Last Laugh for the Baron

by John Creasey

  “Well,” Mannering said, dropping into a chair. “What did happen to you, Aristide?”

  5

  THE LOST MEMORY

  Aristide Smith stood with a cup and saucer in his hand and stared at Mannering as if he were terrified. He had fine blue-green eyes and delicately marked features and the perfection of his skin and complexion showed even through the thick, dark stubble. He had long, up-curling eyelashes and they ringed his eyes, throwing them into vivid relief.

  “I—I don’t know,” he said.

  Mannering, sipping his tea, almost dropped the cup.

  “What?”

  “Well, I don’t,” muttered Aristide. “I really don’t.”

  Mannering drank more deeply, and put the cup aside.

  “Well at least you can make a good cup of tea,” he remarked. “Sit down, and let’s talk about this.”

  All there was left to sit on was a high kitchen stool. Aristide hitched himself up on it.

  “How the devil did I get here?” he burst out.

  “Don’t you even know that?”

  “I wish to God I did,” the young man muttered. “I couldn’t believe it when I woke up—it doesn’t make any sense at all. Don’t you know how I got here? I mean, didn’t you bring me here?”

  “You were here when I came back last night.”

  “Does—does Mrs. Mannering know I’m here?”

  “Yes,” Mannering answered gently. “She was as puzzled and worried as I.”

  “It—it simply doesn’t make sense,” Aristide said helplessly. “I was in the shop one minute and the next, obviously early morning, I wake up here.” Now, his eyes and the groove between them gathered in a frown, and his voice became clipped, his manner almost suspicious. “Someone must be playing a joke on me.” His look was challenging, near accusing, as if he wanted to add: “Was it you?”

  “No,” said Mannering. “This is no joke.”

  “Someone must be trying to make a fool of me! No man would behave like this unless—” He broke off, and then exploded: “Unless he were crazy or took drugs, or—” Again he stopped and slid off the bar stool, stood in front of Mannering, glaring. “You must know something about it—sir,” he added, as an afterthought.

  “I must tell you exactly what I do know,” said Mannering. “But first—why did you come and wake me?”

  Aristide backed a pace.

  “I—I’m sorry about that, sir, but—but I felt as if I were going mad. I couldn’t just walk out and leave a note and I’d been awake for nearly two hours. The suspense was awful. I just had to know something.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Mannering said. “Let’s go into my room, we can be more comfortable there.” He led the way, dropped into a big winged armchair and waved Aristide to a smaller one. Then he told the story just as he had to Lorna last night, omitting only the laughter which had so startled him when he had come into the flat.

  Aristide watched him with rapt attention, and was quiet for a few moments when the story was told. Then he rasped his finger over his stubble.

  “It doesn’t seem possible,” he said slowly. “All that happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “But—but I simply don’t remember a thing!”

  “Don’t you remember Larraby telling you to go out into the street?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Or following two men?”

  “Mr. Mannering,” said Aristide, leaning forward with both hands outstretched, as if in supplication, “I remember Josh talking on the telephone; I even remember a sound of laughter coming from the telephone and I think Josh looked scared. Then he came towards me, and—and I don’t remember what he said. I can’t even be sure he spoke to me. After that moment everything is a blank until the moment when I woke this morning.” Now, the note of accusation had vanished from his eyes and in its place was apprehension. “You—you do believe me, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mannering assured him. “I certainly believe you.”

  “What the devil could have happened?”

  “You could have been drugged,” said Mannering, “but I doubt if that’s the answer. The fact that your memory stops at a positive time like that suggests that you were hypnotised, Aristide, and under the hypnosis you were told what to forget. I’ve come across that form of induced amnesia before but there aren’t many hypnotists capable of inducing it.”

  “I simply can’t believe it,” Aristide said, almost sulkily.

  “I think you’re going to have to believe it,” retorted Mannering.

  “But my memory’s bound to come back!”

  “Let’s give it a try,” said Mannering. “Go back to your flat, telephone Josh, tell him you’ll be in late this morning, and get to the shop as soon as you can. I’ll be there by—” he glanced at the kitchen clock—”eleven o’clock at the latest.”

  “Right-ho,” said Aristide. “I—but great Scott!”

  “What is it now?”

  “Where’s my motor-cycle?”

  “Where did you leave it?”

  “In the car park near Quinns.”

  “Then that’s where it will be,” answered Mannering, as the young man dipped his right hand into his trouser pocket and took out a bunch of keys. “Do you feel all right?”

  “I feel fine,” said Aristide, looking utterly bewildered. “But I just can’t believe—” For the first time that morning he gave a quick flash of a smile which made him look very young. “I’ll do just what you say, I’m sure to remember something! See you later, sir.”

  He hurried out of the flat, and a few minutes later Mannering heard the whine of the lift as it carried him down to the ground floor.

  When Mannering reached Quinns just after eleven o’clock, after waking Lorna, taking her tea, and breakfasting on toast and coffee, he found Larraby, Spencer and Aristide at the back of the long, narrow shop, obviously in a huddle, obviously perturbed. All three looked round as if caught out in some guilty act as Mannering walked towards them.

  Larraby looked deeply troubled, Lionel Spencer baffled, and Aristide Smith frightened.

  “I still don’t remember a thing,” whispered Aristide. “Not a thing.”

  They were still standing there when the telephone bell rang, and even Mannering was so affected by the youth’s expression that he let it ring. Suddenly Larraby turned to answer it, snatching up the receiver almost with exasperation.

  “Who is that?” he asked, and all three watched him, while Mannering half-expected a laugh to come firm and deep out of the telephone. Instead, Larraby spoke in a different tone. “Yes, sir—yes, he is here, I am sure he will speak to you. It is Superintendent Bristow of Scotland Yard, sir,” he said to Mannering, and held the telephone out.

  Between John Mannering and William Bristow there was a long standing friendship, born out of early enmity and bitter antagonism. Very few people knew the truth, or even guessed it, but when Lorna had looked so strangely at Mannering the previous night, Bristow might almost have been peering over her shoulder. For when they had first met, Mannering had been a jewel-thief extraordinary, a mystery-cracksman whose identity was unknown, and who had been dubbed ‘The Baron’ because, as a modern Robin Hood, he robbed the rich to help the poor.

  Bristow had finally discovered his identity, but had never been able to prove it.

  As the years passed and after Mannering had married Lorna – then Lorna Fauntley, daughter of a man whom the Baron had robbed – Mannering had abandoned his role as cracksman and had become the owner of Quinns, as highly respected as any dealer in the world. But his love of adventure was still strong, and from time to time, when clients had come to him for guidance and help, he had taken grave risks in helping them.

  These things, Bristow had also known.

  Further, the t
ime had come when Mannering had been consulted both by the police and by insurance companies, in the task of finding stolen jewellery and works of art, so that there had been for Bristow the great irony of having to consult a man whom he knew to be a one-time criminal.

  They had learned first to respect, then to like, finally to admire each other. And the past was the past between them, although when both were involved in the same case the Baron was a shade more wary than usual, and Bristow a shade more suspicious. For how could Bristow be sure that Mannering, the once daring and resourceful expert in jewel-theft; would not one day revert to his old occupation? Does a leopard ever really change its spots? He wondered.

  And where Bristow was concerned – and for that matter all the Yard – there was another factor, once much more important than it was now. Larraby had served a long prison sentence for the theft of precious stones, a theft due not to lust for money but to love of the beauty of rare gems. At one time they had almost mesmerised him, so deep had been his longing to possess, to hold with love and reverence, these treasures of such beauty.

  But this was many years ago, and Larraby had long since held a position of trust with Mannering at Quinns. No one really suspected him, but – does a leopard ever change its spots? wondered Bristow again.

  And Mannering knew that he wondered.

  And now, at a time when Mannering was so confused, Bristow, only a few weeks off retirement, was on the telephone.

  What could he want? mused Mannering. Was he well-disposed or in a mood of suspicion?

  He took the telephone receiver Larraby was holding towards him.

  “Hallo, Bill,” he said warmly. “Nice to hear from you. What’s brought you into the office on a Saturday morning?”

  “I’m not at the office, John.” Bristow’s voice was troubled. “I’m at home. I’ve run into a problem I think you could help me with. Can you spare an hour or two so that we can talk in private?”

  Everything comes at once, Mannering thought resignedly. It was an odd coincidence that Bristow should seek Mannering’s help at this particular time. Or was it coincidence?

  “How about lunching with us. Bill?” he suggested. “I’ll be free by one o’clock. I’ve nothing to do this afternoon, unless it’s to go to Lord’s for a few hours.”

  “I—ah—I don’t want to discuss this in front of anyone, John – not even Lorna. It’s very good of you, but could you come here? My wife’s with my son and his family for the weekend, so I’m a grass widower.”

  “One-thirty?” suggested Mannering, allowing himself half-an-hour to drive from the West End to Putney, where Bristow had an apartment in a mammoth block overlooking Putney Heath.

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you,” Bristow said.

  Mannering put down the receiver with slow deliberation. Larraby and Aristide had moved out of earshot, but the moment they saw he had finished his conversation they turned towards him. He saw that they were too absorbed in Aristide’s problem to take more than a cursory interest in his talk with Bristow, although there was a gleam of inquiry in Larraby’s expression.

  “How is your memory progressing?” Mannering asked, lightly.

  “I simply don’t remember a thing,” stated Aristide flatly. “Twelve hours have gone out of my life—oh, it isn’t possible. I—”

  He broke off and spun round. So did the others. For suddenly from the window of Quinns there came a laugh, soft and pleasant at first, but growing louder; good-humoured, and yet oddly menacing. Mannering moved with startling speed towards the door, but no one was in sight.

  He felt a quivering up and down his spine; and involuntarily, shivered. He knew what it was. There were small microphones outside Quinns, installed several years previously after the shop had been burgled by two men who, it was realised too late, had been talking about their tactics just outside. Since then at least four attempted robberies had been anticipated; twice, the police had arrived before the intending thieves had even entered the shop.

  Mannering stepped further into Hart Row.

  At the side of the shop, stuck between the old wooden surround and the toughened plate glass window was a tiny tape-recorder, identical with the one that had been placed in his study. He stood watching it as the others from the shop joined him. Two or three people had now turned into Hart Row, and there was a stream of traffic at the end of the street.

  Mannering wondered if the others realised the significance of this: whoever had placed that recorder there had obviously known that the recording of the laugh would be picked up and broadcast throughout the shop. But only the staff and a few police officers knew about the microphones.

  He must have it examined for prints, quickly. There was no need to explain anything, he need only ask the police to check.

  Suddenly, Aristide Smith thrust past him, grasping the recorder and wrenching it from the wood. Before Mannering could do anything to stop him, he had ruined any chance of getting fingerprints.

  In anger? wondered Mannering.

  Or with intent?

  Had he told Mannering the truth, or did he know much more than he pretended? Was his loss of memory genuine or had it been assumed? Just what was going on? Mannering asked himself grimly.

  6

  LATE ARRIVAL

  “Aristide—” Mannering spoke with a mildness he was far from feeling—”take that into the cloakroom and see whether you can detect any prints – other than yours, of course. Josh, you check with him. If you think there are any identifiable prints, ask the local police to come along.”

  “From Savile Row, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t dream—” Aristide began.

  “Never mind about it now,” Mannering interrupted briskly. “Let’s get back into the shop.”

  A dozen people had gathered near, and two or three others stood on the doorsteps of those shops in Hart Row which opened for a few hours on Saturday mornings. Mannering paused, looking into the window of Quinns as if finding a new and absorbing interest in the Rapui Crown, but actually trying to see whether anyone was taking particular notice. No one was.

  Following the others back into the shop, he walked straight through to his office, and dropped heavily into a chair. It wasn’t surprising that he was tired, he thought, these days he needed more sleep than in the past, but it was not physical tiredness which troubled him now, it was the situation. He had not really sat back and pondered; it was long past time he did.

  It seemed unlikely that Aristide was involved. Mannering knew his family, his academic background, and all about him that mattered to Quinns. He was a rich young man who had joined the staff because of his interest in objets d’art and antiques. Nevertheless, thought Mannering, it was strange that he should have seized the recorder; it was almost as if he meant to destroy any fingerprints on it. It would be as well to check his recent activities – particularly any recently formed friendships.

  Someone, thought Mannering grimly, presumably the laughing man, was trying to unnerve him, and did not greatly mind what steps he took to do it. He wasn’t very worried about the man succeeding, but Bristow was obviously deeply troubled. If there could be any connection—

  Whatever Bristow’s problem he, Mannering, had to find out more about Belle Danizon, about her cousin Bruce, and about the good-looking, middle-aged man. There was the puzzling factor that he himself hadn’t known about the Danizons’ wealth and position in Mayfair society, but he should be able to check on that very easily. Making one or two notes on the slip of paper which he had used the previous night, Mannering ran through a card index file until he reached the name Montgomery Brie, who had an address in Albany, W.1. He dialled the number and a man answered at once, his voice high-pitched and querulous.

  “Yes, who is that?”

  “John Mannering.”

  “Who? Oh! Manner
ing. Haven’t seen or heard of you for a long time, Mannering. Imagined you were gadding about in foreign parts. Can’t understand you chaps who don’t stay in England. Still the finest country in the world, don’t let me hear you say a word against it.”

  “I didn’t intend to,” Mannering assured him. “I simply need a little help, if you—”

  “Help? What help can a decrepit old man like me give an active young one like you?””Knowledge and advice,” Mannering answered.

  “Humph. Glad some of you seem to appreciate the fact that the older generation does know something. Glad to help if I can.”

  “You’re very good,” Mannering murmured. “What do you know of a family named Danizon? d-a-n-i-z-o-n.”

  There was hardly a split second’s pause before Brie asked: “The Lamb Street Danizons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me think a minute.” Mannering could almost see Brie’s old face drawn up like a wrinkled walnut; eyes nearly buried beneath bushy eyebrows and heavy, fleshy eyelids. “Danizon . . . Danizon . . . good enough breeding. Direct line of descent from the Yorkshire Danizons – very patriotic, very shrewd, collectors, I believe, of precious stones and objets d’art—”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Mannering.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m sorry,” Mannering said, lying glibly. “I sneezed.”

  “My dear fellow. A tot of brandy and a hot water bottle, that’s what you want, and don’t tell me you can’t do such a thing in the middle of the day. An incipient cold neglected is all too soon a bout of influenza. Very famous collection, I understand, Chinese jade and ivory, paintings, porcelain, and a certain amount of Cambodian and Laotian medieval jewellery – but you should know this.”

  “A bad lapse of memory,” Mannering apologised. “But you’re bringing it all back. What else can you tell me?”

  “Well—” Brie paused—”Sir Richard and Lady Danizon are all right, but I’ve heard that the daughter’s a bit wild – goes in for yoga and all that nonsense. Runs around with a pretty queer crowd, so I believe, but that’s all I can tell you. Let me know if I can help in any other way. Goodbye.”