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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Vaults of Blackarden Castle," Arthur Gask weaves a compelling narrative that seamlessly blends gothic elements with a detective story. Set against the dark and atmospheric backdrop of Blackarden Castle, the novel explores themes of mystery, betrayal, and the supernatural. Gask employs a richly descriptive literary style that immerses readers in the eerie ambiance of the castle's labyrinthine corridors and hidden vaults, evoking a suspenseful tension reminiscent of classic gothic literature. This novel reflects early 20th-century trends wherein authors harnessed the macabre to probe deeper psychological themes, making it a notable contribution to the genre. Arthur Gask, an accomplished novelist and playwright, drew upon his substantial knowledge of English history and architecture, providing an informed setting for his tales. His background in journalism further honed his narrative skills, allowing him to construct intricate plots and vividly develop characters. The fusion of Gask's personal experiences and fascination with the supernatural undoubtedly fueled his creativity in crafting this gripping tale, where the past's secrets collide with the present's reality. "The Vaults of Blackarden Castle" is an essential read for fans of gothic fiction and mystery. Gask's masterful storytelling, filled with intricate plots and well-drawn characters, invites readers to lose themselves in a world where every shadow hides a secret. Delve into this timeless tale of intrigue that continues to captivate the imagination.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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The Vaults of Blackarden Castle
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I. THE GENTLEMAN THUG
ONE beautiful morning in early June in the year nineteen hundred and forty-eight a motorist was driving slowly along a lonely and rough road that wound between the salt marshes and the sea in the extreme north of the countryside of Norfolk. With his gun handy upon the seat beside him, he was hoping to get a shot at something, a duck, a teal, a snipe or indeed any kind of bird which might fly up from the marshes as he came by. His temperament was such that he would not mind if it were out of season or not.
Smartly dressed, he was a handsome, even distinguished-looking man. By name Leon Mangan, by occupation he was an art dealer. He was returning to Town after a wasted and unprofitable journey to look at some pictures belonging to a man who had written giving an altogether misleading description of what he had to sell. He had found the pictures not worth buying and in consequence was in a bad temper at having been induced to travel so far for nothing.
Some two miles beyond the little town of Wells-by-the-Sea, meeting no one upon the way, he came in sight of a good-sized bungalow that had only the road between it and the muddy foreshore which, now at low water, stretched for a mile and more uncovered by the sea.
In his preoccupation becoming only all at once aware that his engine was running badly, he pulled up and alighted to see what was causing the trouble. To his annoyance he found the water was running low in his radiator. With a curse at his carelessness he, however, congratulated himself that he was so near a habitation that things could soon be put right.
Driving up to the bungalow, he alighted again and walked up the short path of the little garden to the front door. Seeing no bell, he knocked briskly with his knuckles but getting no answer after a couple of minutes or so, he moved away to peer through the nearest window, the blinds of which were not drawn, into what was evidently the living-room. The bungalow was certainly in use for upon the table he saw a dish of fruit with a large pineapple in the centre. Also, upon the sideboard, were a syphon, a spirit tantalus and some tumblers.
Proceeding round to the back of the bungalow, he came upon the expected tank of rain-water, but to his disgust could find no pail or other utensil with which to carry away the required water to his radiator. Proceeding to investigate a small garage at the far side of the little yard, he found the door was shut and securely fastened with a good Yale lock. Peering through the cracks of the door he saw the garage was empty.
With no luck at the back door, upon a scrutiny through a window which was evidently that of the kitchen, he saw exactly what he was looking for, a good-sized pail. Always of quick decisions and with never any scruples where other people's property was concerned, he decided instantly to avail himself of its service.
Making his way back quickly to his car, he took a stout screw-driver and a tyre-lever from his tool-box and then, for a long minute, paused to take an intent look all round. Not a human being was to be seen anywhere. In both directions the road stretched empty and lonely along the shore and, with the tide such a long way out, a wide and unbroken sliminess lay between him and the sea. Behind the bungalow, the marsh lay desolate and unpathed as far as the eye could see.
"Hell!" he exclaimed disgustedly. "In what a foul place for anyone to have built a nice bungalow like this! The man who did it must be half out of his mind."
Satisfied he was quite free from any interruption, he returned again to the back of the bungalow and, with the aid of his tools, very soon had the window open and was climbing into the kitchen. His first intention had been only to get the water he wanted, but, his curiosity being aroused by the up-to-date appointments of the kitchen, he proceeded to go through the other rooms of the bungalow. It was evident to him at once that the owner must be a man of some means, as all the appointments were comfortable and even luxurious; good carpets upon all the floors, nothing cheap about any of the furniture, and the pieces of plate upon the sideboard in the dining-room were of sterling silver.
Pulling open the long drawer of the sideboard, he saw it was well stocked with spoons and forks, also of sterling silver, and his eyes sparkled and he drew in a deep breath as he realised in a flash what an opportunity for good profit lay before him. Why the stuff under his very eyes was worth a little mint of money and it was all his for the taking! A nice haul of easily negotiable articles!
There was no hesitation upon his part as to what he would do, and, making his way through the back door, he darted outside to have another searching look round.
No, as before, there was no sight of any human being and the surroundings of the bungalow could not have been more desolate than they were!
He proceeded to get into action at once.
First, to be all prepared, if need be, for a quick getaway he filled his radiator. Then, going back into the dining-room he helped himself to a generous four fingers of whisky. Its flavour was so agreeable that he guessed it was pre-war spirit, and concluded once again that the owner of the bungalow must be well-to-do and in quite comfortable circumstances.
Next, not wasting any more time, he proceeded to gather together upon the table the things he was intending to take away, the two silver candlesticks, a dainty silver hot-water jug of solid silver and all the plate he found in the long sideboard drawer. His final acquisition was a massive silver snuff-box which he found lying upon the desk. A good judge of all things silver he knew at once that the snuff-box was of early Georgian days, and he reckoned confidently that it would fetch as much as a couple of hundred guineas in any good art saleroom. It was beautifully chased and, for the moment, he was so engrossed in admiring it that he did not hear soft tiptoeing footfalls in the passage. Indeed, a few seconds later he sensed rather than saw a movement by the door.
Turning as quickly as the strike of a snake, his disconcerted gaze took in a small and red-headed elderly man, glaring at him with blazing eyes and covering him with an upraised pistol.
"Up with your hands," shouted the small man furiously. "Up with them like lightning, or I'll shoot you in the stomach. Up with them, quick! My gun's loaded. Quick!"
Mangan's heart had almost stopped beating and his face gone an ashen grey. Added to a realisation of his dreadful position at being caught red-handed in an act of shameful theft had come the almost stupefying feeling of amazement at recognising the man who was now threatening him with his pistol. He was a Professor Harleck Glenowen whom he had but recently met when dining in the company of some aristocratic friends. That the recognition, however, was not mutual he was quite sure, as they had met only once and, also, his (Mangan's) motoring cap, as he always wore it, was now pulled down well over his forehead, thus obscuring a good part of his face.
The devil! In his tranquil moments, even, this professor of most eccentric views had the reputation of being half mad, with all his cleverness only in part responsible for his actions. So now, in his present state of fury and excitement, if there was the slightest hesitation in complying with his order he might pull upon the trigger at once.
Cursing viciously under his breath, but rather than of all things receive a bullet in his stomach—he had seen plenty of such injuries in the Great War—Mangan's hands went up instantly.
"Now turn and face the wall," was the next order given in a snarling sternness, "and any tricks, mind you, and I'll put a bullet in your spine." The professor stuttered in his rage. "You damned thug, I'll be only too glad of the excuse."
A long minute's silence followed while the professor recovered his breath. "Got a gun on you?" he asked hoarsely. "But of course you have! Now you keep still. I'm going to search you."
Mangan thought it wisest to continue to keep silent, and breathing hard and pressing the muzzle of his pistol firmly against the middle of his captive's back, the professor with his disengaged hand proceeded methodically to go through every pocket.
"Ha, ha, the gun, as I expected!" he exclaimed gleefully as he drew out a small automatic. "A modern highwayman, are you, and up-to-date Charles Duval?" His voice rose in disgust. "And a knuckle-duster, too! Then you're worse than a highwayman, you are a murdering thug."
Coming upon the silver snuff-box in one of the side pockets of Mangan's jacket, he gave him a couple of vicious kicks in the legs. "You devil, and I so prized that, too!" He thrust his pistol harder than ever into Mangan's back. "A bigger blackguard even than you, my friend," he snarled, "has had his fingers in that box, as it belonged once to that arch scoundrel, Napoleon."
The search was soon over and, the contents of all Mangan's pockets laid out upon the table, he was next ordered to drop one hand at a time and unbutton his braces. "And you won't be able to run far, will you, you blackguard thief," sneered the professor, "with your trousers falling down? Now, I'll just put the table between us and you shall turn round and take off your cap, so that I can have a good look at you." He grinned sardonically. "This is the first time that, to my knowledge, I have had the experience of meeting a bona-fide thief."
A few moments later and the two men stood face to face. It might have been thought that the so smartly-dressed Mangan would have appeared overwhelmed in shame, first at having been caught red-handed as a thief, and now at being in the humiliating position at having to hold up his trousers to keep them from falling down his legs. On the contrary, however, his expression was a cold and disdainful one, and it was with contempt rather than anything else with which he regarded his captor. As for the latter—a quick hard stare and his face was frozen into an incredulous surprise.
For long moments neither of them spoke, and then the professor gasped, "Major Mangan, the dashing D.S.O.! The man I met at Blackarden Castle! The bosom friend of young Avon, Lord Delamarne's heir! God, it can't be true!" His voice rose to a shriek. "But it is, you gentlemanly blackguard, and so this is how you make your living, is it? Oh, you common, vulgar thief."
In his thirtieth year, Major Leon Sylvester Mangan, decorated with the Distinguished Service Order and at one time attached to a crack commando unit, was as gentlemanly a blackguard as it was possible to meet. A product thrown up by the licence and savagery of the second great war, he was without morals and with no scruples whatsoever. A veritable bird of prey in the good social world in which he moved, he was the more dangerous to the community because of his pleasing appearance and charming manners. Everyone always took to him at once. He was always well dressed in excellent taste.
The only son of a country doctor he had been sent to good schools and then on to Oxford University. To the great disappointment of his father, after his two years' residence he had come down without taking any degree. With an intelligence much above the ordinary, he could easily have distinguished himself had he so wished, but it was just that he seemed interested in nothing but sport and gambling.
Early in his 'Varsity days he had become mixed up with a fast sporting set of much greater means than his and, at once realising that he would not be able to keep pace with them upon the very moderate allowance he received from his father, he set about increasing his income in the only way he knew of, and that was his undoubted proficiency at cards.
He had always been good at all card games, but in his late schooldays when playing "ha'penny nap" or indeed any game where money was involved, because of his well-known cleverness at sleight of hand, was never allowed to shuffle the pack or deal the cards. He took it all in good part and considered it a great joke, complaining, however, with a grin that it was not fair to so cramp his style. Surely, he would argue humorously, he deserved some reward for the amount of time he gave to the practice of his speciality.
Going up to Oxford, he did not think it necessary to mention this little hobby of his to any of his card-playing friends. He must mind his step most carefully he told himself, as he was not playing with schoolboys now! He smiled to himself—still it might come in useful one day.
With the ideal temperament for a gambler, cool, collected and never losing his head, he was soon recognised by his fellow undergraduates as one of the best and most daring card players among them. Indeed, at poker, his favourite game, after a thick evening, particularly when the stakes had been high, it was good odds upon his having come out a winner.
Giving frequent little parties at his rooms, with plenty of drink always available, they were invariably well attended. As time went on, however, though there was never any suspicion of foul play against him, the opinion began gradually to be formed that these evenings were in the way of being most expensive ones for any but the most cautious and experienced players.
Something little short of a scandal occurred once when a young freshman lost nearly £300, with most of it going to his host. Still it was agreed by all who had been present then that Mangan himself was in no way to blame, as he had repeatedly warned the young fellow of his recklessness, and several times had expressed the wish of withdrawing from any further play.
His years at the 'Varsity ended, he was such a long while without attempting to settle down to any occupation that at last he had exhausted both his father's patience and the money the latter was prepared to spend upon him. After an angry quarrel with the very disappointed doctor, he left the parental roof with a final £20 in his pocket to make his way in life as best he could.
Right from the very beginning intending to do no really hard work, a worrying time followed for him, with his trying one occupation after another with no success. Certainly his nice manners and well-dressed appearance had landed for him straightaway a position in a good-class book shop in the West End, but he had only stuck to it for a few weeks and then with no notice to his employer, had not turned up on the Monday morning. After that he did a short time of assurance work, sold books upon commission, worked as a clerk to a bookmaker and finally was engaged in a little second-hand art and curiosity shop in Wardour Street. He came to apply for the position there upon seeing a card in the window notifying that a young man of good address was wanted as an assistant and, as he had no references to produce, was rather surprised at being taken on. However, the proprietor, Marcus Wardale, an easy-going and scholarly-looking man, appeared to be quite satisfied when Mangan told him he had been an undergraduate at Oxford for two years, and engaged him on the spot. The salary was only fifty shillings a week, just enough for him to live in the poorest way in the East End.
The work was very easy and consisted mainly in dusting the old-looking furniture and odds and ends of miscellaneous articles scattered untidily about the shop. Added to that, Mangan was often left in charge to delay any customers who came in from leaving before his employer returned from the many little 'business matters' which were continually taking him off for a few minutes during the day. Mangan, however, was soon of the opinion these journeys necessitated him going no farther than the nearest public-house, as he invariably smelt of spirits when he returned.
Another thing Mangan soon learnt was that the business done in the shop could not possibly be paying for the overhead expenses and even the small salary he himself was receiving. Very few customers came in, and often the day's takings could not have amounted to more than a few shillings. Considering all this, he suddenly realised the real money was being earned in the little room at the back of the shop, and that sellers and not buyers were the mainstay of his employer's business.
Almost everybody with anything to sell was taken into this little room, the door was shut and sometimes it was many minutes before the seller came out again. Also, he noticed that whatever transactions had taken place there, very rarely was any new article exposed in the shop for resale. Instead, his employer would find it necessary to go out at once upon one of these mysterious little business matters, though then he was absent for much longer than it would take him to go to the public house.
One afternoon after one of the proceedings, to his great surprise Wardale presented him with a ten-shilling note, "See here," he said with a knowing smile, "if you are ever asked any questions about any of the customers who have dropped in, you've to say you've never seen them before." He winked again. "You understand?"
Mangan pocketed the note with a grin. "All right," he said. "You can trust me. No one will get anything out of me, I promise you."
After that his employer gradually became much more confiding. "In this kind of business," he explained, "to make things pay we have occasionally to buy little odds and ends that it wouldn't do for the police to know about. Some of these chaps who come to me have picked up little trifles and I don't enquire too closely how they came to get them." He laughed. "Then, of course, I don't enter the transaction in my book and the police have no hold upon me. Oh, yes, they come and inspect the books sometimes and, once or twice, the blackguards have even made a search of everything here. That's why I never keep things bought in that way long upon the premises."
It was well his employer had so confided in Mangan, as shortly after this conversation, there was a brush with the police about a silver Queen Anne comfit box which they alleged Wardale had bought and, knowing quite well it was 'stolen goods,' had not entered the transaction into his purchase book. They declared the man who had sold it to him was a well-known bad character and had been recognised, when entering the shop, by someone who knew him.
Confronted with the suspect, who also strenuously denied the transaction, both the dealer and Mangan swore they had never set eyes upon him before. In consequence of these denials the police were unable to lay a charge against Wardale and were furious about it, because they were certain that in him they had found the 'fence' they had long been wanting to get into their hands. Mangan was delighted about the whole business and in his unsocial leanings had thought it great sport to back up his employer in his untruths.
With complete trust now in his assistant, Wardale at once raised his weekly wage to £5 and from then on there was not much about the transactions in the little shop about which he was kept in the dark. He was astonished at the amount of money which changed hands in the backroom in the buying of articles which had undoubtedly been stolen, and realised what a profitable business it was as long as one managed to get away with it.
He learnt it was well-known in the underworld that Wardale specialised in the buying of articles of old silver and that he was recognised as something of an authority in estimating their value. Mangan found out, too, that, apart from the good profits he made, as a conniosseur his employer delighted in handling beautiful things and was always sorry that he could keep so many of them in his possession for only such a short time. He tried, too, and not without success, to interest Mangan in all things silver, and, after any special deal in the back room, would call him in and explain what had made his purchase good-buying. Also, he lent him books upon the subject and was at all times most willing to pass on to him his expert knowledge.
Upon some days, too, when there was an art sale on anywhere within easy distance, the shop would be shut for a few hours, and the two of them would go to watch the bidding. The dealer would have marked upon the catalogue, beforehand, what price he thought certain articles would fetch, and Mangan found that he was never very much out in his reckonings.
Altogether Mangan was not unhappy in his occupation and made up his mind that one day he would take it on himself. However, when he had been at the shop for about eighteen months, the Great War started and, to his employer's regret, he left him at once to take his part in it. He realised it was the very calling he was fitted for and would give opportunity to his bold and reckless disposition, with no real hard work and certainly no sense of boredom. As a one-time Oxford University man, he was at once taken for a commission and so it was as Lieutenant Mangan he took part in the real fighting in France.
Efficient in every way, resourceful, brave to the point of recklessness and unmindful of all danger, he made an ideal soldier, and his promotion was rapid. Transferred with his regiment to take part in the African campaign and obtaining his captaincy, he was awarded the D.S.O. for conspicuous gallantry when, single-handed he wiped out a machine-gun nest with hand grenades.
The African campaign over, he volunteered to help the Resistance Movement in France and was dropped there by parachute. With a fair knowledge of the language, he speedily became the leader of a little band of patriots who operated from a hiding-place deep in the Auvergne Mountains. Time after time they would come down from their fastness and, long after night had fallen, with bullets, hand grenades, and their long razor-sharp knives deal out bloody punishment to the German soldiery.
Appearing unexpectedly in so many widely-separated places, they became known as "The Shadow Band" and many ineffectual attempts were made to trap them. Greatly daring, upon occasions they would work in only twos and threes and then make their way in the dead of night into the very heart of a town occupied in good force by the enemy. The next morning when it was discovered the ghastly things that had happened a veritable wave of terror would sweep through the Germans.
In his sheer lust for slaughter, no one was more brave and reckless than Mangan, and one story in particular was related of him. The Commandant of a certain district had become noted for his bestial treatment of anyone, man, woman or child upon whom had fallen the slightest suspicion of having supplied information to the partisans. His long suit was torturing little children before their parents' eyes.
It was resolved that he should die, but, well aware of the hatred in which he was held and the threat of a bloody death for ever hanging over him, the utmost precautions were being taken that no suspicious person should get even within shooting distance of him.
Weighing up all the chances, Mangan finally decided that he would carry out the execution himself, unaided and alone.
The Commandant had his headquarters in an old chateau situated in a big garden encircled by a high wall and, day and night, sentries were posted within a few yards of one another all round. To guard against all possible chances of treachery from inside, every night all the servants were dismissed to sleep in their own homes in the town. Then the doors were securely locked and bolted, and the iron shutters to every window screwed tightly into their positions. Nothing to make everything secure was left undone and the Commandant and the three members of his staff who slept in the chateau with him were confident no trouble would ever ensue.
Yet one morning the door had to be broken down to get into the chateau and, to everyone's horror and amazement, it was found the four inmates had all been killed during the night, with their throats cut from ear to ear. They had been slaughtered in their sleep, and the Germans never found out how the slayers had first got into the chateau and then, with their dreadful work accomplished, had managed to get away.
In telling the story afterwards, Mangan, who to his credit was never boastful, never disclosed to outsiders that he himself had been the actual killer. Indeed, he used to say that he only related the story to bring home to his listeners the profound execration in which the occupying German army was held by the French peasantry wherever the soldiers were stationed.
When asked, as of course he always was, how the killers had succeeded in getting into the chateau, he would relate how very simple it had been. "The Boches were so loathed," he would reply, "that French parents were even willing to risk their so-loved little children in the ghastly spirit of revenge." So, one of the servants who worked in the chateau, during the day, he would go on to relate, actually smuggled in her small daughter, only twelve years old, and hid her under the coal in a big cellar. Then, at night when all the chateau had quietened down, she climbed up on to the coal and pulled away the bar which held in place the large iron cover through which it was customary to pour in the coal from outside. Then one man, only one, he would emphasise, but he a most experienced killer, crept in from the garden where he had been hiding all day under a sack and finished off the inmates one by one, without awakening any of them.
Such was the story Mangan used to tell. He did not, however think it necessary to add that he had come away from the chateau that night with a nice little haul of booty taken off the dead men, including the Commandant's very valuable gold chronometer which was disposed of later in London for three hundred guineas.
The war ended and as Major Mangan now, with nothing better in sight, with his gratuity and some money he had saved, he bought himself in very cheaply as partner in the little second-hand shop in Wardour Street and, with his naturally strong character strengthened ten-fold by his war experiences, at once took command of everything.
His one-time employer was quite happy about it. Whisky had frayed his nerves almost down to breaking-point and he was very glad for anyone to do his thinking for him. So he just allowed Mangan to do what he liked, and the latter's changes in the conducting of the business were very thorough.
Calling the shop now the Etoile D'Argent after a famous Parisian one in the Rue de Rivoli, he had it entirely redecorated in an attractive style. Next, he got rid of all the old junk that had been lying about for years, and started to restock with things bought at country sales. There, he bought very cautiously at first, but, by closely following the bidding of other dealers and by making friends of some of them by asking their advice, he quickly began to acquire a good knowledge of the trade.
With those who furtively brought articles to the shop when there was all appearance of their having been dishonestly acquitted, he adopted a friendly as well as a business-like attitude. When he and his partner had decided what they would pay he would say firmly, "That's all we are prepared to give you now, but if you call back, say in a week's time, and we find we have realised more than we expected—then there'll be a bit more for you," and the sellers would go away quite assured that they were being treated fairly.
Making good money now, Mangan lived the life of a man about Town, with his friends and acquaintances apparently knowing nothing of the Wardour Street shop and believing him to be a man of independant means. His D.S.O. gave him something of a high standing among them, bringing as it did the right of entry into the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. Sponsored by former brother officers, he joined two quite good clubs. There, as in his old Oxford days, he found he could hold his own with anyone at cards and was as good a player as the best of them. Always a good judge of character, too, he knew when it was safe to do a little manipulating with the cards, and his clubs became a source of good income to him.
Acquiring a small but well-appointed flat in Fitzroy Square, he took to giving small card parties there, and it was pretty certain that he would come out in the right side if only in a small amount. As far as his own gains were concerned, he took care the same man never lost a good sum to him more than once.
* * * *
This then was the man whom Professor Glenowen was now abusing with every unpleasant word he could lay his tongue to. "And did you hope I shouldn't recognise you, you blackguard?" he sneered. "Was that why you were keeping so quiet?"
"Certainly not," said Mangan coolly, "I would have told you at once who I was if you had not been so ready with your talk about my stomach and your gun. You were so excited that if I had interrupted you with a word you might have shot me out of hand."
"And I almost wish I had now," snarled the professor. His eyes glared. "You would have shot me, wouldn't you, if you could have got in first?"
Mangan looked contemptuous. "Not for those few bits of stuff I was going to take. Do you think I'd have been such a fool as to commit murder for a few spoons and forks?"
"But you told us all openly in those tales the other night at Blackarden Castle," snapped the professor, "that killing had been your trade for so long in the war that you often felt you wanted to return to it."
Mangan shook his head frowningly. "That was only a joke, an after dinner joke when I'd had plenty of champagne." He spoke persuasively. "See here, Professor Glenowen, I know I was doing a dreadful thing in going to steal your silver and I'm thoroughly ashamed of myself. My only excuse is, and it's a very poor one, it was a sudden temptation on the spur of the moment. I was badly needing water for my radiator and couldn't find any pail to carry it to my car. Then I saw one through the kitchen window and climbed in to get it. I swear to you that I had no other thought in my mind. Still, I became curious about the other rooms and wandered in here." He shrugged his shoulders. "I saw the silver. I was tempted—and I fell." He spoke earnestly. "As I say, I know it was a dreadful thing to do—me, an old Oxford University man and one who held his Majesty's commision in the war."
"And that's the tale you'll tell the police, is it?" scoffed the professor. "Well, it's not likely to help you much." He spoke sharply. "What's your occupation—if you have any other occupation than the one I've caught you in today?"
"An art-dealer," replied Mangan. "I buy and sell anything valuable—" he smiled a cold smile, "—including all things silver."
The professor pointed to the pistol and the knuckleduster upon the table. "And these, I suppose," he asked grimly, "are the appliances you make use of in your calling?"
"Not necessarily," replied Mangan coolly, "but as most of my buying is done away from my place of business I often carry good sums in banknotes and, in these after-war days I have to be prepared for anything."
"You didn't know I had a bungalow here?" asked the professor eyeing him very intently.
Mangan shook his head. "No, I understand you lived in Town."
The professor frowned. "Then I suppose you know all about me? You had heard of me before we met at Lord Delamarne's?"
"Certainly, I had," agreed Mangan, who judged rightly that Glenowen was not averse to a little flattery. "Everyone knows about you. You are a well-known Communist and wrote that letter to The Times a little while ago, suggesting that anyone who shot those German scientists who have been brought out here by our Government to help make the atom-bomb would be quite justified in doing so. You said it would be an act of service to all humanity." He nodded. "I agree with you. The atom-bomb should be outlawed."
The professor looked thoughtful. "And you would shoot that Carl von Bressen and Otto Kernstein if you got the chance?"
"Shoot them as I would mad dogs," scowled Mangan, "if I could be sure of doing it without being caught. I'd shoot any German. I saw too much of their vile work when I was fighting with the Resistance Movement in France. They were inhuman beasts to any partisan they got hold of."
The sounds of a motor were heard in the distance and they both stopped speaking. A car came by the window slowing down, and it could be heard passing into the yard. Mangan's eyes opened to their widest and his jaw dropped.
"Don't faint," said the professor, looking very amused at Mangan's obvious uneasiness. "It isn't the police, only my man who's returned from an errand—" he smiled a grim smile as excited barks were heard in the passage "—and here's a friend of mine who would like to make your acquaintance."
A fierce-looking Alsatian burst into the room. "To heel, Pluto," shouted the professor peremptorily. "To heel, I tell you. Come here," and the big animal who, upon catching sight of Mangan, had bared his teeth and started to growl savagely, with obvious reluctance sidled up to his master and squatted at his feet.
The professor pocketed his own pistol, and swept Mangan's and the knuckle-duster off the table in a drawer in the desk. "You can do up your trousers," he said sharply, "but be very careful what you do and don't make any quick movement, as it might bring the dog upon you at once. Pluto is always savage with strangers." He looked mockingly at Mangan. "And how much of those adventures of yours in France you told us about that night when I met you at Blackarden Castle were really true?"
"Every word of them," replied Mangan with some indignation. "There was no need to exaggerate or lie. We were killers, every one of us, and as fierce and savage as any beast of the jungle ever is."
"But my opinion is that you're a coward," said the professor sharply. "You went as white as a ghost just now when this dog of mine came into the room."
"And was that to be wondered at?" snapped Mangan, furious at being so insulted by this insignificant-looking little man. "I am unarmed and he looks as dangerous a brute as I've ever met." He gritted his teeth savagely. "But give me my jacket over my left arm and my long commando knife in my right hand—" he looked contemptuous—"and I'll slit him open from midriff to stern as quick as you can see. I've killed scores such as he without getting a scratch."
"Oh, you have, have you?" commented the professor as if in some doubt. He regarded Mangan thoughtfully. "And it was you then who cut the throat of that German Commandant you told us about," he asked, "as well as those of his staff?"
"It was," replied Mangan curtly. "I don't boast about it, as things like that were all in our day's work. It was adventure and sport to us."
"And would be again?" queried the professor.
Mangan nodded. "I expect so, if those times ever come back again."
The professor seemed to have come to some resolution. "Well, I'll put you to the test, my fine cock-sparrow," he said grimly, "and just see the stuff you're really made of." He pointed to the silver upon the table. "Put those spoons and forks back where you found them. My man will be in in a minute or two to lay lunch and I hope I may have the pleasure of your company."
Mangan could not believe his ears. "Have lunch with you?" he queried. "Then——"
"I'm overlooking that little matter of your lapse," nodded the professor, "and, except for your pistol which I'll retain for the present, you can put back the other things into your pockets. Yes, we'll have lunch together." He spoke in a half smiling and half sneering tone, "And if you are as competent and fearless as you make yourself out to be, you will be delighted at the very thought of a project I am going to put before you."
A minute or so later a big and hefty man not unlike a prize-fighter in appearance came into the room. He gave Mangan a hard, long stare before proceeding to lay the table. A short conversation in Welsh proceeded between him and his master and then the latter turned to Mangan.
"Now if you happen to like them, Mr. Brown," he said, rubbing his hands as gleefully as a little child, "I can give you a great treat, jellied eels. Have you ever tasted them?"
"Can't say I have," replied Mangan. "Are they good?"
"Excellent!" exclaimed the professor. "To my thinking they have a flavour every bit as good as that of the turbot. After the eels there'll be a cold duck." He laughed. "It's funny, isn't it, that the three filthiest feeders in the world, the pig, the duck and the eel should all have the most delicate flavour of their kind? Nothing can excel the delicacy of their flesh and its flavour is wholly individual."
Mangan felt altogether stupified at what was happening. Only such a few minutes before he had been within an ace of having a bullet in his stomach and now—he was being invited in the most friendly manner possible to share a meal with the very man who had threatened him and whose goods he had actually been caught red-handed in the act of stealing.
Of course, the man was mad, but what in his madness was going to happen next?
With the two seated opposite to each other at the table they proceeded to enjoy what Mangan assured the gratified professor was as dainty a little meal as could have been provided anywhere. The atmosphere was most friendly, with the professor drawing out from his guest more of his adventures when fighting with the patriots of France. In particular the professor seemed to revel in the more gruesome details and his eyes sparkled at the recital of any episode where his guest mentioned having had resource to his big commando knife.
"Blood-thirsty little wretch!" scowled Mangan under his breath. "He's quite mental and would just love to set that big beast at me, and it wouldn't take much to make him do it, either."
The Alsatian had annoyed Mangan not a little the whole time they were having the meal and, to his irritation, he found himself continually glancing in the dog's direction. Stretched out upon the sofa, with his huge head resting upon his paws, never once had the big animal taken his eyes off him and, with the slightest movement Mangan had made in his chair, he had instantly lifted up his head and emitted a low growl. He had seemed ready to spring at him any moment.
The professor was obviously well aware of this little byplay which was going on and at length asked smilingly, "So my doggie fidgets you, does he? Don't you like Alsatians?"
Mangan choked down the rage at the half-mocking way in which the question had been put. "It isn't that I don't like them," he said carelessly, "but the Germans always used them and in consequence they are associated in my mind with the bestialities of the unspeakable Hun. So, whenever I see one now, my memory goes back to the many I have had to kill."
"They are good fighters?" queried the professor.
"The best," nodded Mangan, "but quite easy to kill if you face up to them when they attack you."
"Then you think," smiled the professor, "that if I took you both out into the yard and armed you, say with this carving knife here, my poor Pluto wouldn't stand much chance in the fight."
"The carving-knife would be no good," scoffed Mangan, "but give me a good cut-throat razor and it'd be all over in double quick time."
"And you wouldn't mind killing him?"
"Not at all," said Mangan. He smiled. "Haven't I told you killing is my trade."
"Good," nodded the professor, "then as I say, if you're the brave man you make yourself out to be you'll jump at a proposition I am going to put to you in a few minutes." He shook his head disapprovingly. "But with you being a one-time commando I am rather disappointed in you. You ought not to have allowed yourself to be caught as you were. Your car was under my observation from the moment you came down the road. I was not very far away, down by the edge of the sea, looking for specimens, and, though certainly it's understandable you might not have picked me up because my mackintosh is much the same colour as that of the mud, you ought to have been aware someone belonging to the bungalow was somewhere close about."
"How?" asked Mangan testily, annoyed at the superior and patronising way in which the professor was admonishing him.
"By my footprints in the mud, of course," returned the professor. "They start not half a dozen yards from where your car is standing, and you should have noticed they were only one-way ones. Therefore you should have known that the person who made them had not come back, but was somewhere about by the margin of the sea."
"I didn't see them at all," frowned Mangan.
"Then you should have done," said the professor, "as they were close under your very eyes." He turned the conversation abruptly. "By the by, as the bosom friend of his nephew I suppose you know Lord Delamarne quite well?"
Mangan was inclined to be non-committal. "I've stayed at the Castle a few times," he said, "but I can't say I know him well, as I think very few people do. He's a most reserved man."
The professor smiled a dry smile. "Well, with your partiality for old silver, no doubt you induced him to show you what he's got."
"I didn't have to induce him," snapped Mangan in continued irritability at the professor's sarcastic tone. "He was quite ready to show me some of the trifles he has in the cabinet in his study, but everybody knows he keeps back his best things for his own pleasure, hidden away."
The professor nodded. "Yes, in those underground passages, those walled-up dungeons of his, in a specially constructed steel chamber into which he thinks no burglar can break. As a Communist I regard it as a most selfish procedure and I'd love him to lose the lot." He laughed. "Why don't you have a go at them? I'm sure that with assistance from some of your criminal friends you'd be able to find a way to break in."
Mangan made no comment and regarded him with an angry, sullen face. The professor went on. "Oh, they'd be worth a lot of risk. No one has any idea what treasures he may have hidden there." He chuckled delightedly. "Now, I'll tell you something which will surprise you. You remember that 18th century silver kettle which fetched such a huge sum at Southby's last year, don't you?"
Mangan remembered it quite well, as at the time its sale had caused quite a mild sensation in the art world. The kettle had been a magnificent example of a silversmith's work when the Huguenots had first settled in London and it bore the stamp of having been made in 1715. The bidding had opened at a thousand guineas and gone up quickly to eighteen hundred in the favour of a well-known collector. Then when it seemed no further bid was going to be made and the auctioneer was in the very act or dropping his hammer, a shabby-looking man whom no one knew chipped in boldly with another hundred guineas.
For the moment the auctioneer hesitated as if doubtful about accepting the bid of a perfect stranger, but the latter held up a fist-full of banknotes and called out that all the money likely to be needed was there. Whereupon the bid was accepted, to be, however, immediately capped by another hundred from the collector. Quite confidently the stranger bid another fifty and then, ding-dong with no hesitation, the bidding went on until twenty-six hundred was reached. Whereupon the collector at once threw in his hand and the kettle was knocked down to the stranger who nonchalantly paid up with his banknotes and, placing his purchase in a shabby black bag, disappeared as unobtrusively as he had come. For a long time afterwards there was much speculation as to for whom the stranger had been acting, but nothing had been found out, so who was now in actual possession of the kettle was as great a mystery as ever.
Now questioned by the professor, Mangan said he remembered the sale and, as with everyone else, was curious as to who had been the buyer.
"I can tell you," laughed the professor exultingly. "It was bought on Lord Delamarne's behalf and he has got it now at the casde."
Mangan frowned sceptically. "He has showed it to you?" he asked.
The professor shook his head. "No, but I've spoken to someone to whom he has, and it's interesting how I came to know all about it. Some months ago I wanted some electric work done here and applied to a firm in Norwich who sent out an Italian workman who could only speak a few words of English. However, that didn't matter at all as I know Italian well. The man was here for three days and was delighted to talk to someone who spoke his mother tongue. He was a very intelligent chap—" he laughed "—and, of course, a Communist. We became very friendly."
The professor went on. "Talking about his experiences in England—the man had been over here only a few weeks—he mentioned that he had been recently doing a job for a very eccentric old gentleman and, if the old fellow had not owned a castle and been a lord, he might quite reasonably have suspected something very wrong was going on. There was such a secrecy about everything, and, before going down to an underground passage where some new wiring was wanted, he was actually blindfolded so that he should not learn how he had got there."
Mangan was intensely interested all at once. "You are sure it was Lord Delamarne," he exclaimed, "and that Blackarden was the casde?"
