Hide the Baron (14 page)

 

Mannering tried not to look at either of them; tried not to show his fear. He felt better now than he had been a few seconds ago; he would be better still in five minutes, when he'd recovered from the shock. They needn't
see
how much they had frightened him.

Liddicombe said: “How could we do that, Micky?”

“That's our worry,” said the man named Micky. “We want the pair of them, don't we, and it isn't so easy to get at anyone in Brook House, unless we persuade your little Prissy to drop poison in the soup.”

Liddicombe snapped: “That's out.”

“Nothing's out if Seale gets really worked up,” retorted Micky smoothly. “But who'd want to see Priscilla in trouble, Jeff? We'll find another way.” His grin was very broad. “Maybe Priscilla could give the Woburn woman a message.”

Liddicombe didn't speak.

Mannering was thinking: “They'll postpone it, whatever else.” The impending sense of death receded a little, he could breathe. But he couldn't move. The dog still crouched on its haunches, watching from unwinking eyes.

“What kind of message?” the innkeeper asked at last.

“Maybe that Mannering wants to see her, maybe that Mr.
Richardson
does,” sneered Micky. “What do we have to do? Get her to drive—”

He broke off.

Liddicombe said: “We don't take any risks with Priscilla, get that into your head.”

“Okay, Jeff, okay! But what's eating you? This is what we do. We have Prissy tell the Woburn woman that
Merrow
wants to see her at the hospital. She'll go running. And it's one that the police will bite, too.

We'll say that Richardson wants to talk to Merrow and Woburn at the hospital. So she'll drive. The police car will follow her, as it always does, but why should that stop us? We'll get both the police-car and the girl on the road. Now we've got Mannering, we can afford to do that—there's only the one more chance to take. And afterwards—”

He broke off.

Liddicombe said: “So long as you leave my daughter out of it. She's done plenty.”

“I'll say—she's done plenty,” Micky agreed, “and she'll get plenty out of it, won't she?”

Liddicombe didn't answer.

Micky said: “What do we do with Mannering?” He gave a bark of a laugh, of gloating delight. “We really got Mannering, he walked right into our hands! Tell you what, old Bony Face will be glad to lose some beauty sleep over this, I'll phone him and ask him what he says. Do we cut Mannering's throat now, or has he any questions to ask him?”

“You don't phone Bony Face from here, you can go into Orme in the morning and do that,” Liddicombe said firmly. “One sentence for the exchange to pick up and we'd be for it. We can put Mannering in the cellar under the barn, he'll keep there.” Liddicombe wasn't smiling; probably he still felt the effect of the shock. “We can't afford to make any mistakes, see? If you throw a grenade at the woman's car and get caught, the police will find out you've been staying here, and—”

“You're a hell of a sight jittery,” Micky scoffed. “I was just staying near by, wasn't I? No one will tie you up with this now that we've found Mannering. He's nearly as good as they say he is!” He turned to Mannering, sneering, mocking. “You're going to have a nice long rest. And here's something to keep you company. If we want to get any information out of you, we'll use a pal of ours to help us. Won't we, Jumbo? You see that dog? Can you imagine anything he'd like more than to tear you to pieces. Eh, Jumbo?”

The dog growled.

“Okay,” said Micky. He snatched a cushion from the easy chair, and thrust it into Mannering's face; Mannering, half suffocated, couldn't do a thing to save himself. They took the cushion away and tied a scarf roughly round his mouth, drawing it tightly enough to force his lips wide open; then they tied his hands behind his back. Next they led him out of the room, along a passage, to a flight of narrow stairs.

The smell of beer, unpleasant because it was so concentrated and stale, was heavy on the air. Mannering went down the stone steps, and in the cellar he had ample room to stand upright. Liddicombe was forcing him along, and they reached the wall at the far end. Passages within the cellar led right and left, with wine bins on either side.

The wall at the end seemed blank.

Micky stretched up, and pulled at one of the bricks just above his head. It moved. He pulled again, and a part of the wall moved silently on oiled hinges. Beyond it was pitch dark.

There was a scuffling sound of rats.

“We'll leave Jumbo outside to make sure that Mannering doesn't get a chance,” Micky said. “Don't mind having your breakfast down here, Jumbo, do you?”

The dog growled.

“In he goes,” Micky said.

Liddicombe gave Mannering a push. He stumbled against the bricks at the foot of the doorway, and couldn't save himself. The side of the ‘door' saved him. He stepped through, into the darkness – and one of the men pushed him off his balance.

He fell, helplessly, twisting his body to save his face. He hit the floor with his shoulder and temple, and lay half stunned.

When he began to come round, it was pitch dark.

They had taken his tools; his gun; nearly everything from his pockets. This was a cellar, and almost certainly had only one entry; the walled-up entry which no one knew about. Outside, the Alsatian would be on guard, and there was nothing the dog would like more than to savage him.

Mannering lay there for long, helpless minutes.

Then he began to pick himself up; with his arms tied behind him, it wasn't easy. A few minutes in the darkness told him how utterly black it was; Stygian gloom, if ever he had known it. He moved cautiously until he kicked against a wall. Although he had headed for one, it caught him by surprise; he banged his knee and his nose.

“Damn!” he exclaimed.

He leaned against the wall. He felt very weak, his face was painful, his right eye still swelling and feeling tight. His nose stung. His ears were filled with buzzing noises. He knew that there was not the slightest chance of either of these men relenting; he had only a few hours to live, if they had their way. He knew that they could kill Joanna Woburn, and giving her a message from Merrow was the certain way to lure her from the house.

The police might check, to make sure that the message was genuine; if they didn't—”

All this, and the best he could manage was “
Damn!”

He giggled.

Across the giggling came the realisation that he was very near the point of despair, and that hysteria had been born out of it. The prospect of escape was as black as the darkness of the cellar, but the quick way to death was the way of despair. He might die; he could at least
try
to find a way out; to get a warning to Joanna; to tell the police.

Above him, the men were back in their rooms.

Outside the door, the dog lay with its nose between its paws, staring at the brickwork of the door.

Mannering began to move about the cellar, keeping his shoulder against the wall to make sure that he didn't get away from the wall and begin to move in circles.

 

At Brook House, Joanna Woburn woke a little after seven o'clock, and lay still, realising that something was unusual, unfamiliar – and welcome. Then she realised it was the simple fact that she had no headache. She relaxed, revelling in that sense of freedom. For several days she had felt all the time as if her head would burst; now, there was hope that she was over the effects of the shock.

She looked at a bedside clock; it was half-past seven.

Five minutes afterwards she got up and went to the window. There was a mist over the parkland, which suggested that it would be warm later on. She saw one of the maids running along the vegetable garden, and that reminded her of Priscilla and of George. It didn't hurt as it had done, something had eased the burden.

Perhaps things would get better from now on.

She rang the bell for tea. Mrs. Baddelow brought it, full of plaints. Priscilla had gone to the ‘Grey Mare', her father had been taken ill, or some such nonsense, just at the busiest time of the day they were a maid short; Mrs. Baddelow talked as if that were a major tragedy.

“And such a nice
morning,
”
she said bitterly.

Joanna was glad when she had gone.

She sat in an easy chair looking out of the window, and knowing that Orme, the hospital and George were straight across country from here. It was good to be able to think about George Merrow without hurt. She found herself dwelling on all the things he had said, on his talk of being in love with her.

She knew one thing for certain: she was in love with him.

At eight, she bathed.

At nine, she was having breakfast.

At half-past, Priscilla came somewhat diffidently into the dining-room. Priscilla could be demure, timid or truculent; this was her timid mood; in fact she was almost nervous. The sun shone on her hair and Joanna found herself thinking: “She's really quite lovely. With the proper make-up and good clothes—”

She made herself smile.

“Good morning, Priscilla. I hope your father isn't too bad.”

“Oh, it's a false alarm, always getting the wind up about his health,” said Priscilla off-handedly. “I—er—I went into Orme to get some medicine for him, miss, Mrs. Baddelow said I could. And I—er—looked in to see Mr. Merrow.”

Joanna felt herself stiffening.

“Oh, did you?”

“Yes, miss. He—he asked me to give you a message, miss! “Joanna's heart leapt; and the girl went on as if she couldn't speak slowly any longer. “Yes, miss, he wondered if you could look in and see him this morning, about half-past ten, he said he had something important he wanted to say to you.”

Joanna hated herself for colouring so furiously.

“Thank you, Priscilla. I'll try to arrange it.”

“I know he'll be ever so pleased, miss,” Priscilla said.

Joanna went to speak to White.

 

As soon as Joanna Woburn had left him, White telephoned Aylmer; he didn't have long to wait. He didn't have a chance to suggest that the maid's story be checked, either; for Joanna had simply said that she was going in to see Merrow.

“Leaving here at ten o'clock,” White said. “I'll have her followed, sir, if you'll have everything laid on to watch her when she gets in the town among the crowd. That's the danger spot, I'd say.”

“I'll lay it on,” promised Aylmer. “Any bright ideas from the private dick?”

“Still asleep,” White said, and chuckled. “Got a ‘don't disturb' card hanging on his door, he must have been celebrating deep into the night!”

They both laughed.

 

“Ten o'clock,” thought Joanna. “Ten minutes—oh, what a fool I am!” She laughed at herself.

She felt a sense of gaiety, because she felt sure that George wanted to see her. Whatever he'd done in the past, whatever the truth about the women in his life, it could all be worked out; it must be.

She went out into the grounds, and strolled towards the garage.

 

Micky was waiting near a blind corner hidden from the road by the wall of a bridge which spanned the little stream. It was a perfect spot. He could see through a gap in a hedge all the traffic heading from Orme come into his line of vision.

He was thinking how pleased Seale had sounded on the telephone; and how pleased and relieved Greer had sounded, too.

The hand-grenades – he had two – were too heavy for his pocket. He put them on the ground, making a dent with his heel so that they couldn't roll away. Near him, the river gurgled and the birds, no longer curious or scared, flew about as if he were part of the countryside.

The girl was to be killed first; then Mannering.

 

Again Mannering said wearily: “
Damn!
”

He caught his side against something in the wall, on the third time round. It hurt. He must have been pressing closer than he had on the first two walks. He was at a stage when the idea that he must try to get out was fading, because it was so obviously impossible. It was hot, and he was drooping already. He had not realised how badly he had been battered.

So, he damned the ‘thing'.

He went on.

He stopped, and his heart gave a curious little leap, the kind that meant that he was feeling alive again. He made his way back very carefully, until he touched the ‘thing', which pressed into his side. He went past it, feeling it catch in his coat. He explored very cautiously with his hands, and at last stood so that he could touch the ‘thing', which was cold, as metal would be.

It was a big nail.

He was hardly breathing when he discovered it, and when he tried to stand so that the head of the nail caught in the cord round his wrists. He tugged; and the cord slipped off. That was it, that was exactly what he wanted; friction. He worked until the cord was over the head of the nail again, then began to saw gently to and fro. The strain on his arms in the unaccustomed position brought pain and cramp sooner than he expected. The worst was just above the elbows, near the biceps. He rested, sawed, rested, sawed. He couldn't be sure whether he was making any progress, could only hope. He wouldn't let himself tug, until he really thought there was a hope.

He tugged, putting all his strength into the effort.

The cord held.

He sawed and rested, sawed and rested, sawed.

He tugged, and it broke.

Now, he felt almost stifled. For a few seconds he could only lean against the wall, fighting against physical weakness. It eased. He straightened up, and began to work his arms about, then to rub his wrists. He hadn't been tied up long enough for the circulation to be seriously affected; he had pins and needles, that was all.