Last Laugh for the Baron

by John Creasey

  He was not certain whether his tactics were right or not, but did not see what else he could have done. The speaker could not be sure that he had kidnapped Danizon, at best he could only guess; he would now have to try to find out.

  And yet he had seemed sure . . .

  But he could, at most, know that Danizon had driven away. Even if that had been against instructions, how could the man be sure it was a case of kidnapping? Even if he had found the car parked by the station, he couldn’t be sure. Had he been in the same position and had Bruce been Aristide, say, Mannering would have assumed that he had parked the car and gone after someone who had travelled by train.

  The speaker could only have guessed Mannering’s responsibility for the disappearance – but why had he assumed the worst?

  Was it assumption or did he know?

  Mannering thrust the thought aside, and concentrated on what to do with Danizon and with the other young people if he did make a clean sweep of them all. There was something very enticing about the idea. He had a sudden thought, and telephoned his flat. There was no answer, so Lorna wasn’t back yet. He went to the kitchen and saw Larraby putting away the last cup.

  “The gentleman telephoned to order me to release the prisoner,” he said drily.

  Larraby turned.

  “He certainly loses no time.”

  “No,” admitted Mannering. “He doesn’t lose enough – he’s over-anxious. I still can’t think of a place to incarcerate half-a-dozen strong and healthy young people, Josh—”

  He broke off, stared for a moment, then turned and looked out of the living-room window, over Hart Row. Then he went to the landing and looked out over a strip of vacant land which was up for sale for a small fortune. Beyond this was the blank wall of a modern office block and the car park. The side and back entrances of Quinns could not be overlooked – only the front entrance in Hart Row.

  “What is in your mind, sir?” asked Larraby, gently.

  “The strong-room, here,” answered Mannering, as quietly.

  “The strong—” began Larraby, only to break off as if astounded or appalled. “But that’s full of—” Again he stopped, and this time gulped. “The strong-room, sir,” he repeated, weakly.

  “That’s the very place,” said Mannering. “Impregnable, air-conditioned, and with its own cloakroom. We’ve some folding beds and could get more, or some cushions. There are three different rooms, and electric points so that they can boil water. Josh – how long will it take to get some food and oddments down there?”

  “Little more than an hour I would say, sir. There is a delicatessen nearby.”

  “Good. Get it done, will you? Young Danizon’s all right where he is for at least another three hours, and—”

  “Mr. Mannering, my first reaction was of enthusiasm but on second thoughts—” Larraby paused; he spoke as if he had a frog in his throat. “I do beg you to consider the very grave dangers in taking such a course.”

  “There would be dangers, anyway. Josh.”

  “Mr. Mannering – sir – I don’t think you fully appreciate—” Larraby gulped again. “It would involve you and Quinns, and if it were to fail – if for instance none of these young people was involved in the thefts – then the consequences could be very grave indeed.”

  Mannering frowned.

  “Yes, Josh, I know.”

  “Is it worth such a risk?”

  “The man on the telephone said that I must release Danizon or be ruined,” Mannering stated.

  “He would no doubt do his best to make trouble, sir.”

  “Do you want me to release Danizon?” inquired Mannering.

  After a lengthy pause for consideration, Larraby answered: “No, sir.”

  “Then whatever I do, there’s a risk.”

  “If you take this seriously—”

  “Don’t you take it seriously?” asked Mannering.

  “Yes, I suppose I do,” conceded Larraby, although he sounded only half-convinced.

  “Josh, listen to me,” said Mannering. “You had the visit from this young woman, you know the odd way she talked to me. You know that Aristide was attacked or kidnapped or else has been made disloyal. You know what has happened to Bristow and you know how the tape-recordings are being used to try to frighten me. You know that at least five extremely wealthy men have been persuaded to keep quiet about substantial losses.” He paused long enough for all this to sink in, and then added sharply: “Don’t you?”

  This time Larraby sounded more convinced.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then it must certainly be taken seriously, Josh. And it must be stopped.”

  “It must, sir.” Larraby closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his forehead in a characteristic gesture. “I will see what folding beds and mattresses there are.”

  “Good. And after Pendleton’s young woman has arrived we’ll go to the strong-room and make some space.”

  “Sir—” began Larraby.

  “Now, Josh!”

  “Sir—there is a fortune in the strong-room. If in their resentment any of those young people ran amok—”

  “Yes, I know,” Mannering said soberly. “I think that worries me most. I—ah, there’s your front door bell. What is the young woman’s name?”

  “Kitt, sir.”

  “Kitt what?”

  “Annabel Kitt,” answered Larraby. “I’ll go and let her in.”

  He went out, and as Mannering heard him making his way down the stairs he went to the window and looked down. Obviously it was possible that there was someone other than Annabel Kitt at the back door, which was Larraby’s front door whenever the shop was closed.

  The only odd thing Mannering noticed about the young woman on whom he looked was that her hair – she wore no hat – was cut in an old-fashioned Eton crop. In these days of lank-haired youths and long-haired girls this made a considerable change. As he had a distorted view he had no idea what she looked like, except that she wore a biscuit-coloured sweater and that she was thin. From the window, in fact, she looked more an old-fashioned boy than modern girl.

  The back door opened, and she disappeared. Larraby’s voice sounded, then hers, and it was very soft and pleasant. Footsteps followed and Mannering was at the living-room door to welcome Annabel Kitt.

  She looked like a boy at close-quarters, too, thought Mannering; lean and long-legged, but a boy dressed up as a girl, for her lips had too much lipstick, her eyes were buried in green eyeshade and her artificial lashes were as black as soot.

  She smiled; she had a nice smile. “Miss Kitt?”

  “Mr. Mannering.” She came in. “I had to give you this note from Mr. Pendleton, who thinks you might think I’m a fake.” She took a sealed note out of her shoulder-strap handbag, and gave it to him. In Pendleton’s unmistakable writing and on his headed notepaper was a note:

  Dear Mr. Mannering,

  This is Annabel Kitt, who has been investigating the interests of Aristide Smith and comes to report in person.

  Yours sincerely,

  J. P. Pendleton.

  “Come and sit down,” Mannering said, drawing her into the front room. “I had the provisional report by telephone.”

  “About Bernard Yenn and his yoga-hypnotic session which Aristide attends so faithfully?” asked Annabel Kitt. She sat down and crossed her legs. “The sad thing about Aristide and the others is that they so want to have something to believe in, almost something to worship.” She smiled again. “Did you know that Aristide Smith was a seeker?”

  “No.” Mannering saw Larraby by the door and beckoned him in and pointed to a chair. “A seeker of what?”

  “Truth. A philosophy which will lead mankind to happiness. A leader. And they all think Yenn is a kind of God-sent gift to them. It’s a strange thing,”
Annabel Kitt added, in the manner of a sage octogenarian, “but so many young people seem to fall for the fakes and the phonies.” She was looking through the big leather bag with the preoccupied air of a woman who knows perfectly well she has what she is looking for, yet has a sneaking feeling she might have left it behind.

  “And you think Bernard Yenn is a fake?”

  “Oh, yes. I also think he is a crook.” She darted Mannering a glance with those soot-ringed eyes and he was impressed by the directness and the shrewdness of them. At the same time she took out a photograph and handed it to him. “I have a secret camera,” she said. “It takes very good likenesses.”

  Mannering looked down at the face of the man who had been with Belle and Bruce Danizon at the Charity Ball the previous night.

  “So this is Bernard Yenn,” Mannering remarked.

  “That is the Master, the Tutor, the Leader, the Lord.”

  “Does he really call himself any of that?”

  “No. He simply behaves like them all in turn. As a matter of fact I’ve been to several classes and haven’t discovered a single thing which could prove he is a crook or even a poseur or charlatan. But there’s something about the man which is . . .” Annabel Kitt flashed Mannering a smile and went on very quickly—”the opposite of you, Mr. Mannering.”

  “And that opposite is?”

  “Evil,” she said simply. “He talks—but would you like to hear him?”

  “Very much. Can I?”

  “In these days of tape-recorders in the backs of lighters and wristwatches, as easily as seeing his photograph,” stated Annabel Kitt. She began to rummage in her bag. “I managed to get the names of all the students in my group, by the way. Each group has two classes a week.”

  “I see. And the names are—”

  She took what looked like a cigarette-lighter from her pocket and busied herself opening the back of it. Working on a concealed hinge, it revealed the smallest tape-recorder Mannering had ever seen. He was vividly reminded of the tape-recorder in his study and outside this shop. She did not switch it on, but continued in the same matter-of-fact tone: “Charley Clawson, Eric Frewin, Maria Rocco, Aristide Smith, Frank Bennett, Bruce Danizon, Esmeralda Devon and me. How does that sound?”

  Again she shot Mannering a swift glance, as if to judge the effect of the names on him, but he had learned to school himself against her sudden surprises and all he said was: “Aristide Smith.”

  “Very earnest, too. He wants to put the world right, and even worse, he thinks it can be done.”

  “Very touching,” Mannering said. “And very cynically said by you.”

  “Oh, I am cynical,” declared Annabel Kitt. “In a job like mine, Mr. Mannering, you soon lose your faith in human nature. Just in case you need them, I’ve written those names down.” She delved into the bag again. “I do hope I’m being helpful.”

  “You are being very helpful indeed.”

  “Your only fear is that I may have been brainwashed by Bernard Yenn,” Annabel said wickedly.

  “Have you been?” asked Mannering drily.

  “I think I’m proof against it,” she said. “I can tell you this, Mr. Mannering. There is an inner study group to which Aristide Smith and most of the others have been invited but I haven’t. I don’t know whether Yenn suspects my bona fides or whether he thinks I’m too thick-skulled for him to get through to. You can trust me, I assure you. I wish your Aristide Smith were half as trustworthy.”

  “So do I,” Mannering said grimly. “Incidentally, do you recognise any of these?” He showed her Lorna’s sketch.

  “Oh, aren’t they beautifully drawn!” Annabel exclaimed. “The artist—is it you?”

  “No. My wife.”

  “Well, do congratulate her for me, she’s caught their expressions so well. That’s Yenn, when all’s going well, Bruce when he’s had a drink or two, and Belle Danizon – she’s Bruce’s cousin, but you probably know that – as she always is.”

  “Does she attend the meetings?”

  “She’s usually with Yenn,” answered Annabel. “And now I really must go!” She sprang up, shook hands, hitched the bag higher on to her shoulder and turned towards the door. There was something very likeable about her: indeed, quite endearing, thought Mannering. “I can see myself out,” she offered, but Larraby insisted on going down with her, and Mannering could not resist going to the window.

  Soon, she was turning away from Larraby, hand raised in farewell.

  The next moment a car engine started up on the car park, revving loudly, and Mannering, startled, switched his gaze towards it. He saw a small white M.G. move forward at astonishing speed – obviously a racing start. Its engine roared, drowning Mannering’s bellow:

  “Annabel! Look out, look out!”

  She turned round.

  He saw the look of horror on her face and yet she did not move; it was as if she were mesmerised by the car hurtling towards her.

  It was hideous to see the way her slender body was thrown into the air.

  Police cars were coming, an ambulance was coming, a crowd was gathering, when Larraby’s telephone bell rang. Mannering answered, feeling sick at heart. “Mannering,” he said flatly.

  “I hope I don’t have to warn you again,” said the man he now knew as Bernard Yenn.

  10

  THE STRONG-ROOM

  Mannering could not bring himself to speak. His jaws clamped together and he gripped the receiver so tightly that the tension hurt. Then, very slowly, he lowered it to the stand. Larraby was watching in obvious concern, disquieted by Mannering’s expression.

  “That was Yenn,” Mannering said. “If he calls again, take a message. On no account will I speak to him.”

  “I understand, sir. Did he . . . ?” Larraby began, and faltered.

  “He obviously knew about and approved the murder of Annabel Kitt. Have you or the police been able to get in touch with Pendleton yet?”

  “No, sir. I believe he was going to the country for the night.”

  “All right. Leave it to the police.”

  “Superintendent Gordon is here, sir, and would very much like to see you,” Larraby said.

  “His words?” asked Mannering.

  “Verbatim, sir.”

  It did not sound like Gordon, the detective whom Mannering had seen at the Albert Hall. Gordon was a very different type of man from Bristow. A stickler for rules and regulations, he had often protested, from the relatively inferior position of an inspector, that Bristow gave Mannering too much rope. Certainly Gordon wasn’t a man to ask for an interview; rather would he assert his rights as a police officer and demand one.

  “Where is he?” asked Mannering.

  “In our store-room, sir.”

  “I’ll take him to my office,” Mannering said, and turned away. For some reason, he glanced round and saw Larraby’s shoulders sag, saw how very tired he was, and how old. He was reminded vividly of Bristow when they had first met that afternoon, and he needed no telling what a shock the latest move had been for Josh. He was too old for such crises as these.

  “Are you all right, Josh?”

  “I—I am a little shaken, sir.”

  “Will you take your shoes off and loosen your tie and rest for an hour or two?”

  “But, sir, you—”

  “If I need you, I’ll send for you,” Mannering promised. “And I think I shall need you, Josh, but not until later.”

  “Please—please don’t let me sleep if you need anything done,” Larraby pleaded. “It would distress me so much afterwards, and do more harm than good.”

  “I know,” Mannering said, and smiled. “I’ll call on you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  This is the very last time, Mannering thought savagely to himself that I work him to d
eath! Part of his anger with himself was really with Bernard Yenn, of course, he had not yet recovered from the awful sight of that flying body. Annabel Kitt had been such an endearing person, so full of life, so briskly and reassuringly efficient.

  And Yenn had wiped her out as if she had been a fly.

  Mannering went downstairs, grim-faced, knowing that in this mood he had to be extremely careful what he said to the police. At the foot of the narrow, winding staircase was a narrow hallway; on the right was the back entrance to the shop, straight opposite the stairs was the street door – now open and with a uniformed policeman – and on the left was the door to the store-room. This was a windowless room, used for keeping pieces of furniture, objets d’art and pictures, which were ‘resting’ from the shop itself. The room was cramped, but there was space to see each individual piece and picture, and everything was spick and span.

  Gordon was standing by a refectory table, polished to its present sheen by centuries of labour in a now derelict monastery. He was a serious, square-chinned man, broad-featured but despite his freckles, quite handsome. He had black eyebrows, which accentuated the keenness of his expression.

  The two men shook hands.

  “A shocking thing,” Mannering said briefly.

  “I’m told you saw it.”

  “I doubt if I’ll ever really get it out of my mind.”

  “Did you—did you get any impression at all of the driver’s appearance?” Gordon seemed to hold his breath with hope.

  “No,” Mannering answered bitterly. “I was almost vertically above the car and I didn’t see his face. I can tell you that he was gripping the wheel at the top, both hands close together.” He demonstrated. “Oh—and he wore pale-coloured gloves.”

  “You could see that?”

  “I was only a few feet away,” Mannering reminded him. He was glad to talk, as glad to be able to study Gordon. There was no doubt that the other man was very tense, as if he were shaken by what had happened to the girl; but the police were used to accidents, none of which was ever pretty.