Read Online SV - 01 - Sergeant Verity and the Cracksman by Francis Selwyn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Francis Selwyn
Tags: Crime, Historical Novel
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there was no sound of alarm.
Being a perfectionist, he would have liked to remove the stirrups so that no passing policeman should catch a glimpse of them, and replace them on his way out. But it was dark by the railings, and he judged that it was worth leaving them in position in order to guarantee a quick retreat. The police were not his most feared enemies on this occasion. He stripped off his bottle-green evening coat, and slipped a black Balaclava helmet and mask over his features. He drew from the cloak a roll of canvas containing the tools of his trade. Folding the coat and cloak, he left them together under a laurel bush.
The house seemed to be in total darkness as he crossed the lawn, until he saw a narrow strip of light between the curtains of a ground-floor room at the back. The front then. Not what he would have preferred, but at least it was some little distance from the road.
He chose a window whose curtains were open. The interior was dark and, presumably, unoccupied. It looked like the drawing-room. The first tool from the canvas wallet was an eight-inch iron bar with right-angled projections, pointing opposite ways, at either end. Gently, he eased one projection between the window frame and its wooden surround. The woo d squealed and splintered a littl e as he gradually increased the leverage. Then there was a sharp crack. Dacre paused, listened, repeated the process on the other side of the frame, and then twice more at a higher level. The frame was now loose enough to be prised outwards by half an inch and the sash handle-pushed back, with a chisel blade. So much for the "New Patent Hermetic Window Fastener." He slid the window up, holding it above himself while he stepped over the sill, and then lowered it without a sound.
Dacre was standing in the drawing-room, certainly not where a man like Kite would keep his private papers and dearest possessions. He tried the handle of the door to the hall and was surprised to find it locked. Standing there with his hand sweating on the china handle, Dacre told himself that "Sealskin" Kite was too careful a man by half. From the canvas wallet came an instrument with a handle like a key, but ending in a fine metal hook. For a minute or two he tried all the usual positions and movements with it in the lock, listening hard all the time. The lock showed not a sign of yielding. In the warmth of summer, Dacre was trembling with cold. He chose a stronger piece, a slender metal tube with carefully crenellated prongs at either end. This time there was more leverage. He found the place, turned the skeleton key gently, and eased the lock back.
For some reason, they had left the hallway in darkness, but there was a distant light shining through a glass door, and this showed him the stairs. He could hear voices, at least two women and a man. One of Kite's retainers, no doubt. Not a stair creaked as he reached the first floor of the house. There was darkness everywhere, except that the long landing was faintly illuminated by light shining upwards through a back staircase. There was not a sound of breathing, the Kite children were presumably beyond the next, narrower, flight of stairs.
Dacre guessed that the main front room on this floor would be Kite's "study," for want of a better term. The door looked solid enough. He tapped lightly on one of the panels. The deadness of the sound was more than the deadness of wood. From the canvas wallet, he took a wooden tube containing an awl, so sharp that it could only be carried in a container. It bored through the panel of the door like a fork going through cheese. Then, after an inch or so, it stopped.
Dacre tried once more, with the same result. The panels of the door had been reinforced by the new insurance fad of sheet metal on the inside. This was Kite's room. To have used the old lag's method of a knife on a large compass arm to cut a circular hole, would have been useless. Nor was this a lock to be picked. If the job could
Being a perfectionist, he would have liked to remove the stirrups so that no passing policeman should catch a glimpse of them, and replace them on his way out. But it was dark by the railings, and he judged that it was worth leaving them in position in order to guarantee a quick retreat. The police were not his most feared enemies on this occasion. He stripped off his bottle-green evening coat, and slipped a black Balaclava helmet and mask over his features. He drew from the cloak a roll of canvas containing the tools of his trade. Folding the coat and cloak, he left them together under a laurel bush.
The house seemed to be in total darkness as he crossed the lawn, until he saw a narrow strip of light between the curtains of a ground-floor room at the back. The front then. Not what he would have preferred, but at least it was some little distance from the road.
He chose a window whose curtains were open. The interior was dark and, presumably, unoccupied. It looked like the drawing-room. The first tool from the canvas wallet was an eight-inch iron bar with right-angled projections, pointing opposite ways, at either end. Gently, he eased one projection between the window frame and its wooden surround. The woo d squealed and splintered a littl e as he gradually increased the leverage. Then there was a sharp crack. Dacre paused, listened, repeated the process on the other side of the frame, and then twice more at a higher level. The frame was now loose enough to be prised outwards by half an inch and the sash handle-pushed back, with a chisel blade. So much for the "New Patent Hermetic Window Fastener." He slid the window up, holding it above himself while he stepped over the sill, and then lowered it without a sound.
Dacre was standing in the drawing-room, certainly not where a man like Kite would keep his private papers and dearest possessions. He tried the handle of the door to the hall and was surprised to find it locked. Standing there with his hand sweating on the china handle, Dacre told himself that "Sealskin" Kite was too careful a man by half. From the canvas wallet came an instrument with a handle like a key, but ending in a fine metal hook. For a minute or two he tried all the usual positions and movements with it in the lock, listening hard all the time. The lock showed not a sign of yielding. In the warmth of summer, Dacre was trembling with cold. He chose a stronger piece, a slender metal tube with carefully crenellated prongs at either end. This time there was more leverage. He found the place, turned the skeleton key gently, and eased the lock back.
For some reason, they had left the hallway in darkness, but there was a distant light shining through a glass door, and this showed him the stairs. He could hear voices, at least two women and a man. One of Kite's retainers, no doubt. Not a stair creaked as he reached the first floor of the house. There was darkness everywhere, except that the long landing was faintly illuminated by light shining upwards through a back staircase. There was not a sound of breathing, the Kite children were presumably beyond the next, narrower, flight of stairs.
Dacre guessed that the main front room on this floor would be Kite's "study," for want of a better term. The door looked solid enough. He tapped lightly on one of the panels. The deadness of the sound was more than the deadness of wood. From the canvas wallet, he took a wooden tube containing an awl, so sharp that it could only be carried in a container. It bored through the panel of the door like a fork going through cheese. Then, after an inch or so, it stopped.
Dacre tried once more, with the same result. The panels of the door had been reinforced by the new insurance fad of sheet metal on the inside. This was Kite's room. To have used the old lag's method of a knife on a large compass arm to cut a circular hole, would have been useless. Nor was this a lock to be picked. If the job could
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