by John Creasey
The Salmonson affair and the knowledge that twenty-one women were breathing more freely that morning seemed to justify everything he had done, killing any qualms of conscience.
He was more alert if anything, more ready with a quip or a laugh, but that did not stop him wondering where Bill Bristow was.
By ten o’clock he had not seen the Yard man, although he knew from the Press that Bristow had been at Salmonson’s offices at ten o’clock on the previous night. The second Baron raid – for the papers still assumed that the Baron had raided Chenny Street – brought headlines in heavier type, and the story in more vivid language than ever. The narration of the attack on Salmonson and his ‘bodyguard’ was written up in such a way that it was impossible to feel anything but admiration for the man who could overcome such odds.
The fact that the Baron had had the daring to raid Hatton Garden early in the evening, that he had broken through all the defences Salmonson had prepared – the Daily Cry took great pleasure in giving them, item by item – captured the public imagination.
Mannering guessed that the Press had some idea of Salmonson’s method of making a living, and that the police were equally suspicious. That might explain the reason for Bristow’s continued absence. He had always visited Mannering soon after a Baron haul, in the hope of catching him with the jewels in his possession, and he was a routine specialist.
Mannering finished breakfast, decided that he needed a training session, for there might be just as much need of physical fitness in Paris, and decided to walk down to Mendor’s in Shaftesbury Avenue. That club of clubs was open, although only Willis, the physical instructor, was in the gymnasium itself. Willis, a big, red-faced Cockney with a positive love of John Mannering, beamed his welcome.
“Glad to see you, sir. ‘Ow’s it going these days?”
“I hope I’m fighting fit,” said Mannering, his fingers on the handle of a changing-room door. “I’ll give you five rounds, when you like.”
“Not on me you won’t,” beamed Willis. “Three’s my limit when you’re about. Three wiv’ pleasure.”
Mannering changed into a singlet and slacks, spent five minutes on the wall bars and another five with the parallels before donning pillow-like gloves. In the light streaming through the windows the muscles on his back and shoulders rippled and gleamed, the white skin glowing with perfect good health. At thirty-seven, Mannering could give most men ten years his junior plenty to think about.
Willis was an old professional, with several championship belts in his bag and he was occasionally loaned as a sparring partner to the better class heavyweights. At the end of three rounds he was blowing hard.
“Pity you ain’t a year or two younger, sir, you’d give some of them canvas-wipers something to think about. Ever thought of taking up chin-cracking for a profession, Mr. Em?”
“Not yet,” smiled Mannering. “I think I’ll spend ten minutes with the foils. Keeping busy lately?”
Willis followed him into the fencing room, where Laporte – the Mendor Club instructor – stepped quickly across the room, his thin face agleam, to greet the Baron. They were shaking hands as Willis said: “Plenty o’ work, sir. Here’s your mask and jacket.”
Mannering slipped on a padded jacket of Laporte’s own design, examined the buttons of the foils, and fastened his glove while Willis slipped his mask over his head.
“As complicated as you like this morning,” Mannering invited.
“I warn you, M’sieu, I am in good form.”
“I won’t even warn you,” smiled Mannering. “Ready?”
Willis took it for granted and bellowed: “On guard!” The two foils crossed, and Laporte came in with a direct lunge that almost caught Mannering napping. But Mannering stepped to the left, Laporte was too far forward and off his balance; Mannering’s foil pressed lightly against the other’s chest.
“Touché!” yelled Willis, whose expressions would have appalled most fencing instructors.
Laporte came in again, more cautiously, and they lost themselves in the thrall of the play. Nothing Mannering did went wrong, and Laporte was breathing hard as the minutes passed. Steel flashed on steel, bewilderingly. Willis’s big head was moving this way and that, real delight in his eyes, when suddenly Mannering found Laporte’s hand, twisted, and sent the Frenchman’s foil flying.
“Enough!” Laporte raised a hand in surrender, and lifted off his mask. Mannering was sweating when he lifted his own.
“You were certainly in form, M’sieu Mannering! You fence like the master.”
Mannering felt almost smug as he went to the shower. He stripped, felt the cold water sting his back and chest, and was towelling vigorously when a shadow darkened the doorway of the bathrooms. He looked up, prepared to see Willis; instead, there was the trim figure of Chief Inspector Bristow.
Bristow had a superior smile that always suggested that he had a trick or two up his sleeve. Mannering slowed down with the towel.
“Good morning, Bill, we’re becoming good friends again. I didn’t know you were a member here. Sluggish muscles?”
“I’m not a member, I came to see you,” said Bristow, and his smile did not shift.
“It’s good to know you’re so informal. The large and small Bristows still keeping well?”
Bristow gave a wave of his hand. “I want to talk with you, seriously. And I’m in a hurry. Is it all right here?”
“Why didn’t you bring a Black Maria?” asked the Baron. “Shut the door, light a cigarette, and get going. No, wait a minute, come into the changing-room.” He was talking all the time as he left the shower, nodded to Laporte and Willis, who knew that Mannering and Bristow were old acquaintances, and locked the door of the small room.
Bristow thought that he had never seen the Baron’s dark face so arresting, never seen the gleam so warm in those hazel eyes. He could understand it, for the affair at Hatton Garden had been beyond anything the Baron – or any other single cracksman – had ever dared to attempt. Bristow had to admit that the Baron stood shoulder high above the others in the game.
“Now what is it?” asked Mannering, beginning to dress. “Didn’t I hear of trouble in Hatton Garden? I thought that place was impregnable, Bill; the Yard must be falling asleep.”
“The Yard’s all right,” said Bristow with that same quiet, rather worrying confidence. A few months ago it would have unnerved the Baron, but now he took it without a flutter. “Mannering, we know you were at Salmonson’s place last night—”
“Bill, I’m really tired of telling you I’m not the Baron.”
“All right, all right,” said Bristow. “Be quiet a minute. Did you find anything to suggest Salmonson was blackmailing anyone?”
The question came easily and smoothly, and it would have taken nine men in ten out of their stride. It made even Mannering’s mind jerk, and he was glad that he had started to put on a shirt. As he drew it over his head he laughed.
“Getting smart, Bill?”
“We badly want Salmonson, and there must have been some loot in his safe to help us. We searched the place thoroughly, and I’ve never seen a man so scared, but we couldn’t find a thing. You must have taken it. If you can help us—”
“The Baron must, you mean,” corrected Mannering. He was almost sorry that he could not do anything to help. “Why don’t you try him, and stop asking me questions?”
“Mannering, do you know that certain Insurance Companies are offering a twenty-five thousand pound reward for the Baron?”
Mannering was in the middle of knotting a tie this time, and he pulled it too tight, grunted and loosened it. Bristow saw his eyes narrow, and knew the thrust had gone home.
“I doubt if anyone will earn it, but why tell me, Bill?”
“I thought you’d be interested,” said Chief Inspector Bristow. Suddenly his voice hardened, and Mannering knew from past experience that the crux of the interview was coming. “Mannering, I want your movements last night explained in every detail, and I want
it quickly.”
Mannering finished his tie and picked up his coat, each move deliberate. He was smiling, and his voice had all the confidence in the world.
“I’ve stopped explaining my movements to you or any policeman. A joke’s a joke, but you carry it too far. If you want to bring every paper down on your head and a dozen members of Parliament screeching, detain me for questioning. I’ll tell the whole story, and I’ll make life unpleasant for you. Plain speaking, but it’s necessary. You haven’t a thing on me. You haven’t the slightest reason for demanding explanations.”
It was getting under Bristow’s skin.
“I’ve a lot of reasons, and—”
“You think you have,” flashed Mannering. “Try and prove a single one, and see what happens. I’ll raise the biggest brouhaha you’ve had for years.”
Their eyes met, Bristow’s grey and frosty, Mannering’s hazel and smiling. Each understood what was passing through the other’s mind, and Mannering knew he had judged the perfect moment for a showdown. Bristow did not make a comment. He turned from the room, and when he reached the far door, he heard Mannering calling for some coffee as though nothing had happened.
Mannering’s body was tingling as he walked towards Piccadilly Circus twenty minutes later. He had taken a strong line, and with luck it would deter Bristow. Now, he had work to do.
He went to a safe deposit, collected the Isabella Diamond, and then travelled by Underground to Aldgate, after dodging his keen-eyed young detective without much trouble. He walked about Aldgate Station and the High Street for five minutes, to make sure that no one else had him under surveillance, slipped into a cloakroom to don his lesser disguise, then hurried towards Wine Street. Flick Leverson’s maid answered the door, and soon Mannering was sitting in that beautifully furnished room and refusing one of Leverson’s Corona-coronas. The room was warm, for a fire was blazing in a brick fireplace, the flames leaping up the chimney.
“I haven’t much time. Flick. Did you get my packet this morning?”
“Thank you, yes, an excellent haul, even for the Baron.” Leverson’s pale face showed his admiration. “So you managed to get Salmonson, and put the fear of God into him.”
“You should have seen him,” smiled Mannering. “And I’ve spoilt the blackmailing game. He had a list there with the gems and I returned them to their respective owners.”
“You’re a strange fellow,” said Leverson. He sat over the fire, while Mannering pushed his chair back.
“I’m just a little mad,” conceded Mannering. “Now to business. There are two stones I’m particularly anxious to hide away until I need them. They’re not for sale. Here’s one”—he took the Isabella from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to Leverson—“the other is the diamond in this morning’s packet, about the size of this one.”
Leverson took the Isabella in his one hand and nicked it along the table with his thumb – the habit that had given him his nickname.
“A wonderful stone.” He looked as though he would like to ask questions, but restrained himself and took the other diamond from his desk drawer. “I’ll look after them. Are the others for sale?”
“Yes. What offers?”
Leverson was the one fence in London who did not haggle, but stated a price and refused to go higher. Now he took the Delawney sapphires and the three smaller diamonds that had come from Salmonson’s safe, and nicked them one by one. After examining them for a few seconds, he did not hesitate.
“Eighteen thousand.”
“Put it to James L. Miller’s credit,” said the Baron. “Perhaps you’ll keep the sapphires by you for a while, they might come in useful.”
“By all means.”
“And they’ll be safe enough here?” asked the Baron.
“You needn’t worry,” Leverson assured him. “I—what is it, Janet?”
He broke off as the maid tapped on the door, and Mannering glanced at her. She was a pretty little thing – Mannering had used the words about her a dozen times – and perhaps the most self-possessed girl of his acquaintance. Even now her blue eyes were calm, and her voice quite steady, although her words were devastating.
“I’ve been watching the street, sir. Mr. Bristow and Mr. Tring are coming along, and there are others with them. They’ll be here any second now.”
Chapter Ten
Raid!
Mannering was out of his chair in a flash, and Leverson almost as quickly. Janet was standing quietly by the door, probably calmer than Mannering at that moment, for the news had come with the harsh shock of surprise. Leverson spoke quickly.
“All right, Janet. Keep them waiting for at least two minutes, then ask them into the front room and tell them I’ll come along.”
“Very good, sir.” Janet went along the hall, while Bristow’s voice came thunderously, as though he intended to make sure that no one could fail to hear him. Mannering’s smile was tense and worried. This meant that Bristow had had a man to trail him to Wine Street, a man he had missed. He recalled Bristow’s frosty expression, at Mendor’s. Was Bristow going to find a reason for detention, after all?
Leverson stepped towards the stairs.
“This way, Mannering, and don’t worry. There’s a back exit, but it may be watched if Bristow’s brought a crowd.”
“More than likely,” said Mannering quietly. “Flick, I’m not landing you into trouble. Let me meet it myself.”
Leverson laughed.
“My dear Mannering, I’ve been raided a dozen times this year and they’ve found nothing yet. They won’t find the stones, I promise you, but it will be better if they don’t see you. Bristow would see through that disguise, knowing your eyes.” He was talking as he led the way up the stairs. They reached a small landing, where a bedroom door stood open, and Leverson entered. Through a tiny window looking over the backs of other houses and a hundred squalid yards, Mannering could see the neat garden of Leverson’s house, and the passage that ran along the far end. For a moment he thought there was no one in sight, but suddenly he glimpsed a man’s head, poking behind a small shed at the end of the garden.
“So they’re expecting you to go out that way,” remarked Leverson. “Well, there’s a loft and two or three other rooms, but if they’ve a warrant there isn’t much we can do to stop them finding you.”
Mannering shook his head slowly, sick at this unexpected danger. And then the idea flashed through his mind, bringing a gleam to his eyes.
“As a gentleman of leisure, Flick, have you any objection to knowing John Mannering?”
Leverson shook his head, while the second knock from outside reverberated through the small house, and Janet’s sharp footfalls echoed towards the front door.
“Then we’ll give Bristow the shock of his life,” said Mannering. “Go down and entertain them, I want three minutes in the bathroom. You’re sure it’s all right with you?”
“My dear man, it’s a touch of genius!”
“You’ll make me so big-headed that Bristow’ll find me easy,” said Mannering. He hurried towards the bathroom while Leverson went sedately down the stairs, and the sound of Bristow’s voice floated upwards.
“Is Mr. Leverson in or isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir, will you come this way? What name, please?”
“You know very well—” began Bristow. Then the bathroom door closed, and the Baron got busy, removing the rubber from his teeth and the pads from his cheeks, and washing the paint from his face. In less than five minutes he was John Mannering to the life. There was a swelling confidence in him, a fierce exhilaration. This might help more than anything else to make Bristow doubly careful.
But what would Leverson do with the jewels?
At that moment Janet was collecting the jewels from the drawer in Leverson’s desk, while Flick himself was shaking hands with Bristow, with the courtliness of a forgotten age and a confidence that puzzled the Chief Inspector. With Flick Leverson, as well as the Baron, Bristow felt that he was out of his depth.
For all her emotion, Janet might have been brushing crumbs from a tablecloth as she took an asbestos box from the drawer, slipped in the glittering gems, and locked it. She turned to the blazing fire, picked up a pair of tongs, and placed the box carefully in the centre of the flames and coals. She stood up, then put two or three more lumps of coal on and regarded her handiwork without a smile. The burning coals hid the box completely.
Janet left the room without a change of expression. She could see the silhouettes of the two plain clothes men who were waiting on the doorstep – only Tring and Bristow had come in – and then Mannering came hurrying down the stairs.
“Good luck, sir,” she whispered, and opened the door of the sitting-room to announce him.
Bristow was standing opposite Leverson, away from the fire blazing in that room as well as the other. Tring was standing stiffly in one corner, his right cheeks being toasted. They heard Mannering’s name called, and Bristow literally gaped.
Mannering had never created a greater sensation. Sergeant Tanker Tring’s unhappy face showed no expression at all, but he was standing as stiff as a poker. Mannering reached a chair.
“I thought I heard you, Bill; you must be following me round this morning. I didn’t know you were a friend of Leverson.”
Bristow had the same feeling now that had overtaken him a dozen times with Mannering, a feeling of frustration and hopelessness. How was it possible to catch such a man?
“A friend of Leverson,” he repeated, then he took a stronger hold on himself. “Look here, Mannering, you’re playing with fire. I—what’s the matter with you?”
Leverson sneezed at the word ‘fire’. Bristow glanced at him quickly and then looked away, acutely conscious of the fact that he had jumped at the sound of a sneeze. He felt more of a fool than he liked, and Tanker Tring was bemoaning to himself that Mannering alone was bad enough and Leverson alone a handful, but both together they were the worst proposition the Yard was ever likely to meet. Tanker preferred handling the tougher type of character.
Bristow tried the heavy hand.