by John Creasey
Lorna’s interest quickened. Through her father and Mannering, both jewel collectors, she knew a great deal about precious stones. She needed no telling that the five Jewels of Castilla, set in the old de Castilla Crown, was one of the most famous pieces in Europe.
“The long and short of it is that the de Castillas have offered a hundred thousand for the return of the five jewels,” he said. “And so—”
“You said this was chivalry,” said Lorna.
“Mostly it is,” said the Baron. “You’ve only heard a little yet. The crown was broken up, and the five jewels sold separately. One is in Paris, three are somewhere in England, and one is in New York, de Castilla learned that much, but there’s confusion. None of the owners of the stones know what they are. The individual weights and measurements were never made public, and the result is that the five jewels can only be traced by an individual who does know them. Beginning to see?”
“Yes. But if the weights aren’t known, how can you get them?”
Mannering chuckled.
“Young Juan de Castilla gave me all the necessary information, and the situation is simply this: Don Manuel will pay twenty thousand pounds for each stone, providing he can get all five. But no one who has the stones wants to sell. All of them have been bought through dubious channels. The only stone that has been on the market is the Isabella Diamond, which was bought by a gentleman named Kelworthy.”
“He might as well be Smith for all he means to me,” said Lorna. “And you’re going after them?”
“Yes,” said Mannering, so quietly that she knew it was useless to argue with him. “I wasn’t thinking of it when I first heard that they were wanted, but there are complications. Before I explain to you you’ll have to realise that four jewel collectors in different places have gems from the Castilla Crown, not knowing where they’re from. Pierre Panneraude, of Paris, has the diamond they call the Crown of Castile, a hundred and four carats, de Castilla says, and I’m prepared to believe him. Our Mr. Kelworthy has – or had – the Isabella Diamond. Archibald Price, probably the meanest collector in London, holds an emerald they call the Sea of Fire – all the stones, need I say, have the usual legends about them. I’d hate to tell you the story of the Desire Diamond, owned by a merchant-collector in Hatton Garden; a man named Salmonson, whom I don’t know from Adam. The fifth stone is a ruby, the bloodstone of the Castillas, which Juan calls the Flame Ruby. Van Royton, of New York, has it. And,” added Mannering, “they all know that someone wishes to buy the stones, but they’ve no idea that it is the de Castilla family.”
“I’ve gathered that,” Lorna said drily.
“It’s important,” smiled Mannering, stretching his legs. From the drawing-room in Hampstead to this flat, with Lorna at his side, seemed a million miles. “De Castilla made the offer for twenty thousand pounds apiece through Ferris, a reputable dealer in Hatton Garden, but Ferris can’t get them. Jacob Kelworthy, with two friends, learned what Castilla wanted, and what he was offering. Kelworthy knows that the Don can as easily pay two hundred thousand as one hundred thousand for the stones, and will if he’s pushed to it. Kelworthy is a kind of uncrowned king of crooks, leading a tight little syndicate. He decided to try to get the jewels, bought the Isabella, and aims to get all five, then offer them to Castilla at two hundred thousand pounds or a hundred per cent above their value. We now see where the chivalry comes in. I’d like to beat Kelworthy’s syndicate to the gems, and sell to Don Manuel at his own fair figure.”
“I can see that,” Lorna said, and the expression in her eyes was mutinous, almost sullen. “You’re inviting trouble from the police here, in France and in America, and you’ll have Kelworthy’s crowd on your back. Darling – it’s too risky, far too risky.”
“I visited Kelworthy tonight, asking him to drop the game,” Mannering said. “He refused, so I collected the Isabella Diamond from him, with the Delawney sapphires. The sapphires being stolen property, Kelworthy isn’t likely to go to the police, but whether I drop out of the hunt or not, he’ll probably come gunning for me. So I stay in, sweetheart. I’m glad you’re going to Menton.”
Lorna looked almost angry, and he guessed the thoughts passing through her mind. She hated the danger that always faced the Baron, but she understood the compulsion that sent him on these dangerous escapades, the zest he had for them. Suddenly, she threw back her head and laughed.
“All right, darling, I won’t interfere. Let’s get out somewhere, I want to dance.”
Chapter Four
Fifty-Fifty
Lorna Fauntley and her mother were staying at the Elan. Mannering took Lorna back, reaching the hotel just after three, and after a night of furious gaiety. It was Lorna’s way of facing up to weeks away from Mannering, with the knowledge that he faced the risk of capture so often.
Mannering was back at his flat soon after four. He made sure that no one had been there, undressed quickly, set an alarm for eight, and got into bed.
He was awake just before eight, and watched the sun shining through the bedroom window – the only time of the day he could see it in the flat. For ten minutes he went through a miscellany of Swedish exercises with his own variations, bathed, shaved, and rang to the service kitchen for tea. He was due at the Elan by nine o’clock to take Lorna and Lucy Fauntley to Victoria.
At eight forty-five on the dot his tea came, and with it the morning papers. Mannering wished the messenger boy good morning, poured out tea, and opened the Daily Cry.
The headline ran right across the front page in half-inch letters. He had seen such headlines before, practically word for word, but then he had been prepared; this was a bolt from the blue.
THE BARON BUSY AGAIN!
Mannering stood with a cup of tea poised near his lips. Very carefully he drank the tea, sat down and read through the letterpress. A little pulse beat fast at the side of his head, a sure sign that he was troubled.
The home of Mr. Archibald Price, in Chenny Street, Chelsea, had been burgled between eleven-thirty and two o’clock on the previous night, and nearly thirty thousand pounds worth of gems had been stolen. There was no mention of the Sea of Fire, for Price had no idea he had ever owned that particular emerald. No one had seen the thief, who had burned open a strong room door with an oxy-acetylene burner, and on the stairs of the house had been one of the few things that could be used to identify the Baron. A blue silk handkerchief, with a slit in the middle.
A blue silk handkerchief, with a slit in the middle.
Mannering read the report twice, then stood up and went to his wardrobe. From the pockets of his coat he took a blue handkerchief, with a slit that enabled him to smoke while wearing it. He dropped it into the fireplace, and struck a match. The last embers were still smouldering, and the smell of burning was still in the room, when a knock came sharply at the front door.
Mannering pressed the service bell as he walked towards the door. He suspected who was outside, and his guess was right. Chief Inspector William Bristow, of Scotland Yard, a spruce, well-dressed man of medium height with his invariable gardenia in his button hole, his hair just a little greyer than when Mannering had last seen him, was standing there.
Bristow’s features were good, his skin pale, and his upper lip was decorated with a close-clipped, nicotine-stained moustache. Mannering knew and liked him well.
Bristow nodded his head slowly, as though to say: “So you’re at it again,” and Mannering’s smile looked the most innocent thing in the world.
“Well, Bill, fancy seeing you.”
“Yes, fancy,” said Bill Bristow. He walked past Mannering, and then started as someone else reached the door. Mannering was smiling at the messenger.
“More tea and another cup, Sam, please.” He closed the door and sauntered back into the room, quite self-possessed. “It’s a long time since we had tea together, Bill. I’ve a phone call to make, and then my time’s all yours.”
“Who are you going to telephone?” demanded Bristow.
“Lady Fauntley,” said Mannering. “I was due at the Elan at nine, but I doubt whether I shall make it. One of the rules of life, Bill, is never to keep a lady waiting.”
Lucy Fauntley was up and talkative; Lorna was already downstairs, she said. He told her that he might be delayed half an hour, apologised for his haste, and replaced the receiver. Bristow was looking at the headlines on the Daily Cry.
“I’d hoped you’d stopped this business,” he said heavily.
“I’ve never started it,” said Mannering. Whether they were alone or not, he made no admissions. “You keep confusing me with the Baron, Bill, and one day it’ll give you indigestion. But I’ve an idea that the Baron is feeling very annoyed at the moment.”
“Why?” Bristow spoke sharply.
“For an excellent reason,” said Mannering dreamily. “I don’t believe the Baron was at Price’s house last night. In fact I’m sure he wasn’t.”
“Why keep it up,” said Bristow almost wearily. “You were at that place last night.”
“My dear Bill, I was no nearer Chelsea than the Elan and the Cat and Fiddle. I can offer you several hundred witnesses that I was at the Cat and Fiddle from ten-thirty till two, if you want them.” He was speaking with more seriousness than usual when he talked to Bristow, and the Chief Inspector was frowning. Mannering’s alibis were usually slim, and this seemed water-tight. “According to this, Price himself was in his strong room at eleven-fifteen, before going to bed.”
“He was,” Bristow said. “And the burglary was discovered at just before two o’clock. You’re sure you were at the Cat and Fiddle?”
“I certainly was. I don’t know where the Baron was, but I don’t think he was at Chenny Street.”
“If you weren’t, he wasn’t,” said Bristow, grimly.
The boy returned, and Mannering poured tea before Bristow could go on. He proffered cigarettes, and Bristow lit one.
“If you weren’t at the place last night, then someone planted the handkerchief to frame you. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“To frame the Baron,” corrected Mannering. “Not the kind of thing the Baron’s likely to appreciate, is it?”
“Not from what I know of him,” said Bristow. His expression was harder than usual. “That’s very interesting—”
“For God’s sake don’t keep talking like a phrase book,” said Mannering. “Are you satisfied I wasn’t at Chenny Street last night?”
“I’d like to look round here first,” said Bristow.
It was not the first time he had asked to search Mannering’s flat, after a robbery, and generally the Baron made him welcome. It was an indulgence, he would say, because he was a friend of Bristow. But he did not feel indulgent that morning.
“You’re not going to search without a warrant,” he said. “If you want a warrant for this job, get it with pleasure. It might do something to get the silly idea that I’m the Baron out of your mind. All right, anything else?”
Bristow looked at him thoughtfully.
“Not yet,” he said. “I’ll get that warrant.”
“Get it and be damned,” said Mannering. “More tea?”
Bill Bristow had an acute sense of humour, although there were times when he was a little slow in seeing a point. For a moment he stared at Mannering angrily, and then he started to laugh. He was still chuckling, and Mannering was smiling grimly, when they left the flat together. They parted in Piccadilly.
Mannering went straight to the Elan. Lorna asked no questions, although she must have seen the papers. Mannering said nothing until he put her on the boat train at Victoria, and Lucy Fauntley – a middle-aged, good-natured and understanding woman – had been settled in her corner. Lord Fauntley, a peppery little financial magnate and jewel-collector, was in America on business, and the women were travelling alone.
“I’ll phone you once or twice,” Mannering said as they walked along the platform. “It was a false alarm last night of course. Some damned fool thinks it’ll be useful to cross the trails.”
“Just a damned fool?” asked Lorna.
“Please yourself,” said Mannering, but she could judge the anger underneath the surface of his smile. “If it was anyone more than a fool, he’s going to suffer for it. Don’t worry, darling, we’ve been through worse than this. Bristow doesn’t appear to think I was in two places at once. It’ll be refreshing to work side-by-side with the police.”
Mannering stopped.
Lorna wondered why, and then realised that he was looking farther along the platform. She saw the tall, thin, dark-faced man walking towards them, deep in conversation with a short, florid-faced companion. Her first thought was that the short man had no neck. Her next was that Mannering was regarding them, and she heard his low-pitched words: “Granette, my sweet, is the tall one. Red Face is Olling by name.” Mannering had his back to the newcomers now, and he did not think they had seen him. “They’re making for the boat, and they’re on the way to Paris or I’m a Dutchman. Find out, will you? On the train if you can or from Paris, and wire or phone me.”
“Yes, of course,” Lorna said, but she could not keep a vision of Jules Granette’s handsome yet sharp-featured face out of her mind. She felt suddenly cold, and very afraid, although John looked completely at ease.
A guard’s whistle sounded shrilly.
“Time to go,” Mannering said. “Don’t stay long in Paris, sweetheart, but travel straight through. That’s a promise?”
“Mother permitting,” she said. “She hopes to stay in Paris for a few days. Be careful, John, more careful than ever.”
“Believe me I will.” Mannering handed her into her compartment and closed the door. Lucy Fauntley leaned forward for a moment, to say goodbye. Lorna waved out of the window as the train chugged off, while Mannering turned and walked towards the barrier, fingering his platform ticket.
He was thinking of the third of the five Jewels of Castilla in Paris, and owned by a well known Parisian jewel-collector. Pierre Panneraude lived in the Champs-Elysees, and Mannering had been occasionally to his house. Panneraude’s evening cocktail parties were almost as famous as his collection of diamonds, and the Crown of Castile – the Castilla stone – was one of his prize pieces.
Granette was almost certainly going after it.
Mannering was not so busy puzzling out the situation as he was wondering what he should do. Granette, of course, had planted the blue handkerchief at Price’s house. Granette and the Kelworthy gang were determined to get him into the hands of the police. The obvious thing to do was follow Granette. On the other hand, he might be able to get the fourth stone, with Salmonson in London, while Granette was in Paris. It was fifty-fifty, and it would be fifty-fifty later, if they had two stones apiece.
Mannering knew that the big struggle would come when all five stones were shared between him and the Kelworthy syndicate. He walked along Victoria Street towards Westminster, and every few yards saw a placard announcement:
THE BARON AGAIN!
He was beginning to realise the full danger of Granette’s impersonation. Until that morning, the Press and the police had been quiet about the Baron, who had not been active for some months. Now everyone would be alerted, every newspaperman and every policeman would be watching for the Baron. His task would be doubly difficult. Every jewel merchant in Hatton Garden would be on guard – although the Baron had not yet struck at London’s market place of precious stones – and every private collector would double his precautions.
Mannering walked along Victoria Street, and paused to look into a hosier’s shop window. He could see the people walking on the far side of the road, and slowly his lips curved at the corners.
Mannering would have known Detective Sergeant ‘Tanker’ Tring anywhere in the world. Tring, a small, stringy man with a perfect knowledge of routine and a positive lack of imagination, was dawdling opposite the hosier’s, and reading a midday paper. His bowler hat was always a size too large for him, and he was wearing big, brown shoes. B
ristow knew that Mannering would recognise the sergeant, so Tring was on the trail simply to engage Mannering’s attention. There must be another man from the Yard nearby, someone whom Mannering did not know.
But one thought persisted in his mind. Salmonson of Hatton Garden had the Diamond of Desire. Granette was out of England, and could not go for it. The time was ripe for an attempt on Hatton Garden, and even before he reached his flat his mind was made up.
The quicker he started the quicker it would be over. With luck he might even get Salmonson’s diamond, and fly to Paris in time to beat Granette to Panneraude’s house.
The gauntlet had been flung down, and at heart he knew that nothing would stop him from taking it up.
Chapter Five
Exploration
Mannering did not go to his flat immediately. The first task was to find his second shadow, and to lose him as well as Tanker Tring. Ten minutes earlier he had almost been depressed. Now he felt excited.
He reached the pavement by Westminster Station, hesitating outside a jeweller’s and fancy goods shop facing Big Ben. Tring was on the same side of the pavement, and Mannering entered the shop. As a salesman approached him he angled himself so that he could see Tring, and his eyes shone when a well-built youngster approached the sergeant: obviously Tring’s second string.
The man was dressed in blue serge and a bowler hat, normal enough, especially in a plainclothes policeman. His face might have been called ordinary, but his nose was pushed a little to one side. His eyes were blue, keen and alert, his chin full and heavy.
“Good morning, sir,” said the salesman for the third time.
“Sorry, I was day-dreaming. You’ve some wrist-watches in the window at five pounds; I’ll take one.”