Chapter Seventeen

COLLYN’S STORY

VERY slowly the Baron put the ledger on top of the cabinet, and stepped to the drawer with the files. He drew one out, and saw a photograph and a summary or personal details of a thin-faced man named Welch. He looked at the filing tabs, found a single file under ‘S’, and on the front page was Savoyan’s photograph.

There followed details of his earlier life as Cartier, his crime and prison sentence, age, habits, comments on his usefulness – ‘dependability doubtful’ made Mannering arch his brows – and a list of dates and names which had as a last entry: ‘Collyn, with Renkle.’

And at the foot of the sheet was a red line.

‘Wiped off the records,’ thought the Baron, and as he turned back towards the bedroom he felt more savage hatred towards Hawley and all the man stood for.

Hawley was still unconscious. Mannering glanced at his watch and saw that it was past two o’clock; he had left the man in Collyn’s room for half an hour. He left Hawley’s room to satisfy himself the guard was safe. There would have been no hurry for another ten minutes, but he gagged the gunman before stepping across the unconscious Collyn.

There appeared to be no change in the peer’s regular breathing. He turned back to the door, and as he reached it he heard the movement from the bed.

He was round in a flash, his hand at his pocket, but there was no need for alarm. Collyn was staring across the room towards him, his eyes heavy with sleep, his expression one of bewilderment.

Mannering opened his lips, then checked himself. He had been on the verge of a vital mistake, had been prepared to address the peer familiarly in Mannering’s voice. The danger of even a moment’s relaxation, whether the odds were on or against him, had never been more acute.

Collyn stared up. His lined face twitched, his body was shaking as though with ague.

‘You’re quite safe,’ Mannering said, in a voice that no one would have recognised. ‘Take it easy, Collyn. I’m not one of Hawley’s men, you’re safe enough. What are you doing here?’

‘How—how do you know who I am?’ the voice quavered.

‘I’ve seen you before,’ said Mannering. ‘How did you get here?’

Collyn was getting stronger. His eyes narrowed, and Mannering knew that the spirit of the man had not been crushed.

‘I hadn’t come!’ Collyn’s nerves were at breaking point. ‘This—this man Hawley sent for me.’ It sounded like the truth. ‘He told me I had to come, to save Gerry, my son.’

Such a motive fitted in with Collyn’s manner, and the fact that Hawley had brought him here on the pretext all fitted in.

‘And what happened?’ demanded Mannering.

‘He told me Gerry would be here tomorrow. I argued, but he—he forced me to stay.’ It was a pitiful wreck of a man stammering the explanation, and Mannering could not fail to sense that there was something deeper at stake. The actual facts were not enough to explain Collyn’s complete collapse, even allowing for his weakness after coming out of a drugged sleep. What did he hold in fear? ‘That’s the truth, I tell you,’ Collyn repeated, his voice rising. ‘Who are you?’

‘They call me the Baron,’ said Mannering.

‘The—thief !’

‘Not the one who took your jewels. Listen, Collyn. I’ve a matter to settle with Hawley, and I want to settle it alone. I can tell you something: the police are wondering why you’ve disappeared.’

‘My—God!’ gasped Collyn.

‘It’s an awkward situation, and the quicker you’re back to explain yourself, the better.’

‘But—my son …’

‘You can tell the police why you came here, give them the address, and leave your son to them.’

‘But you don’t understand – he’s in danger!’

Mannering forced back his irritation, trying to conceive the motive in the man’s mind.

‘You mean your son is associated with the thefts?’

‘How do you know that?’ Collyn’s voice was stronger again.

‘I guessed,’ Mannering snapped. ‘You ought to know that if Hawley’s caught he can clear your son of any crime. There’s a car at the end of the drive – a little way to the left, on the road. Can you drive?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Can’t you see that while you’re here there’s danger, that …’

Then Mannering stopped. Collyn’s gaze shifted towards the door as a man spoke in broken English:

‘Just ‘ow much, Baron, you do not know.’

And the Baron swung round, to look into the eyes of Corbertes, and the muzzle of the Frenchman’s gun.

No more than ten seconds passed, but it seemed an age. Collyn’s breathing grew heavier, Corbertes’ was hardly audible, the Baron’s was coming very fast. With Corbertes here his chances of escape were negligible.

Corbertes drew nearer, very slowly.

‘So quiet, mon ami?’

Mannering forced himself to speak.

‘Who—who are you?’

‘A question of interest, but yes,’ said Corbertes. ‘It has no answer, for you. But you ‘ave cause trouble, Baron. Trouble so great it was best I come myself to arrange it.’ The man exuded the same air of ruthlessness and confidence that he had in Paris. ‘I come to see my frien’ Hawley. The front door, it opens. In this room, voices. Yes,’ he added, and he seemed to sigh, ‘it is good that I come just now. Turn round, Baron.’

Mannering hesitated.

For the first time he looked past Corbertes, and in the passage he saw two men, standing as motionless as the Frenchman. Both of them had their hands in their pockets, and one face was familiar. As in a dream he remembered where he had seen its likeness before: it was the man Welch, whose photograph was among the dossiers of the strong-room.

It was hard to face the truth.

He had covered against every likely emergency, but the visit of Corbertes so late at night could not have been anticipated. The man had caught him at the worst possible moment, when he had been temporarily forgetful of everything but Collyn’s safety.

‘I said turn,’ said Corbertes, and Mannering recalled a similar order in his room at the Mirage. Then Corbertes had drugged him; now he was likely to use a different weapon.

Was it worth making a fight?

‘Baron …’

Mannering half turned, and as he moved he saw the taut expression on Collyn’s face. Something like hope returned, even though he was afraid every second of the flash of a knife, of death as it had visited Rentu. Something in his eyes seemed to send a message to Collyn. The peer was sitting upright like a statue, his feverishly bright eyes staring at the Frenchman.

‘Welch,’ called Corbertes, and the thin-faced man came in. ‘Untie zat scarf.’

Welch said nothing, but approached Mannering, and the Baron knew that the moment for death had not yet come. Now that he had recovered from the shock of the hold-up his mind was working fast, and he saw a slim chance.

If Collyn would support him.

Collyn started it. Even Mannering was surprised at the way he moved, distracting attention for a vital second, and Mannering acted before any of the others. He back-heeled, catching Welch on the knee, and as the man staggered back he swung round on Corbertes and the second man.

Collyn snatched a water glass and hurled it at Corbertes.

Corbertes was unable to shoot without hitting Welch, and as he moved to get clear of the barrier, the glass struck his gun arm. The automatic was pointing towards the floor when Mannering hit him with every ounce of strength and latent savagery. The crack of the blow on the Frenchman’s chin echoed clearly. Corbertes went down as though pole-axed, and the man in the passage hesitated. Welch was squirming on the floor. Collyn had jumped from the bed and was rushing with the courage of desperation to the door.

Apparently the man was not armed, and he drew back from Collyn. Mannering went after the peer, but before he reached the door he heard a crash from somewhere above him. For a split second it puzzled him: and then he realised that the commotion had disturbed the men on the second floor, and the communicating door had been smashed down.

Corbertes was out of the reckoning for the time being, but Welch might be a menace soon; the man at the door was rushing towards the stairs to join the newcomers. The odds were three to two at least; he could not count on Collyn’s help in a melée and the others were probably armed, even if the one man lacked a weapon.

Mannering could have used the automatic he had taken from Hawley’s pillow, but the last thing he wanted was gun-play, his own position was too insecure. The one thing that mattered was escape. He had to get away, and take Collyn with him.

Collyn, off his balance, staggered against the passage wall. From the distant stairs footsteps were thundering, and voices were raised; the others had joined forces. Mannering snapped: ‘The main staircase.’

As he ran, with a hand on Collyn’s arm, he prayed that Corbertes had not rechained the front door. He reached the head of the staircase before the men from the second floor had come in sight; but Collyn stumbled.

Mannering stopped him from falling, and raced downwards.

The door was closed but not bolted.

Mannering reached it, opened it as Collyn came up, breathing hard. The peer almost fell into the porch, while from the head of the stairs came the sharp snap of a pistol shot, and a bullet buried itself in the door not two inches from Mannering’s head.

He slammed the door behind him.

Collyn was staggering along the drive, his feet grating on the gravel, but Mannering gripped his arm and forced him towards the shrubbery. The light that shone from the hall was dim, and did not reach them. But men streamed out one after the other, while Collyn’s breathing was hoarse and laboured. ‘Keep going,’ Mannering urged. ‘We’ll make it.’

They were lost in the shadows of the shrubs and trees, and their footsteps were deadened by the long grass. Two men, vague shapes against the dim light, ran past them along the drive.

Any moment in that nightmare Mannering was afraid he would be seen, and dreaded the snap of a shot. But they forced their way towards the road, and no sound of near pursuit came. As they neared the drive entrance Mannering paused. Collyn was trying to stifle the sound of his heavy breathing.

Voices, pitched low, came clearly from the drive.

‘They never come this way.’

‘Went into the fields, I reckon.’

‘We’ve got to get them. He …’

‘Never mind about ‘im,’ came a reply with fine scorn. ‘We keep orf that road, there might be people about.’

‘This time of night? Don’t be a …’

‘Softly,’ Mannering muttered, and Collyn made no answer but went with him towards the road. Mannering had entered only through the gates, but he had seen a low hedge and he believed he remembered a gap through which they could squeeze. The voices dropped away into silence, while the two men were still arguing. Others called, from the house.

‘I can’t—do much—more,’ gasped Collyn.

‘It’s only a few yards.’ God, if the old man collapsed it would put the finishing touch, he had to keep on his feet. Mannering supported him as best he could, but his own legs were weary, and Collyn dragged heavily. The hedge and the road seemed an indefinite way off.

Rustling came from behind them, and the voices again.

‘Hear that?’

‘You hear things in yer sleep.’

With Collyn leaning his full weight against him, Mannering saw the dark surface of the road.

‘We’re there,’ he muttered. ‘One more effort.’ He forced the other on, and at last they reached a gap in the hedge. There was a wire fence, no more than a couple of feet high. Mannering half lifted Collyn over it, all the time the mutter of voices of the men searching for them came ominously to their ears.

But they reached the road, and as he strained his eyes through the gloom Mannering caught a glimpse of the dark shape of the hired car not twenty yards away. Coming from the other direction Corbertes could not have seen it, did not know it was there.

One of Chief Inspector Bristow’s major complaints was that whenever he got to bed early, he was called up during the night.

He had a telephone next to his bed, and when he raised himself up to lift it he could see his wife in the next bed, sleeping as soundly as if the harsh brrr-brrr had not echoed through the room in the early hours of that morning.

He kept his voice low.

‘Bristow speaking … what?’

His wife started in her sleep, then opened her eyes. Bristow was leaning forward over the telephone, and the street lamp showed his clear-cut face.

The unfamiliar voice at the other end of the wire came faintly.

‘Yes, the Baron. If you send to Welling Hall, near Reading, in the next hour you should find a lot to interest you.’

‘Look here, Mannering …’

His wife flung the bedclothes back and began to unfold Bill’s clothes, while Mannering said: ‘You misunderstand me, Bristow. This is the Baron. I should telephone the Reading police at once.’

The line went dead, and Bristow sat staring ahead of him, oblivious for the moment of his wife. It had not been Mannering’s voice, but only Mannering would have the nerve to ring through, and offer that information as the Baron. And in the past Mannering, as the Baron, had given him help. That was enough to make him act on this call.

He lifted the receiver again, and dialled the Yard. While he was giving instructions to a Chief Inspector on duty, Mary had slipped downstairs, and was putting a kettle on.

Fifteen minutes later Bristow started for Reading, having confirmed that the first call had come from Whitley Wood, near the biscuit town, and faintly apprehensive that by giving those instructions to the Berkshire police he had pulled a boner.

It took him less than an hour to reach the Reading Central Police Station, and another ten minutes to reach the drive of Welling Hall. The headlights of the two police cars already waiting there showed the old mansion up at its worst, and Bristow had a sudden fear that it was a hoax.

The Inspector already on duty did not share it with him.

‘Astonishing thing,’ he said after greeting Bristow in the bleak hall. ‘There’s not a soul in the place. Half a dozen rooms have been slept in, and we’ve found a strong-room that’s obviously been cleared out recently. What do you make of it?’

Bristow would not commit himself.