Chapter Fourteen

Old Books

Fenner slept peacefully, his breathing soft and even. The bedclothes were pulled up round his neck, so that only his face and head showed. As Mannering became accustomed to the soft light, he saw the grizzled hair and the full, almost negroid lips.

Fenner did not stir.

Mannering turned away from the bed and went to the open window. He looked out and down, and saw another window immediately beneath it, with a ledge on which he could stand if he wanted to go out that way. He left the window as it was, and turned to the dressing-table. Now the light was good enough for him to see everything he needed to, without switching on his torch. He made no sound. There were all the usual oddments – hair-brushes, combs, a silver stud-box, as well as a neat pile of copper and silver, a small bunch of keys and a pen-knife. He took the keys and slipped them into his pocket. They chinked a little, and he turned and looked at the bed, but Fenner hadn’t moved.

The man’s clothes were folded over a chair at the foot of the bed. Mannering ran through the pockets, but they were empty.

The man’s wallet must be somewhere in the room, as well as some papers. Mannering peered at the bedside cabinet, had another look at the dressing-table, but could not see what he wanted. He might wake Fenner, and spoil his chance of searching the house, if he stayed too long.

He stood by the door, looking intently at the sleeping man, and listening for any change in his breathing to indicate that he was awake. Then he went outside and pulled the door to, but did not latch it. If Fenner were awake, he would make some move now that the intruder was out of the room.

No; no sound.

Mannering turned, passed the room through which he had entered, and reached a square landing. The walls and the paintwork were light in colour, and there were huge landing windows; moonlight streamed in. He could see the hall, the staircase with its one half-landing, and the furniture, although the light was ghostly and the silence profound. Every nerve in his body was alert; he would be aware of the slightest sound, the faintest hint of danger.

He walked quietly down the carpeted stairs, past pictures – all landscapes; no ancestral portraits, as at Lithom Hall. This hall was square, and from it led a wide passage, which ran alongside the stairs. There were five tall dark doors, and one would lead to the domestic quarters.

He tried two; they were locked, and it wasn’t likely that Fenner would trouble to lock the door leading to the kitchen. The third door, a few feet away from the foot of the stairs, on his left, was unlocked.

As he opened it, he saw a glow of light.

He stood with his fingers on the handle, peering along a narrow passage. A light might have been left on, but more likely Fenner had a night-watchman. He went into the passage and closed the door gently behind him, then tip-toed towards the light. It came from another door, which stood ajar. There was hair-carpet on the floor, not so soft as that in the rest of the house, but it deadened his footsteps.

He heard a chink – glass against glass.

A queer sound followed: what was it?

A man, yawning!

It was loud and prolonged, and followed by a faint but unmistakable belch. Then a match scraped, and tobacco smoke reminded Mannering of Fenner’s cigar.

He was near the door.

It opened inwards, and all he could see was a cream-washed wall, a coloured print and a chair. He peered through the crack between the door and the frame, but it was so narrow that he could see only the curtains at the window and the corner of a table. Something rustled – like paper.

The man was reading a newspaper or a book.

He wasn’t likely to be looking at the door.

Mannering pushed the door gently. If it squeaked, he would have to move fast. It didn’t squeak; soon he was able to see the back of a man sitting at the table, and a corner of a newspaper.

He stepped inside. There was hair-carpet on this floor too; no risk of his shoes squeaking on polished linoleum.

The man read on.

Mannering crept forward.

It was a large, bright room, with a glass-fronted dresser, a big refrigerator, a small table on which stood a bowl of flowers, and a large Aga cooker, deep-cream in colour.

Only a yard separated him from the man.

The fellow yawned again, took his cigarette from his lips and tapped the ash on to the floor, folded the paper over to the back page, where Mannering could read the headlines: Firefly Should Win Today. The night watchman began to read all about Firefly and his chances.

Mannering positioned himself carefully and gripped the man round the neck.

“Wha-aach!”

The man tried to twist round, caught sight of the masked figure – then thudded back against the chair as Mannering jerked him savagely. The man’s eyes rolled, the chair shifted noisily, one foot came down on Mannering’s toe.

The man fought desperately and swung his arm round, hoping to land a back-hander. He missed, then grabbed at a heavy cup, failed to get a hold on it but swept it from the table. Dregs sprayed the Aga and the cup crashed against it; the noise was like a thunderclap.

Mannering pressed more tightly.

His victim couldn’t get up, his struggles gradually grew weaker. At last he slumped back in his chair, eyes half-open and glazed. Mannering took his hands away, and let the fellow fall forward against the table.

He was still breathing heavily, and his pulse was good.

Mannering took a handkerchief from the man’s pocket and tied it round his mouth to gag him; then took some cord from his own pocket and tied him to the chair, arms behind it, legs to the chair legs. For every second of the three minutes he was on edge; the crash of the breaking cup might have been heard.

No sound; no alarm.

His victim’s eyelids were flickering.

Mannering ran through his pockets, found a bunch of keys and put them with the one which he had taken from Fenner’s dressing-table. Then he turned towards the door. He opened it wider, and stood listening. There was a loud ticking – the heavy, metallic sound of a grandfather clock which needed oiling. That was all.

He stepped into the passage, turning left.

Something jabbed into his back, and a man said: “Don’t move.”

The words were uttered softly, the jab was firm but not painful. Coming out of the gloom of the passage and the silence, they made Mannering’s heart give a sickening thump. He shivered involuntarily, and then recovered enough to face up to his plight. This had been cunningly and cleverly done.

Was anyone else here? Or were just the two of them standing in the passage?

“Move a step forward,” the man ordered.

It wasn’t Fenner; it was a young, cultured voice.

Mannering kept still.

“Move a step forward or I’ll shoot you,” said the man behind him.

Had he a gun? Or was he bluffing?

It would pay to assume that he wasn’t bluffing; Fenner’s men had no scruples.

Mannering shuffled forward a few paces – and then back-heeled.

There was a gasp as his heel struck the man’s shin. Mannering whirled round while the other was backing away, his mouth wide open because of the pain. Something waved wildly in his right hand – not a gun but an electric torch. Mannering twisted the man’s wrist until the torch dropped, and then backed away and showed his automatic. Scared eyes turned towards it. The other had recovered his balance and was standing on one leg, as if the pain from the kick was still acute. He drew in short, gasping breaths; noisy breaths.

“Go into the kitchen,” Mannering ordered.

The other hobbled in, obediently.

Mannering stood by the door, listening, tense, but all was silent. Had anyone else been roused, they would have shown up by now.

The man here was young – probably in the early twenties, blue eyes narrowed in a pale but healthy face. The smooth, hairless skin of his chest showed where his dressing-gown gaped.

He limped to the table and leaned against it, raised his right leg and hoisted the leg of his pyjamas; a blue leather slipper fell off.

The kick had broken the skin, and blood was oozing up gently from the shin.

He muttered: “I’ll make you pay for that.”

Mannering’s voice was harsh: not a voice even Lorna would recognize.

“Who are you?”

“What the hell does that matter to you? Clout me and be done with it.”

“I’ll fix you when I’m ready. Who are you?”

The pyjama leg drooped slowly downwards; so did the man’s resistance.

“If you must know, I’m Charles Kenley.”

“Son of Wilfrid?”

“His nephew, as a matter of fact, but—”

“Just answer my questions.” Mannering moved the gun an inch or two. “Were you upstairs in the room with twin beds?”

“Any objection to me sleeping with my wife?”

“None at all,” said Mannering, “but I might be sorry for your wife.”

“I don’t want any damned cheek from you,” muttered Charles Kenley. “Hell of a queer burglar, aren’t you?”

“Very. What woke you up?”

“I heard something down here, and came to investigate.”

“Why didn’t you bring a gun?”

“Because I’m not used to keeping guns now that I’m a civilian again,” said Kenley. “I suppose you know you’ll get ten years for breaking into a house and using a gun.”

“If you’re not careful, I’ll get a life sentence,” Mannering said.

He spoke absently, thinking fast. This wasn’t what he expected; he rather liked young Kenley, the answers appeared to come spontaneously, truthfully; if they did, then Kenley was not one of Fenner’s ruthless gang.

Kenley began: “Look here, I—”

Mannering waved him to silence. “Is your wife awake?”

“No,” said Kenley. There was a change in his expression, it became anxious, almost pleading. “Look here, give her a break. We’re expecting a baby in the next week or two. If you give her a shock, she might have a premature, or harm the kid or something.”

“Oh,” said Mannering blankly.

“I’m not spinning a yarn, it’s true,” said Charles Kenley, wiping his forehead, which glistened with sweat. He still sounded truthful. “She had to take some sleeping tablets tonight, she hasn’t been asleep long.”

Mannering said: “I won’t worry her. I didn’t come to see her or you.”

“If you came to open the safe, you shouldn’t have much trouble,” Kenley muttered. “I’m always telling the Old Man that he ought to buy a new one, the one he’s got must have come out of the ark.” He was talking quickly, and to cover his nervousness. “Er—would you give me a cigarette?”

“There’s a packet behind you,” said Mannering.

Young Kenley turned, groped for and found the cigarettes, took one out.

“What are you here for?” he muttered as he lit the cigarette.

Mannering hardly heard him.

He had been prepared to find the armed watchman; to encounter some of the men whom he had met at Bayswater – but this rather naïve and likeable young man presented a different problem. It was one thing to attack the watchman, or to lay about him when he was attacked; but to knock young Kenley out in cold blood—

He was getting soft.

Kenley hurled the packet at him, and leapt forward.

The cigarettes patted softly about Mannering’s head, and the clenched fist grazed his chin. Mannering swayed to one side, and drove a punch to Kenley’s stomach, which only half landed, and took a buffet on the side of the head. Another blow at the solar plexus drove Kenley’s wind out with a wheezing gasp, his chin jutted forward.

Mannering’s fist on his chin, rocked Kenley and made his eyes roil.

Five minutes later, he was as securely bound and gagged as the watchman.

Mannering dragged him, chair and all, into the scullery which led off the kitchen. The key was in the lock, and he turned it. No chance that the men would work together, now, and perhaps break their bonds.

The watchman was watching with dark, fear-filled eyes; Mannering wasted no time on him.

He reached the silent hall again, without any cause for alarm. The moon was brighter, and everything showed up clearly through the window.

He approached the doors he hadn’t yet tried, and found them unlocked. One was a morning-room, small, shadowy, sparsely furnished. The other was the dining-room, and Mannering switched on a light. In a tall, spacious room, the furniture was either genuine Jacobean or good imitation, for the polished oak was almost black. There were no books.

He went out.

He stood outside the first of the locked doors, and tried the keys from Fenner’s ring. He still thought of the man upstairs as Fenner. The third key turned the lock, and he stepped into a drawing-room, pastel-blues and greens, fragile-looking furniture, all apparently Louis Quinze; in one corner was an elegant writing-bureau. One of the two small keys on Fenner’s ring opened it, and he found several small notebooks, some letters and a leather-bound book which looked very old. Some of the pages were loose, and the brown leather cover was badly rubbed at the corners and at the spine.

Mannering put them all in a pile, strung them round with a cord, and made a loop to use as a handle. Then he relocked the bureau, went outside and put his haul on the settle near the front door. The door was bolted and chained; he unfastened it, then turned the catch. It was a modern Yale, and he left it so that he had only to pull at the handle to open the door. He could now escape from upstairs or down.

He went to the kitchen. Neither prisoner appeared to have made much effort to wriggle free. Both were conscious; Kenley tried to mutter something behind his gag, but Mannering ignored him and went back to the silent hall.

He turned to the last of the downstairs rooms and again found one of Fenner’s keys what he wanted. He stepped into a study rather smaller than the ground floor study at Lithom Hall, but very much like it – the walls were book-lined from floor to ceiling. The chief difference was that these shelves weren’t glazed.

Two had cupboards beneath them.

He found that the cupboards were locked; again Fenner’s keys came out.

One cupboard was filled with books – several large ones, obviously very old. He glanced at one, seeing woodcuts of great beauty on the seared pages. There were many much smaller, and about half were really old. He didn’t trouble to look at the titles or inspect the binding closely, but put them on a small pedestal desk – on which stood a telephone, a silver inkstand and a blotting pad.

The books were heavy – it wouldn’t be easy to take many of them away.

He went to the second cupboard – and found the black door and brass handle of an old-fashioned safe inside.

He had no keys for this.

The safe was built into the wall; it wouldn’t be possible to take it out and wrench the back of it off – the simplest and most effective way of dealing with old-fashioned safes. There was only one keyhole, and young Kenley’s words came to his mind – he’d told the

‘Old Man’ that he ought to get a new one.

Why had Fenner relied on this?

Was there danger in its apparent simplicity?

Mannering took a reel of twine from his pocket, crouched down, and began to unwind and push it into the keyhole, ramming it tightly. It took a long time. Twice he stood up and went to the door, but nothing alarmed him. Soon most of the twine was inside the keyhole. He rammed it in more tightly, then took a narrow steel tool, and pushed that in. The tool was like a sardine key, with serrated edges, and the edges would catch in the cotton. The cotton would be pressed into the tumblers of the lock, and so, when turned, the tool should act as a key. The method had one weakness; it took time, two or three efforts might be needed, and he had already been inside Marchant for an hour.

He turned slowly.

He felt the pressure, as if the ‘key’ had caught in the tumblers, and turned even more gently. If the ‘key’ slipped he would have to start all over again.

Slowly – slowly. He hardly breathed.

He heard no click, and expected none; but he knew that the lock was back.

He drew the ‘key’ out, breaking the threads which were attached to it, and then stood up, rubbing his strained legs. He crossed to the door, glad to move his muscles; still welcome silence greeted him.

But he was uneasy.

Fenner would never trust his valuables to an old-fashioned safe. Was there another, which he hadn’t found? Or was there a trick to this?

He’d known safes with ‘safety’ devices which could kill.

He stood deliberately to one side, leant forward, gripped the handle and pulled gently. The door was heavy; he had to exert a lot of pressure, but didn’t want to jerk it open.

Gently, it swung open.

Next moment he heard a little sneezing sound, and a cloud of white vapour spewed about him. Tear-gas burned his eyes as he darted back.

He wanted to cough.

He stifled it as he went to the door, to gulp in clean, fresh air.

He had to wait again.

The gas near the safe would take some time to disperse, and unless he opened one of the windows, the room would be untenable for a while.

He stayed where he was.

When at last he returned to the safe, the gas still hung about but was not strong enough to worry him. Still keeping to one side, he pulled the door wide open. Had he been in front of the safe when the gas charge had exploded, he would have been blinded and coughing helplessly by now.

He took out his pencil-torch and shone it into the safe – and was not surprised to see a second door. This wasn’t so simple and old-fashioned as Kenley’s nephew seemed to believe. He peered closely at this new obstacle, which seemed to have no lock. The first door was a false one.

Then he saw a thin rubber-insulated wire, running round all four sides of the inner door.

If he pulled the door open, a jangling alarm would rouse the household.

He took out a small screwdriver and pushed the wire gently between the door and the frame; minutes flew, but his movements were slow and steady, as if he had plenty of time.

The wire was tucked away at last.

The door opened easily.

But he kept to one side, prepared for any trick …

Zutt!

A sharp, soft sneezing sound came with a yellow flash; behind him, something hit the wall with a thud.

But he was unhurt – although had he stood in front of the door, the bullet fired from the concealed automatic would have smashed his face.

Dear Fenner.

But he forgot Fenner as he saw the gun, with its silencer, wedged between the books which were crammed inside.