Free The Elder Ice: A Harry Stubbs Adventure by David Hambling Page A

touched.”
    “Exactly. Harcourt is his name. We require the element of surprise, so I’ll ask you to break the door down, if you please, Mr Stubbs.”
    Doors, as I have said, have a largely symbolic value in repelling intruders. That said, some are more stoutly secured than others. I put my fingertips close to the jamb, gauging its strength and where it was bolted. I took a half step back and directed a kick at the lock.
    The deadbolt was all that held it; at my impulse, the door flew open. Metal fittings clattered across the stone floor beyond.
    “Meredith, we’re in,” I said, a line from an old song that always seems very apt on these occasions.
    “The bailiffs have come and they mean to collect,” declared Mrs Crawford, stepping over the threshold into the bare, shadowy hall. I judged it cheap accommodation, left unfurnished. “Mr Stubbs, kindly intercept anyone who attempts to interfere.”
    She had barely spoken these words when a man in shirtsleeves and braces came through a doorway to my right. He grabbed a walking stick leaning in one corner and was raising it to strike at me when I hit him with a straight left to the abdomen, a right to his chin, and a left to the side of his face. It was instinctive boxing but sound. When you work the drills long enough, the combinations come out right without having to think. He was only a small man, and it was a clean knockout.
    I recognised my would-be assailant from the fight outside the pub. The fourth of the Irishmen, the man with the knife. No wonder his face was already bruised.
    “His name is Connell, and he’s a criminal known to the police,” said Mrs Crawford. “Keep hold of him.”
    I patted Connell for a knife and found nothing. We had caught him unprepared.
    Then she turned and called up the stairs in a ringing voice, “Good morning. I am Mrs Geraldine Crawford, from the firm of Latham and Rowe of upper Norwood, representing the creditors to the estate of the late Sir Ernest Shackleton. I have reason to believe that you are in possession of property pertaining to the estate, and I wish to discuss the matter.”
    “You had better come upstairs, then,” came the quiet reply.
    We could not see the speaker, who was up on the second landing. Mrs Crawford indicated I bring the man who had attacked me; I half-dragged, half-carried him, and we went upstairs at a brisk pace.
    A tall, sandy-haired gentleman with a moustache greeted us on the landing. He was wearing a good tweed suit and a watch chain. I would have said he was fifty.
    “Roger Harcourt,” she said.
    “Geraldine Crawford,” said the other. “And I'd like to mention that if you attempt violence, my associate will be forced to restrain you.”
    I must have cut a menacing figure, coming out of the shadows and tossing aside the still-stunned Connell with one hand. He took a step back.
    “Purely a precaution,” Mrs Crawford went on. “I do want to talk to you, Mr Harcourt, and I don't want you doing anything precipitate to prevent our talking.”
    “Indeed.” Harcourt showed us in to a room furnished sparsely and rather cheaply with second-hand items. A bachelor’s room, the study or workroom of a man with varied interests. A side table held decanters and a dozen glasses, none of them clean. An odd assortment of old books, well bound and perhaps valuable, packed the shelf behind him, but nothing else in the room indicated wealth or taste.
    The large table at one end, which I instantly identified as a collection of items relating to Sir Ernest, was the room’s most remarkable feature. There were skis, winter coats, travelling chests, an ice axe hanging from its leather thong, even pairs of snowshoes like crude tennis rackets.
    Harcourt scowled at Connell, who took a seat in the corner. I went to search Harcourt for weapons, but Mrs Crawford indicated it would not be necessary. He sat behind the desk, and we sat in front of it in mismatched easy chairs, as though we had come into his office to