicion, you've undoubtedly noticed that. Jimmy Garfield knew, that's probably why he contacted me.” That came cut dryly. “What time are you free to leave here?”

“It's up to the police.”

“Let's suggest five o'clock,” Mannering said. “I can leave at half-past four, and be in London well ahead of you. Perhaps you'd better bring the box to my flat, instead of Quinns, the police might follow you—or even be keeping an eye on Quinns!” His smile flashed again. “Reprobate, aren't I?”

“Obviously!”

For an odd reason, he cheered her up.

Priscilla came in, with the tea. A plainclothes man was just outside the door, and Joanna had an uncomfortable feeling that he'd been listening. There was no way of finding out.

Mannering left a little before half-past four.

Hill showed no surprise and asked no questions when Joanna spoke about going to London. She was free to go wherever she wished. Walking down the huge staircase with a small suitcase containing the box and a few personal oddments, she felt acutely self-conscious, but none of the police appeared to be interested in her. There were very few in the house now; as nearly as it could be, the situation was back to normal.

Jimmy, she knew, was still unconscious.

George Merrow was ‘comfortable'.

She took the wheel of the grey runabout, and drove towards the end of the drive, feeling the rush of cool wind round her head, for the drop-head roof was down. Two gardeners were working as if nothing had happened, and old Wilkins waved to her. Her mind soon turned to the steel traps taken from the ‘museum' at the ‘Grey Mare', to Priscilla and her father, and by degrees to the awful business last night.

Driving helped her.

The engine purred smoothly, the road surface was good, the sun was pleasantly warm, the countryside could hardly have looked better. It was an hour and a half's drive to London, and Mannering had told her not to worry whatever time she arrived at his flat in Green Street, Chelsea; she should be there about half-past six.

There was little traffic on this by-road. Orme village was six miles behind her, the next town eleven miles ahead, and only two small villages lay between.

Trees grew straight and slender on either side of the road, two miles from the gates of Brook House. It was one of the straightest and most pleasant parts of the drive, soothing enough to lull her into a sense of quiet and reassurance. Mannering had helped a great deal, talking to him had relieved her mind, and once he had the box there would be nothing to worry about; well, nothing for her to worry about.

She turned a corner, and her heart leapt wildly.

A big car was drawn up across the road, only twenty yards ahead. It was slewed across, and there wasn't a hope of squeezing past. A man stood on the far side of the car, another by the trees.

As she caught sight of them all, Joanna felt a new horror; they were watching, they had planned to make her crash.

She jammed on the brakes. The car jolted, tyres screamed, the engine stalled – but the car slithered forward, now straight ahead, now broadside on, travelling with sickening speed and carrying her to the inevitable crash. She didn't see the men, now, just the side of the big car, the sun shimmering on the window, the massive black side looking like a great steel wall.

The Austin slithered, and spun round. The back of the car caught the black car on one wing; there was a frightening crash, and Joanna was thrown forward, the steering wheel struck her painfully and her head banged on the windscreen.

She didn't lose consciousness.

Her head was whirling when she tried to look about her. Figures moved; of men, running towards her. One of them looked very pale, but she was only half aware of that. She felt at screaming pitch, felt quite certain that they wanted the square box.

She turned, thrust an arm over the back of the seat, and snatched up the case. Then she realised she was drawing attention to it, but she couldn't leave it behind. The men were still a yard or two away. She flung open the door and jumped out. Here, the men were facing her, she hadn't a chance to escape. She stood there, gripping the suitcase and glaring at them, longing desperately for another car to come; but there was only silence.

The larger of the two men said: “Take it easy, and hand over that bag.” His voice had a metallic timbre and he looked strange; bony.

She didn't speak.

“If you don't want to get hurt,” the man said, “you will do what I say. Don't expect any help. I have put a man with a red flag holding up the traffic round the corner
and
the other side of the car. No one will see you.” He drew a step nearer. He looked big and powerful and uncanny, with a kind of made-up face. His right hand was stretched out, to take the bag; he felt quite sure that she would surrender it.

She raised it, and made a wild swing at him. He dodged, but a corner caught his shoulder, and sent him staggering. The smaller man jumped forward, but couldn't get out of the staggering man's way. Joanna darted past, towards the corner, towards the man with the red flag and any motorist who might be coming. Fear turned to terror. The unreal nightmare world had no end, she felt trapped – as George had been in the copse, as – Jimmy.

She heard movement behind her.

She was almost at the corner when the smaller of the two men reached her, grabbing her left arm. The case was heavy in her right hand, and she couldn't fling it; she couldn't get away. She was sobbing with pain and with frustration, and her terror was a living thing, vivid as the fear of death. The man had a grip on her wrist which she couldn't break, and was forcing her to slow down.

Then, he tripped her.

She went sprawling. The case saved her from the worst of the fall, but it knocked the breath out of her. The case fell and slithered along the tarred road, as Gedde's gun had slithered along the stone passage the night before.
Gedde had been dying.
She tried to pick herself up, but couldn't; she felt pain all over. She gritted her teeth and dragged herself to her knees – as the big man snatched the case, and the smaller man said: “… little vixen. What are we going to do?”

“Only one thing to do,” the large man said. She couldn't see him now, could only hear his grating voice. “Put her back near the car and smash her up. Now she's seen us we can't let her go.”

He stopped.

Not far off, there was a new sound; the sound of a car engine, of someone approaching.

Then, as if they were uttered again, she heard the thing that the big man had said: “
Put her back near the car and smash her up. Now she's seen us we can't let her go.
”

They were going to kill her.

She felt her arm gripped from behind, then thrust upwards. She couldn't move except under the brute's pressure. He dragged her to her feet. The sound of the other car grew louder, the pressure of the man's hand grew tighter, and she was thrust towards the runabout.

“Put
her back near the car and smash her up.
”

She screamed.

 

 

As soon as the scream forced its way out, Joanna felt herself thrust to one side. Then a hand was clapped over her mouth, stifling the sound. She was lifted bodily and carried towards the cars. Terrified as she was, she sensed desperation in the way the men were behaving; fear was driving them as well as her.

She was only half conscious, but knew exactly what they were planning to do – and she couldn't lift a finger to help herself.

Then she saw the big car moving.

A man sat at the wheel, reversing; the smash hadn't damaged it much.

“Knock her out, push her under,” the large man's voice seemed to clang. “It's our only chance.”

She felt a blow on the side of the head, but didn't quite lose consciousness. She felt herself lowered to the ground, then stretched out on her back. It was the most hideous thing she could have conceived; there she was, on the road, and the engine of the big car was roaring as if it were straining at a leash, desperate to leap at her, to crush the life out of her.

She couldn't scream.

She tried to scramble to her feet, to get out of the way, to do anything to save herself. The wheels of the car were only a few feet away, she could see the undercarriage, dark and menacing, the roar of the engine was deafening. She couldn't move fast enough, there just wasn't a hope.

She heard a sharp, explosive sound.

She didn't know what it was. Vaguely she was aware that the car quivered, but it didn't stop moving. It seemed to change its direction, as if it were chasing her.

She couldn't do a thing, could only crouch there, expecting the impact any second.

It didn't come.

The car had stopped.

The driver was jumping out, on the other side. She heard the men near her running away, and shouting. She heard new sounds, too; as if men were shooting. She wasn't sure. All she knew for certain was that she was alive, the killer car was lurching to one side, some men were running, and someone was running towards her.

One of the –
murderers?

She put her hands up, to fend them off, and through her shaking fingers she saw John Mannering.

 

Mannering flung himself forward, and Joanna sensed that he was trying to shelter her with his body. She heard a confusion of sounds, and felt the weight as he pressed against her. The light of day was shut out, her face was pressed against his coat.

In those few seconds, Mannering saw men driving off in a big Austin; and saw police, who had been some distance behind him, coming to help and to chase; but they would be too late.

He stood up, and another man knelt by Joanna's side. For a long time she hardly knew what it was all about, her head felt so bad.

Then, hazily, she remembered the black box in the suitcase.

Had it gone?

She looked about, desperately, and saw no sign of it. She'd lost it. The police began to ask questions.

She felt too dispirited and low to keep anything back, Aylmer as well as Mannering was present when she told them what she had been doing with the flat box.

 

John Mannering listened to Joanna Woburn's story, and glanced occasionally at Aylmer. Whatever Aylmer thought, he kept to himself.

The road had been cleared, traffic was passing, and police were making sure that no curious driver stopped to stare at the congregation of cars, or at the girl who was lying on the verge at the roadside.

One bandit car had escaped, with all four men; the other, the large Austin, was in police hands; it might yield clues.

Except that she hadn't any colour, and there were two or three graze marks on her temple, Joanna looked all right. She must be in the late twenties or early thirties, Mannering thought. She was fine-looking, in a clear, Scandinavian way, with her coiled hair and good skin and well-defined bone formation; a good subject for his wife to paint. Mannering didn't think more about his wife, then, but watched Aylmer and the ‘girl', and commented only when Aylmer arranged for her to be driven back to Brook House.

“I'll see you before long,” Mannering promised her. He couldn't be sure whether she heard, or whether she cared.

He watched her being driven off.

Aylmer cleared his throat. There was plenty of hostility in his eyes, but he didn't voice it; he actually proffered cigarettes and, when they had lit up, said gruffly: “Well, if it hadn't been for you, they'd have killed her. And you weren't to know they wouldn't shoot again, either. What makes a chap like you play detective and go all out to rub us up the wrong way, Mr. Mannering?”

Mannering said: “It just happens, Superintendent! I've no evil intent.” He was pleasantly conversational. “Take this case. Garfield telephoned me, said that he wanted to see me on a highly confidential matter, and made an appointment for this afternoon. I came without knowing what had happened. While I'm at his house, his secretary tells me, in confidence, that Garfield told her to give me this box which is said to contain miniatures. That makes her the agent of my client, and if I have to respect his confidence, I have to respect hers.

What do you expect me to do – tell you everything, without considering the client's interests? What would you think of me, if I did?”He chuckled. “What do you think of the
genus
squealer?”

As if reluctantly, Aylmer smiled back.

“I see what you mean. And you didn't know about this box and these miniatures before?”

“I did not.”

“Hmm. Well, they've gone, anyway.” Aylmer ruminated. “With a bit of luck we'll catch the beggars soon, though. Recognise them?”

“They were strangers to me.”

“According to Miss Woburn, they were going to run her over so that she couldn't describe them,” Aylmer said. “Then you turned up—how they missed hitting you, I don't know!” He paused. “Well, you scared 'em off, and put a bullet through a rear tyre, so they had to crowd into one car. Sure you didn't recognise them?” he repeated abruptly.

“Quite sure.”

“Well, you'd better keep your eyes open, they looked as if they meant business!” Aylmer's smile wasn't at all amused. “What made you turn back on the road?”

“I first thought that if anyone was going to try to hold Miss Woburn up, it would be further down the road—you know the spot where the new road's been cut through the hill. I was on top of the cut, looking down, and saw the two cars pass. When no other traffic came along in the other direction for ten minutes, I started to get uneasy. I drove back, and saw the man with the red flag. He hadn't been there when I passed. My cue.”

“I see,” said Aylmer heavily. “And Miss Woburn had told you about the box, so you half-expected trouble. Who d'you think knew?”

“I wondered who might guess that Garfield told Miss Woburn what to do if anything stopped him from doing it himself.”

“I was talking to Superintendent Bristow of the Yard last night. You were mentioned, and he said there wasn't a situation you couldn't talk yourself out of.” Aylmer sounded rueful. “All I can say is, they're murderous devils and that girl owes her life to you. What are you going to do now?”

“What I'd like to do is talk to George Merrow,” Mannering said thoughtfully. “Is he well enough yet?”

“As a matter of fact, that leg's giving him trouble,” Aylmer demurred. “Haven't talked to him properly myself yet. He says he doesn't know a thing.” Aylmer sniffed. “Can't tell, with you smooth types. When are you going to see Miss Woburn again?”

“As soon as she's better. No one's going to worry her much now,” Mannering said; “the pair whom she can recognise won't ask for trouble. I may come down tomorrow afternoon some time—now I'll get back to Town, if that's all right with you.”

“Yes, I'd much rather the Yard had you to worry about,” Aylmer said dryly. “I must say they've got your measure.”

Mannering chuckled.

His car was parked on the verge fifty yards away. Aylmer walked to it with him, as if anxious to make sure that this time he did really leave. He was soon driving along the narrow road, seeing the police and the cars getting smaller and smaller in his driving mirror. He turned a corner, and they were cut off from sight.

He drove through the defile, recently cut in brown sandstone rock. Beyond it, this road ran into the main London–Horsham Road, and there was much more traffic. He put on speed. No one took any interest in him and he had plenty of time to think.

In fact, he knew little more than he'd told the police, and the one thing he had kept to himself would not have helped them. Jimmy Garfield, who had been a frequent visitor to Quinns before the accident to his spine, had telephoned Quinns ten days earlier, with a simple story. He said that he was being threatened by telephone and by letter, and that he didn't want to ask the police for help. Would Mannering assist him?

Mannering had been out of the country, with his wife.

Garfield had telephoned his flat last night, when Mannering had been home only for a day. The story then wasn't greatly different, except: “I've had a load on my conscience for twenty years, Mannering, and I think it's catching up with me,” Garfield had said. “Time an old man like me made retribution, eh? Like your help. Could be dangerous. Come and see me, will you?”

“I'm really sorry,” Mannering had said, “but I'm too busy for a week or more. I will, when …”

“If you leave it, you'll be in time for the inquest,” the old man had said cryptically.

Had he meant an inquest on himself?

Joanna Woburn would be a long time getting over the effect of what had happened; Garfield might never recover; the contents of the flat box might never be found.

Face
facts.

Since the attack on Garfield last night, Garfield's enemies had acted with a violent ruthlessness as effective as it was rare. The police weren't keyed-up to cope. Mannering saw it as a desperate, daring attempt to get some major prize. It had been skilfully planned, too. The old car, recently stolen; the men to ward off traffic; and another, fast car at hand, to take the men out of immediate danger.

Only he and Joanna Woburn had seen them.

He didn't take the danger from that seriously, then, although he didn't ignore it.

If Garfield recovered, he might learn much more.

If Garfield died, he might never know anything else about the case.

He could only guess –

That Garfield's enemies had meant to get the flat box at all costs, and having failed at the house, had planned the attack on Joanna –

Guessing she would have the box?

Or knowing.

If anyone else at the house had been spying on her, word might have been sent through to her attackers. It was even possible that someone knew that Jimmy Garfield had taken her into his confidence, or had seen her take that box.

If so, who?

And where did he, Mannering, come in? If he had a commission, it was to ease Garfield's conscience; and that might be much easier already.

He didn't see that there was much else he could do; certainly not now. The police were in full cry after the box and the ‘miniatures'; he didn't know a thing about them, so it was useless making inquiries through the trade. Except that he had saved Joanna Woburn's life – and he told himself that was an exaggeration, for the police had arrived only a few minutes later. They had been following the girl, not dreaming of trouble on the road, only interested in finding out where she went to.

An old man, dying.

A young man, crippled and out of action for weeks.

A strikingly attractive woman with a strong sense of loyalty, presumably as much in the air as Mannering.

It wasn't the first and it wouldn't be the last unsatisfactory job. He felt sorry for Joanna Woburn, but she wasn't the type to feel sorry for herself for long. He began to whistle softly. If he had half a chance to help any of the people involved, he'd take it. Probably it would just fade out.

 

He did not know that two men were plotting, at that moment, to kill both him and Joanna Woburn.

 

Lucien Seale, a large, bony man who had a cold aloofness when meeting strangers, and who was almost a stranger to his intimates, carried the black box out of the taxi which had stopped at Horsham station, and went into the booking hall. The small man who had been with him during the attack on Joanna also got out, but they didn't travel together. These two had left the escape car, in which the two red-flag men had driven off.

Seale made quite sure that no one took any particular interest in him, then booked a first-class single to Victoria. He strolled on to the platform. A train was due in ten minutes, and half a dozen people waited about. Seale bought an early London newspaper, and stood by the bookstall, from where he could see the ticket barrier on this platform and on the other side. No one who worried him arrived.

With the box under his arm, wrapped in the
Evening News,
he caught the train. He had a first-class carriage to himself as far as Guildford, where a young couple and an old man got in. Beyond a first cursory glance, none of these looked at Lucien Seale.

Inwardly, he relaxed.

At Victoria, he was very careful indeed, and it was over a quarter of an hour before he left in a taxi which he picked up outside the station. When he reached his house, near Hampstead Heath, it was a little after eight o'clock, and nearly dark. No one else was there, and he let himself in with a key.

The house was silent.

He walked up to the first floor, with the flat box still under his arm, and entered a room which looked more like an office than a study; was furnished in sharp, modern fines. It had a window overlooking a long, narrow back garden, and the garden and house in the next road. Net curtains were placed across the window so that it was impossible for anyone to look in.