Last Laugh for the Baron

by John Creasey

  “Did you get the car number?” Gordon asked.

  “I’ve already told your patrol man that I saw it, but can’t recall what it was. The moment it struck that girl—”

  Mannering broke off, inwardly frowning and dissatisfied with himself. He should have got the number of the car as it had roared on; the Gordon he knew would soon suggest that he was deliberately withholding information.

  But this new Gordon said: “It must have been hideous.” There was a long pause and he began to crack his knuckles, like a man in great distress. “Mr. Mannering – forgive me being blunt. The girl had been here, hadn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “And her death was almost certainly connected with her visit.”

  “It’s possible – she had been collecting information for me and came to pass it on.”

  “What was the information?”

  “That one of my assistants here was mixing in strange company.”

  Gordon’s next question – the old rule-of-thumb Gordon’s would be: “What company?” and if Mannering hesitated even for a moment, there would be a heavy-handed: “I must remind you, sir, that it is a serious offence to withhold information relating to a crime.” But it did not come; instead, Gordon lowered his voice and asked: “Can I rely on anything I say being in absolute confidence, sir?”

  “You most certainly can,” Mannering said. “Let’s go into my office. There’s no risk of being overheard there.”

  “I’d appreciate that, sir. I’ll just tell my sergeant I won’t be coming yet.” Mannering heard him talking to a plainclothes man as he opened the treble lock of Quinns back door, cut off the electric alarm system, and stepped into the shop. Before his office door was open, Gordon was with him. “Plenty of my chaps outside,” he said. “I know it isn’t often you unlock this door without plenty of men about.” He glanced round the office, where he had been only once or twice, then sat down on one of the William and Mary chairs, not knowing that one chair leg rested on a carpet which hid the entry to the strong-room.

  Mannering opened a corner cupboard and took out bottles of brandy and whisky, a soda syphon and two glasses.

  “Whisky or brandy?”

  “Whisky please – with a splash of soda.”

  Mannering poured out two drinks, rather more soda for himself, watched Gordon toss down half of his and then square his shoulders, obviously bracing himself for what he was going to say.

  “You know I’ve often disagreed with Bill Bristow about you, don’t you?” he began abruptly.

  “Yes,” Mannering answered simply.

  “I still think he showed you more favour than he should have.”

  “Do you?” asked Mannering, wary again now.

  “Yes. And I’m beginning to think he’s too soft-hearted. He—” Gordon gulped down the rest of his drink, placed his hands on the wooden arms of his chair, leaned forward and growled: “Answer me this: did you ever pay Bristow to favour you?”

  “Good God, no!” gasped Mannering.

  The question had come so unexpectedly that his response was absolutely natural and spontaneous; his astonishment showed in the way his eyes rounded, his lips dropped open. That was only for a second, but it was long enough to be wholly convincing. He looked and felt as rigid as Gordon, and it was Gordon who relaxed first.

  “I was sure you didn’t,” he said. “He may be too soft-hearted, he may not have the ruthlessness a top policeman ought to have, but he’s absolutely honest. Isn’t that what you believe, Mr. Mannering?”

  “I’d stake my life on it,” Mannering said quietly.

  Gordon leaned back in his chair, narrowed his eyes and said evenly: “I believe you would. I can see what Bristow—” He broke off, took out a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. Obviously what he had to say next was coming with even more difficulty. “If my superiors ever found out I’d been to see you about this they’d probably drum me out of the Force. Look, sir—” Gordon leaned forward, looking intently at Mannering—”there’s a rumour at the Yard that Bristow’s suspected of taking bribes. There’s a lot of talk of there being conclusive evidence. I don’t believe it’s true. If there is any evidence to that effect, I believe it’s fake. But I can’t do a thing about it. And I don’t know anyone at the Yard who could help Bill.” Gordon moistened his lips. “But you could, sir. I think you’re the only man who could. He—he’s been a damned good friend of yours, you know.”

  “I know it very well,” Mannering said. “How can I help him?”

  “You—you could talk to him, find out what’s really going on. Do anything you can, let him know—let him know he’s got friends. Not only you, but at the Yard. Let him know you’re working for him and that if there’s anything you can possibly do, you will. And—” it was hard to believe the effort Gordon was making to say what he had to say—”I’ll turn a blind eye for once. So will most of—well, what I’m trying to say is, if you stick your neck out for Bristow, very few of us are going to try to chop your head off.” When Mannering didn’t respond at once he blurted out: “I can’t guarantee everyone would turn a blind eye. But—”

  “It’s all right, Gordon,” Mannering interrupted. “If I thought every member of the Force would try to chop my head off I’d still stick my neck out for Bill Bristow.” He felt a strange contentment as he said that, hoping that at last he might be able to return at least part of the debt that he owed. And as Gordon relaxed, giving his forehead and neck a sweeping wipe with the handkerchief, he went on: “I knew there was trouble.”

  Gordon started.

  “Over Bristow?”

  “Yes. Bad news travels fast, you know. And—” Mannering sought for a convincing explanation, then went on quickly—”I’m having some bother myself, and the people concerned warned me that I couldn’t expect help from the Yard this time. The implication was obvious. Can you tell me any more?” he added hopefully.

  “I don’t really know any more. Was this bloody awful thing that happened outside here anything to do with what’s going on?”

  “It could be,” Mannering answered. “I had a call from a man I don’t like, telling me it was a warning to me.”

  “Good God!”

  “Another whisky?” asked Mannering, getting up and fetching Gordon’s glass. He had not finished his own drink, and this time gave Gordon a little more soda. Handing the glass back, he went on: “Wouldn’t it be wise for me not to tell you anything more? Better to leave it to me to do what I can and if I need help, get in touch with you.”

  Gordon sipped.

  “Yes, it would be,” he agreed, slowly. “Although I’ll have to try to find this hit and run devil.”

  “Of course you’ll have to do your job,” Mannering said. “If I can be sure I can go ahead with mine—”

  “You can be absolutely sure. And there must be some way to help,” Gordon growled.

  “There will be,” said Mannering. “Don’t have any doubt.” He drank deeply, put his glass down and asked: “Sure there’s nothing else you can tell me?”

  “All I’ve heard is that there’s been a hush-hush inquiry into a robbery at Carlos Rocco’s place, and that too much has been kept quiet,” said Gordon.

  If that was all that was generally known at the Yard, then the real truth was being very well kept, Mannering reflected, but his chief emotion was satisfaction that Bristow had friends with complete faith in him. His pleasure must have shown in his face, for Gordon, much more at ease, finished his drink and sprang up.

  “I’ll have to be going. If anyone should ask you why I was here so long, I shall say I believed you might be helping a client and I thought you might tell me more if I were on my own than if I had another officer with me – as I should have if I acted according to regulations. After all, that’s what Bristow always said if he’d come for one of his cosy littl
e chats with you! If he hadn’t come so often he wouldn’t be in this mess.” Gordon frowned. “You’d be surprised what a lot of talk there’s been about you and old Bill over the years. Some of it has been passed on to the new Commissioner and the A.C. – that’s what made them suspicious. You see that, don’t you?”

  “Only too well,” Mannering said painfully.

  It was some time after Gordon had left that he really recovered from the shock of Gordon’s last statement; he, Mannering, was fundamentally responsible for Bristow’s plight. This wasn’t simply a case of taking risks to help an old friend: it was a deep-rooted obligation which had to be met.

  If he failed Bristow, he would never really know peace of mind.

  He locked up the shop and the store-room and went upstairs, finding Larraby just getting up. He looked rested, poo-poohed the suggestion that he was too tired to help, and went down with Mannering to the office. Between them they moved the chair Gordon had been sitting on, rolled up a carpet, and then Mannering pressed a spot on his desk, and part of the flooring opened to reveal a small staircase. Mannering descended, followed by Larraby, and at the bottom pressed a light switch, illuminating a narrow passage, which appeared to be blocked by a solid wall. But once again Mannering pressed a secret switch, and the wall slid open to reveal a room, some fourteen feet square, with shelves loaded with objets d’art, pictures hanging from the ceiling and fireproof steel safes standing against the wall at one side.

  In all, there were three such rooms, as well as a cloakroom. Larraby had found three folding beds in addition to the bed already there, and Mannering could bring two more back from the flat.

  Now, it was simply a matter of finding and kidnapping the group of young people who were so clearly under Bernard Yenn’s influence.

  Simply, thought Mannering, and laughed. Then he remembered the venom in Yenn’s voice and the ruthlessness the man had shown. There was nothing at all to laugh about in any of these things.

  11

  ONE —TWO —THREE

  “John,” Lorna said, “you must have some help. You can’t possibly do this on your own.” She sat, rather helplessly, on a pouffe in Mannering’s study after their homely dinner that night. She had come back lively and intrigued by the exhibition, had gradually become aware of Mannering’s preoccupation, and had then demanded the whole story.

  Now, she knew it in detail. Mannering had no doubt that she would retain all the salient points and would almost intuitively know all the dangers. Looking at her, he realised that her reaction was astonishing. Not a single: “You can’t do this!” No protest against what he planned, only “you must have some help.”

  This was a task everyone wanted him to carry out; there was not the slightest need to remind her of the obligation to Bristow.

  “I thought so, at first,” he said. “Josh will be at the shop—”

  “Darling, he’s too old and frail. It’s just not fair.”

  “Try telling Josh that. And he’ll only be there to let me in each time I take one of the brats there. He won’t have to do anything.”

  “What about Lionel Spencer?” Lorna asked.

  “He flew off to Paris yesterday,” Mannering answered.

  “We’ve two who could help, Aristide is one and Lionel has to be on holiday,” Lorna said vexedly. “Could we send for him?”

  “Forty-eight hours is about as long as we’ve got,” Mannering said. “And he’s on his way to Yugoslavia.”

  “Only forty-eight hours?” Lorna was aghast.

  “Can you imagine our Mr. Yenn being patient any longer?” asked Mannering, and when Lorna didn’t answer, he went on: “I have a suspicion that he’s had his own way for a long time, and isn’t used to anyone fighting back. The quicker I can get one or two of the suspects the better. It might shake him badly. Will you hold the fort here while Josh looks after Quinns?”

  “Yes,” Lorna said slowly. “Yes, of course.” She drew close to him. “You will be careful, won’t you?” she asked anxiously.

  “I certainly will,” Mannering said reassuringly. “I’ll be so careful no one will even know who I am. Not even you.”

  Lorna laughed.

  Mannering squeezed her shoulder, then went to a loft ladder which led from a passage outside the bathroom, lowered it, and went up to the attic. Here there was a strong smell of oil paint, of wood and of varnish. Paintings in various stages of completion were about the walls, three – of sitters Lorna was painting now – were on easels. On one side there was a little alcove where she did her messy work and stored her paints. Near this was another alcove, where she had a dressing table mirror like those in theatrical dressing rooms. Lorna used this for close inspection of paintings; and Mannering used it when trying to decide how old an unidentified painting was.

  He also used it for make-up.

  His make-up prior to his visit to Bill Bristow, though effective, had been slapdash and hurried compared with what he was doing now. He had learned the art of disguise from an expert, many years before, and had become a past-master at it. Gradually, with a few deft movements, the whole cast of his countenance became different. His cheek-bones looked higher, his jaw stronger, he seemed an older, harder, tougher man. He worked some yellowish rubber coverings over his teeth, and now there were two clearly discernible fillings which altered the look of his mouth when he spoke and smiled. Thin rubber cheek- pads not only filled out his cheeks but somehow lengthened his whole face. He worked a soft-setting wax into his nostrils, widening them, made sure he could breathe with comfort, then used a special gum at the corners of his eyes which dried and contracted the skin.

  The whole operation took nearly forty minutes.

  Finished, he changed his trousers to an older, baggier pair, inside the waistband of which was a thin coil of nylon rope of exceptional strength, and a comprehensive tool-kit, including a pencil-thin torch and a pair of blue cotton gloves.

  At last, he was done.

  As he went backwards down the ladder, he heard the telephone bell ring, and stiffened immediately. Lorna walked across the hall to answer it; speaking as Mannering touched the floor.

  “Mrs. Mannering,” she said; then gasped and seemed to shrink away as if some horror had come from the telephone. As in its way it was horror, for even from where he was Mannering could hear the laughter he had come to know so well.

  Hurrying to the study, he found her looking white and strained. He took the telephone from her, and almost immediately the laughter stopped and Bernard Yenn said in his menacing way: “I’ve warned your husband. Now I’m warning you. I want young Danizon released—now.”

  Mannering didn’t speak. Lorna had moved away and stared out of the window.

  “And if he’s not back home by eight o’clock tonight I’ll slash your face until your husband will never want to see you again. Ever seen a woman disfigured, Mrs. Mannering?”

  Slowly, deliberately, Mannering replaced the receiver.

  Lorna obviously forced herself to ask: “What did he say?”

  “He threatened what he would do to you if Bruce Danizon isn’t back home by eight o’clock tonight,” Mannering told her frankly. It was no good trying to deceive Lorna; she could always tell if he was prevaricating, or keeping something back from her; and this would only make her more frightened than she would be if she knew the whole story. He was tempted to try to persuade her to leave town, there were a dozen friends and relatives with whom she could stay; but he felt certain that it would be useless.

  “Be very careful,” he said.

  “I’ll lock myself in,” she promised.

  “Let no one in unless you’re sure who it is.”

  “I won’t,” she assured him, and then stood back as if she were seeing him in his disguise for the first time. “John, you’re absolutely incredible! I don’t think even I would have recog
nised you if I hadn’t known. Where—where are you going to start?”

  “With Frewin,” he said. “I’m going to telephone him.”

  When he sat down at the telephone his movements were stiff and awkward; it was almost surprising to hear his voice.

  “Is Sir Stanton Frewin in, please? . . . John Mannering . . . Yes, Mannering . . . I’ll hold on.” He put out a hand to Lorna, who took it as Frewin came on the line.

  “Yes, Mannering?” There was something sharp about his manner.

  “I thought I ought to tell you that there are some odd rumours going round about you,” Mannering said. “Did you know?”

  “I really can’t pay any attention to rumours. You should know better than that.” Frewin appeared not to be even slightly interested in the rumours themselves. “And if you haven’t anything better to do—”

  “Frewin, have you any idea what your son is doing at this moment?” demanded Mannering.

  “What has my son got to do with this?”

  “With the rumours, a great deal.”

  “Damn the rumours!” Frewin exploded; obviously he was at a great pitch of nervous tension. “I know perfectly well where he is – in his room, with a friend, watching the last few minutes of the Ardingly Golf Tournament. Mannering, I really thought you had more sense than to pay heed to rumours.”

  “When I hear that one of my most respected clients is suspected of corrupting a senior police officer—”

  “Mannering! Where did you hear such a lie?”

  “If you’ll be at the Collectors Club in half-an-hour, I’ll tell you,” Mannering said. He rang off abruptly, turned to Lorna and said: “Telephone the club and ask the receptionist to tell Frewin I can’t make it. Be very apologetic, won’t you?”

  “I’ll talk to Frewin myself,” Lorna promised.

  Mannering nodded, pressed her arm, and then went out very quickly. The lift was at this floor, and he was in the street soon after seven o’clock. He saw a young man on a motor-cycle talking to a girl, but ignored them as they ignored him. He could not be absolutely sure but he had little doubt that they were Bernard Yenn’s helpers, little doubt that had he appeared as himself, they would have attacked him.