Chapter Thirteen

Clash With Brash

Mannering hurried up the stairs, his heart beginning to thump. There couldn’t be danger, his reason told him; but if Brash were a killer and had some reason to hate or to fear Miranda, anything might happen.

He heard shouting.

He thrust the key in the lock and pushed the door open – and Wainwright staggered back against it. In front of Wainwright, his face vermilion red and eyes flashing, was Bill Brash. He leapt forward, fists clenched and waving, with no more idea of fighting than a small child. He smashed a blow at Wainwright, who sidestepped it easily. Before Mannering could call out or stop the slaughter, Wainwright went forward and drove his fist into Brash’s stomach. As Brash gasped and fell forward, chin open, Wainwright smashed an upper-cut.

Brash went scudding backwards, lost his balance, and fell at Miranda’s feet.

She stared at the two young men with the fear which was so dreadfully wrong in her beautiful eyes. In that moment, when he was thinking only of Wainwright and Brash, Mannering looked twice at the girl. If a supreme artist had said, “Here is a model for all your beauties,” no one could have been surprised.

Wainwright made as if to run forward.

Mannering grabbed his arm.

Then Lorna appeared from her bedroom, carrying a walkingstick, hurrying with the stick raised and the ferrule thrusting forward – as if at all costs she meant to separate the men. At sight of Mannering, she stopped abruptly.

“My lady roused and angry,” murmured Mannering, his eyes gleaming. “Sorry I’m late, darling! Ned, go and wait in the study, will you?” He moved across to Miranda, and looked straight into her face, and something of the fear died away. “I will not let them fight again,” he said, shaking his head and pointing at the men. “Do you understand?”

She tried to say something, but no sound came. Her eyes flooded with tears, and she turned and hurried into the drawing-room. Lorna looked after her, then said quietly: “That was over Miranda.”

“Who started it?”

“Oh, Brash did.”

“Why?”

Lorna was almost pensive. Mannering guessed what was going through her mind: a mixture of anxiety for Miranda, worry about what had taken place during the night, and amusement at tire antics of the two young men.

“I think,” she said carefully, “that it was because of the way Wainwright looked at Miranda.”

Mannering grinned.

“And how did he look?”

“Oh, bother it all!” exclaimed Lorna, “it’s so silly and yet so touching. If you want a word, it’s adoring. He came in here with something very much on his mind, and when he saw Miranda again, he went to pieces. He dithered and fussed and blushed. Then Brash arrived and said something which annoyed Wainwright, something about Miranda not being safe here, and he wanted to take her away. And off it went.”

“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 was 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.